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never have i ever - dr. jack abbot x reader

Summary: An uncomfortable, childish game between your coworkers stuck together during a power outage at a medical conference leads to you revealing that you're still a virgin - until you end up in bed with the attending you've been crushing on for ages.

Tags/Notes: jack abbot x reader, afab & fem reader, getting together, mutual pining/crush, virginity loss, fingering (f), oral (m), piv (protected! ooh ahhh!), also ft. mel, langdon, whitaker, and dr. robby

Content: no warnings i think?

A/N: tell me how this ended up being 30 single spaced pages...im so horny for jack abbot ://

Word Count: 8.9k (ahaha fuck)

The night you end up in bed with your attending, it feels like the entire universe has been conspiring against you. First and foremost, you’re in Philadelphia for an emergency medicine conference, part of a handful of doctors and students from PTMC rounded up by Gloria to get credits for the hospital. Second, a nasty snowstorm’s rolled in right after all of you arrive back to the hotel on the first night, killing the power, the WiFi, and cell service before the sun even sets.

And, finally, Langdon just suggested that you, Mel, and Whitaker sit down with him for a game of ‘Never Have I Ever,’ herding everyone away from the hotel bar and toward his room down the hall.

You huff as they start to move in a group, not wanting to go along, “Come on, guys, this is so childish. I should be using this time to study or something.”

“Alright, nerd.” Langdon nudges you with his elbow, his tone playful, not realizing just how uncomfortable you really are at the idea of your coworkers digging into your personal history. “Your Hello Kitty badge reel’s pretty childish, but I’ve never said anything about that.”

You glare daggers. Thankfully, with her arms crossed over her chest, Mel agrees, “I’m sure we can find a better way to pass the time.”

“I can try to make it more fun, if that helps,” Langdon offers, his expression all mischief and mayhem. He looks over to where your attendings are standing a few paces away by the bar, nursing whiskeys and sporting scowls while they recap the day and complain about the circumstances. “Robby, Abbot, we’re playing ‘Never Have I Ever’ over in my room.”

Dr. Abbot frowns and gives him a skeptical look. “That sounded harrowingly like an invitation.”

“Yeah, come on over, it’ll be fun,” he insists, flashing a disarming grin to the three of you on his other side. “A little ‘get to know you’ game.”

Absolutely refusing to move, Abbot scoffs, “I don’t think you all need to know about my personal life.”

But then Robby, amused by Abbot’s obvious discomfort, claps him on the shoulder and shoves him forward. “C’mon, Jack, it’ll be fun.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to indulge this,” Abbot groans as Robby steps by Langdon’s side.

Robby gives a shit-eating grin and gestures for Abbot to tag along. “I am – and so are you.”

There’s no way out of it now. Robby orders a few bottles of booze from the bar to take back to the room. With a grimace that you try to make seem like a smile, you and Mel follow behind all the guys over to Langdon and Whitaker’s hotel room, identical to yours and Mel’s. Inside, Langdon shoves his bed across the room to make a wide space on the floor and then plops his ass down.

Robby joins him with a cackle, Whitaker follows, and you and Mel reluctantly sit next to each other against the bed. Robby hands you and Mel a bottle of wine to share and then cracks open a few beers and a bottle of whiskey for the boys.

Then Abbot taps you on the shoulder, his fingers holding on for a moment too long, and murmurs, “Scoot over for me, ace.”

As you move closer to Mel on your other side, you’re beyond thankful for the overcast evening lighting that disguises your blush. During a shift, you can blame it on the adrenaline, the heat, the exertion. But when it’s quiet and calm and the thing making you blush is nothing but Dr. Abbot’s completely professional nickname just for you, his favorite resident, there’s no excuse.

The first round starts off tame, the questions not prying too much: Puking as the result of a procedure, faking sick to get out of work, smoking weed. You keep all your fingers up but still take sips of the wine to avoid being the only person sober at the end of this. The first major shift in the game comes when Mel offers up, “Never have I ever gotten a tattoo.”

Robby, Abbot, and Whitaker all drop a finger and gulp their drinks. Mel, loosening up now that she’s a little tipsy, gestures for them to move. “Well, doctors, I believe you have to show us now.”

When Whitaker shrinks away from the idea, you jump in, too, really just wanting to see Abbot’s, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure those are the rules.”

Robby chuckles first, shrugging off his jacket. “Well, you know I’m a total rule weenie.” He shows off his symmetrical arm tattoos -- ‘Memento Mori’ and ‘Amor Fati’ -- and then a faded one on his inner wrist that you’ve all noticed before. “Now let’s see what these two losers have.”

Whitaker sighs and concedes, rolling up the leg of his pants and shoving down his sock to reveal a stalk of wheat going up his calf. He shrugs and says simply, “To remind me of home. I’ve got Micah 6:8 on my bicep, but I don’t need to show you my spaghetti arms when you’ve just seen Robby’s.”

Once everyone finishes laughing, it’s Abbot’s turn and you’re holding your breath, praying that his tattoo is also on his ankle so you don’t have to ogle him too much. Unfortunately, you know that isn’t the case because you once caught him on his way to the gym after work, wearing a white tank top and basketball shorts, so this tattoo of his has to be somewhere besides his limbs. Fuck.

He stands up, undoes his belt (does anyone else feel faint?), tugs his white dress shirt from his pants (oh god oh god oh shit), and reveals the sharp V of his hips (shit shit fuck shit fuck). Running along a lengthy silver scar, a handful of poppies snake over his hip and up his side. Then he hikes the shirt up further – oh no, he’s got a silver and blond happy trail that connects with his chest hair – and shows a half-burned match on the bottom of his ribcage, right over another scar. Both tattoos are well done and strike you as relatively recent. When he sits back down, he gruffs, “Now, I’m not about to drop trou in front of my colleagues, so I’ll just tell you I’ve got one on my ass, too, alright? Bachelor party back in the ancient times.”

Robby gives him a whistle. “Even I didn’t know that one.”

Jack shakes his head as he adjusts his belt and shirt again. Then he looks at you, his hazel eyes so beautiful in the waning light, and says, “Your turn, ace.”

After cursing under your breath, you cross your arms over your chest, swallow down the image of Abbot’s bare torso, and rush out, “Never have I ever failed a test.”

Everyone loses a finger but you and Abbot, who nudges you with his elbow and chuckles, “That’s my girl.”

Your stomach flips.

A handful of rounds go by and you start cringing at yourself when you make it through everything, including ‘never have I ever had a one-night stand,’ ‘never have I ever used a fake ID,’ and ‘never have I ever kissed someone within an hour of meeting them,’ which get most of the group into the single digits.

After a particularly targeted blow (‘never have I ever cried in the supply closet’), Mel gives Langdon a pointed look. “Never have I ever pulled the ‘I’m a doctor’ card to impress a date.”

His finger stays frustratingly upright as he flashes that thousand watt smile. “Don’t need to when I look this good. Dennis, your turn.”

A little panicky, Whitaker stumbles out something he knows will get at least one of you: “Never have I ever been on a motorcycle.”

Robby takes a long sip of his beer and drops a finger. “Cheap shot, kid.”

Then it’s Abbot’s turn and he glares over at Robby, ready for his revenge for making him play at all. “Never have I ever screwed a subordinate.”

“Even cheaper shot, Jack,” Robby laughs as he finishes off his beer. “Let’s turn the tables here for my sake.” He stares down his ducklings and offers, “Never have I ever had a crush on a supervisor.”

Thankfully, your finger isn’t the only one that goes down, but it still makes Langdon cheer, “We finally got the ice queen!” He levels a serious but amused gaze in your direction as you polish off a long swig of your and Mel’s shared wine. “Which one is it, Abbot or Robby?”

Mel, fully aware of your big fat crush on Abbot, saves your life for the millionth time in your long friendship. With a pointed look and nervous laugh, she announces, “Oh, no, she had it bad for our attending back at the VA. Total heart eyes.”

You can feel Abbot’s eyes drilling holes in the side of your head as you nod, clamoring to move past it. “Yep. He was, ah, a really great mentor. Taught me a lot.”

Langdon snorts, “Yeah, sounds like it.”

Unfortunately for you, exactly two people in the room know that your attending at the VA was a downright terrifying woman in her 70s: Dr. Mel King, who had worked there with you before you both went to PTMC, and Dr. Jack Abbot, who went there for care a couple of times back in the day. Which means he has total confirmation that your crush is, in fact, on him – or Robby, but, given how comfortable you are around him vs. how nervous you are around Abbot, that seems like a long shot.

Thankfully, he’s merciful, laughing along lightly so you don’t realize he’s seeing right through you for the first time. But, for the rest of the night, he’s watching you more closely than over, letting his thigh brush yours, laughing a little extra loud at your jokes, and holding eye contact longer than he usually allows himself at work.

At the end of the game, you and Mel are the last two standing by a mile; she has six to your eight and you want to crawl under a rock and die. At least it’s Mel, though, because she’s totally unashamed of herself and her history. Her confidence rubs off on you the same way it does when you’re on the floor together. Both of you get competitive with each other, constantly egging the other on to do better. You barely even notice the guys watching the two of you like it’s a great game of tennis.

With nobody else to take down, you get personal with each other. She starts out light but targeted, “Never have I ever taken a nap on a gurney mid-shift.”

Rolling your eyes and taking a tart sip, you reply, “Never have I ever used Kaplan quizzes to ‘wind down.’”

She laughs and snatches the wine from your hands; you’re both bubbly and getting stupid by now. “Never have I ever corrected an attending mid-round.”

Whitaker scoffs, “Jesus, seriously?”

“I was right!”

He cackles. “No way. What did you say? To who?”

Abbot sips slowly on a beer and smirks at you, his gaze more adoring than he lets it be back at the Pitt. “She corrected my pronunciation of ‘foramen ovale’ on her third shift.”

Your cheeks burn into deeper red as you reply, mousy but self-righteous, “I only mentioned it because you tried to tell me I was saying ‘cachexia’ wrong earlier that day. I was annoyed.”

He tips his beer toward you, looking for all the world like a proud teacher. “And you were right.”

You smile shyly and then smack Mel on the thigh. “Never have I ever skipped a party to spend time in the skills lab overnight.”

She cocks her head and cuts back, “Never have I ever canceled on a date to recap a trauma procedure tape for fun.”

“Never have I ever treated my ex in the ED the day after breaking up with him!”

With a mock-betrayed gasp, Mel replies, “Never have I ever memorized my attending’s coffee order to get on his good side.”

“Liar!” After all the laughing and shoving and judging, each of you has one finger up and it’s your turn. Your final chance to beat her. There’s one trump card left in your deck and you’re just drunk enough now to use it to win. Narrowing your eyes, you lean in and tell her what she already knows, not realizing how loud you’re talking, “Never have I ever had sex.”

Mel snorts out a laugh, shakes her head, drops her pinky, and downs the last swig of wine. “Didn’t think you had it in you, roomie. Checkmate.”

“Wait, seriously?” Langdon’s staring you down like you’ve grown a second head, probably recontextualizing all his flirty banter with you. “You’ve held a still-beating human heart in your hands and you’ve never gotten laid?”

“Never even been kissed,” Mel adds seriously, and you know you’re going to struggle to forgive her for it even though she’s wasted.

Turning your voice into steel even as your blush spreads, you retort, “I’ve been too busy being valedictorian, scoring in the 99th percentile on my boards, publishing in JAMA as a resident, and graduating with a dual MD/PhD.”

Abbot grins like that’s the only part of the conversation he’s heard. “Touché.”

“I’m just saying,” Langdon pushes, clearly not ready to drop it when he’s got a juicy new piece of hospital gossip, “how many people get through med school without hooking up sometime? I thought we were all screwing each other’s brains out to get our stress out.”

Whitaker shakes his head. “Yeah, maybe those of you who look like marble statues.”

Langdon shakes his head. “Even you’re not a virgin, though, Denny boy.”

Hot embarrassment rises in your throat. Your voice comes out way more defensive than you mean. “There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin! It’s not, like, some personality trait.”

“Well, it kind of is,” he goes on, the haze of liquor making him careless. “How are you supposed to do this job when you haven’t had such a basic human experience?”

As you get more flustered, tears sting at your waterline and you get to your feet in a scrambled frenzy. You can’t even make eye contact as you whisper, “You’re an asshole when you’re drunk, Frank.” Turning around so they don’t see you cry, you mutter, “See you all in the morning; hope you aren’t too hungover.”

Frank calls after you, “C’mon, don’t be like that! I’m just saying you-”

As you’re turning the door handle, you hear Abbot’s gruff voice: “Alright, kid, I think that’s enough. I expect you to get some sleep and apologize to her first thing tomorrow.”

After you’re out of the room, trudging down the hall, you hear Abbot’s stilted gait behind you and sigh, stopping in your tracks. Before he can see the tears on your cheeks, you spit out, “I’m fine, Abbot. Leave me alone.”

“No.” He speeds up to meet you. Suddenly, his hand is on your lower back, steadying you, and you look at him with shiny vulnerable eyes. His voice is low, gravelly, and he murmurs, “I’m not letting you go to sleep upset.”

“It’s okay,” you try, sniffling and staring down at your shoes. “I know he didn’t- he wasn’t trying to-”

“He was being an ass.” Abbot’s frown is earnest and real and he touches your cheek. He’s touching your cheek. He’s touching your cheek. “I should’ve stopped him sooner. Should’ve put my foot down on that whole fiasco. I’m sorry.”

Unable to think with his skin on yours, you stammer, “Thanks. That’s- that’s really nice.”

“Come back to my room for a little while,” he offers as he lowers his hand at last, allowing your neurons to start firing again. There’s no innuendo or trace of ulterior motives. “We’ll have some water and I’ll walk you through the steps of a septal myectomy to cheer you up.”

Finally you offer the shy, hesitant smile that makes his heart pound in his chest. “With a ventricular defect and aortic valve regurgitation?”

“That would be the unluckiest patient in history,” he chuckles, just glad that you’re warming up a little in his presence, “but I’ll give you whatever you want to get you smiling again.”

That alone is enough to get your lips to twitch toward a slightly better mood. When he splays his fingers over your lower back to encourage you forward, toward his room, you follow alongside him like you always do. Trusting him is as easy as breathing, built over countless shifts digging through emergencies side by side. He’d taken a shine to you from day one, and the feeling was mutual.

Unlike the rest of you, Dr. Abbot and Dr. Robby both have their own rooms. After letting you in, Abbot gives you a flat smile and shrugs. “Attending perks.”

Abbot makes good on his word. He brings you a bottle of water and opens one up for himself. Then, on the couch (not on the bed, blessedly; your nerves wouldn’t be able to take it), he painstakingly talks you through a complicated surgery that makes your brain turn back into normal mode. You’ve always been fascinated with the human body – how it functions, how it fails – and, besides Mel, Abbot’s the one person who never made you feel like a weirdo for digging into your fascinations.

In fact, he’s indulged you every step of the way. All your questions, all your frustrations, all your fascinations. Abbot’s taken the time to answer your late-night texts and locker room monologuing and musings. Countless times, you’ve been acutely aware that he had something better to do than to explain when to use a thoracostomy or a thoracentesis

But he always took the time with you. He still chose you. Abbot knew you’d be an outstanding physician and he wanted to invest in that, yes, but he also just plain liked you, which was rare for him. At the beginning, it was your mind. All of his coworkers were smart, but you operated on the same wavelength as him, which made you easy to get along with. Soon enough, he was going out of his way to make you laugh, to make you blush, to get you to do that thing where you touched his bare forearm when he said something funny.

And now you’re here in his hotel room, lit only by an emergency light in the corner, hanging on his every word, asking him questions that get his brain moving, telling quick jokes that fall easily off your lips, and the only thing he’s thinking is that he cannot fucking believe nobody’s ever kissed you because, God, he wants to kiss you. He can’t even remember the last time he’s wanted to kiss someone, much less the last time he actually did, but all he wants is to catch your lips with his and get lost in you.

As you get both sober and comfortable, you sigh during a break in the conversation and tell him, “I’m really sorry Langdon dragged you into that stupid game. I didn’t want you to, um-” You swallow hard and blink a few times, trying to clear your thoughts. Ultimately, the thing that tumbles out is more honest than you’d planned: “I wish you hadn’t found out that way.”

That way. Abbot’s mind reels. He’s in new territory with you and he’s not quite sure how to guide it from here. He tries for professionalism first, offering stiffly, “It’s important to me that you know this won’t affect how I see you as a doctor. The idea that your sexual history is at all related to your ability to practice medicine is beyond asinine.”

“‘Beyond asinine,’” you repeat, keeping your tone teasing and light to avoid revealing how much his words matter. “Didn’t realize how much it got under your skin.”

His next response is anything but professional. Of the countless ways he could take it, he says, “It always gets under my skin when someone hurts you. That’s not acceptable to me.”

Out of nowhere, the power comes back on. The room floods with golden light and the sudden exposure makes you flinch. Reality floods you and you stammer, “Guess I should probably go back to my room. Check my emails or- or something...right?”

But Abbot doesn’t move.

So you don’t either.

Soft as cashmere, he says, more a plea than a suggestion, “You could stay here a while more. If you want.” At your surprised raised eyebrows, he backpeddles carefully, “No pressure. Just, it’s-” He cracks a tentative smile. “I, ah, I love talking to you like this. Outside of the hospital. Not your boss or anything. Just…friends.”

You purse your lips, amused, and ask, “Friends?”

“Equals, I mean. I like not being your boss.”

You give him a conspiratorial sort of smirk. “Yeah, me too.”

Then his face darkens, becomes serious, tender. “Seriously, ace, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Not with me, at least.”

Abashedly, you prod, “You don’t think I’m pathetic?”

Abbot actually laughs. “Pathetic? You? The only doctor in the hospital besides Robby who’s willing to go toe to toe with me and call me out? No. I could never think you’re pathetic.” He sips on his water and shrugs, unaware that the little gesture makes his dress shirt strain over his bicep in a way that steals your attention. “The only pathetic thing is the idea that anyone missed their chance to be with you.”

Shoulders tensing and heart beginning to race at the intimacy of the two of you alone in a hotel room, you laugh, “Sometimes I think I should just go to a random bar and let some guy pick me up to get it over with. That way I can just say I’ve done it when it’s really time to do it with someone I like.”

“Don’t do that,” he cuts back, harsher than he meant, sounding like he’s admonishing you. When you give him a concerned sideways glance, he clears his throat and his knuckles turn white as he balls his fists, clenching and unclenching them. He’s trying to keep himself under control, to avoid overplaying his hand, to make sure you’re comfortable with him and don’t think he’s trying to take advantage. “I just mean, ah, that you deserve a hell of a lot better than that. You shouldn’t settle for ‘some guy’ who wouldn’t-” you don’t miss the way he swallows hard, the way his eyes are glued to your lips, the way he’s dropping his voice to a controlled quiet “-take his time with you. Who wouldn’t make it good for you.”

Sheepish, squirming under his intensity, you reply, “I don’t know what ‘good’ is. Nobody’s even kissed me.”

It’s a long time before he nods to himself, collects his courage, and says, “I’ll show you. I’ll kiss you.”

You let out a bitter laugh as shame rises in your cheeks once again. This can’t be real. He can’t be serious. How could he be? How could he want to kiss you? “Please don’t be a dick right now.”

“I was being serious.”

The idea makes your entire body tingle, but you’re too careful and too nervous to give in that easily. “I don’t want your pity, Abbot.”

“It wouldn’t be pity,” he tells you softly. Seriously. He reaches down to take your fingers in his hand. The contact burns in a brand new way. Your eyes meet; you’ve never noticed all those golden freckles in his irises. “And I’d like it if you called me Jack.”

“Oh.”

The little syllable hangs between the two of you. Jack. He wants you to call him Jack and he wants to kiss you.

You’re leaning in before you can overthink it.

Abbot – Jack. Jack. – touches your cheek with breathtaking reverence. The way his lip twitches up ever so slightly into a boyish smile tattoos its way onto your eyelids. Before his lips even touch yours, his other hand goes to your waist, sturdy and sure, and the hand on your cheek snakes around to the back of your head. He’s practically holding you. He’s careful and kind and handsome and he’s closing the gap between the two of you and, all of a sudden and after so much anticipation, you’re kissing him.

Fuck.

So this is what good means.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t push. His lips are so soft against yours and his hands are making you feel safe and everything makes sense when you’re in his arms. Your body and mouth move on instinct, folding toward him, and you wrap your fingers in his silver curls, the ones you’ve daydreamed about touching for years. You feel him smile against you, a chuckle low in his throat, and his hands are so strong that you can’t think.

Jack’s grinning like a teenager when he pulls back, searching your face for any sign of regret. “Was that okay?”

Breathless, you nod. “Yeah. More than okay.” You can still feel the ghost of his kiss when you brush your fingers over your lips. His eyes trace every movement. Tentative, you ask, “Would you, ah, would you kiss me…more?”

Jack traces the back of your hand with his thumb and admits like it’s a dirty secret, “If I kiss you again right now, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. I’ve thought about it too many times.”

A beat passes.

You stare at his hand.

It takes you a minute to get up the courage, but you finally tell him the truth: “I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack tilts his head like a puppy and you watch his pupils dilate in real time. “You want me to…?”

You both know the unspoken end to the question. You want me to be your first?

“Please, Jack.”

Hearing his first name on your lips, he becomes a man possessed. He doesn’t shove you back on the bed and fuck your brains out, but his voice takes on a tone you’ve never heard before. It’s possessive. The next words out of his mouth shock you as much as they turn you on: “I’m not going to have sex with you if you’re doing this just to do it. If it’s because Langdon made you feel insecure or something. I need to know you want me.”

You bite your lip and nod slowly, debating how you should respond. The truth is that you want him so bad it aches. So, even though it embarrasses you to the core, you reply, “The first time I thought about having sex with you was a year and a half ago at the ED holiday party.” You whisper, somehow both sheepish and confident at once, “You flicked the bell on my Santa hat and said you liked my lipstick.”

You expect him to deny it, but instead he smirks and says, “Yeah, I remember that. Don’t think I’ve ever complimented someone’s makeup before.”

“That’s why.” Your cheeks are once again flaming pink as you go on, “All of us girls did our makeup together at Mel’s and my apartment before we went to the bar. We all looked really nice; Santos did this smoky eye that practically went viral on her Instagram. I don’t think you’d ever even seen Mel wearing makeup. Robby and Langdon and Shen made a point of telling each of us how nice we looked. But I was the only one you complimented all night.” You press your forehead to his and whisper, “You made me feel special. You still make me feel special. That’s how I want to feel.”

“Good. You are special.” Jack’s rough thumb brushes over your chin and your eyes widen when you realize that, yes, this is actually going to happen. “You’re so special to me.”

“Then kiss me.” You grab him closer by his shirt and tell him, insistent and wanting and honest, “And don’t stop.”

The barely-audible groan in Jack’s throat is concrete proof of just how badly he wants you, too. He stands and easily pulls you up to your feet with him. His palms on your waist make your head spin and he’s pushing you back toward the bed, kissing you with every step across the room, never letting you question his desire. When he leans you back on the comforter, your whole body feels loose and new. Acting on instinct, you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him close, deepening the kiss.

All of a sudden, he stops and mutters, sharp, frustrated. “Shit.”

“What is it? Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fucking incredible,” he sighs. “The thing is, ah, I don’t exactly bring condoms to medical conferences – but I know someone who does.” He hangs his head briefly, but he’s still smiling to himself ever so slightly. “God, I’m never gonna live this one down. At least Michael’s known about my thing for you for months.”

Your mind races and your eyes widen when he pinches the bridge of his nose, nodding like he’s convincing himself. “You- you’re going to get a condom from Dr. Robby? And you’ve had a thing for me for months?”

“Figured that second part was kind of obvious by now.” Jack tries not to tease you for how flustered you look right now since he feels the same. He knows it’s important, but he also loves the way the apples of your cheek have turned pink. “And, look, I’m not saying we have to do anything at all. Frankly, we could just make out for a while and I’d be over the fuckin’ moon. Just, well, it’s better to be prepared in case you decided that you did want to.”

“I’m a doctor, Jack, you don’t have to convince me on the merits of safe sex.” You suck your lower lip, hoping to come across as sexy, as you encourage him, “And you definitely don’t have to convince me on the merits of sex with you.”

His eyes graze over your body on his bed, patiently waiting for him to make the next move, and he murmurs under his breath, “Yeah, you’re definitely worth a year of shaming.”

Jack stands upright again, un-musses his hair, and shoves his feet back into his shoes. You don’t miss how he readjusts himself below the belt, sucks in a deep breath, and shakes out his shoulders before leaving the room. With the door hanging halfway open, you can hear the exchange next door.

Jack knocks three times, sharp and short.

Robby opens it and his voice is muffled, talking around his toothbrush. “What is it, brother?”

“Hey.” Jack’s voice is low, gruff, quiet. “I need a favor.”

“This about your talk tomorrow? I told you it’s-”

“Shut up. Please.” Making eye contact, he braces for humiliation and keeps his focus on the sweet relief that’ll follow. “You got a couple spare condoms?”

Robby narrows his eyes, amusement rising up in them. “Bet they sell them at the hotel shop.”

“No, ah- Shit. Fuck it.” Jack lets out a very shaky breath and rubs the back of his neck, praying that a merciful god will wipe Robby’s memory after this. “I need them right now.”

Robby’s jaw goes slack. “Right now? Like she’s…?”

“Yeah, fuckin’ ten feet away in my bed looking at me like I just did a successful heart transplant with a pocket knife.” You stifle a laugh as he finishes off, “Help me out and you can hold it over my head the rest of my life.”

“Calling me for backup during foreplay? Yeah, it’s gonna be a long time before I drop that one.” Robby disappears into his room a second, rummages around, and returns with a small box, dangling it in front of Jack. “Variety pack. Have fun. I’ll put my headphones in so I don’t have to hear when you squeal like a-”

“I hate you.”

As Jack slams the door, Robby laughs out, “You’re welcome!”

When Jack’s back in your line of sight, he’s grinning wide like an idiot. He opens up the box of condoms, takes out the one he wants, and sets it on the couch for safe keeping. Then he walks back over to the bed, flops down next to you, and chuckles, “Now where were we?”

You laugh and grab his shirt and drag him close. Touching your lips to his cheek, you giggle, “I think we were somewhere right around me looking at you like you just did a successful heart transplant with a pocket knife?”

“You heard all that, huh?”

“You didn’t even close the door.”

He kisses you hard. He means it. Every touch. In another second he’s on top of you, his leg between yours, his arms on either side of your head. His eyes are more playful than anything. “Yeah, I wasn’t really thinking about anything besides getting back to you.”

You respond by kissing him back. Deepening it. Chasing the taste of him and the way it lights an unfamiliar fire in the base of your gut. Jack groans into your mouth and the sound makes you grind up against his leg, letting your body react the way it wants instead of trying to talk yourself out of it. Jack makes it easy to give in. The mix of nerves and arousal is a weird kind of intoxicating.

With his hand at the hem of your top, Jack rumbles against your ear, “Can I take this off?”

Your eyes flick over his torso and all sorts of sinful thoughts take over your mind. “Only if you take yours off first.”

With a smirk, Jack stands at the foot of the bed while you watch him, leaning back on your elbows. “Fair negotiation.”

Like he did during the game, which feels like days ago instead of hours, he undoes his belt, but this time he snakes it through all the belt loops and lets it fall to the floor. Way too fucking slowly, he undoes his button-down and shrugs it off. Ugh, he’s wearing a white tank top undershirt that clings to his pecs and you honest to god want to bite him. The whimper you release at the sight seems to stroke his ego because Jack reaches behind his head and tugs off his shirt without a single beat of hesitation.

God, he’s so strong and so soft at once. You know he’d have no trouble throwing you over his shoulder, but you’d also love to rest your head on his stomach for an afternoon nap. There’s that silver happy trail again, but now you can see how it leads up to wispy chest hair and skin dotted with a million freckles.

As he stands there, kind enough to let you stare, you sit up straight again and fling your shirt off, absolutely needing to feel his skin on yours. Jack’s eyes darken and he moves toward you like an animal. He’s kissing over your waist and hips and stomach like you’re the only thing that can cure him. Every contact of his lips, no matter how brief or how lasting, makes your toes curl and your thoughts evaporate.

Jack’s hands go to your sides, thumbs pressing into your hips, holding you tight, as his mouth travels upward, over your sternum, along your collarbone, and back to your lips. He swings you into his lap and you finally feel the start of his body pressing to yours. The warmth of it all is so delicious. It’s impossible not to feel him getting hard beneath you and your head is spinning at the idea that you could affect him like that.

Noticing your expression getting floaty, Jack touches your chin with his thumb and checks, “Doing okay?”

You nod hard and reply urgently, “Doing amazing. Don’t stop.”

Once he’s managed to wipe the grin off his face, Jack starts worshiping your neck. He traces your pulse with his tongue and sucks into the hollow of your collarbone. He’s careful not to leave any marks on your smooth skin, but, god, he’s definitely imagining doing it next time when you’ve talked about it. With every breath he murmurs praises into the curves of your neck. “So beautiful. Gorgeous. Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

With his fingers at your bra’s band, Jack pauses. At the needy little whine you release, desperate for more contact, he chuckles and shakes his head. You’re so adorable it aches. You make charged eye contact as he says, low and slow and steady, “Tell me if anything is less than perfect. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. As your heart pounds against your ribs for a million reasons, you nod. “I will. I promise.”

And then he unhooks your bra, tossing it aside to the floor.

“Christ.”

Jack completely freezes. You’ve never seen him looking like he’s buffering. Rebooting. Trying to turn his brain back on after short-circuiting. His eyes are all over you, consuming you, setting your skin on fire.

You start to squirm under his gaze, insecurity blooming in your chest with someone so handsome looking at you mostly naked for the first time. With your eyebrows pinching together, you stammer out, “I know I’m not really- that my body isn’t-”

Jack silences you with a stern look. His pupils are blown dark. That’s new. That’s hot. His voice is urgent and serious. “Baby, I won’t hear a single negative thing about your body. You don’t need to worry about the way you move or what you sound like or look like or-” He shakes his head and smiles almost to himself. “You’re perfect. Just let me enjoy you.”

Before you can think, his mouth is on you. Jack Abbot’s lips are wrapped around your nipple and he’s groaning because of it. His hand goes to the other side and mirrors the movements of his lips and tongue. He’s methodical about it, trying out different things that make your breaths and sounds change. When he nibbles lightly, his teeth grazing your sensitive nerves, you let out a gasp so loud it takes both of you by surprise. He’d back up to check in but you clutch the back of his head tight to your check, a clear and direct order to keep fucking doing that.

Still working your tits, Jack reaches down with his free hand and undoes the button and zipper of your bottoms one-handed. As he helps you shimmy out of the rest of your clothes, you giggle, “That was a really hot move.”

Jack pulls off of you just long enough to throw you another one of those cocky smiles and laugh, “What can I say? Being a doctor for a couple decades has made me awfully good with my hands.”

That thought makes you breathless. Thoughtless. “Show me.”

He absolutely growls, “Fuck yes.”

Jack stands for a second, rips your bottoms away from your body, and shoves your knees apart. You let out a surprised squeal when he uses those beautifully strong arms of his to yank you to the end of the bed. He kneels down in front of you and takes so long admiring your pussy that you blush down to your feet. Now that you know that these pauses in his flow mean he’s taking you in, they’re extra delicious with anticipation.

Then he spits on your pussy and a shiver rocks up your entire body. Two of Jack’s fingers go to your throbbing, wanting clit. He rubs in painstakingly slow circles, watching you with a clinical precision that reminds you of the day he first walked you through placing a chest tube. In this context, it’s beyond hot to be studied like that. To be the object of his complete and total attention.

Jack’s fingers are so unlike your own – thick and calloused and experienced and knowing – and they’ve got a bright heat building inside of you so fast it would be embarrassing if it weren’t so glorious. And then he slides the middle finger of his other hand inside of you and your back arches so intensely you might as well be floating up into the ceiling and through the sky. You’ve never had anything there before and, when he curls that finger back toward himself, your toes flex and your whole body clenches up and releases at once.

When he adds a second finger, certain you can take it with how wet you are, you let out a wailing moan that makes Jack smile and murmur, like he’s talking right to your cunt, “There you go, baby.” His affirmation pulls another moan out of you and his movements get more sure as he urges, “That’s it; let me hear you.”

It doesn’t take long for you to get lost in the way he’s touching you. He times every thrust back against your walls with the brushing of his fingers around your clit. The tempo is agonizing. He doesn’t speed up or slow down; he just lets you build. And build. And build. Being with him is everything you’ve ever wanted for your first time.

It’s like he can feel your thoughts. When he can tell you’re close to the peak, holding back from jitters, Jack whispers, “Breathe for me. Don’t rush yourself. Trust me; I could do this all fucking night and it’d be my favorite night in years.”

That idea is what sends you over the edge. The thought that Jack would spend hours fingering you, learning you, exploring your body, and you know he’s being completely honest that he could do nothing else and be happy. You’re safe here. You’re worshiped. And, as you drink in that knowledge combined with Jack’s purely adoring expression, your walls start to clamp down around his fingers.

Still, he doesn’t speed up. Jack keeps you steady, working you open for him with his fingers, as you cum hard and slow. It’s nothing like the quick sparks you manage to get from yourself with your fingers beneath your panties late at night. It’s burning, roaring, catching. You’re a candle melting all the way down and Jack is murmuring out the filthiest praises to get you through the roiling pleasure.

Your mind goes totally, blissfully blank for what feels like hours but has to be only a few seconds. There’s no such thing as shame or the ED or anything but Jack’s touch. Tears bite at your eyes as you resurface, pulling in oxygen for dear life. All of your synapses are freshly blown out matches, embers still smoking. It’s hot and it’s wonderful and it’s hazy.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Jack might as well be an angel standing at the foot of the bed, the soft curls of his hair catching the moonlight as he strokes your inner thigh. He touches your cheek to bring your focus back to him, grinning at how glassy with pleasure your eyes are. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

Dreamy and floaty, you breathe out, “So good. So, so good. Just a little…nervous, I guess.”

Concern overtakes his kind face. “You wanna stop? Slow down a while?”

“No, fuck no,” you rush out, eliciting another laugh from Jack. Trying to steady your panting, you tell him feverishly, “I want more. So much more. Everything.” Finally, after a deep breath, you say, clear and sure, trying to make your complete lack of doubt clear, “I want you to fuck me. I want your cock.”

If Jack were an even slightly younger man, he might’ve cum in his pants at the needy, honest look on your soft features. Instead, he lets out a shaky breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding and unzips his dress pants. Underneath, he’s wearing tight gray boxer briefs that hug the muscles of his thighs and the straining outline of his cock.

When he has the pants halfway off, he pauses. For the first time tonight, he looks nervous. Sounding bashful, he rubs the back of his neck and stammers, “My, ah, my leg.”

Your eyebrows pull together. “What about it?”

“I usually take it off when I’m with someone,” he says, like that explains anything. “Would that be okay?”

In that moment, you realize that you’re not the only one with insecurities around sex. You don’t know who made Jack feel like less than because of his leg and his scars, but you’re definitely not going to continue the trend. “Of course it’s okay.” Mustering all your confidence because you know he’s lost some of his, you get up off the bed, push him back by the chest, and kneel. “Sit. Let me.”

“Baby, you definitely don’t have to-”

“I know I don’t have to. But would you like it if I did?”

“Well, it’s, ah- That’s-” When he feels your hands on the sides of his knee, his bare skin, the most sensitive part of his body, the most neglected, all he can manage is breathing out, “Fuck, please. I’d love that.”

As you doff his prosthetic, Jack lets out a long sigh that’s different from any of his others that you’ve heard. It’s low and rumbling and sweet. It’s the sound of relief that comes with being cared for.

Voice soft, somewhere between a doctor and a lover, you ask him, “Do you have any pain still? Phantom?”

“I’m lucky; I really only get phantom pain when I have nightmares,” he replies. You know it’s a big deal that he’s told you that, but you don’t make anything of it, just file it away as you set his prosthetic parts aside and run your hands over his thighs. Then he goes on, “It was a field amputation, really gnarly hack job, so I’ve got a few neuromas that I’m supposed to go and have massaged every week, but, with my schedule, that’s not really- Christ, that’s incredible. Fucking hell.” Jack throws his head back and moans as your thumbs work light pressure into the tightened ropes of nerves just beneath his thickened skin. “Oh my god, baby, where the fuck did you learn to do that?”

“When I worked with Mel at the VA,” you hum lightly, beyond delighted at the way his mouth’s fallen open softly, his eyelids heavy as he gazes down at you with pure adoration, “I did plenty of collaborating with the physical therapy and rehab teams. Picked up a few things.” You give him a flirty glance and add, “Keep me around and I might get you on that weekly schedule you’re supposed to follow.”

His laugh sparkles through the room. “Honey, I was definitely plannin’ on keeping you around no matter what, but if that could be part of the deal, then-”

Words once again fail him, tumbling into a grunt, as you lean forward and mouth over his straining cock, clothed and leaking. With one hand still massaging his leg, you reach up and tug the waistband of his boxer briefs down. When his cock springs free, you swallow hard and try to stop your eyes from widening. You may not have much of a frame of reference for size, but the thought of his cock in your mouth is definitely intimidating. The thought of it inside of you is intoxicating

Wanting nothing more than to hear what sort of filthy noises you can get him to make, you wrap your hand around his shaft and take his head between your lips. He tastes so uniquely Jack, clean and salty and somehow like honey, too, but that might be from how addicted you are to the feel of him stretching your lips right away.

Jack’s hand goes to the side of your head, not pushing or demanding but just needing to touch you somehow. To look down at you learning to use your tongue just right for him. His thighs straining as he tries to stop himself from fucking up into your inexperienced mouth, he groans, “I must’ve been a goddamn superhero in a past life to deserve you.”

After a few more bobs up and down, you pull off of him and, with a bead of saliva still connecting you to him, reply, “You’re kind of my hero already, Jack.”

You’re about to get back to work when you feel his hand in your hair. He beckons you forward with a finger and rasps, “That’s it; I need you right now.”

With a shy smile, you stand up, grab the condom from behind you, and ask, “How do you want me?”

“I want you every way I can possibly imagine and then about a hundred more.” He shakes his head with a chuckle and wraps his hand around his cock, fisting it slowly as he looks at your naked form. He leans forward, takes the condom from your hand, and then settles against the headboard while he rolls it on. “How about you ride me? Let me watch your pretty face while you take it for the first time.”

With an eager nod, you crawl toward him and position yourself over his hips. If there’s one thing you’ve learned while you’ve been with him, it’s that this just isn’t as complicated as you expected. Being with Jack makes perfect sense. Your body knows how to move before your mind even tells it to.

As you line yourself up, balancing by holding onto his biceps, Jack puts a hand on your waist. With barely controlled lust tightening his features, he tells you sternly, “Remember, the only thing I want is for this to be good for you. If you’re uncomfortable, then we’ll slow down or we’ll table this for another-

You sink down on Jack’s cock. It slots easily inside of you and that shuts him the fuck up. His hand on your waist turns bruising and the next sound he makes isn’t a grunt or a groan. It’s closer to a whine, if anything. No matter how incredible you feel engulfing him, he still ensures this is about you first: “You alright, ace?”

In lieu of a response, you push your lips against his and start moving your hips. You may not know exactly what you’re doing, but you know that his cock feels fucking good and the way you roll your body puts friction on your clit and it’s all perfect, so who care about anything else?

That definitely works for Jack. One of his hands snakes around your lower back, gripping your ass, and the other roves across your breasts, your waist, your neck, anywhere he can reach. It’s like he wants to commit your every millimeter to muscle memory. He’s quiet but he’s intense, practically growling when he does speak or make a noise. His hands are claiming and his eyes are locked to yours.

Jack kisses you again and then orders, soft but serious, like it means the world to him, “Touch yourself for me. Wanna see you cum again. Feel you lose it around me.”

Dropping your hand between your two bodies, your fingers find your still swollen clit and move lightly. It’s already overstimulating, but it’s really goddamn good. Your cheeks are hot, your lips are puffy from kissing and biting, and your mind is totally clear for the first time in your life. You bury your face into the crook of his neck and shoulder and whimper, “So good, Jack. So fucking good.”

His fingers knit into your hair and he holds you close. You’re completely held and completely safe and completely, utterly, totally fucked. You want to make him cum so bad it hurts. You push yourself until your thighs burn and then some, savoring every moment of him stretching and filling you.

Jack feels your movements losing rhythm and chuckles, “Hold on, baby.”

Then he flips you onto your back, smooth and easy, like your weight is nothing to him. That reality has your head swimming back toward another crest. When Jack’s thumb goes down to your clit as his hips piston faster, you know you’re done for. Sweat slicks the arch of your back and your nails dig into his biceps and his name is the only thing rolling off your tongue.

“Jack, I’m- I think I’m-”

“Me too, love. Let go with me.” And then, lips ever so slightly touching yours, eyebrows pinched together, thighs tensing, he adds softly, “Please.”

You can’t do anything but listen.

With one last cry, raw and delicate at once, you cum harder than before. Jack’s cock inside of you makes each pulse more intense, like your body’s begging to hold onto him, and he follows you, beyond willing, over the edge of the cliff. Your eyes crash together in that final moment of ecstasy and you’re both thoughtlessly lost in each other.

Your eyes flutter shut when the pleasure becomes too much and you have to catch your breath. Jack’s tying off the condom and tossing it in the bathroom trash before you’re even aware that he’s left. But he’s back by your side in the next second, bringing you to his chest, kissing the top of your head, holding you as close as he can.

Rubbing your back lightly, Jack murmurs, “Thank you.”

You let out a sharp laugh and roll your eyes as you nestle into his pecs, breathing deeply and sleepily. “You did not just say ‘thank you’ because I let you take my virginity.”

Jack smirks and closes his eyes. “No, I said ‘thank you’ because nobody’s made me feel that good in a long, long time.”

#jack abbot #one shot #smut #ja oneshot #ja smut

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spookyreads · 2 days ago

Text

whipped (part 1 of 2): pope cody x reader

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: Pope Cody doesn’t handle his pregnant wife being taken hostage very well.

Tags/Notes: andrew “pope” code x reader, pregnancy, established relationship, wife!reader, afab & fem reader

Content Warnings: kidnapping, graphic depictions of violence/gore (against the kidnappers; reader does not experience significant violence), glorification of violence, like seriously a big section of this fic is like full on watching pope do torture and it’s 100% played as sexy/intimate; if you want to just read like “pope tenderly takes care of his pregnant wife” skip to part two!

A/N: you know that post “they match each other’s freak to a degree that is dangerous to the public” that’s this fic

Word Count: 7.4k

Pope Cody is whipped.

He knows it.

His whole family knows it.

He takes shit for it day in, day out, every day. He’s taken it for years. When he leaves a meeting early because you decided that Fridays were for date nights, not boys’ nights. When he gives up cage fighting because it makes you too nervous. When he buys you a boulder of a diamond and gives you three jobs’ worth of hundred dollar bills for your dream wedding. Especially when he stands up at said dream wedding in a tan linen suit, baby pink hyacinths and snapdragons pinned to his lapel, his hair a little grown out and moussed back because that’s how you like him to wear it.

Even when you announce you’re pregnant to the whole family, the toast isn’t ‘congratulations,’ it’s Craig holding up his shot of tequila and cheering, “Here’s to Pope getting even more whipped!”

But, to Andrew, it’s all worth it.

There’s no amount of jokes or judgment he wouldn’t take for you. To be by your side every day for the rest of his sorry life. Because you make his house a home. Because you’re everything. You make him real. Your presence baptizes him. You love him – in a way nobody’s ever loved him, not really. In a way he’ll never be able to convince himself he deserves.

So, yeah, he worships the ground you walk on.

He’s the absolute model husband. Flowers and chocolates on every weekly date night, even more extravagant things on anniversaries, which he never forgets. He does the laundry and the dishes and the car maintenance, really any chores that bother you even a little, a list that grows significantly once the pregnancy gives you sensory issues and motion sickness. When you’re not up to cooking, he orders in feasts from your favorite places.

Your nails are always done by your favorite technician, your shoes never have a scuff because he keeps them polished, and your jewelry collection is worth hundreds of thousands, if not more, all purchased from a real store, even. He makes sure there’s always at least a thousand dollars in your wallet every morning without asking.

And he keeps you fucking safe.

When the two of you are out together, he sticks close, hand on your lower back or around you or threaded with yours. He even tags along to girls’ nights at bars without your friends knowing, lingering in the shadows, standing around like a bouncer and shoving guys away when they get too close to you.

For the rare occasion you’re alone, he taught you how to use a gun when you agreed to be his girlfriend and got you one of your own a week later when he was sure you’d protect yourself with it if you had to. You share your location with him at all times because you want to; he never asked, but you know that if you texted him a single word he’d be by your side within minutes, even if he had to hijack a private plane to get there.

And, Christ, he’s ten times as bad when you’re pregnant.

He’s always preferred to drive you around himself, but now he won’t let you behind the wheel with anyone else, no matter how much he trusts them. He installs a newer, even beefier security system complete with exterior cameras and a hidden, mounted automatic rifle set to train and kill. Of course, it doesn’t call the cops, but it alerts everyone he trusts who owns a gun. On the nights he leaves you alone for work, he pays someone a thousand bucks a shift to sit in the car on the street. Just in case.

People think he’s crazy, but you know he’s going to make the best father in the world. He reads the label on everything you eat or drink, tossing out anything he doesn’t like the sound of, making sure everything is either healthy or fills your ridiculous cravings, which he’ll drive for hours in the middle of the night to get. He runs you a bath with essential oils and rubs your feet every night. He fucks you whenever you’re horny. If you get so much as a papercut, he spends an hour doting on you after. You sleep easy knowing your baby girl is never going to worry about anything.

All of that to say: Nothing scares you anymore. Not with your personal guard dog at your beck and call.

So, twenty weeks into your pregnancy, the familiar click of a gun cocking next to your head makes you sigh. It doesn’t scare you; it annoys you. Turning toward the sound, you look down the barrel of a Beretta toward a man in a tinted motorcycle helmet.

In his lowest, scariest voice, he commands, “Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”

You roll your eyes, finish wringing out your hair in the beach shower, and say, “No problem. Can I towel off and put on my coverup before we go?”

That confuses him. “Uh, sure.”

“Great, thanks.” Better a dumb kidnapper than a smart one. With a tight smile, you pick up your towel and run it all over yourself until you’re dry enough to tug on the flowy white coverup that Andrew loves. Your neon pink bikini peeks through it still. You pause before picking up your things. To the guy training the gun on you, clearly an order-follower and not a shot-caller, you offer, “My gun’s in my bag if you want to go ahead and grab that. Don’t feel like getting bashed when you discover it on me later, if it’s all the same to you.”

Slowly, he shifts lower and rifles through your things, taking the gun, your taser, and switchblade from it. He decides there’s enough contraband, though, that he just snatches the whole bag instead.

Then he orders, “Get up. Stay quiet.”

He moves to grab your wrist, so you give a pointed look and say, “I would really recommend against being rough with me. For your own sake. I promise I’ll be good and go along.”

He shoves his meaty hand between your shoulder blades instead. Mentally, you start to tally every slight against your body, no matter how minor. When this is over, Andrew will expect a list. You get pushed off the beach with the gun pressed to your lower back. It’s late evening now and tourists are pouring between the shore and the streets, so nobody even notices. People these days.

He drags you to the alley behind the beach bathroom, where a big black van is waiting. When he yanks open the back door, you mutter, “Classic choice on the ride. Timeless, really.”

Four guys with semiautomatics strapped to their backs, all wearing different colored ski masks, sit on the bench seats in the back.

Bozo with the gun in your lower back insists, “Get in or I’ll make you.”

You eye up the tall vehicle, turn to look behind you, and ask with exasperation in your voice, “Can I get a hand here? I’m pregnant, if you hadn’t noticed. Hard for me to climb around like this.”

One of the bigger guns, with the camo ski mask, asks, “You gonna give us any trouble?”

You hold up a pinky and say, “Promise I’ll be a perfect angel just like my husband taught me.”

He reaches out his hand and helps you into the van. You mumble thanks and sit in the furthest seat, up against the driver’s side wall. After rolling your shoulders, you present your wrists and say, “I’d prefer zip ties to duct tape if you don’t mind; I have some minor allergies to adhesives.”

Motorcycle helmet joins in with the ski mask guys, wrenches a set of zip ties from his backpack, and tightens them around your wrist until you wince, the plastic snipping your skin and drawing blood. One point away from motorcycle helmet guy.

From there, you do what Andrew taught you: Stay calm, follow orders, memorize everything. Wait for your knight in shining bulletproof vest. The car starts up and you head north. Working on instinct, you track the movements in your head, figuring out what direction they’re taking you. Once it goes past a couple of minutes, though, you lose track of the turns. Whatever. They brought your phone, which has three separate GPS systems pinging directly to Andrew. Doesn’t matter if you know where you are; Andrew already does. Idiots.

Your stomach grumbles at you, so you sigh and ask, “You guys have anything to eat? I was going to get dinner after the beach – y’know, eating for two here – but my plans sorta got interrupted.”

Blue ski mask guy demands, “What the fuck is your problem?”

Resting your tied hands on your bump, you tell them, “I figured you would know already. Are you guys just grunts? I would’ve hoped I’d at least be worth a top guy being in the back with me. I’m a little offended.”

Camo ski mask bashes you on the face with the butt of his gun, the pain thudding but sharp at once, between the high point of your cheek and your temple. You see stars for a second but blink them away quickly. A trickle of blood goes down your temple. “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

“Jesus, touchy.” They clearly have orders not to rough you up too badly or they would’ve started by knocking you out. “Just trying to make small talk. Pass the time.”

Blue mask doesn’t think that’s funny either. “What is wrong with you?”

You glare. “Besides the kidnapping thing? I’m peachy.” You lean your head back and close your eyes. “The five of you will be either dead or permanently disfigured in an hour or so and I’ll be getting a foot rub from my husband while I eat cookie dough ice cream he scooped to make me feel better about it.” You open one eye and look at black ski mask, who hasn’t spoken. “Seriously, any of you have snacks? I’d kill for a bag of sour gummy worms.”

No answer.

You’ve had more entertaining kidnappers; that’s for sure.

At the drop location, the guys all haul out first. It’s motorcycle helmet again ordering, “Out. Now.”

With an annoyed huff, you hold up your tied wrists and nod to your swollen stomach. “You’re going to have to untie me so I can scoot or carry me yourself.”

Red ski mask is getting visibly tired of dealing with you; he’s used to simple jobs with simple people. He can tune out hysterics; he doesn’t know how to deal with whatever this is. “Come on.”

“I really can’t get myself in a position to-”

He reaches into the van, grabs your ankle, and yanks you forward so hard it feels like your hip’s going to pop out of your socket when you hit the can floor. That’s the first time adrenaline creeps into your blood stream. You’re off-balance, properly at their mercy. He grabs around both your thighs and tugs you to the end of the truck, your bare skin catching friction and getting scraped up by the rough interior. Then he forces you to your feet and shoves you forward. Your sandals fall off and he keeps pushing regardless, toward the door of a warehouse.

“Useless fucking whore.” He spits on you and growls, “You’re lucky I didn’t start by beating you in the stomach.”

You narrow your eyes at him, anger flaring in your throat. “Is that a threat?”

“Yeah,” he says, face close enough to breathe on you, “it is.”

You sigh, annoyed by the wet dirt beneath your feet as they bring you into the wide open empty concrete warehouse. “Andrew isn’t going to like that.”

Of course, you cooperate as they command you to sit, zip-tying each of your legs to the chair’s. They don’t change the ties on your wrists, so you keep them resting on your bump. With a deep breath, you murmur, “Don’t worry, princess, daddy’s coming for us any minute now. We’ll be cozy in bed in no time at all.”

Once you’re secured, red ski mask punches camo in the arm and orders, “Alright, time to call the fucker.”

Knowing he means Andrew, you have the same sort of feeling you get watching a video of a cat who needs rescuing from a tree. They don’t even realize that Pope will only be worse to them if he hears any hurt your voice.

Camo gestures at motorcycle helmet, who pulls your phone from your bag. He turns to you and snaps, “Password.”

You reply, “Don’t need one.”

No point in a phone password when anyone who tries to steal it will lose the hand that touched it. Because it’s your number, Andrew picks up a fraction through the first ring. His breathing is heavy and you can hear his brothers shouting around behind him alongside lots of metallic crunching. They’re working, probably finishing a job by compacting a car or something. “What do you need, angel?”

Black ski mask points his huge gun at your forehead, a clear order to stay quiet. The safety stays on, though, so it doesn’t phase you any more than when the boys wave their guns around at home to feel all big and strong. Amateurs.

Red – he must be the boss – takes the phone and says, “Pope, how are you doing tonight?”

His familiar, gravelly voice soothes what’s left of your nerves; soon enough, that voice will be lulling you to sleep. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to this evening?”

“Not important.”

“Guess not.” The sound of his car starting, tires squealing. He’s already on his way, tracking your GPS. “You have my girls?”

“Baby’s a girl? Congratulations.” He laughs, harsh and unamused, and says, “We want fifty grand. You got that kinda cash right now?”

“I want to talk to her first.”

You smile to yourself as black ski mask drops his gun and nods, signaling for you to speak. “Hi, baby daddy.”

“Hey, mama.” There’s a tight chuckle in his voice. Your job right now is to help him focus, to ease his anxiety, to make sure he won’t get paranoid and falter. “Are you scared?”

You think about it and shrug even though he can’t see you. “No more than usual, I guess.”

The next question is measured. Careful. “Have they hurt you?”

“Only a little.”

His tone tightens. “But they have?”

You cut the guys a look that says ‘trust me, I’m doing you a favor,’ and say, “Nothing serious, love.”

Practically growling now, he clarifies, “Are you bleeding?”

“In a couple places. Just scrapes.”

Red ski mask presses his salty pointer finger into the cut at your temple and you gasp out from the immediate sharp pain. On the other side of the phone, Andrew’s just pushed down on the gas. Red informs him, “She’ll be bleeding a lot more if you aren’t here with the money in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m only five away.” His tone is gruff. You can imagine him in high definition white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We just pulled a job; I’ve got cash on me.”

Trying to help him calm down so he doesn’t come in guns blazing, you ask, “Does that mean you can stop for sour gummy worms on the way over? I’m craving them so bad.”

Camo rolls his eyes. “And tell her to stop annoying us!”

Andrew laughs. Good, he’s not nervous. Just pissed. “You think I’m the first man on earth to have that kind of power over my wife?”

Blue ski mask strikes you across the face. The sting radiates into your spine and your eyes well with tears that frustrate you. When you don’t make a sound, too proud, he hits you the other way, hard enough that you loose a loud whimper despite yourself. Andrew cracks his neck and takes a deep breath.

“Hear that?” Blue taunts, not realizing he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life, “It’ll be a hell of a lot worse if she keeps running her mouth. Get here. Now.”

Andrew lets out a long exhale and says simply, “You know the rules, angel. I’ll be there soon.”

“I know you will. Love you.”

Red cuts the call. As camo once again mutters something like ‘what’s wrong with these people,’ you smile and tell them, “Fifty? Really? You should’ve asked for more. Andrew brought a hundred for me last time. Now that I’m pregnant, you probably could’ve gotten at least two-fifty.”

He doesn’t even bother telling you to shut up that time.

You feel it underneath your feet before you hear it. The deep, rumbling groan of Andrew’s massive truck. There are two other cars, both big. Job cars. He brought everyone. Tires crunch over gravel and then stop outside the hangar-style door.

The kidnappers stiffen and mutter to each other in hushed tones in a language you don’t understand. Russian, maybe, or Polish. Black and blue flank you, each holding one of your arms tight to keep you in place. As if you could move on your own.

The hangar door gradually opens. Headlight beams spill in, silhouetting tall figures. The five of them, cars still running, step into the space. You don’t see any guns, but they have to be near. You make out Baz’s angular features, Craig’s restless stance, Deran’s annoyed energy, J’s unreadably dark face. They’re in battle formation. The air gets heavier.

Finally, Andrew gets out of his own truck, hauls a duffel out of the bed, and walks to the front. Your pulse climbs when you see him, relief spreading. When his heavy gaze locks on yours, he’s unshakable, unblinking, looking at you like you’re already safe. There’s no pain or fear in that expression and it steadies you.

Craig is standing centered behind him, J and Deran flanking him on either side. Baz speaks and you know it’s because Andrew is a silent storm. “Pope’s got the money, you’ve got his girl. Nice and simple.” Pope sets the bag on a nearby crate with a deliberate thud. Baz instructs, “Count it if you want, but we’re not here to waste time. It all adds up.”

“We count. You wait.”

“Then count fast,” Pope spits. You can tell he’s a millisecond away from firing. His eyes are trained on you, going rapidly between your face and your stomach. His voice is made of agony. “She’s been sitting here breathing fumes and dust for too long; I want her home.”

The gun digs into your already bruised temple and your heart starts to race. You weren’t scared when you were alone, but knowing that Pope is right there watching – hurting, upset – makes you start to break. He’s your protector, your safety, your life. All you want is to be back in his arms, to know that he’s okay.

The gun on your other side presses into your neck. “Nobody moves until we’re done.”

Andrew speaks, low and stern, as they shuffle through stacks of bills on a folding table behind your head. “She’s breathing too fast. You’ve got the money; pull the guns away.”

They listen, much to your surprise. The guns return to their backs; their hands stay on you, though, bruising into your biceps. Andrew’s eyes fix on those hands, imagining the marks they’re leaving, feeling bile rise to his Adam’s apple at the fact that he can’t cut those hands off right the fuck now.

Leaning against his car now, like he isn’t itching to do something – you’ve always been impressed by his particular cruelty – J chuckles, “Keep an eye on your friends there. Think I just saw the one in the camo pocket something for himself.” He tuts, shaking his head, and adds, “There’s always one who gets greedy when you’re not family.”

“Shut up,” the man in question cuts back. But his voice is wavering. “We’re the ones in control here.”

That’s the final straw.

Because the kidnappers don’t realize one crucial fact.

Andrew is always the one in control

Pope says, “Cutback.”

A loud clatter from the loading bay – Craig, you know, because Andrew’s told you their routine a hundred times – pulls focus. Your heart launches into your throat as bodies blur around you. Your body relies on instinct; you curl over yourself, ducking your head and shrugging your shoulders.

Everything turns into a muffled movie sequence; you can’t process it all. There’s Deran swinging wide, Baz shoving someone down, J stopping another as they try to run, Craig going on the offensive. Metal screams, guns skittering over the concrete floor. Smashing palettes, wood splintering, fast footsteps. To your surprise, there aren’t any shots fired. You guess nobody wants to be the one who accidentally shoots the pregnant girl.

Somehow, when the dust settles, there are five men hogtied on their knees, random crap shoved into their mouths as gags, each of them with a Glock pressed into their scalp.

And then Andrew’s at your side, flicking out his butterfly knife, kneeling in front of you, not ready to look into your eyes yet. He carefully works through the ties, ensuring he doesn’t so much as graze you with his blade, and then kisses each of your limbs where you’d been restrained. He kisses your knees, too, and then your hands.

Straightening up, he hugs you close then, giving you the space to let out a deep breath. You let your hands tangle in his auburn curls, the ones you hope your daughter will inherit. Kissing your hair over and over, he asks, “How badly are you hurt, angel?”

“I’m alright,” you assure him quietly. “I’ve had worse.”

His jaw hardens; he knows you’ve had worse and he’ll always hate himself for it. Then he touches your bump reverently. “How about my kid?”

“She’s been kicking like crazy this whole time,” you tell him with a little laugh, guiding his hand to where the runt’s been shoving her feet into your abdomen. That always makes Andrew smile. “Think she wants to be a fighter like her daddy. She’s gonna want to take out all the bad guys herself.”

Andrew kisses your stomach then, the tenderness such a contrast to all the violence he’ll inflict the moment you’re in any danger. “Not when she has me to do it for her.” He stands up then, guiding you to your feet. He holds your face between his hands and looks at you seriously. “You wanna go home? I can come back and handle them.”

“No. I’m staying.”

It’s your turn for dark features and a cruel voice. You aren’t like this often – usually sweet and soft as the homemade baked goods you’re always bringing to the family – but, when you are, Andrew remembers exactly how much he loves you. Why he chose you over the countless girls who’ve tried to use him over the years.

He loves your softness, how it balances him, but he knew he was going to marry you the day you suggested that him personally castrating your stalker would be a more appropriate punishment than death or prison. You’d handed him the tools while the guy was restrained and terrified, never once flinching at the gore. He knows you can handle yourself and you let him protect you instead.

So it honestly turns him on a little when you press your lips to his one more time and murmur, “I want you to hurt them. In front of me. Right now.”

He grins. “That’s my girl.”

Then he turns to his brothers, each of whom is managing their hostage a little differently (Craig always just bashes someone every time they move; Baz has a gun in each hand to manage two). “You guys mind sticking around for a minute? I want to remind them what happens when they touch what’s mine.”

“She’s our sister,” Deran, who’s been your friend the longest, says for all of them. “Don’t mind at all.”

The others nod their assent.

When he looks at your kidnappers, Andrew’s voice is frozen steel. The kind of cold that peels your skin off when you let go of it. Staring them down, he asks, “Which ones touched you, angel?”

You cross your arms over your chest. “They all did.”

“Rank them for me.”

You know what he means.

Six months into dating him, three gangbangers tried to pull something similar, holding you and J’s then-girlfriend because the Codys had supposedly taken one of their job leads. After the money had been exchanged to get you out safely, it took your boyfriend all of two hours to track down the guys.

He got the cash back easily with his brothers’ help, yes, but then he zip-tied the guys in the back of his truck, picked you up from home, took all of you to one of his secret locations, and had you tell him what each of them did to you.

The one who hadn’t touched you but had helped plan it got two bullets in the head, right in a row.

That was Pope’s version of mercy.

The two who put hands on you? They weren’t so lucky.

The first, who’d grabbed you to put you in the van, ripping your clothes in the process and groping your ass, had each of his fingers snapped off with bolt cutters, the digits left on his mother’s doorstep.

The second, their muscle, had cuffed you tight enough to bite into your wrists, slapped you across the face to stop you from talking, and beaten you when you protected poor J’s little girlfriend.

When Pope saw the mean bruise high on your cheekbone and the split in your lip, he lost it. That guy? Well, that guy got strapped to a chair, doused in gas, and set on fire, put out right before the point where he’d die from smoke inhalation, the fat beneath his skin melting off him in sloughing drips. You’d never seen anything so brutal, but it didn’t turn your stomach the way you’d expected. Then Pope shoved him into a quarry so he’d have to drag his flayed skin through the gravel to get help.

Sure, someone would try the same game every once in a while, but, for the most part, the legend of Andrew doling out punishments in exponents based on the crime had kept you safe for years. When men from other families would try to give you a hard time, even just hitting on you while you bought groceries, someone from their own crew would smack them, mutter something like ‘that’s Pope Cody’s girl,’ and leave you alone.

Now, Andrew seems to be planning to refresh the lore about what happens when someone messes with you.

With a quick squeeze to his bicep, you start, “The one in the black mask didn’t hurt me.”

“Good.” Andrew pulls off the mask, revealing a guy younger than you, and offers flatly, “Tell her you’re sorry and I’ll let you walk out of here.”

The guy spits a curse in your direction instead.

Andrew doesn’t even acknowledge him. He just grunts, “Cover your ears, baby.”

As always, you do as he says. He lines up and fires two quick shots that land right on top of each other in the center of his forehead. Bullseyes. The booming pops ricochet around the warehouse for a moment before a lifeless body slumps forward. Free from his hostage, J grabs the duffel of money still on the floor and puts it in the back of Pope’s truck once more. Then he returns, standing on your other side, hand on his gun.

Not missing a beat even with flecks of fresh blood thrown across both your bodies, Andrew asks, “What about the other ones?”

“Motorcycle helmet is the one who took me from the beach. Held a gun to my head. I was showering, by the way.”

A higher level of rage tightens Andrew’s jaw. He steps forward and yanks off the helmet, the gesture pulling the guy’s ears harsh enough to make them bleed. Then Andrew takes out the gag and rockets the butt of his gun directly into the guy’s mouth, knocking out half a tooth that he spits onto the floor. He smashes it in another time to get the rest of the tooth and split his lips open to good measure.

When the guy has enough blood dribbling from his mouth to satisfy his anger, Andrew grips his throat and demands, “You grabbed my pregnant wife while she was in the fucking shower? Are you some kind of pervert? Need me to start by cutting off your dick? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it to someone who wanted to screw her.”

The guy’s trying to scramble backwards, away from him, but Baz has him by the back of his head. “No, man, nothing- nothing like that. I’m- I was just- just following orders.”

“Couldn’t have given me a minute to get decent first?” You lean your head on Andrew’s firm shoulder and go on, “Then he tied me up. Did the zips kinda tight, if you ask me.”

You show Andrew your wrists, which are raw from the material, and point out the spots where the skin got pinched enough to bleed. Andrew rubs your tender flesh with his thumb and nods slowly, making decisions. “You hurt her wrists. There’s a cut on her right one because of you.” He looks up at his brother. “Craig, is the saw in the Suburban or my truck?”

Craig shakes his head, knowing what’s coming. “Your truck.”

As he walks over to his car, Andrew calls over his shoulder. “Sit him in the chair. Tie his wrists to the armrests.”

Craig reaches down and snaps the tie keeping his wrists bound to his ankles. Before he can try to wriggle away, Craig jams a boot down on his ankle, crunching the bone to hobble him. “You heard the man; no funny business.”

Checking with you for approval, Craig maneuvers him into the chair and undoes the restraints around his wrists. When the guy goes for his neck right away, J strides over, pulls his ear from the side of his head, and shoots a hole through it at point blank. Reeling from the noise and the blistering pain, that definitely works to get his hands off Craig, who grabs his wrists and fixes them to the chair.

Just in time for Pope to get back from his truck, holding his favorite yellow reciprocating saw with both hands, cautery pen in his front pocket. He walks right up to motorcycle helmet guy, who’s outright crying now, just quietly whimpering, and balances the saw over his right hand.

Standing over him, Andrew says calmly, “Apologize to my wife and you can keep the left hand.”

The words are immediate, fearful: “I’m fucking sorry, alright? Tell him- Tell him to-” Andrew starts up the saw, the mean buzz filling the warehouse, and the guy sobs out, “Call him off! Christ, call him off! I’m sorry, I- God, seriously, I’m sorry.”

“See? Not so hard, was it?” Andrew looks at the other guys, sweeping the air with the now-whirring saw. “Keep that in mind when it’s your turn.”

Within thirty seconds, Andrew is splattered in red. You’ve always liked the sight of him covered in someone else’s blood; it makes you feel a peculiar type of hunger. Like a lioness watching her mate take down a gazelle to bring back to the cubs. The smell of burning, smoking flesh follows shortly after. Deran has to avert his eyes; he’s never had the stomach for Pope’s relentlessness. His attention to detail. Pope won’t let someone bleed out if he wants them to suffer.

Satisfied with the DIY amputation, Pope turns off the saw and sets it on the floor while the guy snivels. From behind your husband, you give him a smile. “I forgive you, by the way. We all have to follow orders sometimes.”

Then Andrew takes a step to the right, in front of the guy in the camo ski mask, who’s now squirming and moaning around his gag after watching his buddy’s comparatively mild torment. Andrew tugs off the ski mask. He’s older, with crow’s feet and a worn-in white beard. In his blue eyes, you can see him replaying everything he did to you, terrified of what it’s going to cost him.

Andrew kisses your hand, leaving a blood stain behind, and asks, “How about him?”

You narrow your eyes at the guy and pout. “Camo was pretty nice at first. Helped me into the van when I asked. But then he gave me this one,” you tell your husband, touching the freshly scabbed bruise on the side of your forehead. “Probably gonna scar.”

When you wince, Andrew broils. “That hurt pretty bad, baby?”

Really feeling it now that you aren’t in survival mode, you nod.

So Pope takes the guy’s gun off of Baz, looks at his face like it’s a puzzle, and then thrusts the butt of it into the guy’s temple, matching the injury that you’re wearing. Then he tosses the gun away and explains, “Always good to start with an eye for an eye.”

Deran snickers from his side. “You know they say that makes the whole world blind.”

Pope scoffs, “Who does?”

“I don’t know. God or something.”

“Yeah? Well right now, I’m god.” Andrew pulls out his butterfly knife, lets it twist open in a flashy maneuver, and uses his fingers to pinch the guy’s cheek, tugging the skin hard away from the bones beneath. He holds the blade against it. “You know, I really like my wife’s face. Now there’s going to be a scar on it. How much skin do you think you deserve to lose for that?”

The guy’s eyes are wide as bowling balls, probably wishing he’d listened when you told them not to be rough with you. He’s drooling around the gag now, tears mixing with the liquid, the blood dripping into it as well.

Not wanting to take the guy’s gag out, Pope answers his own question after a beat of contemplation, “I’d say half. You only hit her on one side, after all.”

With genuine surgical precision, Andrew slices off the guy’s cheek. The screams that follow are nothing short of horrific, wet and groaning around the gag, as Andrew just keeps going. No amount of thrashing or crying could stop him once he decided on an appropriate punishment. Even Baz averts his eyes, though, staring up at the ceiling, as thick peels of skin fall to the floor.

With the guy wailing, Andrew huffs, “Mind shutting the fuck up for me? You’re lucky I’m not forcing your face down your throat to keep you quiet.”

His cries turn to muffled whimpers. When Andrew’s peeled the skin down to the fingers, he orders, “J, grab that bag of rock salt from my truck, would you?”

J does it without response. Andrew slits the bag across the top and pours it out in a six foot circle on the ground. Then he grabs the guy by the shoulder that still has skin attached to it, yanks him to his feet, and slices off all the ties. He shoves him forward, off balance, into the pile of salt. The agonized cry that comes out when exposed wounds hit salt soothes you like a lullaby.

In a hoarse voice, Andrew commands, “Once you get yourself up, you can go.”

Camo’s shouts of pain create a backdrop of noise as Pope returns to your side. “Two more.”

“This one’ll be fast,” you tell him. “Blue’s the guy who hit me when you were on the phone. Twice. It didn’t hurt too bad, but he made me cry.”

“Made you cry, huh?” He shakes his head like that’s really disappointing to him. Worse than any physical wounds. “Hold his head still, Deran.”

Deran swallows hard and gags, imagination running wild when he realizes Pope is planning to go for the eyes. “Don’t think I can watch this.”

Craig shoves him aside and steps in. He pulls off blue’s mask and wraps one hand around the guy’s chin and the other fisted in his air so he can’t turn his head either way. Pope wipes the other guy’s blood from his knife onto his jeans. Then, in four precise movements, fast but steady, he removes each eyelid, tucking them in the front pocket of the guy’s shirt.

“There,” Pope sighs, giving the guy an affectionate slap on the cheek as red streams down his face, “now you won’t be crying anymore. The blood should lubricate your eyes until you can get some saline."

After a string of curses and pleas in another language, the gag falls from his mouth from the sheer force of his flailing mouth. He stammers out, spitting blood with every word, “You can’t- you can’t just leave me like this, man! You have to-”

Andrew puts on the pathetic whining tone and taunts, “I ‘have to’ what? Since I can’t just leave you like this, should I take the eyes too? Would that make you happier to walk out of here? Up my rating on Yelp?” He shoves the barrel of his Glock directly into blue ski mask’s newly exposed eyeball. Hard. A chunk of jiggly white sclera flicks to the floor. Pope grunts, “Cut him loose now.”

Deran retches at the sight of the half eyeball making a wet spot on the concrete, so Pope reaches into his back pocket, takes out his wallet, and tosses it to his little brother. “Dump him on the side of the road and go get her a bag of fucking sour gummy worms.”

Holding his breath, Deran frees the guy’s feet and shoves him across the warehouse toward his truck, manhandling him into the backseat before peeling out. Baz rolls his shoulders, also looking a little pale, and offers to Pope, “Me and J can run the cash and jewelry out to the drop if you’re good here.”

Pope nods his approval, so Craig takes Baz’s hostage. When they’re all gone, Pope finally points his gun at red ski mask, who you’ve been looking forward to most. “And this last one?”

Your voice becomes as lethal as Pope’s, so cold and calculated it sends a chill down Craig’s spine. Pope pulls off the mask as you tell him, “Red dragged me out of the van. He grabbed my legs. Ripped my favorite coverup and made me walk barefoot. Called me a whore.”

“Called you a whore?” Andrew leans down in front of him and shoves him in the center of his chest. “You have a wife, asshole?”

The guy lunges forward as much as he can while bound and spits at him, “Yeah. I do.”

“What would you do if someone talked to her like that?”

He narrows his eyes and snarls, “I’d kill the son of a bitch.”

“That’s because you’re weak,” Pope replies. Flat. He tucks his gun around his back and plays with his butterfly knife. “Death is too good for guys who talk to women like that. I don’t think you should be able to talk anymore at all, actually. You can choose; wanna lose your tongue or your vocal cords?”

“Wait.” You touch the center of Pope’s back, snapping his attention to you. His eyes meet yours with concern, studying your features for why you’d call him off. “There’s something else, Andrew.”

If you held off on telling him, it had to be bad. He’s already pumped with adrenaline and burning rage and protectiveness, but you know he’ll reach another layer when you say the next part. Voice low, he says, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

Your voice cracks, then, for the first time since he started his work. You cradle your bump gently; she’s finally settling down in there now that your adrenaline isn’t screaming anymore. Looking up to meet red ski mask’s eyes without any fear in your own, you tell your husband, “He threatened to hurt your baby, Andrew.”

It’s impossible for his body to hold all the rage that makes him feel, too big and jagged to fit in his skin. Pope erupts into a frenzy. His knife clatters to the floor by his feet and he’s pummeling the guy with his bare fists, each one landing harder than the last. The guy thrashes around as Pope shoves him onto his back, limbs balled up beneath his body, hitting him anywhere his hands can find purchase. Any time the guy tries to curl to protect himself, Andrew’s knee thrusts into his gut, forcing him to take it. He doesn’t stop until the guy coughs out a mouthful of blood.

Breathing hard, one of his lungs collapsed and a few ribs broken, red ski mask wheezes, “Just kill me already.”

With his knife pressed flat against the guy’s Adam’s apple, Pope growls, “If you wanted me to play nice, you shouldn’t have gone after my girls.”

When Andrew’s finished beating him, you approach red too and look him hard in the eyes, lording over him and feeling the power in your stance. “I think I’ll make earrings for my daughter out of your teeth after my husband pulls them out with pliers.”

Craig snickers from behind him. “Jesus Christ, kid.”

You give him a cute smile like you didn’t just say that. “Don’t make fun of me! I’m having a hard night, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He kicks the guy in the side of his head – hard, the only way the boys hit – and laughs, “I’m not planning on my teeth becoming jewelry any time soon.”

Pope squeezes the guy’s bloodied and bruised face in his large hand. “What do you want me to do with him, angel?”

With a little shrug, you reply, “Well, I definitely don’t think he should be able to knock anyone up if he’s going around threatening pregnant people.”

Red’s eyes widen and he once again tries to scrabble backwards; Pope’s weight on him is too strong for him to move very far, though. As Craig holds him still, Pope yanks the guy’s jeans down around his ankles to give himself more precision before angling the barrel of his gun so that he’ll shoot only through dick and a little thigh, missing his critical arteries.

Andrew grunts, “Cover your ears.”

And you do.

Even Craig winces as penis shrapnel flings across the room.

You don’t flinch.

Pope straightens up and asks you, “That enough for you?”

Red ski mask moans out one gurgling word: “Please.”

But you aren’t finished. You cross your arms over his chest and tell your husband, “I was being serious earlier. I want his teeth. I’ll hold his mouth open.”

“No,” Andrew vetoes. “He’ll try to bite you. Not risking that.”

When his eyes flick knowingly up to his brother, Craig scoffs in offense, “Oh, so it’s fine if he bites me? What if the fucker has tetanus or something?”

Andrew digs the pliers from his toolkit in the truck and returns to his brother’s side. “I’ll give you 5% of my take for helping.”

Craig gives a pleased nod. “That’ll do.”

Not five minutes later, you have a palmful of bloody teeth that you tuck into the side pocket of your beach bag. Pope finishes by choking the guy until he’s unconscious and turning him on his side so he won’t aspirate on the blood.

Then he stands up, tucks away his gun and his blade, puts the tools back in his truck, and says, “Craig, tell Smurf to save us a few pieces of pie for a job well done.”

“You’re not coming back to the house?”

Pope shakes his head. He slides an arm around you, tight and comfortable, and replies, “Not tonight. Tell everyone we’ll be by for Sunday brunch. I’ve gotta get my girls home.”

Craig shakes his head as he hauls himself into the Suburban, lighting up a cigarette with a laugh as he guns the ignition. “You two have some fucked up foreplay.”

You sleep soundly the whole way home, passing out before Pope’s even pulled the truck off the property.

#pope cody #one shot #pc oneshot

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spookyreads · 2 days ago

Note

could i please request a roommates to lovers with bucky? all fluff please!!

Toothbrush Tangles

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: roommates to lovers with bucky

Word Count: 1.5k+

Content: all fluff , kissing , suggestive if you squint! i think...

masterlist --

a/n: sorry this is so late my inbox ate it lol - cleaning out my drafts :)

It started with a toothbrush.

Not his. Yours.

Your toothbrush , somehow…someway , had ended up in the little blue ceramic cup on his side of the sink. Again.

“Why is your toothbrush flirting with mine?” Bucky questioned you one morning , hair a floppy mess , sleep blurry in his eyes , voice still gravelly from waking just minutes ago. He was in green cotton boxers and a t-shirt that looked older than both of you combined , blinking down at the brush like it had personally betrayed him.

You stepped up beside him , wrapped in a fuzzy ivory robe , sipping your coffee. “They’re in love. Leave them alone.”

He shot you a sleepy side-eye, “You say that like it’s not only your toothbrush making all the moves.”

You just shrugged, smiling over the rim of your mug. “Can’t help it. She’s a hopeless romantic.”

“I think they’re fighting,” he muttered , inspecting the bathroom cup.

“Oh no,” you’d gasp with mock horror laughing , “we can’t have them separate! Think of the children!”

It was ridiculous. And it was only the beginning.

Bucky Barnes was the worst kind of roommate.

Not because he was messy—he wasn't; he was actually very well cleaned and groomed. Not because he was rude—he was surprisingly polite for a guy with arms the size of tree trunks and a penchant for shirtless dishwashing.

No, he was deemed as the worst kind of roommate because he was clingy.

Clingy in that “I’m going to always scooch and sit way too close on the couch and pretend I’m not doing it on purpose” kind of way. The “oh, your room’s cold? just sleep in mine” kind of way. The “you went to the grocery store without me?” trembling lip , kind of way.

Clingy in the way that made your heart ache because you liked it more than you should admit.

It got especially bad for you when he started using pet names during his time of clingyness.

At first, it was just to be funny.

“Mornin, sugarplum,” he’d say, pushing an already perfectly made mug of coffee toward you bright and early.

Or, “Did you miss Daddy?” when he came back from a jog and caught you watching The Great British Bake Off alone.

(You had not missed Daddy, for the record. And you told him so. Loudly. With a swat and telling Alpine to claw her Daddy)

But the thing was… he never stopped. The names got worse. Or better, depending on your ability to emotionally withstand Bucky calling you “honeybunches” in that deep velvet voice while wearing grey sweatpants.

And the worst part? You eventually started saying them right back.

“Pass the popcorn, darling,” you keened with your feet propped up in his lap petting your cat.

“Yes, dear,” he’d whisper, forehead pressed to yours during movie nights when you both fell asleep upright.

It was stupid. It was dangerous. It was perfect.

You cracked at 2:37 a.m. on a random Tuesday.

You had a nightmare. Something nonsensical and jarring—your house catching fire or a plane crash or Bucky deciding to move out. You didn’t even remember the dream fully, just the sense of loss. Of panic.

And before you could think it through, you were padding straight into his room, heart in your throat, stomach on the floor.

You didn’t ever knock and he never minded.

He was already sitting up when he heard the creek of the door hinges , blinking into the dark seeing your shoulders sunken silhouette.

“You okay?” His voice was low and cautious. Like talking to a small woodland creature.

You shook your head too fast making his cock his head. “Can’t sleep.”

“Come here, sweetheart.”

That was it.

Just come here, sweetheart, like he’d said it a thousand times. Like his voice wasn’t already carved into your bones.

You crawled, leaped into his arms and crawled into his bed. He pulled you in without question or comment. An arm around snug your waist, his stubbly chin resting in the crook of your neck like it belonged there as you straddle his hips clinging to his heat and comfort.

It wasn’t sexual. It was warm. Safe. Familiar.

You fell asleep wrapped in him like a weighted blanket , and when you woke up, his fingers were tangled ; laced in yours.

He never let you go.

After that, things were different and changed.

He wouldn’t let you sleep in your room alone anymore.

“You’re gonna abandon me like that?” he pouted one night when you yawned and stood up to leave the living room after hours of Netflix binging.

“I have a bed n’ its calling my name,” you whispered, yawning again slowly.

“You have me.”

You stared at him. “That was… flat out”

“I have needs.”

You blinked. “You mean you have abandonment issues.”

“I have you, and you’re trying to leave me for a memory foam mattress.”

You gave in. Again.

Because his bed smelled like him. And his shoulder was your favorite place in the world. And you were in love with your stupid, emotionally clingy, roommate.

But you weren’t saying it. Not yet.

It was Bucky who surprisingly broke first.

He always said too much. Too fast.

You were brushing your teeth. Your toothbrush, this time, firmly on your side. He leaned on the doorframe, watching you, arms crossed and a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“You’re cute when you foam at the mouth,” he quipped thinking he was hilarious.

You spit into the sink and blindly flipped him off.

Then, quieter–over the rushing water of the faucet: “You’re cute all the time.”

You blinked up, turning the water off with a harshness.

“What?”

“I said—” he stepped closer…“you’re cute all the time.”

You set your toothbrush down with a clank , heart thudding on your ribs.

“Are you… okay?” You lifted your palm feeling his forehead for high temp , making him only lean into it.

“Probably not,” he admitted, almost whispering. “I’m in love with my roommate. It’s a nightmare.”

You stared up at him. With a face you could only imagine was of pure dumbness , no thoughts no ideas on how to understand what just came out of his mouth.

“ I’m in love with you,” his voice barely above a whisper. “And I know it’s probably the dumbest thing I could’ve said while you’re standing here in toothpaste and one sock, but I couldn’t—” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

“Bucky.”

“I didn’t plan this,” he added quickly. “I didn’t move in thinking this would happen. You were supposed to be just my roommate. You were supposed to leave little passive-aggressive notes on the fridge and forget to buy milk and maybe hate me a little.”

“I do forget to buy milk.”

He huffed a soft laugh. You swallowed. Your eyes felt hot.

“I like everything about you,” he murmured. “Even the parts you probably think are annoying. I like your weird shower playlists and how you hum when you do dishes and how you never quite close cabinet doors all the way. I like falling asleep next to you–And I know I’m not saying it in the right way, and I probably should’ve said it before now. But I’m saying it. I love you.”

You turned.

Not slowly. Not cautiously. Just turned — like your body was already moving before your mind could catch up.

He looked nervous. Terrified, even.

So you reached for him.

One hand on his cheek, fingers threading into his damp hair. The other curled into the soft cotton of his t-shirt, fisting it gently at his chest.

His breath hitched.

And then — you kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t testing the waters.

It was like breathing after holding it for too long. Like reaching something you didn’t realize you were desperate for until it was in your hands.

He made a soft sound , something between a sigh and a gasp — and kissed you back like he’d been waiting for this forever. His hands came to your waist, gripping you tight, pulling you flush against him like he needed to feel every inch of you to believe it was real.

You tilted your head, deepening it, lips soft and slow and sure. You felt his heartbeat thudding in his chest , fast, steady — as your hand slid around the back of his neck.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.

You whispered, voice cracking a little: “I love you too, you idiot.”

He let out a shaky laugh.

“Thank God. I was gonna be so embarrassed.”

You snorted and shoved him lightly, but he caught your wrist and kissed your knuckles, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth, like he wasn’t ready to stop.

Like he never would be.

Now

You’re brushing your hair in the bathroom. But this time, his arms are wrapped around your waist from behind, his chin on your shoulder.

“Look at our kids,” he murmurs, looking at your toothbrushes in a single cup in the middle of the two sinks now. Yours yellow , his blue.

“They’re thriving,” you agree , laughing into the mirror.

He grins against your skin, placing a soft kiss to your neck. “I can’t believe it worked.”

“What, me falling madly for you?”

“No,” he says smugly. “The toothbrush thing. Genius move by the way.”

You snort.

Then he presses a kiss to your shoulder and mumbles: “Also yeah. You falling for me. That too.”

-end

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#bucky barnes #one shot #bb oneshot

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spookyreads · 2 days ago

Text

In On It

summary: When the Cody family’s crimes cross a thin line, Pope has to choose between blood and the one person he can’t protect.

pairing: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x fem!reader

warnings: Robbery, Canon violence, BAZ (Mf is a warning on his own), Angst, Guns, manipulative family

Word count: 5,337

a/n: Okay so, you don't have to read them but I did write this in the same universe as "Baby Boy" and "Contaminated". I think it takes place maybe a month or two after those stories! I have worked on this non stop oh my god. So just to hit on a few things I had two request that were pretty similar. I was originally going to wait until i got further into the show but this idea woke me up in the middle of the night and I had to write it. also I'm fully aware Baz probably isn't that bad but I hate him so he will always be the villain in my fics so sorry

Dividers:@strangergraphics

Pope knew he should have ended things with you before it got this far. Five months together, and you still didn’t really know anything about his family. What they did. What they’d done. He kept you at arm’s length, always feeding you the same line—family business. All you needed to know.

Until Baz.

Of course it would be him—Baz, who had a gift for poisoning anything good in Pope’s life. He came up with a plan for their next job. Low stakes, he said. A local credit union.

The alarm bells didn’t start ringing for Pope until it was too late. Out of the millions of credit unions in California, Baz had to choose yours. Pope tried to argue. The connection was too obvious—if they got caught, it would tie him to the bank, the bank to you, and you to them. It would damn you as complicit. It was too risky.

But Baz wasn’t wrong. It was the perfect hit: privately owned, no security, minimal staff. Everything would go off without a hitch… as long as they didn’t get caught.

Was Pope willing to risk that?

You didn’t love your job—who does? but you loved your coworkers. You told Pope about them all the time. Their inside jokes. Their monthly game nights at the bar next door. He’d even gone with you once to pick out a graduation gift for your boss’s kid.

None of that mattered to Baz.

And Pope couldn’t stop picturing it—couldn’t stop imagining the day they’d come crashing in. Guns drawn. Voices shouting. You, frozen behind the counter. The terror on your face when you realized what was happening.

The thought followed him all the way to Smurf’s house, where he sat at the table surrounded by his family. No one on his side—not that it was anything new.

“Pope, it’ll be easy, I promise. In, out, no one gets hurt,” Baz said, met with murmurs of agreement from around the table. Pope’s jaw clenched.

“And when she recognizes our voice? When something goes wrong—because when has a job ever gone to plan for us? What if she gets hurt? Or one of her coworkers? You wanna risk that? I don’t. I am not putting her in a position where she sees someone hurt or killed.” His voice rose, rough, his glare fixed on Baz from the corner. Shoulders tight. Arms crossed like steel bars.

“Look, Pope—” Baz began, but was cut off by the weight of Smurf’s hand on his shoulder. “Listen, sweetie,” she said, calm as ever. “We need this. Like Baz said—easy in, easy out. We’re doing it. If you want to sit this one out, that’s your choice, baby.” Pope gritted his teeth, breaking her gaze before it swallowed him whole.

“But…” Smurf stepped away from Baz, crossing the room toward him. Her hands slid up his chest, slow and deliberate, before cupping his face and forcing his eyes back to hers. “If you go, you can protect her. Leave the work to your brothers—just keep your eyes on her. And the others, if that makes you feel better. Okay, baby?” Her thumb brushed along his jaw before she finished with a light pinch of his cheek—a mockery of tenderness that made his skin crawl.

So that’s how they ended up here. Pope took extra care in stealing cars you’d never picture him driving anonymous sedans, forgettable colors trying to put as much distance between himself and this job as possible. Every choice was deliberate, every step meant to hide the truth from you for as long as he could.

The night before the job, Pope took you out.

He didn’t have it in him to be nervous—not outwardly. Instead, he went out and bought a crisp button-up and a bouquet of lilies, just for you. He waited outside the bank until you walked out, catching the exact moment your face lit up when you saw him. This would be the last time he had you like this—untainted, unsuspecting.

He drank in the sight of you as you bounced over, the warmth in your smile, the way your hand slid into his without hesitation. You talked all the way to the restaurant, your voice animated as you told him about your day. You didn’t take his silence as rejection—never had.

You babbled about Carolyn, your “recently divorced work bestie,” and the disastrous date she’d gone on. Pope barely spoke, just nodded at the right moments, letting your words wash over him. He wanted to memorize this. Your joy. Your trust. The way you filled the silence so easily, unaware of the storm coming.

Because tomorrow, he’d be the one to ruin it. He’d be the one to make you feel unsafe in the world. You already felt things so completely, so unabashedly—like your heart had no armor. And he was terrified to see what this would do to you.

He walked you to your door, tucking a stray hair behind your ear as you rattled off your plans for the week—how you were hoping to hit the gym after work tomorrow, or maybe go to the beach if he wasn’t too busy. You reminded him that he’d promised to teach you how to surf. Before you could keep going, he cut in without thinking.

“I love you,” he said, finally.

You blinked, startled, your next words dying on your tongue. Pope wasn’t an overly affectionate guy. In fact, most people found him off-putting, the way his stare could burn through anyone it landed on. Carolyn had once joked that he had serial killer eyes. Maybe she wasn’t too far off.

You tilted your head, searching his face, trying to figure out if he meant it. Before he had a chance to retreat or laugh it off, you answered.

“I thought I was going to be the one to say it first.” You grinned up at him. The way you looked at him in that moment broke him completely—like you truly believed he’d hung the moon and stars just for you. And he would. God, he would. But tomorrow, he was going to be the one to break you instead. He was going to be the voice that made you jump, the presence that made you flinch.

“Do you wanna come in? You’ve been quiet all night. I could run us a bath… rub your shoulders?” You were too good for him. Too sweet. Julia would have loved you. Pope gave you a tight-lipped smile and shook his head. “Nah… I— I gotta get back to the house. But I’ll see you this weekend, okay? I’ll teach you to surf.”

He reveled in the way your eyes lit up at the promise. You bounced forward, wrapping your arms around him and pressing your lips to his. When you finally pulled back, you kept your forehead resting against his.

“I love you too, by the way.” Andrew was going to hell. He knew that for sure now. For a while, he’d let himself believe that being with you might redeem him. That you might be the one pure thing he could keep untouched.

But like everything else in his life… he was going to ruin this, too. Andrew drove to Smurf’s house in silence. He ignored his brothers’ taunts and jabs, slipping wordlessly onto the couch. Reaching for the remote, he put on the one thing he thought might quiet his nerves—a nature documentary. He sat there, watching lions stalk antelope, his stomach sinking lower with every passing hour.

At 8 a.m., his phone buzzed.

Headed to work :)

A beat later:

Thanks again for last night. Had so much fun with you. Can’t wait to see you this weekend!

Pope shoved the phone into his pocket and rubbed a hand over his face. By noon, everyone was gathered around the table again. Supplies laid out—masks, gloves, a gun for each man, duffel bags stuffed with everything else they might need. Baz went over the plan one more time, his voice a low hum that barely cut through the pounding in Pope’s ears.

“Pope? You getting any of this?” Craig asked, elbowing his shoulder. Pope blinked, straightened, and forced his voice steady. “No one gets hurt,” he said, gravely.

Famous last words, obviously.

Four p.m.—one car rolled around to the rear entrance, and Pope’s car pulled up out front. His hands shook as he tugged the ski mask over his face.

Six minutes, he told himself. What could go wrong in Six minutes? Pope, Craig, and Daran jumped out of the car, boots hitting pavement in unison. Pope’s fingers brushed the gun tucked in his waistband as they pushed through the doors.

“Everyone down on the ground—now!” Craig barked, firing a shot into the ceiling for good measure. Pope’s eyes scanned the room instantly—Carolyn. Your boss. Three other employees. No customers.

More importantly—no you.

For a brief, flickering moment, he thought maybe he’d gotten lucky. Maybe you’d left early. Maybe you’d been sent out to run an errand. Anything to keep you far from this building.

Of course, he should be so lucky.

Baz emerged from the back room, gun pressed firmly to the head of a trembling figure. Your trembling figure.

Bile burned the back of Pope’s throat. His ears roared with static, drowning out the world. He heard your cry when Baz shoved you toward the floor, but his feet were lead—heavy, rooted, useless. “Alright, now—no heroes,” Baz said, his voice steady. “We want all the money in the safe, and no one gets hurt.” Pope’s pulse hammered in his skull as Baz’s hand tightened on the gun, pressing it harder into you. Baz motioned towards your boss on the floor.

"You. Get up open the safe up" Gun pointed directly at the man, This gave pope a chance to breathe. To revel in you not being in harms way for two seconds. Daran walked over to your boss and halled him up. The mans whimpering made him sick, When Pope got you out of here he would make it a point to make you get a new job. There's no way you could rely on your boss to keep you safe in an emergency.

"Please- I have kids I-" The mans whimpering turned into full fledge cries. You struggled against Baz slightly as he gripped you tighter. "Please wait- I- I'll do it just leave him alone" The air was sucked out of the room. Pope locked eyes with Baz and sent a pleading look to him.

"Well, looks like she's got more balls than anyone in this room" A pointed dig that Pope didn't have any time to process. He marched over to you and Baz and grabbed your arm wanting to tug you away from the man, from the danger, from everything. But he saw it. The way you flinched back. The way tears gathered on your lash line threatening to spill. He froze.

"Let's go, get her back there." Baz interrupted, So he's doing this. It has to be him. He wont trust anyone else with you. He nods his head towards the back hoping youd catch the hint. He wanted so badly to soothe you, offer you some kind of comfort but if he spoke hed surly give his identity away.

He followed you into the safe, close enough to feel the tremor in your steps. Your head stayed bowed, hands still slightly raised like you weren’t sure if it was safe to lower them. He hated it—the way you shook under his gaze. “I’m just—I’m going to start gathering everything, just please—” Your voice cracked, a sob jerking out of you mid-sentence. “Just please don’t hurt me. Oh God—” The words gutted him, like you’d been the one to put the thought of hurting you into the air.

Pope couldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t. He shoved the gun back into his waistband and took a step back, both hands raised in a useless gesture.

He watched in silence as you scrambled to grab stacks of cash, shoving them into the bag with frantic, jerky movements. Every so often you’d glance at him over your shoulder—then work even faster, like his stillness was more dangerous than if he’d barked an order.

“Three minutes!” Craig’s voice rang from the lobby. You jumped like the words were a gunshot. “Listen,” you started, turning to hand him the bag. “If you guys just leave without hurting anyone, I promise—I promise—we won’t say anything.” Your trembling fingers brushed against his as you passed the bag. A loose strand of hair fell across your face.

Pope didn’t think—his hand moved on instinct, brushing it back. You flinched, barely swallowing a yelp. You froze as his hand lingered a moment too long, his thumb grazing your temple before he pulled away. Your eyes locked on his. Something passed between you—recognition, disbelief, maybe even betrayal. Pope’s throat tightened, the words I'm sorry clawing their way up. He wanted to say it, to explain, to take the mask off and end this nightmare before it went any further.

But he didn’t.

“Load up—time to go!” Baz’s bark shattered it. Baz’s hand shot toward your shoulder—Pope swore that’s where it was aimed—but instead, it tangled in your hair. He yanked, dragging you out of the safe and back into the chaos of the lobby.

Pope followed, his hands fists at his sides, that unsaid confession burning like acid in his chest. You cried out when Baz kicked your knee, sending you crashing onto the thin carpet with a thud. The breath left you in a gasp as you tried to push up, but Baz was already cocking his gun, pressing the barrel to your temple.

The shouts from your coworkers spiked into chaos. Carolyn—God bless her—actually tried to lunge toward you, more spine than your Pope had shown all day.

“On the ground!” Daran barked, swinging his gun toward her, the muzzle leveled right between her eyes. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Things were spinning out—when it got like this, someone bled. “No one sees anything, no one says anything,” Baz barked, his voice cutting through the noise. “You wait fifteen minutes, then you call the cops.”

“And if you don’t—” He stepped closer to you, crowding in until you had to tilt your head back to keep his face in view. Your voice broke into desperate pleading, and that was it—Pope’s body moved before his mind caught up, every instinct screaming to get you away from him. But Craig’s hand clamped on his arm, yanking him back before he could close the distance.

“We’ll be back,” Baz finished, his tone almost casual—like a promise. Then he shoved you down. Pope’s gaze locked on you just long enough to see Carolyn scramble to your side, hands hovering, voice shaky but urgent. Craig’s grip on his arm yanked him back into motion.

He moved on autopilot, feet pounding to the car. The second he slid behind the wheel, he tore out of there, the engine screaming as his hands trembled around the steering wheel. They pulled into the drop-off garage, Baz’s car sliding in ahead of him. Pope barely threw his into park before he was out, rounding on Baz. His fist caught Baz by the collar and slammed him against the side of the car.

“What the hell was that?” Pope snarled, shoving him hard. Craig and Daran jumped out, closing in fast.

“She was in the back, man—what do you want?” Baz spat, shoving back weakly. “We went over the plan!” Pope’s voice cracked with fury. “We didn’t go over you using her as a hostage.”

Daran hooked his arms under Pope’s, trying to haul him away. Craig added a solid shove, finally wedging himself between them. “Fuck you, man—you were there. She volunteered.” Pope broke free from Daran's grip, his fist crashing into the taller man’s face. “You hurt her—You—I swear to God, if there’s a scratch on her—” He was jerked back again, Daran barking, “Cool it—”

Before Pope could respond, Baz’s voice cut through, sharp and mocking. “Or what? You didn’t do anything when we were in there. Know why? ’Cause you’re a fucking pussy.” He lunged at Pope, only to be held back by Craig.

“Enough.”

A sharp, commanding voice sliced through the tension. Smurf stepped into the garage, her heels clicking against the concrete, with J trailing behind. “Are you boys really going to let a girl come between you?” she asked, standing squarely between Pope and Baz, eyes flicking from one to the other. “Baby, are you going to let this girl come between your family?” She locked eyes with Pope.

Pope’s phone vibrated violently in his pocket—unknown caller. He glanced down, then back at Smurf, then back to the phone. He swiped to answer, pressing it to his ear. “Andrew—sorry, this is Carolyn—” Relief surged through him at the sound of her voice, even with the distant chaos of sirens and screaming bleeding through the line. “Something happened at work. We need you to come get her. She’s not hurt, but she’s shaken up.”

“I’ll be there in ten. Don’t leave her alone.” Pope cut her off and hung up. Without another word, he turned from the garage and started for his truck, ignoring Baz’s taunts and Smurf’s sickly sweet voice. His choice was made.

He sped through the streets until the flashing lights told him where to stop. The bank was cordoned off with police cars, their lights painting the night in red and blue. A lone ambulance idled in the lot. And there you were.

Sitting on the edge of its bumper, a silver shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring blankly out into the dark. Staring at nothing. Andrew climbed out of his truck, shoulders tense, jaw set, and pushed past the officers trying to block him. The commotion drew Carolyn’s attention. She set a gentle hand on your shoulder before rushing toward him.

“It’s okay! He’s here to pick her up—I called him!” She grabbed Andrew’s arm and tugged him under the tape. “Look, Andrew—these guys, they robbed the place. She’s not hurt, but they had a gun on her. I don’t know what they said, but she won’t talk to me.” Carolyn’s words tumbled out as they approached. She stopped just short of the ambulance and turned to him, lowering her voice.

“You need to be… gentle with her.” Pope nodded once, sharp and curt, but his chest felt like it might cave in. Gentle. The word rattled around in his skull like a foreign language. Gentle wasn’t something he knew how to be, not really. But for you, he’d try—he’d break himself into pieces if that’s what it took.

He stepped closer. You hadn’t noticed him yet, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the parking lot, lost in the aftershock. Your hands clutched the blanket so tightly your knuckles blanched white.

“Sweetheart,” Pope said softly, crouching in front of you. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, rough and unsure, but low enough that only you could hear. “It’s me.” Your head turned slowly, eyes glassy, unfocused for a beat—then recognition flickered.

“Let me take you home,” he said softly. You shook your head, chest jerking with every sob. “I can’t—I… Can I go to yours?” The words staggered out, broken. His heart splintered. He stumbled over a half-formed sentence, some useless excuse, but you cut through it with one word.

“Please.” The plea gutted him. Because he knew. He knew he was the one who put you here, the one who broke you like this.

And still—he nodded.

He carefully guided you toward his truck, barely acknowledging Carolyn’s worried rambling. He opened the passenger door, let her wrap you in one last lingering hug before he gently lifted you inside. He muttered a promise to keep her updated, then shut the door with more finality than he meant to. Sliding into the driver’s side, he risked a glance at you blanket clutched, eyes unfocused before leaning across to buckle your seatbelt himself.

The drive was silent, suffocating. The only sound came from your occasional shaky breaths. When he turned onto Smurf’s street, a soft sniffle broke through the quiet.

“I thought he was gonna kill me,” you whispered, voice raw. Pope jerked his head toward you, throat tight. He opened his mouth, desperate for something to say, something that could undo it. Nothing came.

“The one guy… he grabbed me when I was alone. He put his gun—” You caught his hand and pressed his finger against your throat, right at your carotid. “Here.” Your voice cracked. “All I could think about was you.” The confession knocked the air out of him. His chest squeezed, guilt and longing and shame clawing up his throat.

“I kept thinking that someone was going to have to call you, tell you what happened. I kept thinking about how Carolyn would react, walking into the back and seeing me there. What would happen to the others if he shot me—” You were spiraling, your words coming faster, jagged. Andrew pulled his hand free only to curl it around the back of your neck, drawing you closer until your forehead pressed to his shoulder. His arm wrapped around you, solid, anchoring.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you again. Do you understand me?” Your sobs had quieted to uneven breaths by the time Pope pulled away from you. He killed the engine, sat there for a moment with his hand still warm against the back of your neck. His chest felt hollow—how could he ever explain that it had been him? That he had been in that room? Instead, he gave your shoulder a squeeze and forced his voice steady.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

You nodded wordlessly, still wrapped tight in the silver blanket, and let him guide you up the steps. He unlocked the door, ushered you in, and shut it quick behind you.

The house was dim and smelled faintly of smoke and beer—signs the others had already returned. Pope’s stomach knotted. Any second, they’d come down the hall. Any second, you’d hear their voices and maybe recognize them. He couldn’t risk it.

“Go on,” he murmured, steering you toward the bathroom. His voice softened when he added, “Take a hot shower, yeah? It’ll help.” You looked up at him with wide, exhausted eyes, like you needed him to confirm it was safe. He brushed your hair gently back behind your ear—slow, deliberate, nothing like the way Baz had yanked at it earlier. “I’ll be right here,” he promised.

You froze as you looked up at him. For a beat too long, your glassy eyes locked on his face, searching. The corner of your mouth trembled, like you were piecing something together—like you’d seen him before. His stomach dropped. He felt it—the shadow of the safe between you, the way his hand had brushed that same strand of hair back hours earlier, the way you’d flinched at his touch then, the way you stiffened now.

But then you blinked, lashes damp, and whatever thought had been forming seemed to dissolve under the weight of your exhaustion. You gave a small, shaky nod and finally let him nudge you inside. The bathroom door shut with a soft click, and a moment later the shower sputtered to life. Pope sagged against the wall, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his eye, fighting the rising tide in his chest. The muffled sound of voices carried down the hall—low, rough, familiar. His stomach sank.

He pushed off the wall and stormed into the living room. Exactly what he expected: duffel bags dumped open, guns sprawled across the table, bricks of cash tossed in careless piles. “Get rid of it,” Pope snapped, his voice cutting like a blade through their chatter. “She’s here now.” His glare swept across the table, landing squarely on Baz. Baz’s head jerked up, bewildered. “She—why the hell would you bring her here?”

“She’s scared,” Pope hissed, stepping dangerously close, chest nearly brushing Baz’s. Baz smirked, cold and knowing. “Wonder why.” Baz’s smirk widened, pushing just enough to set Pope’s blood boiling. Pope shoved him back a step, teeth bared, his voice dropping to something ragged.

“You don’t ever ever put a gun on her again.” Craig shot Daran a look, shifting uneasily, but neither moved to intervene. The room vibrated with the heat rolling off both men.

“Or what?” Baz sneered, tone sharp and goading.

“You gonna finally grow a pair? ‘Cause in there you froze. You always freeze, Pope.” His voice rose with the taunt, bouncing off the walls.

The bathroom door clicked open down the hall. Steam drifted out as you padded barefoot onto the hardwood, the hem of one of Pope’s shirts clinging damp to your thighs. You paused, hearing the edge in Baz’s voice, and crept further, peering around the corner.

Your breath caught. Baz’s raised voice, the snarl, the sheer grit. It was the same sound, the same cadence, that had been pressed against your skull in that back room. Your pulse skittered wildly. You crept around the corner, watching the exchange for only a moment before Pope slammed his fist against the table. The sound made you flinch, and you stumbled into the vase in the hall. The crash echoed. Silence followed. Every head turned. Pope’s eyes found you instantly.

Caught, you stepped out, gaze locked on Baz.

“It was you—” your voice cracked, trembling but certain. But then your eyes fell on the table. The guns. The masks. The stacks of money. Your blood turned to ice. You staggered back, hand reaching out blindly for balance. Pope moved toward you, instinctively reaching to steady you, but your voice cut sharp through the air.

“Don’t.”

You put as much space as possible between yourself and the men at the table, tears streaking your face. “I—I won’t say anything, okay? I promise. Just… don’t.” Pope finished your sentence before you could. “We won’t hurt you. Would never—” A sharp, bitter laugh cracked out of your chest, cutting him off. “You let your brother pull a fucking gun on me.” Your voice broke on the words, fury and fear colliding. “Do you—do you have any idea how scared I was?”

Your eyes swept the table, landing briefly on Craig. He wouldn’t even meet your gaze. Not exactly your friend, but close enough after the months you’d spent around him while dating Pope. Still—he looked away, shame painting his features.

“I thought you guys were going to kill us.” The confession scraped out of you, your face twisting with disgust. You shook your head, a disbelieving laugh spilling into your sobs. “And I—I actually felt bad for making you take me back here.” Pope took a tentative step toward you, his hands raised like he was approaching a frightened animal.

“Don’t—please,” he rasped. “You know me. I’d never let anything happen to you.” But you backed away, your hand trembling as you pointed toward the table. “I saw. The guns. The masks. Don’t—don’t tell me you weren’t part of it.”

His mouth opened, but no words came.

A low scoff broke the silence. Baz leaned back in his chair, arms folded casually across his chest, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “You don’t need to be so dramatic about this,” he drawled. “If it makes it any better—he made us promise not to kill you. Real sweet.” He jerked his thumb toward Pope.

The sound of his voice hit you like a bullet. It dragged you straight back into the bank—the smell of gunpowder sharp in your nose, the weight of the barrel digging into your skin, your knees buckling as you begged for your life. Your stomach lurched; bile clawed at your throat.

Your eyes went wide as Baz stood, his smirk still painted on his face, and stepped toward you.

“Calm the fuck down. No one got hurt. Insurance’ll cover what we took. Now what I want to know is—” He took another step closer. “We gonna have to worry about you running your mouth?” Pope’s hand shot out, shoving him hard in the chest. “Baz—shut up.” He drew back, ready to throw another punch, when your voice sliced through the tension.

“I won’t. I won’t say anything. Just—” Your words caught, jagged in your throat. “I never want to see you again.” Your eyes cut to Pope, sharp and deliberate, the weight of your words burning into him. “Any of you. You’ll never hear from me again.” Your chest heaved as silence fell.

Then, before anyone could stop you, you spun on your heel and bolted. Your feet pounded down the hallway, the front door crashing open as you stumbled out into the night. Cool air slapped your tear-streaked face, but it didn’t slow you—you just needed distance, any distance.

“Wait—!” Pope’s voice chased you, heavy footsteps following close behind. You spun on him the moment you hit the yard, chest heaving, fury ripping through the fear. “Don’t you fucking follow me!” you screamed, your voice breaking. “You lied to me—you sat there, you held me, and the whole time you knew. You knew it was you. It was all of you!” He stopped a few feet away, chest rising and falling, hands half-lifted like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

“I thought I was gonna die in that bank. Do you get that? I thought someone was gonna call my mom and tell her I was gone, that Carolyn would have to clean my blood off the floor—and it was you!” Your voice cracked, each word sharper than the last.

You shoved him hard, your palms slamming against his chest. He didn’t budge—he just stood there like a stone wall. You hit him again, fists pounding against his shirt, wild and desperate. “I can’t trust you—I can’t trust anyone again because of you!” Tears streamed freely now, hot and relentless, your fists losing strength even as you kept striking. Pope didn’t move, didn’t raise a hand, didn’t defend himself. He just took it—every shove, every blow his jaw clenched, his eyes breaking in a way words never could.

Your fists slowed, strength draining until you were just shoving at him weakly, broken sobs tearing out of your chest. Pope still didn’t move, his silence cutting deeper than if he’d shouted back. You staggered a step back, dragging the sleeve of your shirt across your face, smearing tears you couldn’t stop. Your voice came out raw, trembling with fury and heartbreak.

“I hate you.” His eyes flickered, but he didn’t argue. “Everyone was right about you. About your family.” You shook your head, a bitter laugh scraping past your lips. “You’re poison. All of you. And I was stupid enough to think you were different.” Pope opened his mouth, some soundless plea caught on his tongue, but you cut him off before he could breathe it into the air.

“I wish I never met you.”

The words cut through him like glass, sharp and final. Beneath the venom, another voice ghosted in his head—the one from just days ago, whispered with bright eyes and the promise of future plans, soft and unwavering: I love you too, by the way. Possibly the first time he had heard those words in years. The first time since Julia. It collided violently with the words you’d just hurled at him, twisting like a knife in his chest.

You turned and ran, feet pounding down the street, the night swallowing you whole. Pope stood rooted where you left him, his chest heaving like he’d just been gutted. He didn’t call after you. He didn’t chase. He only watched until you disappeared into the dark, every instinct screaming to go after you—while the sick weight in his chest told him the truth. You were gone. And he didn’t deserve you back.

#pope cody #one shot #angst #pc oneshot #pc angst

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spookyreads · 2 days ago

Text

Spellbound

Summary : Bucky Barnes has a crush on a tea shop owner. But is she really just a tea shop owner?

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x witch! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant, post-Thunderbolts. Magic. Cursing. Nightmares, trauma. Bucky lives in the New Avengers tower. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 11.5k

Note : I’m on vacation and just managed to finish this story!!! Will start posting more regularly once I get back, but enjoy!!!

It had been raining a steady drizzle all afternoon.

You were rearranging your loose-leaf tins on the shelf behind the counter— your labels were hand-drawn, organised not by alphabet or herb, but by energy. Fig, your small parakeet, was perched lazily on your shoulder, his little peach belly rising and falling as he dozed. A few regulars had come in earlier and left with different tea blends, the usual murmur of jazz from your record player in the background, and now the shop had been eerily quiet for the last thirty minutes.

Then the bell above the door jingled.

That’s when you saw him.

The man who stepped in looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His jacket was damp, his hair curling at the ends from the rain, and when his eyes met yours, your Fig chirped in your ear.

You almost missed it, but when your eyes dropped, and you saw the metal arm— Wakandan vibranium peeking from the edge of his jacket sleeve. You recognised him immediately.

Fig tilted his head sharply and gave a warning chirp, feathers fluffed. His stranger danger mode had kicked in.

“He’s not a threat,” you whispered to the bird, which was easier said than done, considering the adorable thing was deathly protective over you.

Bucky looked at Fig. Fig looked back.

Fig chirped again, and he was not disapproving, just skeptical. He was always wary of people with metal limbs after a bad experience with a garden gnome.

“Another Avenger in my shop,” you said with a welcoming smile. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

He blinked, stopped mid-step like you’d just spoken in Morse code. “I—what?”

“You’re taller in person.” You repeated and shrugged. “Our mutual acquaintance showed me some team-outing photos.”

That earned you a half wary, half confused head tilt, maybe a little amused, but he walked up to the counter anyway. Fig ruffled his feathers, clearly intrigued.

Bucky rested his non-metal hand on the wood between you, glancing around the cosy space. “Bob did say this place was good.”

You gave him a half-smile. Bob came in a few months when he moved to the tower in New York, asking for a blend of herbal leaves that would aid in his recovery, and since then, he had already sent in two other avengers in here– Yelena needed a calming brew and Ava needed one that helped with her energy— but you didn’t think he’d send yet another one your way.

“He’s right,” you said confidently.

“He said,” Bucky measured his world carefully, “You could help me sleep.”

The words were small, but they didn’t feel fragile. It was as if he’d said them before to empty rooms and gotten nothing back.

You nodded, already turning to reach for a jar labeled Nightangel Brew.

“Do you have trouble falling or staying asleep?” you asked.

“I….” he paused. “A bit of both.”

You worked while you talked, scooping a blend of lemon balm, passionflower, valerian root, and a few curls of dried orange peel into a parchment sachet as an addition to the basic blend. The scent drifted up into the air. It was soothing, almost citrusy.

“No allergies?” you asked, as you scooped a bit of sea salt.

“No,” he confirmed.

You hesitated only a second before writing something on a notecard and slipping it into the brown paper bag with the tea.

He glanced at it, then at you. “You put your number on here.”

“Yep.”

He looked at you, amused but not complaining. “That’s… bold.”

You leaned in a bit. “Relax,” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “I only put my phone number in there in case you have questions about brewing the tea.”

Bucky took the sachet, eyes narrowing slightly. “You brew it differently?”

You shrugged like it was obvious. “It’s not just steep-and-dump. If you want flavour and effect, you’ve gotta be kind to it. Use a covered mug to keep the volatile oils from evaporating. Bonus points if you add honey after it cools a little. Or call Bob, he’ll tell you I lectured him for ten minutes once about not microwaving water in a mug.”

He huffed between a scoff and a laugh. Fig chirped curiously.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip twitching again. “And if I had questions about… more than the tea?”

You blinked, a little thrown off. But still, you leaned a little closer and said, “Then I’d probably still tell you to steep it for five minutes and not call after midnight unless it’s a tea emergency.”

He picked up the bag and took a step back. “Thanks…?”

You offered your name.

He repeated it slowly, like he was letting it settle on his tongue. “Okay. I’ll, uh… let you know how it goes.”

You shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, come back. We’ll adjust the blend. Or if you want to introduce yourself to Fig properly. He’s still undecided about you.”

As if on cue, Fig flapped his wings slightly and let out a single unimpressed chirp.

Bucky smiled, giving the bird a mock salute with his vibranium fingers. “Tough crowd.”

“Don’t worry,” you said. “He warms up. Eventually.”

The door jingled again as he left, disappearing into the curtain of rain outside.

You turned back to your shelf and sighed. Fig nuzzled into your cheek like he agreed.

“Yeah,” you whispered to him, smiling. “He’ll be back.”

—

After the last customer left and the bell over the tea shop door gave its tired little jingle, you flipped the sign to CLOSED, turned off the lights, and let out a deep breath.

It had been a long day — stormy weather always brought in the insomniacs, the anxious, and the romantics. You didn’t mind. You liked helping people who let tea cool in their hands before sipping it. People who didn’t ask questions about the strange, overgrown rosemary plant in the window that occasionally moved on its own as if readjusting their posture. People who didn’t ask questions when vines curled around your wrist as you asked permission to pluck her delicate leaves.

But tonight… you were tired.

Fig settled on your shoulder with a chirp and nuzzled into your neck.

“You really shouldn’t judge customers,” you scolded him. “Even the one who asked if we had matcha Red Bull.”

Fig screeched, offended.

“I know, I know,” you whispered, locking the back door.

You walked home in the drizzle, jacket wrapped tight around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way your fingertips itched with energy.

You had a feeling something was waiting for you at home.

And sure enough — when you pushed open the creaky door of your little apartment across the street, you felt the presence of… magic.

You dropped your keys into the wooden bowl by the door and looked around.

There, on your kitchen table, was a scroll, the mystical equivalent of a fax machine.

You sniffed the air, smelling sandalwood, ash, and a touch of cosmic ozone.

“Wong,” you muttered, stepping closer as Fig flew up to his perch in the corner of the room.

The scroll unrolled the moment you touched it.

To the Esteemed Herbalist of Fig & co The Sanctum Sanctorum requests your assistance once again. We are in need of a Class IV Lucidity Draught (stable, shelf-safe, dream-filtered, and no substitutions). Preferably before next quarter moon. Strange has broken another Mirror of Insight and refuses to admit it. Discretion appreciated. Your potions are still the most reliable in this dimension, no matter what the New Orleans apothecaries claim. Payment enclosed, as always. - Wong P.S. Fig is due for his magical familiar certification renewal. Please see attached.

You sighed, a mix of fondness and exhaustion tugging at your lips. “Of course he broke another mirror.”

Fig puffed up proudly at the mention of his name and squawked. You held up the attached pouch — sure enough, a handful of glittering stardust coins nestled inside, along with a single enchanted pearl. Payment, plus a bonus. Wong never forgot to tip.

You carefully rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into the hollow panel behind your spice cabinet — the one no one ever noticed because you’d warded it with three layers of disinterest.

You lit a few candles, cast a quick circle, and whispered the potion recipe into the air, watching the herbs rearrange themselves on your shelf.

The Lucidity Draught would take three nights to finish. The rarest ingredients you needed were water from the last rainfall (you always kept a bucket on your roof), rosemary that had bloomed under starlight, and a vial of sleep-ink that could only be harvested from a page left unread for seven years.

Luckily… you had all of that. Fig helped. He always knew where you stashed things.

“I told you not to bring me the experimental saffron strain,” you sent him away to fetch another vial, “It messes with dimensional boundaries.”

As the potionwork began and the ingredients simmered in your teapot, you glanced out the window, down at the street. From here, you could just barely see the windows of your own shop below, the sign swaying slightly in the rain.

Fig hovered over your shoulder, preening like a supervisor.

“You know,” you muttered as you decanted a viscous blue liquid into a tiny vial to age over a couple of days, “I like the tea shop because it doesn’t ask anything magical of me.”

Fig whistled knowingly. You glanced at him.

None of your normal customers knew, and you’d like to keep it that way. You never used magic in the shop — not even the smallest charm.

Everything you sold, everything you brewed, was just herbal blends. Because you loved tea in all its simplicity, its kindness, and its ritual.

As you sealed the last potion bottle, Fig let out a pleased trill and landed back on the candleholder.

You smiled, finally letting your shoulders relax.

Tomorrow, you'd go back to being the local tea seller who definitely wasn’t a real witch.

You’d refill your Nightangel Brew, maybe add a new jasmine blend to the shelf.

And maybe—just maybe—keep an eye on the door.

In case a certain former assassin with a metal arm came back.

Not that you were thinking about him.

Much.

—

Two days later, the shop had just opened for the morning, and you were doing what you always did first thing: steeping a pot of your current favorite (today: chamomile, cinnamon, and a drop of pear extract), restocking the honey jars, and politely telling Fig that no, he could not perch directly on the loose-leaf tins like a goblin king.

There were no customers yet. You put on classical cello music on the speakers, whispered a patience charm into your tea steam, and Fig flipped the “Open” sign in the window.

And then your phone buzzed.

Fig, perched on the hanging rack above you, looked down with narrowed eyes. He hated when technology interrupted your tea time. You ignored him.

The message was from a number you didn’t recognise.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Bucky. I think I burned it last night.

You blinked. A second message came in immediately after.

BUCKY : The tea. Not the tower.

You snorted in amusement, already typing.

YOU: I told you to steep it for five minutes in a covered mug. Not boiling water. I gave you the rules, Barnes. Did you microwave it?

Fig hissed. It sounded personal.

Your phone buzzed again.

BUCKY: I didn’t microwave it. I used a pot. Then I forgot about the pot.

You burst into laughter, startling Fig so badly he flapped his wings and knocked over your cinnamon jar. You sighed but didn’t stop smiling.

YOU: I'm not mad. Just disappointed.

BUCKY: Is this a customer service line or an ouija board for my dad?

YOU: sorry.

There was a longer pause before his next message.

BUCKY: Can I come by later? Try again, maybe supervised?

You stared at that message a moment longer than you meant to. Fig peered down at your screen, then made a throaty little hmm noise.

You didn’t look up. You just typed.

YOU: Sure. I think Fig wants to watch you try.

BUCKY: Of course he does. Is it weird I kind of want to impress a bird.

You smiled.

YOU: He is the true owner of the shop.

And as you set your phone down and turned to your blend-in-progress, you chuckled excitedly to yourself.

—

That afternoon, you were restocking the lemongrass jars when the door chimed.

Not the jingle-jangle of a casual browser or the clumsy shoulder-first push of a tourist trying to escape the rain.

You didn’t even turn around before speaking.

“Been waiting for you all day, Barnes.”

He paused before huffing out a small laugh. “I think I’ve earned ‘Bucky’ by now.”

You turned, and yep — there he was,standing just inside the shop like he wasn’t sure if he should touch anything, hair still slightly damp from the mist outside. He wore a dark sweater this time, sleeves rolled halfway up.

And under his arm was… a mug.

You tried not to smile too obviously. “You brought your own?”

“I figured if I’m going to fail,” he said, “I should at least fail in my favourite one. And maybe Fig would be kinder to me because I’m not going to ruin one of your mugs.”

As if summoned by name, the parakeet popped up from the shelf behind you and gave a long chirp — somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bucky muttered to the bird, pretending to understand him. “I’m not microwaving it this time.”

You took the mug from him, inspecting it. It was chipped near the rim, clearly well-loved, and had a faded print of a tree with roots stretching into a starry sky.

“This one’s seen things,” you said.

He gave a small smile. “Like its owner.”

You looked up. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

There was a heartbeat of silence between you, long enough to be noticeable. Just long enough for Fig to tilt his head like oh?

You cleared your throat. “Come on. To the bar.”

He followed you to the counter where you had already set out the tin of Nightangel Brew and a small linen pouch of fresh lemon.

You placed the kettle on its heating plate. “Step one. Know your water.”

“...Know it?”

You nodded. “Boiling water is murder on herbs, remember? You don’t want a rolling boil — you want a simmer with little bubbles.”

Bucky leaned in a little, his brow furrowed in focused concentration — or maybe just to smell. You pretended not to notice how close he was standing. Fig, however, absolutely noticed, and can’t decide if he was rooting for you or jealous of his proximity.

Bucky watched as you spooned the herbs gently into a steeping sachet and placed it in his mug. You handed him the kettle.

“Go ahead. Don’t rush.”

He raised an eyebrow but followed your instructions. Carefully, he poured slow circles, then covered the mug with the little ceramic lid you passed him.

“Five minutes,” you said. “Exactly. ”

“Noted.”

You leaned against the bar, watching the steam rise from the gaps. “So what happened yesterday? Got distracted?”

He hesitated. You saw it in his jaw.

Then he said, “I didn’t need it to sleep at first, but… then I woke up from a nightmare. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d try the tea, but I didn’t time it right. Kinda… zoned out.”

Your shoulders dropped kindly, “Well, hopefully, brewing it right will help.”

Fig fluttered down and landed between you both on the bar, watching Bucky quietly, tilting his head like a therapist trying to decide how to phrase advice kindly.

“I don’t usually talk about that,” Bucky said.

“I don’t usually let people behind the bar,” you replied.

Fig chirped like an alarm.

“Five minutes is up,” you said.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, wondering how a bird was even trained to even have a perfect internal clock, “How—“

You ignored him and lifted the lid, gently removed the sachet, and handed the mug back to him. “Moment of truth.”

He cradled it in both hands and took a careful sip.

Then another.

He closed his eyes.

“…Okay,” he said, eyes opening again. “That’s… nice.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but this feels… good.”

Fig chirped proudly once, then flew back to his perch.

Bucky set the mug down, but didn’t back away from the counter.

“So… how do I know if it’s actually working?”

“It works differently for different people.” You shrugged. “But it usually calms people down enough to doze off.”

He nodded, “You ever drink it?”

You hesitated, patting the bench next to you as you sat. “Not lately.”

And as he sat down beside you, sipping tea while the shop filled with the smell of brewing herbs, you couldn’t help but think: Maybe you didn’t mind letting this one in.

—

Bucky came back a few days later and said the blend was “doing something,” which for him, apparently, meant actually falling asleep. He looked better. Still guarded, sure — but the edges were blunting.

He came alone at first. Always late morning or just before closing. He brought his mug. You helped brewed his tea.

He never asked for anything else.

But he lingered every time. And each time, it got a little longer.

By week two, Bucky was coming in more days than not. He was always watching you in that not-trying-to-stare way that somehow made the staring worse.

You noticed he always sat at the same stool, second from the left, near the side table that housed your pothos.

You didn’t tell him it was your favourite spot, but you started making tea for two without asking.

You sat down next to him and started talking about your day.

Fig, meanwhile, hopped over to Bucky’s elbow and gave it a single approving peck. You paused mid-sip.

“Did he just…?”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “He’s warming up to me.”

“Must be the mug,” you said. “Or the absurd amount of honey you put in your tea.”

“I like sweet things.”

You glanced up and looked away.

By week four, Fig had officially defected.

He no longer dive-bombed Bucky’s boots.

He started landing on his shoulder.

And once, he let Bucky feed him a dried goji berry by hand without biting him.

“You’re a traitor,” you said, crossing your arms.

Bucky grinned. “He likes me.”

Fig preened like a smug little demon and settled into Bucky’s scarf like it was his new throne.

“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered playfully, sweeping behind the counter.

Then came the day he walked in with Bob Reynolds.

Bob had been a customer before Bucky. He loved your rosehip tisanes. He said they calmed the void in his chest, whatever that meant. He said it also helped with his cravings.

He greeted you, his usual dandelion-yellow hoodie bunched at the elbows. Then glanced back toward Bucky with a half-smirk.

“This the one who keeps you smiling when you’re supposed to be restocking the chamomile?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “You’ve been talking to Fig, haven’t you.”

“Bird’s got opinions,” Bob said, shrugging.

Bucky, behind him, tried very hard not to react. You caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth anyway.

They sat, ordered. Bob teased. Bucky endured it with the long-suffering patience of someone who was painfully aware of the dynamic forming in plain sight.

And it wasn’t just Bob.

Next came Yelena— a regular customer who insisted your “spicy blend” was the only thing that ever helped her relax. She strolled in one rainy Tuesday, spotted Bucky already at the counter, and raised one finely shaped brow.

“Oh,” she said, flicking her hair back. “You’ve been domesticated.”

“I came for tea,” Bucky muttered.

“You came for her tea,” she corrected, greeting you with a wave and eyeing you both with curiosity and delight.

“Leave,” he said flatly, but didn’t actually tell her to stop.

You served her with a smile, and she left with a wink — but not before whispering loud enough for Fig to hear, “She’s too smart to be pretending she doesn’t know what’s going on.”

The next day, Ava came in to try a new blend.

Ava was more subtle, but no less perceptive. She came in between field assignments, ordered your anti-inflammation brew, and then paused when she saw Bucky sitting behind the counter with Fig perched on his shoulder.

She looked between you two.

Then simply said, “So… how long have you been not-dating?”

You coughed into the tea towel. Bucky didn’t even look up. “We’re not—”

“Sure,” Ava replied, deadpan. “Fig won’t even look at me, but he likes Bucky? Something must be going on.”

Neither of you confirmed it, but you didn’t deny it either.

—

Over the next few weeks, it became routine.

Bucky would try new teas. He’d ask questions. He also learned to tell the difference between the citrus tang of lemon verbena and the grounding scent of ashwagandha.

He learned how you tapped the teapot twice before pouring — a little ritual, perhaps unconscious. You learned he stirred his tea clockwise, like muscle memory.

He smiled more. Not always at you — but often because of you.

Once, Fig dropped a dried hibiscus petal into his cup by “accident.”

You knew it wasn’t— Fig knew that used correctly, only if you cast a spell on it— it could induce an infatuation spell.

Not that Bucky needed it. The parakeet knew Bucky was already infatuated.

You, seemed hopelessly oblivious to it, though.

Bucky simply lifted the mug to Fig like a toast. “Thanks.”

And Fig preened.

—

One evening, just after closing, Bucky lingered while you wiped down the counter.

“I’ve been sleeping better,” he said, quietly.

You nodded. “I can tell.”

He looked at you the way someone examines a door they want to open, but aren’t sure they should. “You put something else in it?”

You just smiled. “Just plants, Barnes.”

“That’s enough,” He nodded, but didn’t look away. he said. “You got any of that cinnamon-pear blend left?”

You turned to the jar, hand already reaching. “Always.”

“Good,” he nodded, “Because I think I’ll keep coming back.”

You didn’t turn around. “I know.”

—

Bucky came in mid-morning two months later. He hadn’t been in for a couple of weeks, and that was not unusual— Bob said he had gone on a stealth mission.

His hoodie was drawn up over his head. He didn’t say anything at first. He just dropped his usual mug on the counter, and sat in silence. Fig came over to greet his friend, but he got no reaction from Bucky.

You tilted your head in confusion, but put on the kettle anyway. This time, you brewed Jasmine with a touch of lemon balm, a whisper of skullcap.

“I didn’t sleep,” he said after a long silence. “Not… since I got back from the mission two nights ago.”

You glanced up. “What’s up?” you asked gently.

He shook his head once. Not embarrassed — just exhausted.

“This… this mission just reminded me of the worst fucking part of humanity. I did what was necessary,” he added. “I… tried the tea. I tried all the steps. I took a deep breath like you said. It helped for a bit. But once I fell asleep…”

His voice faded.

You didn’t need him to finish his thoughts. If whatever he saw in that mission was enough to shatter his mind all over again, you could only imagine how bad it got.

You poured him the tea and started making him a different blend to go.

You prepared a bit of Nightangel brew but added added a pinch of mugwort. Then a little blue lotus, for clarity. Then hawthorn, for flavour.

Bucky noticed. “That’s not the usual.”

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

He didn’t ask questions, just watched your hands move.

You looked up once the sachet was full.

“This is… stronger,” you said.

He nodded gently and murmured, “Alright. Let’s try.”

—

He came back the next morning, hunched deeper in his jacket.

You didn’t even greet him with a joke this time. Just took his mug and went straight to the blend. “Did it help?”

“No,” he admitted, partially scared of offending you. “Not at all.”

You frowned, wondering how much more herbal remedies you could add without it being redundant.

“Woke up sweating,” he explained, “I… Couldn’t breathe. It felt like—”

He stopped. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.

You didn’t push. Instead, you leaned on your elbows, “Okay. Then we go gentler.”

“Gentler?”

You nodded, already pulling down a different tin. “No mugwort. No lotus. Just chamomile to remind your body it’s not in a cage.”

He blinked.

“Holy basil. Rose. Passionflower. A little oatstraw.”

Bucky watched you. “Will it work?”

“For some people,” you said. “But we have to… try.”

He sat back and looked at you like he wanted to ask a hundred things.

Fig fluttered down from his perch and didn’t land on the counter this time, but directly on Bucky’s knee.

Bucky blinked, and for the first time in days, his shoulders relaxed. “Hey, buddy.”

You pushed the mug toward him, hands brushing again.

“I’ll keep adjusting the blend,” you promised with an encouraging sigh. “As long as you keep showing up.”

He nodded.

—

A month later, the bell chimed softly as the door eased open.

It was a sound that now felt like a sixth sense waking. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

The second Bucky stepped inside, Fig perked up, puffing his feathers and letting out a trill of affection.

You smiled faintly. Fig loves him. You thought. He only sings like that for me… and Bucky.

“Hey,” you said gently, eyes lifting from the tea counter where you were measuring out dried verbena. “You’re early today.”

He nodded, and walked over to his usual still. You wanted to ask if he was okay, though you never did.

That wasn’t how Bucky worked. He wasn’t made for direct questions.

“Same as last time?” you asked.

He looked up at you, then away.

You didn’t wait for an answer. You knew it anyway.

You turned to the wall of shelves, fingers ghosting over jars. Skullcap. Passionflower. Fennel. Chamomile. You’d changed the recipe multiple times since last month. Each blend tailored to soothe, to calm, to untangle knots that Nightangel couldn’t reach.

None of it worked.

Still, you went through the motions. You always did. You wouldn’t stop trying, not for him. Not when he kept dragging himself through your door like he was searching for something solid to hold onto.

You set the tea to steep and moved to lean on the counter across from him.

“Is it not working?” you asked gently.

Bucky huffed a humorless sound— a mix of a scoff and a sigh. “You’ve changed it four times. You’d think I’d be out cold for a week by now.”

Your lips turned into a frowned.

“You’re perfect,” he added suddenly, urgently. “You… you’re good at this—at what you do. But that mission… I…”

He looked up at you, and for a moment you saw the wreckage behind his eyes. “I think I’m the one that’s broken.”

You swallowed hard, the words lodging in your throat like a stone. All of your vows, all of your promises to never intervene with magic in the shop, they started to fray at the edges. He wasn’t just tired, he was unraveling.

And you were standing here with shelves full of herbs and nothing that could hold him together.

That’s when you felt it: the ache in your chest shifting into guilt, like glass under skin.

You turned away.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, going to the back room, where you store all your stock and closing the door.

Fuck, today, he looked broken.

You froze, hands trembling slightly over the apothecary jars, and your mind went to your apartment that was just across the street. Upstairs. Your real workbench was there. The hidden shelf with dried mystic root. The moon water. The preserved glass vials with hope tinctures and dream oil and truth dust.

“No,” you whispered to yourself. “No, no, no.”

But then you remembered at Bucky again—shoulders hunched, head bowed, fingers twitching ever so slightly—and your resolve shattered.

“…Just this once.”

You leaned down toward Fig, who had hopped closer on his perch and was watching you with keen eyes.

“I need to go home for a second,” you said, pulling off your apron. “Keep him company, okay? Chirp a little. He likes it.”

Fig flapped once and gave a peep of approval.

You slipped out the back door and jogged across the street to your apartment above the bakery.

Inside, you didn’t light a single lamp.

You moved directly to the old armoire that served as your private altar, opening the false panel and pulling out the worn wooden box. Inside: the forbidden things. The ones you kept under lock and key. Your grandmother’s spoon, etched with runes. The jar of dried starblossom petals. A tiny, sealed vial of liquid desire.

You were going to infuse his latest tea blend with… magic.

It wasn’t that it was dark magic. It wasn’t evil. It was just… potent. And dangerous if used carelessly. You had vowed never to use your craft in the shop.

Never to enchant something as intimate as tea.

But you remembered the first time Bucky came in, Since then, he’d been a constant.

And now he was in trouble, and this was the only way you could help.

You whispered the spell as your fingers worked fast, blending more herbs with practiced care: blue lotus for dreams, rosehips for warmth, passionfruit for clarity, and just a bit of the liquid desire.

The spell would draw from his desire, not yours, showing him not what he feared… but what he wanted most— perhaps peace. Or comfort. Perhaps he wanted to be back in the forties. Maybe he just wanted a life on the farm.

You closed your eyes and sealed it with breath, steadying the tremble in your hands.

“Just this once,” you whispered aloud.

And you were going to tell him, right?

—

When you stepped back into the shop, it felt warmer. Or maybe that was your guilt heating up your skin.

Bucky looked up from where he sat, with Fig perched on his shoulder and nuzzled his hair. You paused, surprised—and not surprised at all. Fig never did that to anyone but you.

“I told him not to get too attached,” you said softly, setting the new cup on his table.

“Well,” Bucky replied, a faint smile pulling at his lips, “I’m getting attached, too.”

To you or the bird, you weren’t sure.

You watched him look down at his hands as you handed him the pouch.

It was darker than your usual blend, its surface flecked with starlight-like shimmer. You hoped he wouldn’t ask.

But Bucky just leaned forward, hands clutching the bag.

You took a deep breath, readying yourself for the entire I’m actually a witch confession, but then he said…

“I don’t even wanna know what’s in it,” he muttered. “I just want peace.”

Your fingers brushed his as you sat beside him. “Are you sure?”

Bucky nodded.

You hesitated. Then, said. “It’s on the house today.”

He looked up.

“…Thanks,” he said. “Really. You—”

His gulped like he wanted to say something else, but the words got stuck.. “You always know what to do.”

You watched him slip the tea into his coat pocket, rising slowly.

The bell above the door gave that same gentle chime as he left.

—

That night, in the new Avengers Tower, on the other side of town from your tea shop, Bucky sat on his bed and drank the tea.

The first time in weeks, his body eased against the sheets instead of bracing for war.

And when he dreamed, it wasn’t of screams or steel or blood.

He dreamed of a cosy shop with a parakeet singing in the corner.

—

You were still tying your apron when the door burst open the next morning.

The bell above the tea shop was a frantic, startled chime — not the usual gentle ring. Before you even looked up, you knew it must be him.

Fuck. Did he know? Could he tell something was… different?

You turned just in time to see Bucky push through the doorway like he’d run the entire way here. He was breathless and flushed. His hair was messy, jacket unzipped, like he hadn’t even thought to fix himself before coming straight here.

“Bucky—?” you began, eyebrows lifted as Fig flapped his wings in greeting.

He didn’t stop walking until he was at the counter.

“It worked.”

You froze, one hand still on the apron’s tie. “What?”

“The tea,” he said. “It… worked. Last night. I—I actually slept for the first time in… weeks.

There was relief in his voice.

Your heart clenched behind your ribs.

He let out a shaky breath, glancing toward the floor like he didn’t quite believe he was saying it out loud. “Usually I either have nightmares or… nothing. But last night, I… I dreamed.”

He looked up at you, and your throat went dry.

“I dreamed of here,” he said softly. “Of you.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. What?

You nodded slowly. “I’m… glad it helped.”

But you knew exactly what that meant.

The spell you used hadn’t just offered comfort. It hadn’t simply calmed his nerves or quieted his thoughts. It had shown him his deepest desire to get rid of the terrors.

And he dreamed of you.

“I-I don’t mean to be weird,” he said suddenly. “I just…,” he added, so softly you almost missed it. “Didn’t want to wake up.”

You should have told him then. You should have told him what you’d done. That you’d bent your own rules for him. That you’d taken a tiny vial of liquid desire and dropped it into his cup.

That his dream wasn't a coincidence.

But your words wouldn’t come out past your throat.

Because a part of you was afraid that if he knew, he’d doubt the dream. That he’d think it was a trick. That he wouldn’t believe that what he saw was already true.

So instead, you forced your lips into a tight smile and said, “That’s good.”

“You were behind the counter in the dream. Laughing,” he said. “You were wearing that pink cardigan you always say you’re gonna throw out.”

You blinked, unaware he remembered your little neither-here-nor-there conversations. “I… still have it.”

He smiled faintly. “Fig was there, too. He kept trying to eat my scone.”

Fig gave a soft chirp and fluttered down to land on Bucky’s shoulder again, completely unbothered.

Bucky huffed a surprised breath, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Traitor,” you muttered fondly toward Fig.

Bucky shifted on his feet.

“Can I come back tonight?” he asked.

You smiled, but hesitated. “Of course.”

—

That night, just after closing the shop and wiping down the counters, you stared at your phone.

Bucky had said he’d be back. He wanted to come back.

And you—being you—had gone and messed everything up with your damn heart and your emergency vial of dream-altering magic.

So instead of texting what you wanted (which was: come back, sit with me, let me explain the dream wasn’t real but also definitely was)...

…you typed: Not feeling great. Raincheck?

You hit send before immediately grabbing the emergency sling ring from under your floorboard, called to Fig with a sharp whistle, and opened a portal to Kamar-Taj.

The sky through the portal was blazing orange at dusk. Fig fluttered through first with a defiant chirp.

You stepped into the cool stone corridor just as a familiar voice groaned from around the corner.

“Speak of the devil.”

Stephen Strange rounded the archway, Wong at his side with a tray of your tea.

You blinked. “Why were you talking about me?”

“We need to place an order.” Wong held up a scroll and payment. “Three jars of moonstilled chrysanthemum, two of dreamroot, and that thing with the dried violets that makes people cry for two hours.”

“Oh, right. Cryleaf blend. Yeah, I’m low, too. Bad harvest year.”

“Well double the payment if you can get it done,” Strange promised, already walking away.

You didn’t follow him immediately. You were still trying to breathe past the knot in your chest.

“I need a hypothetical ethics consult,” you said suddenly.

Wong stopped and raised a brow. “Oh.”

You followed them both into the dim library room they used for absolutely everything, where Fig landed atop a shelf and immediately started pecking at a crystal ball.

You dropped into a floor cushion, rubbed your eyes, and began.

“Let’s say… hypothetically… someone who runs a completely magic-free tea shop made a promise to never use enchantments on the drinks they serve.”

Wong was already frowning. Strange narrowed his eyes.

“But let’s say—still hypothetically—that someone they care about is clearly not okay. We’re talking not sleeping for weeks, barely holding it together, that type of stuff.”

“I already know where this is going,” Wong muttered.

“And so the hypothetical tea shop owner makes a completely irrational, heart-dumb, reckless decision and enchants one tea blend with dream magic. The kind that reveals the drinker’s deepest desire and blocks out trauma-based nightmares.”

Strange folded his arms. “Uh huh.”

“And,” you went on, your voice getting smaller, “let’s say the person drinks it, sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks, wakes up saying they dreamed of… the person who gave him the blend.”

“Still sounds hypothetical,” Wong said sarcastically.

You stared at your hands. “Is that unethical?”

Strange stared at you. “That’s it? That’s the ethical dilemma?”

“I enchanted his tea, Stephen. I interfered with his subconscious.”

“You gave a traumatized super-soldier a warm nap and a vision board,” he deadpanned. “You didn’t scramble his brain or bind his will to a blood pact.”

“How did you—?” You furrowed your eyebrows, unaware your personal life was their business.

“You are one of the best potions witch in the northern hemisphere,” Wong deadpanned, “do you really think we don’t keep tabs on your more… influential customers?”?l

“Fine,” you snapped, “but back to the question—“

“He’ll be fine,” Strange dismissed.

You frowned. “But he didn’t—“

“Did you cast an obedience charm?”

“No!”

“Corruption sigil?”

“No!”

“Memory trap?”

“NO!”

“Then,” he said, leaning back with an insufferably casual smile, “it sounds like you did what every good magic-user has done at least once: you broke your own rule to save someone you care about.”

You stared at him. “So… it’s fine?”

“No. It’s weird.”

Wong agreed. “You witches are odd sometimes.”

You scowled. “That’s not helpful.”

“I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to stop Dormammu and make sure no one drops reality into a blender.” He waved his hand. “This? Not even in the top fifty ethical dilemmas I’ve heard this week.”

“It feels icky!” you said, frustrated. “I didn’t mean to influence him!”

Wong raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think a man like James Barnes is so fragile he’d fall in love because of a dream?“

You opened your mouth. “But—”

Strange held up a hand. “Let me guess. You’ve read three books on ethical divination, one essay by an excommunicated greenwitch, and now you’re spiraling.”

You blinked. “…Yes.”

Wong shoved extra currency for the order it into your hands.

“Tell him the truth if you feel bad, but don’t act like you’ve done dark magic just because you caught feelings.”

You stared. “I knew I should’ve joined a coven. At least they’d have a Code.”

Strange rolled his eyes. “Please. Most covens barely agree on how to bless water. One time I watched three hedge witches almost fistfight over which moon phase was best for making lavender oil.”

From your shoulder, Fig gave a loud, scolding chirp.

You glanced at him.

“What?” you muttered. “It was just a passing thought—”

He chirped again, this time louder. His little clawed feet gripped your shoulder tighter.

Wong chuckled. “Sounds like your familiar’s insulted.”

“M’sorry,” you muttered, giving Fig a sideways look. “I didn’t mean to imply I needed anyone else but you, bud.”

Fig gave a dignified huff and fluffed his feathers.

“I wasn’t actually going to join one!” you hissed.

Fig preened pointedly.

“I just panicked.”

He chirped again as you said your goodbyes opened the portal back to your shop.

—

Later that night, you returned to your apartment.

You half expected Bucky to be waiting outside, but was disappointed when there was only the empty street and the patter of rain on cobblestone.

Inside, the tea ingredients sat untouched on your back shelf, tucked away again.

You made yourself a cup of tea and sat with Fig in the dim shop light, wondering if he was still dreaming of you, or if the magic had already faded.

But still a thought whispered. If you were his greatest desire… what would yours be?

You hadn't asked that question before.

Not seriously.

Because you didn't want the answer.

But now you stood, and walked to the back shelf where the last vial of desire sat sealed under moonlit paper, humming faintly with dormant power.

No.

Nope.

Maybe?

Fuck.

Just this once.

You quickly dropped the same dose into your tea and casted the spell.

You carried the cup back to your seat, Fig watching you from the counter with glassy eyes.

“This is dumb,” you whispered aloud. “This is so dumb.”

Fig let out a chirp. Not scolding, but more like, Then don’t do it. But if you’re gonna, stop whining and sip.

You sughed before raising the cup and drinking.

—

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

But when you opened your eyes… the world was a warm amber, flickering like candle glow.

You were standing behind the tea shop counter, apron tied snugly around your waist, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. Fig was perched beside the cash box.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Sitting in his usual spot, back slightly hunched, cradling a steaming cup in both hands. He was in a navy sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his metal hand glinting faintly in the light. He was looking at you like… you were the best part of his day.

And in the dream, you weren’t hiding.

You smiled. And he smiled back.

—

You woke up on your bed with a gasp.

Fig flapped in surprise, his wings fluttering.

You sat forward on the couch, pressing a trembling hand to your chest, breathing coming fast.

Fig chirped, and he knew… you had your answer.

—

The next morning, you had an early customer who ringed the bell in five minutes before opening.

Even before you turned around… you knew it was him.

Here goes nothing.

You expected Bucky to slink in, like he usually did.

Instead, he stood just inside the door with a bouquet of flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

They were… wild flowers — your favourite — wrapped in recycled newspaper like he’d tried to make it not a big deal.

Oh.

He looked… terrified.

His hair was still a little damp from the morning drizzle, jacket open over a plain black henley, boots tracking faint footprints on your floor.

“Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey.”

“Can I…” he started, “can I talk to you?”

You nodded once. “Of course.”

He approached slowly, as if he was afraid to break a fragile thing. Maybe himself.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he admitted, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Did a bit of thinking and… I was scared I freaked you out.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “You didn’t, I promise.”

He looked at you with that wide-open gaze that always undid you.

“I kept thinking about it,” he said. “About why I dreamed of you.”

Your fingers curled against the counter. Fig, on his perch behind you, let out the softest warning trill.

Bucky went on, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I thought maybe you… I don’t know. I… I thought maybe I’ve been seeing too much of you.”

You opened your mouth—but Fig flapped a hard THWIP of wings.

“But then I realised,” he admitted sheepishly. “I could never have too much of you.”

You met his eyes. “You… what?”

He hesitated. “I think… I’ve felt like this for a while now.” He lifted the flowers slightly. It was awkward, sweet, almost bashful.

“I don’t want it to just be a dream,” he said. “I want it to be real. I want us to be real. So…”

He took a deep breath.

“Would you maybe go out with me?”

For a good five seconds, you only stared at him.

You should tell him.

You almost did.

But then Fig let out a pointed chirp from behind you.

Not yet, he seemed to say.

So, you smiled—nervous, but sincere.

“Sure,” you said, trying to play it off as casual.

His brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t believed you’d say it. “Yeah?”

You stepped around the counter, closing the space between you. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And for the first time since you met him, you saw the weight on his chest loosening.

He held out the flowers, finally, with a shy smile. “I’m not great at this… anymore.”

“You’re doing just fine.” You chuckled, taking the bouquet from his hands. It was wild and imperfect and beautiful, just like your magic.

—

The day say he took you out, it was raining again.

Thankfully, it was the good kind, the kind that gave the streets that shimmer like everything’s been kissed by silver. You’d always loved nights like this, when the world felt like a mystic secret.

Bucky had offered to pick you up at your place.

You told him to meet you at the shop instead. It felt right. It felt like you now had gone full circle.

When he arrived, you were already waiting in the doorway with a tiny umbrella, saying goodbye to Fig, who was tucked into his little cosy corner. He wouldn’t shut up, not until Bucky knocked on the door, and you were convinced he sensed what kind of night this would be.

Bucky looked unfairly good. He adorned simp clothes — a dark sweater and stormy-blue jacket he’d worn a few times — and that nervous smile you had come to crave.

He held out a hand.

“You ready?”

You nodded.

—

The place you chose for your first date wasn’t fancy.

It was a tucked-away little bistro down the block, with candles flickering in mismatched holders and tables close enough to each other to hear laughter, but not close enough to interrupt it. You were seated by a window, and Bucky was across from you.

Going on a date with Bucky felt daunting at first. But now… that you were actually in it… it felt natural.

You had both eaten, talked, laughed a little — but it wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and your dessert had arrived that the room shifted.

Bucky had been watching you all night.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed, but like he was learning you. Like he was memorizing every little expression, every gesture.

Like he wanted to know you.

Your fingers curled around the ceramic mug in your hands.

“Can I tell you something?” you said, voice quiet.

He leaned in slightly. “Of course.”

You hesitated, before looked him straight in the eyes.

“You said you dreamed of me. Of… us.”

His mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile, not quite not. “Yeah.”

“It was… because of tea I gave you.”

“Worked like magic,” he confirmed, almost wry.

“Bucky, I’m trying to tell you…” You swallowed hard. Fuck, here goes nothing. “That it wasn’t a normal blend.”

The silence that followed was short enough, but it made your heartbeat pick up. His brow ticked, and he set his desert spoon down carefully. “Okay…”

“I don’t normally do this,” you started, sighing. “I never do this. I have rules. You know I make regular blends—“

“Regular?” Bucky chimed in, furrowing his eyebrows.

“—for sleep, anxiety, energy,” you continued anyway, “but that night, you said that you hadn’t slept in weeks. and I—” your voice caught, “—I panicked. I didn’t have anything in the shop that would worked that I didn’t try already.”

The night flashed before your eyes — the hollow look in his eyes, the way his voice had been almost brittle.

“So I… ran across the street to my apartment. And I used a spell.”

Bucky blinked, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “…A spell. Like actual magic.”

“Yes.”

You could see him process it, in the way a faint crease formed between his brows, the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.

His voice came quieter. “You didn’t tell me.”

You felt the blood rush to your ears. “You… didn’t want to know.” You explained, looking down in guilt. “Remember? That night, you said you didn’t want to know what was in it.”

“It sounds like you put something in my head,” he said, not unkind, but blunt.

Your stomach turned. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“It’s a spell meant to ease nightmares. It doesn’t control, doesn’t twist. It just… reveals.”

He sat back slightly, studying you. You could see the flicker of wariness in his eyes, and it made your chest ache.

“Reveals what?”

Fuck.

“Their… their greatest desire,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Oh.

He leaned back, his expression warping. It wasn’t anger. But you couldn’t quite place where it fit.

“And what I saw in the dream… was you.”

“Yes.”

The candlelight flickered between you, catching the edge of his metal knuckles where his hand rested on the table.

He ran a hand over his face. “You’re an actual witch,” he said finally, looping back to the fact.

“…Yes.”

“Like, sorcery?”

“No. Sorcery’s learned. I was born with it. I work with potions.”

He shook his head, staring down at the table. “I should’ve guessed. Wong’s walked out of your shop before. And Fig… I swear he talks sometimes.”

Your nodded. “He does.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “You know I’ve had my mind messed with before. That dream… it didn’t feel wrong. But it was still… I don’t know. I don’t like thinking someone else had a hand in it.”

You stared at him. “You think I made you see me?”

“I think you gave me something that made me see something I didn’t know I wanted,” he said quietly.

Your chest tightened. “It can’t create anything that isn’t already there.”

He looked at you like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know if he should.

“And you?” he asked. “If you drank it, what would you see?”

You hesitated. “…I did.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“And?”

“I saw you.”

That landed between you like a dropped stone disturbing a waveless ocean.

Bucky’s eyes darted away. His shoulders shifted restlessly. “I… I gotta go.”

Your stomach dropped. “Bucky—”

“It’s not—” He stood abruptly, fumbling for his jacket. “It’s not that I’m... I just… I need to think.”

The chair legs scraped so against the worn wood floor as he moved back.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

He hesitated a moment longer, looking at you. Then he nodded once, like he was answering a question only he’d asked himself, and turned toward the door.

You just sat there in the glow of candlelight, your hands curled around the cold desert spoon.

—

Bucky didn’t knock as he reached the 177A Bleecker Street.

He figured if Strange really didn’t want visitors, the Sanctum Sanctorum would’ve swallowed him whole the second he stepped on the stoop.

Instead, the door creaked open on its own, and there was the sorcerer himself, one brow arched in that perpetual look of annoyed judgment.

“Barnes,” Strange said dryly. “You’re a long way from Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Needed to… talk to someone who’d get it.”

“‘It’ being…?”

Bucky hesitated. “…Magic.”

That actually earned him a flicker of genuine curiosity from Strange. “Alright.”

The Sanctum smelled faintly of incense and something older, like paper and storms. Strange led him down a long hall and into a high-ceilinged library, gesturing to a pair of mismatched chairs in front of a low table.

Strange said, flicked his wrist to summon a cup. “You like Earl Grey?”

Bucky followed him inside, glancing around the vast space. “Not much of a tea guy lately.”

“Oh, right,” Strange said lightly, leading him toward the library while sipping the brew. “You’ve already been drinking something far more potent.”

Bucky stopped in his tracks. “…You know?”

Strange turned with the faintest smirk on his mouth. “Barnes, I know exactly who runs that little shop you’ve been visiting. I also know exactly what kind of magic she works with, who’s been there. She’s supplied Kamar-Taj for years. Her blends are high-quality, magical or not. Wong swears by her migraine remedy. I’d trust her brewing over most trained potion masters I’ve met.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “So you know she—”

“Gave you a desire spell?” Strange cut in. “Yes. And judging by the fact that you’re here, I’d say it worked.”

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “I saw her. In the dream.”

“You’re afraid it was compulsion.” Strange said, like he’d been expecting this. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “…Yeah. After what I’ve been through—”

“I know,” Strange cut in gently. “But no. It wasn’t compulsion.”

Bucky looked up. “How can you be so sure?”

Strange leaned back in his chair, watching him with that unsettling kind of stillness. “Because she came to Kamar-Taj the day after she found out you saw her. She was rattled. Wouldn’t stop apologizing. Wanted to know if it was unethical. Told me she never, ever uses magic in her shop. That she only did it because you looked like you looked like shit. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

Bucky froze. “…She said that?”

Strange nodded. “She didn’t want to change you. She didn’t even want to risk revealing herself to you. She just—” He gestured loosely, as if the right word was somewhere in the air. “—couldn’t stand to watch you suffer like that.”

Bucky swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the tea cup.

“What she used,” Strange continued, “wasn’t suggestion. It wasn’t manipulation. It’s a mirror. It brings forward what’s already there — a truth you’ve either ignored or haven’t admitted to yourself. It reveals. And revelation, in this case, is a gift.”

Bucky’s brows drew together. “So it was me.”

“It was always you,” Strange said simply. “She just cleared the fog.”

Bucky stared at the steam curling from his tea. The memory of that dream — the sound of your laugh, the warmth in your eyes — burned fresh in his mind. He’d told himself it was too vivid, too convenient. But if Strange was right…

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low.

“Barnes,” Strange said, faintly exasperated, “I’ve seen enough true desire reflections to know one when I hear about it. You think I’d be this calm if she’d tampered with your mind? I’d have half the Masters here dismantling every floorboard in her shop, and she’d lose both her shop licenses and the potion license.”

That startled a small, reluctant smirk out of Bucky. “…Guess you would.”

Strange’s expression softened just slightly. “You trust her, don’t you?”

Bucky looked down at his hands and nodded.

Strange sipped his tea, watching him. “I assume she didn’t tell you because she knows your history. And, if I may, she’s probably terrified of hurting you.”

Bucky’s voice was quiet. “She was.”

Strange tilted his head. “So… are you going to let this stop you from being honest with her now?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, then stood up abruptly. “…I gotta go.”

Strange didn’t stop him. He just smiled faintly, as if this had been the plan all along. “Send Fig my regards.”

Bucky paused. “You know about Fig?”

“Of course,” Strange said with a wave of his hand. “That bird glares at me every time I visit. He thinks I’m trouble.”

Bucky huffed, almost laughing as he pushed the door open.

—

Bucky didn’t go back to the shop immediately, even if his body wanted to.

He told himself it was because he was busy with mission reports, training schedules, and repairs to his gear but really, he was avoiding you.

He walked the length of Manhattan twice the next day with his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down. The streets were loud, crowded, and full of people brushing past without a second glance. It should have been easy to get lost in it, but no matter where he went, his mind kept circling back to the same thing: why you hadn’t texted or called.

You probably wanted to give him some space.

So on the first night, he didn’t dream at all. Just tossed and turned until dawn, chasing sleep that wouldn’t stick.

—

The second day, he tried distracting himself.

He hit the gym, hard. He ran on the treadmill for a run until his lungs burned and the machine short-circuited from overuse. He did all his laundry. He cooked for the first time in weeks. It was a simple scrambled eggs and toast, but still ended up not touching most of it away.

When Yelena and Bob brew their teas, their custom blends that you sold them, and wondered if they knew you were magical.

Probably not.

The truth was, he wasn’t mad at you the way he thought he’d be.

It was the memory of the look on your face when you’d confessed. You were not defensive, not smug — guilty. And perhaps, he realised after a bit of thinking, that what hurt most of all was how you thought you had to hide your identity from him.

By nightfall, he’d found himself outside your shop without meaning to. The lights were off, the CLOSED sign swaying gently in the summer breeze.

He didn’t knock, knowing you’d be in bed by now. So he just stood there for a few minutes, staring at the faint reflection of his own tired face in the glass, before walking away.

—

The third day, he gave in.

The tin of tea you’d given him, the one from that night, was still in his cupboard. He’d been avoiding it like the plague, but now he set it on the counter, staring at the label you’d written in a looping script.

It felt strange, making it again. He’d seen you brew tea so many times, the careful measure of leaves, the way you swirled the water just right, but he never really brewed it like you.

It was never… just right.

Still, when the steam rose, it smelled like your shop.

It smelled like… safety.

Bucky wrapped his hands around the mug, sipped, and sat at the shared kitchen table in the new avengers tower.

Within a few minutes of finishing the tea, he walked back to his room. He didn’t fight the warmth creeping in.

—

In the dream, he was standing in your shop again, the light golden through the windows, Fig chattering softly from his perch.

You were behind the counter, head bent over a notebook, and when you looked up, your whole face lit up like you’d been waiting for him.

You were brewing a potion for Strange, completely in your element, while Fig greeted him.

—

When he woke, he sighed in content before he could stop himself.

Fuck.

The dream hadn’t been a trick. He knew that now.

Magical or not, he’d missed you. He missed that feeling of being wanted without needing to earn it, that place felt safe just because you were there.

By the time he set the mug in the sink that morning he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to let four days stretch into five.

—

Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about you throughout the day.

And if you were really his own greatest desire, then… hell.

It took him the entire day, though, to actually go through with meeting you.

—

When he did decide it was time, your shop was already closed.

So he walked across the street where he vaguely knew where you lived.

He didn’t know your exact apartment number. You’d never given it to him, and he’d never asked. But he remembered you saying once that you lived “across the street, in the building with the green awning.”

The lobby was quiet. Bucky found the elevator, pressed the button, and stared at the rows of doors when it dinged open.

Second floor.

No names on the mail slots. Just numbers.

Great.

He started with the first one on the left.

He knocked once, waited and got no answer.

Second door — same thing.

Third door, he heard footsteps, but it was an elderly man with a newspaper, blinking at him in confusion before Bucky apologised.

By the fourth door, Bucky was starting to think maybe he’d have to knock on every single one in the building.

He lifted his hand…

…and something small and peach streaked past his ear.

Bucky looked, catching sight of a familiar flash of feathers before it landed on the hallway railing.

“Fig?”

The parakeet chirped impatiently before taking off again, fluttering halfway down the hall before stopping to glance over its shoulder at him.

Bucky frowned. “You want me to follow you?”

Fig chirped and waited just long enough for Bucky to catch up before darting toward the far end of the hallway, and up a couple flights of stairs before finally settling on a specific door and tapping his beak against it like he was in on the plan.

Bucky stared. “You… showed me the way.”

Fig seemed to say, duh.

He raised his hand and knocked.

You opened the door in an oversized sweater, hair messy, blinking like you’d just changed into cosy home clothes.

“Bucky?”

He had a whole speech planned — something about thinking things through, about needing to talk, about not wanting to leave things hanging between you — but it all died in his throat the moment you looked at him like that.

“I… uh,” he started, then glanced down the hall toward Fig, who was still perched like a tiny feathered soldier. “Your bird sold you out.”

You blinked, then looked past him. “Really?”

The parakeet chirped triumphantly.

“Traitor,” you muttered at him, but when you looked back at Bucky, your voice was gentler. “Why… are you here?”

He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I drank the tea again.”

Your brow furrowed. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I still saw you. And… I missed you.”

For a second, you didn’t say anything.

“I had to knock on four doors before Fig found me,” he said with the faintest trace of a smile. “Was ready to go through the whole building.”

Your brows lifted. “You were going to knock on all thirty four apartments?”

“Would’ve found you eventually.” His voice was certain, and you had the feeling he meant more than just your apartment.

“I… didn’t want to think I needed magic to want you.” His jaw tightened briefly before he shook his head. “Turns out, I didn’t. I already did.”

You didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath until it left you in a rush. “…Bucky—”

“I’m glad you told me,” he said.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Fig chirped once, as if in approval. Then, as if even he understood, took off into the night without a backward glance.

Then Bucky smiled, knowing Fig had given the two of you privacy, and stepped closer. “So… can I come in? Maybe stay awhile?”

Of course he did.

—

Five months later…

At first, Bucky thought it was part of a dream — a faint tug at his hair, an insistent pressure at his shoulder. Then came a high-pitched noise he thought his brain had conjured up.

Then it happened again.

He cracked one eye open. The dawn light was shining through the curtains, and sitting on the pillow two inches from his face was Fig with his feathers puffed, letting out the same shrill little chirp again and again, like an alarm clock with wings.

“…No,” Bucky muttered, rolling over and dragging the blanket higher. “Go away.”

But Fig wasn’t having it. He hopped onto Bucky’s shoulder, gave him a surprisingly firm nip, then chirped louder.

Bucky groaned. “Kid, it’s not even nine.”

From beside him, came a muffled laugh.

You were half-buried in pillows when your head just enough to see your parakeet perched proudly atop the former Winter Soldier, who looked far more beleaguered by a six-inch bird than by any mission briefing.

“Morning,” you said sleepily.

That got Bucky moving.

He turned immediately, pressed a slow, unhurried kiss to your lips, then mumbled against your skin, “Much better alarm clock.”

You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re supposed to be up.”

“Not if I don’t wanna be.” He tucked himself against your side, burying his face in your shoulder like he could hide from the world. “Why’s Fig got it out for me this time?”

Fig chirped something emphatic.

You stretched, still smiling. “He says John Walker sent him.”

That made Bucky sit up, blinking. “…What?”

“Mmhm.” You yawned, brushing your nose against his. “Fig’s just doing his job. The one you said he should do.”

Bucky cracked an eye at the bird. “He’s been doin’ it a little too well. I can’t get away with anything these days.”

Fig puffed up, chirping smugly, and hopped off the bed. You stretched, rolling onto your back.

To be fair, Fig knows the route to the Tower better than any GPS by now.

Because before Fig became Bucky’s wake-up call, he’d been your little courier. After that night, you’d send love letters, and Fig would ferry the between the tea shop and the Tower.

You could’ve just texted, of course, but it was different with physical notes. It was tangible, permanent, and Bucky loved it because he could tuck in a pocket and reread on long nights.

The others at the Tower teased him relentlessly for it. Alexei once caught him tucking one of your notes into the chest pocket of his jacket before a briefing, and the cutesy-laughter didn’t stop for weeks.

Not that he cared.

Still, that’s how the team had learned what you were, too. Somewhere between the delicate wax seals, the faint scent of herbs clinging to the envelopes, and Fig swooping in and out like he owned the place, they figured you were a witch.

Oh that, and Strange barged in while Ava and Bob was in one day with a little dragon-like creature, begging for a magical anaesthetic mix that could knock it out enough for Strange to surgically remove a magical thorn from its spine.

And oddly, once the word was out, it wasn’t a scandal. Everyone just sorta accepted it. You supposed that had seen weirder things.

From the bedpost, Fig let out another bossy chirp.

“Living room, Fig,” you called gently. “We’ll be out in a bit.”

The little bird gave a final huff (or as close as a bird could manage) and fluttered off, leaving your bedroom.

Bucky shifted closer again, wrapping you in his arms and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Y’know,” he started. “We could use a witch on missions.”

You snorted, swatting his chest. “Oh sure. What am I gonna do, force-feed an evil secret agent truth potion?”

“Could work,” he said, deadpan.

You gave him a playful look. “I have a shop to open in an hour.”

“Mean,” he whispered, but he didn’t let go of you.

You brushed your hand through his hair fondly. “Clingy.”

“Yeah, well,” he admitted, not a single filter between his mind and his mouth as his metal arm rubbed gentled circles on your hip, “I love you.”

The words landed between you so naturally that you almost missed it.

This was the first time he ever said it.

You blinked at him. “What?”

He blinked back, suddenly aware of what he’d said. But then he nodded. “I… I do love you.”

Oh.

Wow.

“I love you too.” You smiled

And a grin emerged across his face. It was boyish and almost shy, and it was worth every bit of the waiting.

He kissed you again, nothing rushed, before Fig’s chirp echoed from the living room.

“Your alarm clock is impatient,” you muttered against his lips.

Bucky groaned into your mouth. “Can’t even enjoy sayin’ it for the first time without him chirping in.”

Fig chirped again but this time he flew out of the window, as if saying, I’ll tell Walker you’re going to be late again.

As his hands found your hips, you realised, boy, was he going to be very late.

—end.

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spookyreads · 2 days ago

Text

baby goes again

dr. robby x jack's adopted sister, f!intern!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, swearing, alcohol, drug mention (fentanyl), reader is roofied (everything is fine she is unharmed), parental death mention, jack widow mention, some (minor) violence between jack/robby, canon medical gore, age gap, angst (resolved by end) words: 9.5K synopsis: based on this request, reader is jack's adopted sister doing her surgical residency at PTMC. jack introduces reader to robby in the hopes that he will be a good mentor to her, but their relationship quickly blurs professional lines. a/n: thank you guys for being so encouraging about this one!! i hope it lives up to expectations. i'm kinda nervous, honestly. the first like 1K of this is verbatim from the blurb so you can scroll through if you've already read that part. ok hehe enjoy pls come yap to me about it later <3 syd

Your legs were bent nearly behind your ears when you heard Jack knocking and calling your name at the door of your apartment.

Robby was so deep inside you, scrambling both nerves and thoughts and any fucking sense you had that it took you too long to register who it was. You lost precious seconds of potential crisis management to the relentless stroke of his cock inside you, your walls clenching tighter and tighter around him as you were being dangled off the steep cliff of bliss until—

“Fuck—Fuck! Stop—“ You tried to push against him, but it was no use, the man might as well have been a fucking boulder.

Robby only pushed deeper, making it impossible for you to continue your squirming, “Just don’t answer it.”

“He has a key—“

Finally, his hips halted and you watched, stricken, as the pleasure in his eyes slowly drained and was replaced with steady horror as you both heard the jangle of keys outside the door.

He cursed under his breath as he nearly leaped off and out of you—the sudden absence of him leaving you with a feeling of hollowness.

"Get in the closet." You hissed, hopping around as you tried desperately to pull on a pair of pants. You heard the clatter of keys against hardwood and Jack's soft cursing and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the universe for granting you more time.

"You want me to get in the closet?" Robby hissed back as he tried to collect his clothing, strewn haphazardly around the apartment from when you had been frantically making out and ripping each other's clothes off, "Have you seen my shirt?"

"We don't have time for this," You whispered and placed your hands on his chest, pushing him backwards until you were at the closet. You opened the door and unceremoniously shoved him inside it, not waiting for his response before closing the door in his face.

At that same moment, your apartment door opened.

When you started at PTMC as a surgery intern and Jack introduced you to Robby, the infatuation had been almost instant on your end. There was nothing you loved more than a tall, bearded man who could be a little mean. Whenever the ER called down for a surgery resident, you practically jumped at the opportunity, bouncing up and down on your heels as the elevator slowly ticked down, down, down to the Pitt. It had been an effort to finally get him in your bed, more effort than you had probably ever put in for a sexual partner. But it was worth every second.

It was immediately obvious to Robby that you had a chip on your shoulder from being raised in your brother’s shadow, but he was oblivious to your yearnings for an agonizingly long time.

Because your parents had adopted you when Jack was well into high school, he affectionately referred to you as their mid life crisis. Jack adored you, but he was your brother. And so he pushed and teased and mocked your whole life.

So while it was nice that Robby was your type, it was more thrilling to know just how much it would get under Jack's skin to know that Robby was fucking you. Because regardless of your differences, Jack had always been protective of you and you knew he would lose his fucking mind if he knew. And Robby knew it too.

And so, even though part of you wanted Jack to find out, to grant yourself the satisfaction of knowing you had pissed off the unflappable Jack Abbot, most of you was a little nervous to find out what he would do if he found out.

You were running to the front door when Jack walked in, looking at you with confusion as he took in your appearance. Clothes crooked, hair mussed, mascara smudged under your eyelids, face glowing and sticky with exertion.

Slowly a smile stretched across his face, "Are you—Is someone here?"

"No," You said quickly, too quickly, "Just me. What're you doing here?" You hugged your arms around yourself subconsciously.

Jack continued to eye you curiously and held out the Stanley cup in his hand. Your Stanley. "You left this in the Pitt."

You took it reluctantly, "You could've left it at my locker."

"Yeah, I could've, but I wanted to see you. Feel like I haven't seen you in weeks—"

"Well, I'm busy, so. You should've called first." You snapped.

Jack was unbothered though, "Who's here?"

"No one you know. Now could you please get out?"

Jack gave a short laugh, "Right. No one I know. You don't have a social life outside the hospital. You want me to believe you're sleeping with someone I don't know?"

Before you could argue, your eyes caught on a black scrub top to your left, poking out from under the console table in your entryway. You remembered now how you had whined desperately with Robby's body pinning you to the wall until he had pulled it up and over his head.

And Jack followed your gaze, smile only growing when he saw it too, "That's a black scrub top." His eyes went back to yours, "Who are you fucking in the Pitt?"

He was moving towards the shirt and you stepped in front of him, "Jack—"

"Is it Shen?" He was stronger than you, so it wasn't much of a fight for him to push you to the side, "Or… It's not the Whitaker kid, is it?" He made a face as he bent to pick up the scrub top—

When his hand closed around it and he started to straighten to standing, there was a clatter as a badge, forgotten beneath the heap of a shirt, fell back to the floor, face up.

You watched, frozen, as his eyes took in his best friend's smiling face looking up at him from the piece of plastic. You thought from the look on his face, he was probably processing denial for about twenty seconds before he moved to the next stage of grief: anger.

He clenched his jaw as he looked back up to you, Robby's shirt still clutched in his hand. You watched the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed and whispered, voice soft as death, "Where is he?"

"Jack," You said softly, "Please don't do this."

He brushed past you, "Robby," He called, "I know you're here, you sick fuck!"

"Jack!" You pulled on his arm to make him face you, greeted with a rage you hadn't seen from him… Maybe ever. His nostrils flared and his jaw was clenched so tight, you started to wonder if he had cracked a tooth.

"I'm an adult," You tried to say firmly, but your voice wavered, "I can sleep with whoever I want, you're being ridiculous."

He only shook his head, "Not him." He said and wrenched his arm from your grasp as he started walking down the hallway towards your bedroom.

You trailed after him, dragging your feet, and watched from your doorway as he looked through your room, poked his head in your bathroom, "You're acting literally insane right now." You said mildly, having resigned yourself quickly to this situation.

Jack ignored you, "Don't be a coward, Robby." He turned back to face you, "Where the fuck is he?"

The closet door creaked open before you had a chance to respond and your stomach sank. Robby was flushed red as he slunk out of the closet, hands clutching his clothes in front of his naked body. His eyes were locked on Jack's as he said quietly, "I'm sorry."

It felt like a punch to the gut to hear him apologize. You hadn't done anything wrong, and fuck, the sex had been good. Great, even. But that was regret in his voice… and shame. About you.

"Don't apologize to him," You said, aware that you sounded like you were whining, "He's the one who should be apologizing for making such a goddamn scene."

But they both ignored you. Jack flung Robby's shirt at him as if it were a bomb and Robby caught it with a free hand, "I asked you to keep an eye on her as a mentor, I didn't think I needed to specify that you shouldn't fuck her."

"I know," Robby said and looked down. You couldn't believe this.

"She's just a fucking kid."

You want to yell at them both that you're right fucking here. That you're not a kid, despite the fact that you feel your eyes burning with embarrassment. That when Robby again says "I know," you feel the urge to shove him back in the closet or pound your fists against his chest. He didn't think you were such a kid when he was pounding into you just ten minutes ago.

"Jack, I swear. I—I tried really fuckin' hard not to—"

Jack laughed, "Oh, did you? Did she fucking handcuff you to the bed? Is that it? She forced you?"

Robby sighed and shook his head, "You don't understand—"

"I don't understand?" Jack was shouting now, "I've had students crush on me before, so the fuck have you. You shut that shit down! I know you know this! And of all fucking people you—you break your own rules for my sister?"

"I want you both out of here." You said finally, before Robby could say something else that would crush your feelings and your ego. Which they were both doing a spectacular job of at the moment, grinding you like dust beneath their shoes in your own fucking bedroom, "You can both sort out your own fucking issues away from me. And neither one of you better fucking call me."

Finally, Robby seemed to remember you were there and murmured a soft, "Sweetheart—" Which earned him a scathing glare from Jack.

"No," You said and turned from the room, beginning to walk away from them both, "Put your clothes on and go. If the two of you want to talk about me like I'm a fucking child, you can do it outside of my apartment."

You heard Jack come up beside you, "I want to have a conversation with you about this—"

You looked at him and laughed incredulously, "If you wanted to have a conversation with me about it, you should've thought about that before you started running through my apartment like a lunatic on a rampage. Now I want you out." Your voice broke on the last word and you hated yourself when you felt the tears collecting in your eyes.

Jack was looking at you with pleading eyes. He reached for you and you knew he wanted to hug you, but you shoved his arm away.

"Please just go." You said softly, "I want to be alone."

You stood in your living room, arms crossed and faced away from your entryway. You waited until you heard both sets of feet leave your apartment, the door shut quietly behind them.

***

When Jack first introduced you to Robby, his hands affectionately squeezing your shoulders from behind you, you slapping his hands away in annoyance, Robby thought Another Abbot. Cute.

And for a while, it was easy to see you just as cute, adorable in the way your kid sister is. Until he started to notice the effect he had on you.

At first, it was so small, he barely noticed. A slight tremor in your hand if he reached over to guide you through a procedure if your attending wasn't around. Easily attributable to nerves. A low gasp when his body pushed up behind you while working on a trauma, his hands steadying your hips as he moved past.

As a man of empirical data, he felt it was his scientific obligation to test his hypothesis. The null hypothesis being, you didn't have a crush on him and all your reactions could be attributed to anxiety that was professional in origin.

But as the days and weeks passed your reaction to him, to his proximity, to his praise, was constant. And you were starting to reciprocate his touches, his flirting. You even got so bold as to push your ass back into his hips once when he was trying to get by and he was the one who was then flustered, nearly tripping over the tray next to you that Princess had set up.

You had grinned innocently, eyes still glued to the patient and said, "Something startle you, Dr. Robby?"

He had let out an incredulous laugh and came back to your side. He thought it was probably safe to reject his null hypothesis at this point. He was positive you were crushing on him now, and now that he had started feeding into it, you might have assumed he felt the same.

You wouldn't be wrong to assume that. The more he toyed with you, the more he found himself enjoying it. Found himself pushing farther and farther, squeezing your hips lightly as he went by, hand wandering dangerously close to your ass as he moved. Leaning in closer than necessary to murmur instruction, making sure his hot breath caressed the shell of your ear in a way that had goosebumps rising on your neck.

When he wasn't in the ER, almost against his will he found his mind wandering to you when his fist was wrapped around his cock in the shower. The sounds of your gasps, the heat of your body against his, the soothing cadence of your voice when you gave an order and looked to him for approval. More and more often you wormed yourself into all of his fantasies. And later, he'd be sick with guilt, especially if he saw Jack.

Back at your side next to the patient, he watched you closely before he was finally able to tear his gaze away and back down to the patient.

"You do not wanna go down this road, sweetheart." He said darkly, quiet enough that only you could hear him.

"Why's that?" You murmured back.

"I could list a myriad of reasons, chief of which is that your brother would kick my ass."

You hummed, "Probably," Finally, you looked back up at him, mischief glinting in your eyes, "But that's half the fun, don't you think?"

Before he could respond you pushed yourself away from the patient, peeling the gloves from your hands, "Send him up to CT, we'll get an OR prepped in the meantime."

And then you were gone and Robby was stuck feeling like he had lost control of a ship he had thought he was the captain of. But as he blinked his eyes open, it was you at the bow, steering the both of you directly into a storm.

***

Robby closed the door to your apartment quietly behind him, now fully dressed and dripping in shame. It seemed in one afternoon he had likely lost his best friend and also the one other person he had started to feel something for that ran deeper than surface level.

He turned his head to see Jack leaning against the wall, arms crossed and shooting daggers at him.

"Jack, I really am sor—"

But he didn't get the chance to finish his apology because Jack had pushed himself up off the wall and unceremoniously smashed his fist into Robby's face.

With a groan, Robby fell back against your door, his cheek throbbing as he slid to the ground. Through his dizziness, he watched Jack walk away and down the hall without another word.

When Robby brought a hand up to his cheek, he felt the warm stickiness of blood beneath the pads of his fingers and winced.

Perhaps hearing the scuffle outside, your door opened again and Robby nearly fell over, his weight previously being held by the door.

At the sight of Robby on the ground, face already beginning to swell, you sighed, "Get inside."

Robby's knees protested as he stood back up and shuffled back into your apartment. He heard the sound of your freezer opening and closing and then you reappeared in front of him, a cold compress in your hand and some gauze for the blood.

"Sit down." You said quietly, gesturing to the seat at your kitchen table. He watched you silently as he did, but you were carefully avoiding his gaze. He noted the shine in your eyes, the furrow of your brow. You had both known the risks you were taking with one another, but Robby still blamed himself for whatever hurt you were now bearing.

Gently, you dabbed at the small cut at the top of his cheekbone, pausing whenever he winced, "Anything feel broken to you?"

"No," Robby said softly, "I don't think so." He wished you would look at him. Give him any inclination that you didn't hate him too.

You pressed the cold compress to his cheek and when he grimaced, your eyes finally darted to his, "You're lucky." You said slowly, "I've seen him do much worse. I'd go so far as to say he let you off easy on purpose."

Robby laughed, but it turned quickly to a groan of pain, "Doesn't feel like that."

You swallowed, "He'll come around, he loves you."

Robby's hand came up to the compress, covering your hand with his own, "No, he loves you."

Your jaw clenched, "He treats me like I'm still a child rather than a grown woman with agency who can decide whom she wants to sleep with. And then you turned around and did the same."

He sighed, "I don't think of you like that anymore. I just… I understand why he does." When you didn't say anything to that, he continued, "He told me a story once, years ago, when you were still in high school. He said some kid was bullying you and he paid the kid off to leave you alone. But he made sure to tell him that he wasn't above fighting a kid if he didn't follow through on his side of the deal."

You shook your head, "That kid invited me to prom as a joke and stood me up. Jack ended up dislocating his shoulder."

"Kid didn't know what he missed out on. A dislocated shoulder was a kindness, comparatively."

You tilted your head sideways, giving him a skeptical look, "I'm still mad at you." You said softly.

He nodded, "Yeah, it's going around."

You slipped your hand from the compress, stepping back from him to create some space. You didn't trust yourself not to keep touching him, "So are we, um," You cleared your throat, "Are we done now?"

The honest truth was, he didn't know. For himself, he had still been trying to figure out if what he felt for you went beyond the game the two of you had been playing. And he had always suspected you wouldn't find him so appealing once Jack found out. Once the excitement wore off.

He was too old for you, he didn't want to be responsible for hijacking your youth. You deserved someone young and spry who could give you a happy, normal relationship. Not whatever this mess was.

But he was selfish and couldn't close the door completely, "I don't know." He said quietly.

You nodded, your face not betraying any emotion. He hated that about you, that you were so good at concealing what you were feeling. It was only when Jack was here earlier that you had let your guard down enough. He always wished he could get a better read on you.

"You should go," You said finally, "If I know Jack he'll be back here in a couple hours, once he's cooled off."

He nodded and handed the cold compress back to you, but you shook your head, "Keep it. You can give it back another time."

Robby stood and pressed a kiss to your forehead before he left your apartment again.

***

It was months before Robby finally gave in to his desire to feel you. It was the middle of the night on a Saturday and his phone was ringing.

Robby fumbled in the dark for it on nightstand, eyes still closed, before he picked up.

"Robby, it's Jack."

Robby rubbed at his eyes as he sat up in bed, "What's wrong?"

If Jack was calling him from the Pitt in the middle of the night, Robby's mind was already grappling with worst case scenarios: an MCI, a power outage and emergency generator failure, one or multiple staff somehow dead or injured—

"Sorry to call so late, you're just the only one I trust with this." And then, he started talking about you, "She got a flat on her way home from a friend's place and she called triple A, but that could be hours. I don't want her waiting on the side of the road that long by herself."

Robby was already out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans, holding his phone between his ear and shoulder, "You didn't teach her how to change a tire?" He teased.

"Of course I did." Jack said, "I've showed her four or five times. If she's not interested it's like talking to a wall."

Robby smirked, "Tell her to cancel triple A and send me her location."

When he pulled up behind your car, you were leaning against it, phone in your hand. You mindlessly chewed on a nail from your free hand.

Squinting at his headlights, you looked up when he approached. He parked and turned off his lights.

You shook your head as he walked towards you, "I told him not to call you."

"What, you're not happy to see me?"

This pulled a slight smirk from you, "I'm always happy to see my favorite ER attending."

Robby grimaced as he walked to the back of your car, searching for your spare in the trunk, "Don't let Jack hear you say that."

"I won't," You said and bit your lip, "Just like I'd never tell him that I'm your favorite Abbot."

He laughed and shook his head, pulling out your spare tire and the tools he's need to swap it out, "Now what would give you that idea?"

"I don't think you'd roll out of bed in the middle of the night for just anyone, would you?"

"I'm doing this for Jack, not for you." He started to get set up next to the car, "You think you could use the flashlight on your phone to give me some light?"

You obliged him and sat in the dirt next to the car, shining the light towards his hands as they worked, "So you're not happy to see me?" You threw back at him, playfully deepening your voice in an attempt to mock.

He spared you what he wanted to be an annoyed glance, but he thought he probably just ended up looking at you fondly, "I don't sound like that."

You tilted your head to the side, "You didn't answer my question."

He sighed heavily and started cranking the car jack in order to lift the vehicle high enough so he could remove your tire, "Didn't I tell you already that you don't want to go down this road with me?"

You squinted up towards the sky, feigning recollection, "And I thought I told you that that only makes it more fun for me."

He silently loosened the bolts on your wheel, choosing not to humor you. Truthfully, he had jumped at the opportunity to see you outside of the Pitt. But Jack had trusted him with keeping you safe. He wanted to honor that trust, regardless of whatever desires were brewing beneath the surface.

"You don't really want me, kid," Robby said as he pulled the flat from your car, "You just want to piss off your brother."

"Why can't it be both?"

He didn't answer that. Swallowed it down and pushed the spare onto the axle, started screwing the bolts back into place.

"Come on, Robby. I've seen the way you look at me. I'm not blind."

He tightened each bolt with care and then rose to standing, started lowering the car jack. Robby couldn't look at you, felt he was on the verge of crossing lines he absolutely under no circumstances should cross.

And sure enough, when he felt he could trust himself enough to turn back and look at you, he's wrong. He was so very mistaken to trust himself like this. Because you're standing very close to him, a smug look on your face when you notice how nervous you've made him.

"Abbot," He said softly, breath wavering, "Don't push me."

It was a mistake to provoke you like that. You brought your hands up to his chest, placed your palms flat against him, and gently pushed until his back hit your car, "Or what?" You whispered.

Robby's hands were raised by his ears in surrender, but he wasn't going to last very long. He thought you probably already knew how desperate he was by the smug look in your eyes, "If I put my hands on you," He said slowly, "I'm not gonna stop."

"You say that like it's a threat," You fisted the fabric of his t-shirt in your hands and pulled just—Your lips now centimeters apart.

Robby could taste your breath now, and just your proximity alone had his blood pumping between his legs, "It is." He nearly growled.

Your eyes darted down to his mouth and he watched as you licked your lips, then slowly traced a path back up to his eyes, "Are you gonna kiss me, Robinavitch? Or do I have to do everything myself?"

Your words hung in the air, suspended between you, for just a moment. He could walk away. Get back in his car. Go home. Pretend none of it ever happened.

But that was never really an option, was it?

He hesitated for only a split second before catching your mouth with his, his hands lowering to tangle themselves in your hair. You groaned in what sounded like surprise, and he wanted to laugh. You had put on such a good front, but you hadn't really thought he would give in. Clearly, you had no idea the extent to which you had taken root in his brain, in his skin, in his very being.

You had come like a thief in the night, setting traps and stealing his things, and he thought when he followed your clues that he was trying to get you out of his house. The clues had led him straight to you where you had made a home in his attic and instead of kicking you out, he asked you to make room for him.

It seemed that you were just as hungry as he was, pulling him tighter against you, your soft hands wandering underneath his shirt as he sucked your tongue into his mouth. His hands secured to your hips, Robby rolled the two of you until it was your back against the car and he pushed you up, until you sat on the hood.

His lips were frantic as they chased yours, addicted to how soft and pliant they were. He bit down on your lower lip and you moaned into him. He thought he might go insane if he couldn't have you. He felt like at any moment something was going to break the spell and he'd have to take his hands off you and walk away. He wasn't sure he'd be able to, now. His hands impatiently moved up under your shirt, up, up, until he cupped your breasts. His thumbs made slow circles against your nipples and your back arched as you sighed into his mouth—

Your phone was ringing. Still kissing him, you fished it out of your pocket and cracked an eye open to see who the incoming call was from.

"It's Jack—" You said breathlessly.

"Answer it."

"What?" You asked incredulously as Robby kissed along your jawline and up to your ear.

"I said," He whispered, "Answer it."

You blinked a couple of times. You weren't sure exactly what sort of spell Robby had put you under, but surely it was fucking witchcraft that had your thumb swiping across the screen to answer, "Hello?"

Robby started kissing down your neck, to your chest, kissing a line down your shirt to your stomach and you realized immediately what he wanted when he started unbuttoning your jeans.

The fucker made a big show of not wanting to touch you because you were Jack's sister, but it was obvious to you now that he also really wanted to fuck you because you were Jack's sister. You were off limits. Unattainable. Forbidden fruit. And now he wanted to taste you while Jack listened, completely oblivious.

"Is Robby there yet?"

"Yeah," You managed, as Robby pulled your pants down to your knees, "He's swapping out the tire now."

"I tried calling him, he didn't answer."

Robby didn't preamble before his tongue was on you, stroking rough and purposefully along your slit. It was all you could do to stifle a whimper and you felt him grinning against you. Oh, he was gonna pay for this later.

"Yeah… I… I think he left his phone in his car."

You watched as Robby spit on your cunt and then slipped a finger inside you, then a second finger, thrusting so deep inside you, you had to bite down on your fist to stifle the moan that begged to clamber out of your throat.

"You alright?" Jack asked, "You sound weird."

Robby's tongue was swirling around your clit and your eyelids fluttered as the pressure built low in your abdomen.

"Abbot? You still with me?"

"Yeah," You cleared your throat when Robby's tongue flicked over your clit, "All good here. I'll text you when I'm home."

"Maybe I should talk to Robby—"

"My phone's about to die so I really gotta go, Jack—"

"Wait—"

But you had already hung up the phone and it tumbled from your hand into the dirt. Hands now free, you moved them to Robby's head, tugging lightly at his hair as you ground yourself into his mouth.

He grunted into you, fingers of one hand digging divots into your thigh while the other pumped into your mercilessly.

"Robby—" You whined, "—Fuck—Think m'gonna—"

"Go on, baby," He kept his fingers moving inside you even as he looked up at you. Even in the dark, you could see the slick of your juices running down his mouth and beard, "You got it, wanna feel you cum for me."

He latched his mouth back onto your clit, the pace of his tongue relentless against you. Just as you crested the wave of your orgasm, you saw your phone light up in the dirt with another incoming call from Jack.

Your eyes fluttered closed and you whimpered as Robby worked you through your orgasm. On the come down, he kissed up your leg, whispered praises into your skin. He made his way back up to your mouth, his tongue making languid, lazy strokes against yours.

"You're a fuckin' menace," You breathed against him.

He grinned, pushed his head against yours until his nose was nuzzled against yours almost tenderly and you felt your chest grow warm.

"We probably shouldn't have done that," He said finally, lifting you off the hood of the car and back to the ground.

He went to help you pull your pants back up, but you stopped him, "What, you're not gonna fuck me properly?"

The man had just fully eaten you out on the side of the road, but he still had the audacity to blush, "No—I—We shouldn't have—I shouldn't have done that."

"Oh, so you regret it?"

He sighed and leaned his forehead to yours, "No, sweetheart," He said softly, "I don't."

Your stomach fluttered at his admission and you leaned up on your toes to kiss him again, the taste of you still on his tongue.

He moaned into your mouth— And then it was his fucking phone ringing in his pocket and he broke the kiss, reached into his phone to see Jack calling. And the shame and the guilt hit him like a train as he picked up the phone.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Don't you answer your phone?"

Robby turned away from you, not sure he could hold a conversation with Jack while looking at you, "I was swapping out your sister's tire like you asked me to."

"So you're with her?"

"Yeah, why?"

There was a pause on the other line, "She was acting strange on the phone. She seems fine to you?"

Robby ran a hand along the back of his neck, "Yeah. She's fine."

"You'll make sure she gets home okay?"

Robby hung his head, "Of course."

"Thanks, man."

When Robby hung up the phone and looked back over at you, you were smirking, "How's Jackie boy?"

Robby ran a hand over his face, still in quiet disbelief about what he had done. He could lose Jack over this. He didn't have many friends to lose to begin with.

"Get in your car, please. I'll follow you home."

"And then… You'll come inside?"

He shook his head, "No. No, this is never happening again. Understood?"

You nodded slowly, you had gotten fully dressed again while he was on the phone with Jack, "Sure."

"I mean it." He said firmly.

"I know you think you mean it." You said as you climbed into your driver's side, "But you'll find your way into my bed one way or the other."

Already, he was recalling how soft and warm you felt around his fingers. How your walls fluttered around him when you came. The sounds you made, the way you had whimpered his name—

He cleared his throat, and with it, attempted to clear the throbbing that swelled between his legs. He was sure you noticed, though, as he made his way back to his own car. Part of him thought you were likely right, that this was never going to end. That his want, his need to have you would win out in the end. And still, it would probably never be enough.

And so, he followed you back to your house, made sure you got safely inside. His self restraint was strong enough that he made it back to his own home, his own bed.

But you were right. It was less than a week later when he found himself in your bed, cock buried so deep inside you, it made his toes curl to think about it later. Again and again he found himself at your door, begging to be let inside, always saying it would be the last time. You would smirk knowingly as you stepped aside to let him by, because you always knew he didn't mean it.

The days and weeks began to blur, his whole consciousness taken up by you. What were you thinking about, what were you reading, did you eat lunch today, what new restaurants had you tried recently, was your insomnia keeping you up again, did you see that new movie? Did you want to go with him?

They weren't dating, he told himself. It wasn't like that. And you wouldn't want him seriously like that anyway. At least, that's what he told himself when he woke up before you in the mornings. Watched you sleep while the warm amber sun washed over your face. Your lips slightly parted, your light snoring the only sound.

You had somehow wormed your way into becoming one of the most important people in his life, and still, he wouldn't admit it even to himself. Because it was going to implode, one way or the other, and it would hurt a lot less if he convinced himself it didn't mean anything.

He was wrong, though. It was still torture when the glass floor shattered beneath your feet.

***

You had almost fallen asleep on your couch when you heard the tentative knock at your door.

Stretching lazily, you swung your legs over the side of the couch and rose to standing. When you opened the door for Jack, you turned immediately back to the living room without greeting him.

You heard him follow after you and for a few moments, felt him just watch you as you laid back down on the couch and ignored him.

Eventually, he sat down on the couch next to your feet, "I'm sorry… For how I handled the situation earlier." He said slowly, "I should have had a conversation with you about it first."

After a moment, you sat up to face him, tugged your legs to your chest, "Was punching him really necessary?"

He ran a hand over his face and looked away from you, "I know you don't think so, but he's taking advantage of you—"

"Give me a break, Jack, I'm a fully consenting adult—"

"He's an attending—"

"He's not my attending, though! He has no authority over me!"

Jack sighed heavily, "He holds a lot of sway in the hospital. It wouldn't look good for you if this got out."

You laughed incredulously, "Wow. I didn't take you for a slut shaming misogynist."

He made a noise of protestation, "That is not what I meant."

"Oh, okay," You shook your head, "Let me ask you a question then: If Dennis Whitaker slept with the Chief of OBGYN, do you think he'd have to have this conversation or do you think people would just be high fiving him?"

He gave you a skeptical look, "I mean, I don't know in what universe that child with tuberculosis face scores Erin—"

"Jack!"

"Yeah, okay, okay. Point taken." He was still shaking his head, though, "I just—I mean, isn't he kinda… old for you? Why couldn't you just mess around with someone your own age?"

Your laugh rose several pitches, embarrassed to be having this conversation with your brother, "Fuck, I don't know. Why don't we call up my therapist? I'm sure she has many opinions on why I'm seeking out the affections of an older man starting with the fact that my biological father abandoned me and my adoptive one died when I was twenty."

Jack flinched at the mention of your father's death and you immediately regretted it, "Sorry, I… That was too far, I'm sorry."

He shrugged and shook his head, "He was your father too. You're allowed to be effected by it."

The both of you were silent for a few moments. Both you and Jack had been in therapy for many years. You, for most of your life dealing with your feelings about adoption and your biological parents. Jack, since he had returned from deployment down a limb. Again when your father died. Again when his wife died.

Despite it, you had never quite learned how to talk about difficult feelings together.

You clutched your hands together in your lap, bracing yourself before you spoke again, "I know… You feel like you have to protect me… Since he died, but I'm grown, Jack. I know what I'm doing."

Jack huffed a laugh through his nose and stood, "You don't get it. You don't know him. He's a fucking wreck. He's just gonna pull you down with him."

"I thought he was your friend?"

"He is! But right now he's not in any fuckin' position to take care of someone else."

"I'm not asking him to."

He shook his head, "He's just gonna break your heart," He grabbed his jacket from where he'd thrown it over the couch arm and began walking back to your door, "And since you're so grown, I won't be picking up the pieces this time."

When the door closed behind him, you pushed your face into your couch pillow and groaned.

***

It was bad enough now, being on shift with Robby. The whispers about how he had gotten punched, which you ignored. Most people thought he had just gotten too drunk and accidentally ambled into a bar fight. Perlah and Princess, though, had clocked the coldness between him and Jack during shift change.

Nobody had seemed to put it together that you were involved somehow, at least, not yet. But you figured if Perlah and Princess knew enough to sus out that Jack and Robby were fighting, it wasn't that much farther a leap to get to you.

So you tried to avoid the ER as much as possible. Until there was a car pile up on the highway just as the morning shift change was starting to take effect.

"Abbot, I need you downstairs helping them stabilize the patients and evaluating for surgery," Your attending said, "We'll get the ORs prepped in the meantime."

And so you found yourself back in the Pitt, back in trauma one, hands tangled with Jack's in a patient's chest cavity while Robby looked on, frustrated, "Who the fuck decided to do a fucking thoracotomy without consulting me first?"

"Who do you think?" Jack asked, neck tilting slightly as he looked up at you with disdain.

You clenched your jaw, "The patient was hemorrhaging and was about to arrest, he wouldn't have made it to the OR if I didn't open him up."

"You're an intern," Jack said, "You don't do this shit on your own without an attending present—"

"Well lucky for me, then, that you're here."

"You had already fucking cracked his chest before I got here—"

"Would the two of you shut the fuck up and update me on the status of the patient?" Robby snapped.

You sighed, "We stopped the bleeding for now, transfused him with five units of whole blood, he's stabilized enough to go up to surgery."

"Fantastic," He grumbled and started backing out of the room, "Call me if you need me."

Jack huffed and pulled his hands from the patient, "Unbelievable."

"You got something to say, Jack?"

"Not to you," He mumbled and quickly exited the room. He found Robby at Central talking to Dana, "What the fuck was that?" He said without preamble.

"What was what?" Robby said, sipping his coffee as he looked up at the board.

Jack scoffed, "You're not gonna put Abbot in her place for performing a thoracotomy without an attending present?"

Robby slowly slid his eyes from the board to Jack, then back up again, "You seemed to have it covered."

"So residents just need to fuck you to get you to go a bit soft, is that it?" Jack said roughly.

Robby's eyes snapped to Jack and then back around the hub to see if anyone else had heard. Dana was mercifully pretending to be busy with something else, but she had known what was going on between the three of you for weeks now.

"You know that's not true," Robby said firmly, "And she's not my resident."

Jack shook his head, "Fucking semantics. You know, I thought you were better than this Robby."

"Jack, I'm not— We're not sleeping together anymore, okay?" Robby said quietly, "We haven't talked since you—Since you found us. It's done."

Jack laughed, "You don't know my sister at all if you think it's done. She doesn't do casual. She thinks she's capable of it, she's not. So whatever you guys have going on means way more to her than whatever she told you. And she's not done, because I see the way she looks at you when she thinks no one's watching." He shook his head, "If you want it to be done, you're gonna have to break her heart. And then I'll have to break your legs."

Jack stormed off after that, finally packing his things and leaving the ER for the day. Robby was left feeling like shit and confused about what the fuck was going on between the two of you, which he thought was nothing.

"Abbot," He called out to you when he saw you passing not twenty minutes later, "Got a sec?"

You nodded and let him lead you into an empty on call room, "You should never have performed a thoracotomy without an attending present—" You already opened your mouth to argue and he raised a finger to quiet you, "—And you need to remember that you're in the emergency room as a consult. Okay? You don't do procedures without consulting an ER physician first. These are our patients. Not yours, not until they roll into the OR. Understood?"

Begrudgingly, you nodded, "Fine. Whatever. Sorry for saving your patient. Won't happen again."

You reached for the doorknob, but Robby pushed his palm flat against the door, preventing you from opening it, "Maybe Jack was right, maybe you have made me soft."

"What?"

"I am the Chief of Emergency Medicine," He said firmly, "And you are an intern. You don't speak to me like that."

You stared at him for a moment. His arm was raised over your head against the door, his eyes intently focused on your face, and suddenly you felt warm all over. Molten at just the way he was looking at you. Slowly, you dragged your eyes up his chest to his mouth, where they lingered.

"Or what?" You whispered finally.

His jaw clenched and you saw some sort of inner battle going on behind his eyes for a few moments before—

"Fuck it." His hands were on your face, tongue and teeth clashed as he hungrily kissed you, dragging you over to the bed. He was moving so fast, you felt dizzy at the sensations, his hands greedily grabbing at any skin he could, climbing up beneath your scrub top and ripping it up and over your head.

"Is this what you wanted?" He growled against your mouth, "This why you're being such a brat? You miss the way I touch you?"

His hand slipped past the waistband of your pants and without warning, he thrust a finger into you. You moaned into his mouth, kissed him harder, until he added a second finger and you could hardly breathe, your hips grinding against his hand for more, more, more.

But he pulled his hand out of you when he felt you get too close, "Want you to cum around my cock, want to feel how needy for me you are, hm? Can you do that?" He gripped your cheeks between his hand, forced you to look at him, "Can you be a good girl and follow directions?"

His tone was condescending and you felt the warmth build low in your stomach, felt yourself drip into your pants. You nodded, his hand still gripping your face, "That's my girl," He murmured and pressed a long kiss to your mouth before releasing you again, "Turn around for me."

You let him adjust your hips, push and pull you until you were in the perfect position, his cock lined up at your entrance. He slipped just the tip in, sighed when you moaned, and pulled out, "You have to be quiet, baby. Got it?"

You nodded eagerly, pulled a pillow to your face to stifle the sounds you were bound to make. You had never been able to be quiet. He pushed into you fully without further preamble and you moaned into the pillow.

His thrusts were slow and gentle at first, the burning low in your belly intensifying, muscles coiled tight as they readied for release. He started to speed up his movements, and you listened for his sighs, for his stifled moans. You liked to hear how good you made him feel and he was having a hard time being quiet right now.

Eventually, when he felt your walls beginning to pulse around him, he reached around your front, circled your clit expertly with a couple of fingers. It took seconds to push you over the edge and tears ran down your face as his cock continued to pump relentless strokes into you as you rode the high of your orgasm. And then he was cumming as well, pulling out to spill his load on your ass.

The two of you were silent as you cleaned up. You still didn't quite understand what he wanted from you, nor what you wanted from him. Just that not talking to him had been torturous after he had so effortlessly enmeshed himself in your life over the past few months. Just the few days you hadn't seen him, you hadn't been sleeping well. You thought he likely knew from the bruises under your eyes, but he hadn't said anything.

And then you were both back in the Pitt, gone your separate ways. You went back up to the surgery ward as if nothing had happened. Wondered if you had accidentally gotten yourself too deep into something you'd be unable to escape unscathed.

***

You were off work both today and tomorrow and so had decided to hit the bars with a couple of fellow residents. They had been begging you to come out with them for months, but you had fallen so deep into your non-relationship with Robby, you had refused many such invites in favor of sharing your bed with him.

He had taken to completely ignoring you since your last run in, especially around Jack. You tried to ignore the waves of pain that came with that, if only to not give Jack the satisfaction. You still remembered the way he had warned you that Robby would only break your heart and you had stupidly thought you hadn't given him enough of it to break.

But none of that mattered now. You were very drunk and looking for someone decidedly Not Robby to bring home. You were sitting at the bar top. Your friends said they were just gonna be a sec, they're running to the bathroom. A tall, handsome stranger asked if he can buy you a drink, and you smiled and nodded, welcomed the flirting. Tried desperately not to compare him to Robby.

And that was the last thing you remembered before you were waking up in the back of an Uber, your friends talking in panicky voices on either side of you.

"What'ssssss happeninnnn'?" You slurred, your tongue felt heavy.

"Don't you worry, girl." One of your friends squeezed your shoulder, "We're bringing you back to PTMC. You might need Narcan."

Narcan? Why the fuck would you need—?

"I can't believe it," Your other friend was going on, "We leave her alone for two seconds and bam! Roofied. Insane."

Oh. Well, that explained the time loss. They must've been worried whatever illegal rohypnol you'd been dosed with was laced with fentanyl. You had heard of such a case once or twice before, but it was rare. No real reason to lace a date rape drug with fentanyl, the people they were meant for weren't exactly repeat customers. But, better safe than sorry you supposed.

Jack was gonna lose his shit. And, oh, it was still early, wasn't it? Robby might still be passing off patients, making sure his staff went home for the day. Fuck. You weren't in the mood to see him like this.

"Stay here," Your friend said as the Uber pulled into the ambulance bay, "I'm gonna go grab a wheelchair."

Stay here, you thought as you stared at the car ceiling. As if you had a choice. Everything was spinning.

You heard Jack's voice first, it was him who pulled you from the car, placed you gently into the wheelchair. Then you heard Robby's voice, sounding agitated as he spoke with your friends. Something about why the fuck would they leave you alone like that and what kind of friends were they anyway.

Well, that was probably the last time you were going to be invited out you supposed.

"I don't think you need it," Jack's voice was soft in your ear, "But I'm gonna give you some Narcan just in case, alright?"

You tried to nod, but it just made you dizzy and you closed your eyes instead.

The next time you opened them you thought a decent amount of time must've passed. You felt a bit clearer, a little less fuzzy around the edges. There was an IV in your arm and you were on a gurney.

Robby was sitting by your bed, a tired look on his face as he looked over your chart.

"Robby?" Your voice came out rough and he looked up at you.

"Hey," He said gently, immediately putting your chart down. He took one of your hands in his own and smiled at you, "How're you feeling?"

You swallowed and it felt like cotton going down your throat, "Not so great." You managed, "Still pretty dizzy. Can I have some water?"

"Yeah, of course," He already had a water bottle on standby by your bed, held it to your lips while you took long, swallows.

"Thank you." You said when he took it away, "Did—Did I test positive for fentanyl?"

"No," Robby was playing mindlessly with your fingers, you found it quite soothing, "No, just rohypnol."

Finally, you realized what time it must be and frowned, "Shouldn't you be home by now?"

He shrugged and smiled, "Didn't wanna leave you."

Your face softened marginally and you felt tears burn at the backs of your eyes, "Robby, what are we doing?" You asked quietly.

He brought your hand to his mouth, pressed gentle kisses to your fingers, "I don't know. But I know I don't want it to end."

Jack was watching the two of you from across the way, hesitant to interrupt. He watched the way Robby absently played with your fingers. The way he smiled at you. The gentles kisses pressed to your hand. The way he had told off your friends earlier for leaving you alone, the same way Jack may have if Robby hadn't done it for him. And he was beginning to realize that maybe he had sold his friend short. Maybe Robby all this time had felt just as much for you as you had for him.

Finally, Jack cleared his throat to announce his presence and Robby immediately dropped your hand as if it had burned him.

"Welcome back, kid." He gave you a smirk, which you returned, "You were real out of it for a while there. You can talk again?"

You nodded, "Complete sentences and everything."

"Great. Well, since we didn't find any fentanyl in your system, you're free to go whenever you feel like it. Should feel 100% back to normal in about 24 hours, likely less." He turned his head to his friend, "Robby, a word?"

Robby stood and followed Jack out of earshot of you, "Look, I'm sorry about the hand holding, I—"

"What are your intentions with my sister?"

Robby's mouth hung open for moment, having been interrupted mid thought, "I—What do you mean?"

"Do you care about her?"

"Of course I care about her—"

"You're sitting at her bedside, you're holding her hand, you're looking at her like if anything happened to her you'd set this hospital on fire and then yourself."

Robby scoffed, "I think that's an exaggeration."

Jack gave him a lopsided grin, "Look, I know I've been… difficult. But it's only because I don't want to see her hurt. But I care about you too," Jack swallowed, "And if you care for her the same way she cares for you, if it's gonna make both of you happy, then…" He shook his head, "You have my blessing."

Robby stared at Jack blankly for a moment, "You're— You're serious?"

Jack nodded, "Yeah. But I meant what I said about breaking your legs if you break her heart, so. Just… Weigh your options carefully." Jack smirked and slapped Robby's shoulder affectionately. "Could you drive her home tonight? Make sure she gets back safe?"

A slow smile spread across Robby's face and then he pulled Jack in for a hug, "You got it, brother."

"What was that about?" You asked when Robby had come back to your side, looking giddy as he grinned from ear to ear.

Robby shook his head and picked up your hand again, pressing it to his mouth, "You ready to get out of here?"

You frowned, "With you? In front of Jack?"

He nodded, "Yeah. And I'd like to stay the night, if that's okay with you?"

You tilted your head to the side, "What did he say to you?"

Robby shrugged, "I'll tell you later. Just trust me?"

You frowned, but nodded, "Sure, okay."

And then Robby led you out of the emergency room, your hand in his. He didn't pay any attention to the stares or whispers and when he kissed you while you were still in the parking lot, you let him.

On the drive back to your apartment, you dug out your phone to text Jack: Thank you.

He hearted the message and just sent back: Whatever it looks like, let yourself be happy. It's what dad would've wanted.

You blinked away your tears and looked over at Robby while he drove, the moonlight casting shadows across his face. Yeah, you thought, I think I can do happy.

#dr robby #one shot #smut #dr oneshot #dr smut

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spookyreads · 4 days ago

Text

Ain’t Karma A Bitch? -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | fwb |

You shouldn’t have kissed the IT guy.

It was innocent—technically. One drink after a successful case. A slightly too-loud laugh at his joke. And a kiss in the parking lot under Quantico’s flickering lights. But Spencer Reid saw it.

You felt it in the way his gaze dropped the moment you walked in the next morning, in the way his mouth turned up into that smug, unreadable curve when he passed you in the hallway, fingers tucked into his slacks like he was restraining himself from something—maybe strangling your little tech rebound.

You hadn’t even realized the genius profiler could get jealous.

"You know his credentials are fake, right?" Spencer murmurs from beside you during the briefing, eyes on the screen but voice slick with venom. "I ran a background check."

"You’re insufferable."

"You’re transparent." You don’t dare look at him. Not with the way your stomach twists at the low rasp of his voice.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whisper, eyes on Hotch’s presentation even though you haven’t absorbed a word. “You don’t know everything.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the slow turn of Spencer’s head. His expression is unreadable. But you feel it.

“Wrong again,” he mutters. “I know enough.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s not even looking at you, but there’s a slight twitch in his jaw, and his fingers flex like he’s counting backward in his head.

“You ran a background check on him?” you whisper, trying not to move your lips too much with Hotch three feet away. “Are you kidding me?”

“He listed his alma mater as MIT, but he misspelled Massachusetts on his résumé. Twice.”

“Oh my God—”

“Statistically, liars tend to embellish their education because it's the easiest detail to bluff without risk of immediate exposure. He also doesn't understand secure socket layering. It's not my fault if incompetence turns you on.”

You glare at him, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. He’s smug. Smug and unreadable and furious in a way you’ve never seen before.

The rest of the day is hell. He’s everywhere. Passing you coffee—without asking, of course. Standing too close at the crime board. Brushing past you in the hallway, the edge of his jacket catching your thigh, deliberate. Calculated. Like he’s daring you to say something.

You don’t. Not until the end of the night, when most of the team has left and the bullpen hums with quiet.

You storm into the file room, heart pounding. “Reid—”

He’s already there. Like he knew you’d come. Like he planned it. “Shutting the door?” he asks without looking up, flipping through a stack of folders like it’s any other Tuesday. “How suspicious.”

You do shut it. Hard. “What’s your problem?”

He sets the file down. Finally looks at you. “You kissed him,” Spencer says simply, like it’s fact. Like it’s already been dissected and labeled and filed away under Reasons She Deserves To Be Punished.

Your jaw tightens. “So what?”

He takes a step toward you. Then another. Until your back is pressed against the wall and he’s so close you can see the flecks of hazel in his eyes. “So,” he started, “I read somewhere that jealousy activates the same neural circuits as physical pain.” He takes a step closer, and suddenly his voice is lower, his tone less teasing. “It’s almost addictive. Like a drug. Your pupils dilated when you laughed at him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

A smirk plays on Spencer’s lips, sharp and knowing. His hand lifts, ghosting over your jaw but never quite touching. “Then why did you look for me when it happened?”

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, and his voice dips, slow and deliberate like he’s reciting a quote. “Right after. You looked up. Scanned the parking lot. Like you wanted someone to see.”

The heat that burns under your skin is immediate, prickling with shame and something far more dangerous. You want to deny it—but you had looked. Stupidly, instinctively. Like you were waiting for a reaction.

“Is that what this is about?” you snap. “You think I kissed him for your attention?”

He doesn’t blink. “Didn’t you?”

The silence chokes between you. He takes another step—closer, closer—until you’re hyper-aware of every inch between you, every uneven breath.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you say, but it comes out weaker than you mean.

Spencer’s eyes flick down to your mouth. His voice is almost a whisper. “And yet your heart rate’s at least 120. Fight or flight?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d rather you did.” He says it like it’s an equation solved, a foregone conclusion. His pupils are blown, lips parted just slightly like he’s waiting to be proven right.

And maybe he is.

Because when you surge forward, fisting the collar of his cardigan and dragging his mouth down to yours, he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. His hands are on your waist in a second, you gasp when he bites your bottom lip—not hard, but just enough to make you feel it—and he groans, like that sound alone snapped whatever thread of restraint he had left.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he mutters against your mouth, breathing hard. “You really think you’re subtle?”

You shove him back a step, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows—of course he follows. His hand grips the back of your neck and he presses you into the wall again like he needs you there, like he can’t stand the distance.

“You’re not exactly subtle yourself,” you snap.

“He touched your ass,” Spencer growls, and the raw possessiveness in his voice makes your thighs clench.

You laugh—sharp, breathless, too aware of the way his fingers are now drifting along the hem of your blouse. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Reid.”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous. “You sure about that?”

Then he drops to his knees. Your heart stutters. “Spencer—”

“Shh.” He doesn’t look up as his hands glide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up with practiced, unshaking intent. “Just proving a point.”

You suck in a breath as his palms part your legs. His fingers are nimble, precise—like everything else he does, methodical but maddening. When he drags your underwear down your thighs, he does it slowly, eyes finally lifting to meet yours like a silent dare.

You grip the shelf behind you like it might keep you grounded, like the feeling of Spencer Reid on his knees in front of you isn’t about to send you spiraling into orbit.

He leans in. Presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, almost reverent—and then one just a little higher. You squirm.

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, voice already frayed.

His eyes flick up, impossibly dark. “Don’t kiss other men.”

You don’t get a chance to retort—his mouth is on you in the next breath.

And God, he’s good.

Not good in the way most men fumble and hope for the best. No—he studies you. Remembers the way you gasped at the soft flick of his tongue. Adjusts. Experiments. Executes. He licks into you like he’s trying to rewrite your molecular structure, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else—and it’s working.

Your hand tangles in his hair before you can stop it, pulling hard, and he moans into you. You feel the vibration all the way up your spine.

“You’re such a fucking showoff,” you breathe, hips bucking.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips wet and swollen. “Statistically speaking, making a woman come from oral alone—”

“Spencer.”

“—requires precision and patience.” He licks a slow stripe up your center, eyes still locked on yours. “Luckily, I have both.”

And he proves it. You come fast and hard, your moan muffled in your own arm as your legs nearly give out. He holds you through it, mouth insistent and merciless until your body twitches from overstimulation and you beg—literally beg—for him to stop.

When he finally stands, there’s something almost unhinged in his eyes. A wild, unspoken want. His hands are already working on his belt, but you beat him to it, fingers slipping into his waistband like you’ve done it a hundred times in your head.

“I’m not finished with you,” you mutter, dragging his pants down just far enough.

“Good,” he pants. “Because I want you to remember this the next time some fraud in IT buys you a drink.”

You grip his shirt, yanking him down to your lips again. “Fuck me, Doctor Reid.” you moan as he slides through your slick. The noise you make is shameful—something between a gasp and a whimper—and his hand slams against the wall next to your head, bracing himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You feel—fuck—”

Your head tips back, and he takes the opportunity to drag his mouth down your throat, sucking bruises into your skin with zero apology. His thrusts are slow at first, rough but controlled, but that doesn’t last long. Not with the way you grip him. Not with the way your nails dig into his back like you’re trying to brand him there.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” Spencer grits out, fucking you like it’s a correction. A lesson. “You knew I was watching.”

You whimper, helpless under the weight of him, every thrust a punishment wrapped in possession. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Liar,” he snaps, and the hand on your waist tightens.

His mouth crashes to yours again, messy and uncoordinated now. He slams back into you so hard you bite your lip to keep from crying out. The file room walls feel too thin, the glass door too close, but neither of you cares. He thrusts harder, deeper, desperate, like he’s trying to replace every trace of anyone else. And God, it’s working.

His hand curls around your thigh, hiking it over his hip, and the angle makes you whimper.

“Yeah?” Spencer grits out. “Right there?”

You nod—too breathless for words—and he groans again, pounding into that spot over and over until you’re shaking,

“Fuck, I’m—” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-damp curls brushing your cheeks. “I’m not gonna last—”

You pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist and drag him in, lock him there. “Then don’t.”

He comes with a groan muffled against your shoulder, his body jerking against yours like it’s been short-circuited. You hold him through it, hands in his hair, nails raking gently against his scalp as his hips stutter and still.

You both stay like that for a moment breathing heavy. He finally lifts his head. Blinks at you, dazed. And for the first time all night, he looks awkward. Flushed and boyish and just a little bit unsure.

Then he leans in, brushing a kiss—soft, shockingly gentle—against your cheek.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” he murmurs again, you huff a breathless laugh. “Noted.”

His nose brushes yours. “Next time,” he whispers, “I’ll show you what it feels like to beg.”

You blink at him. “Next time?”

He smiles. That unreadable, smug little curve again—but this time, it’s softer around the edges.

“Oh,” he says, buttoning his pants like he didn’t just fuck you senseless against a filing cabinet, “there’s going to be a next time.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “Aren’t you going to cite a study about post-coital bonding or something?”

He pauses. Tilts his head. “Actually, oxytocin levels increase significantly after orgasm, which tends to promote attachment and trust—but in this case, I’d argue correlation, not causation.”

You laugh—genuine and bright—and he watches you like it’s his favorite sound. You pull him in by the front of his cardigan and kiss him again, slower this time.

when you pull away he has a mischievous glint in his eye. “I deleted the footage,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smirks. “File room security. You’re not the only one who’s reckless.”

You gape. “You planned this?”

He shrugs. “I’m a profiler.”

You shove him. “You’re a psycho.”

a/n: down baddd for Dr Reid

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

#spencer reid #one shot #smut #sr oneshot #sr smut

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spookyreads · 4 days ago

Note

Jack Abbot x wife reader fear their child. Jack had another night shift and ran late. When he gets back home, he expects breakfast and chaos from the kids except it's not. Loud music blasting through the house, dancing, being weird, funny and he just stands there like🧍🏻‍♂️🧍🏻‍♂️🤨🤨🤨. Do whatever you want to. Thanks!!! :))

Dance Mode

summary: Mornings in the Abbot house

pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!reader

warnings: None!

a/n: This prompt was so cute I had to work on it right away. This is shorter than I wanted but I have more to post today so fear not!

Also this is very much inspired by the bluey episode (It haunts my household) Enjoy!

Dividers:@strangergraphics

Jack was in full-blown scramble mode. Wake-ups, dressing, breakfast—each a battle on its own—and with two mini Abbots who treated mornings like a personal enemy?

Forget it.

They’d inherited that particular quirk straight from you, much to everyone’s dismay.

He should’ve been out the door almost two hours ago. Instead, he’d been cornered by a frazzled parent of a peds patient and a handover with Robby that somehow turned into an unplanned staff meeting. A quick glance at his watch made him mutter a soft swear under his breath.

“The warden gonna be mad?” Robby asked, one eyebrow climbing higher than the other.

Jack squinted at him. “My wife?” The degrading wording made him wonder if Robby had finally tipped over into total madness. If he was finally about to get his shot at knocking some sense into the taller man.

Robby gave a sharp snort and a lazy shake of his head. “The mini Abbots, man.”

Jack’s mouth formed a slow, dawning “oh,” followed by a grimace. “Absolutely. My ass is as good as grass when I walk in that door.” Robby chuckled. “Get outta here, brother. I got it—hey, enjoy your next few days off, yeah?”

He clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder and gave him an affectionate shove toward the door. Jack, shorter but no less determined, didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted, bracing himself against the sharp bite of a cold Pittsburgh morning.

The air was crisp, his breath puffing in little clouds as he hustled to the car. He barely noticed the fresh snow banked along the edges of the road—a winter constant around here. Sure, Pittsburgh winters could be brutal, but this year had been surprisingly tame… at least so far.

Minutes later, he swung into the driveway and jogged to the front door, already steeling himself for the domestic war zone inside: crying kids, a frazzled wife, abandoned bowls of cereal, school supplies scattered like shrapnel.

What he did not expect was to be greeted by the thump of early-2000s pop music blasting through the house.

Jack’s nose wrinkled. He froze in the doorway, then actually stepped back outside to glance at the house number—just in case he’d wandered into some alternate reality. Nope. Same address. Same house. He eased back inside, each step cautious, as if the wrong move might break the spell. The source of the racket became clear when a gloriously off-key rendition of “Can’t Fight the Moonlight” drifted from the kitchen. The corner of his mouth betrayed him, quirking up in spite of himself.

The house was—shockingly—clean. No breakfast carnage, no scattered school papers. He stopped just shy of the kitchen and leaned against the doorway, taking in the scene.

You twirled your daughter in a dizzy spin, her laughter rising higher than the music. On the counter, your son—eyes bright with mischief—gripped a wooden spoon like a rock star’s guitar, strumming the air in perfect time with your voice.

Just as the song hit the next chorus, Jack decided his curiosity had reached critical mass. He stepped forward and hit pause. The music cut out mid-beat, replaced instantly by twin cries of “Heyyy!” from the kids. You spun around, momentarily frozen, before a flicker of embarrassment crossed your face.

Jack’s smirk was instant. “You don’t think the kids are a little young for skipping school and Coyote Ugly?” “First of all—” You set your daughter down, turning to face him. “School got canceled because of the snow. Seeing as you just came inside, I figured you might have noticed. Second—” your lips curled into a grin “they’re my kids. Coyote Ugly is in their bones.”

You floated over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Jack’s arms slipped around your waist, pulling you in closer. “Sorry I was late,” he murmured. You shrugged. “You’re here now. Just in time, too—the kids turned on dance mode.”

Right on cue, your son slapped Jack’s leg—harder than strictly necessary—and yelled, “Dance mode!”

This was what Jack lived for—what made all the sleepless nights, the worrying, the morning sickness, the chaos, and the bouts of flu worth it. The way your face lit up as you dove into the kids’ games. The way you restarted the music without hesitation and jumped right back into the spotlight—singing at the top of your lungs, dancing with wild abandon, utterly unashamed.

Jack couldn’t help it—he just stood there for a moment, soaking you in, a smile tugging at his mouth. The spell broke when a small hand smacked his hip. “Dance, old man!” his daughter barked. Jack rolled his eyes. Definitely something she picked up from you. Still, who was he to deny his kids? He stepped into the kitchen, scooped up his daughter, and set her on the counter beside her brother.

“Alright, Abbots,” he announced, straightening like he was about to take the stage. “Let me show you what real dancing looks like.” He gave you a gentle nudge out of the way.

“Oh, you think you’re better than me?” you asked, one brow arched in challenge.

Jack’s smirk deepened. He leaned in and stole a quick kiss. “Only one of us sprained an ankle on the dance floor.”

“For Christ’s sake, Jack—that was ten years ago.”

“Still happened,”

#jack abbot #one shot #ja oneshot

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spookyreads · 5 days ago

Text

Teenage Dirtbags

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: Childhood friends turned rebellious teens, you and Eddie Munson have always been thick as thieves — sneaking out, breaking into abandoned diners, and laughing at the world that doesn’t get them. Her parents disapprove, the school calls him a freak, but none of it matters when they’re together.

Tags: NSFW, smut (18+), fluff, friends to lovers, childhood friends, coming of age, mutual pining, rebellious teenagers, "us against the world", parents disapproval, impulsive getaways, eddie munson is a sweetheart, p-in-v, confessionnal sex. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Save to say most of my fic inspiration for Eddie are from songs. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 9.4k (oh wow)

masterlist

1979

You were going to snap.

The plastic spork bounced off your tray and skidded across the table. You didn’t even need to look to know who threw it—same kid who’d been messing with you all week. Earlier, it was a balled-up napkin. Yesterday, it was a grape. Today, it was everything short of a full-on food fight.

You kept your head down, picking at the sad excuse for macaroni on your tray, hoping he’d get bored. He didn’t.

“Hey,” the boy behind you whispered, yanking a lock of your hair just hard enough to make your eyes sting. “You put glue in it or something? Why’s it so crunchy?”

Your jaw clenched. You bit your cheek to keep from turning around and launching your milk carton at his face. The din of the lunchroom made it easy for teachers to ignore—unless someone got loud.

Which someone did.

“Cease your torment, cretin! Or I shall summon the Lord of the Underworld himself!”

Your head whipped up. The boy behind you froze.

Standing at the end of your lunch table was a skinny kid with a buzz cut, a tattered Black Sabbath patch safety-pinned to his denim vest, and a tray of untouched lunch balanced on one hand like a waiter. His other hand pointed accusingly, finger straight and eyes wide like a televangelist on TV.

“What the hell, Munson?” the boy behind you asked.

The new kid didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped to one knee in the middle of the cafeteria floor and raised both hands to the ceiling.

“Dominos. Ravioli. Infernum-malarkey!” he bellowed, deepening his voice into a theatrical growl. “Oh great horned one, curse this mortal with itchy skin and uncontrollable gas!”

Laughter burst out from nearby tables.

You blinked.

Then—you laughed too.

It started as a confused giggle and turned into a real, actual laugh. Loud enough to startle the kid behind you into silence. He slunk away without a word, disappearing into the crowd.

When you turned back around, the buzz cut boy had taken a dramatic bow.

“Eddie Munson,” he announced. “At your service.”

You stared at him for a beat, then smiled, “You’re weird.”

He beamed like you’d just handed him a trophy.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”

And just like that, the empty seat across from you wasn’t empty anymore.

1984

The hallway erupted like someone had hit “play” on a fast-forward button—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices rising as students flooded toward freedom. But right in the middle of the chaos, you took your time.

Your locker was stuck again. You wiggled the handle with practiced irritation, muttering a quiet curse under your breath.

And then—

Slam!

A hand hit the locker next to yours with dramatic flair.

“Need a spell, m’lady?”

You didn’t even have to look. The smug tone, the scent of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke—it was unmistakable.

“You’re gonna bruise the metal if you keep doing that,” you said, lips tugging into a smile despite yourself.

Eddie Munson leaned against the lockers like he owned the hallway, grinning at you through his mess of curls. His denim vest was half-unbuttoned over his Hellfire Club tee, and he had a binder stuffed with loose papers under one arm. Somehow, he made chaos look cool.

“Maybe it’ll bruise back,” he quipped, giving your locker a gentle kick. It creaked open instantly. “See? You just have to speak its language.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping back so you could grab your books, “you keep me around. Which says so much more about you than it does about me.”

You bumped his shoulder as you closed your locker, and he didn’t move an inch.

“Plans tonight?” he asked, falling into step beside you like he always did.

“Not unless you’re planning something.”

He grinned wider. “I may or may not have found a way into the old diner by the train tracks.”

You arched a brow. “Eddie.”

“It’s abandoned! Kinda. Mostly. Anyway, I hear the power still works.”

You stopped walking and turned to him, arms crossed. “If we get caught again—”

“We won’t.” He leaned in with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “We’re ghosts, remember? Shadows. Teenage legends.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a quiet laugh. “You’re full of shit.”

“And yet,” he echoed with a smirk, “you keep me around.”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no hiding the fondness in it. You always rolled your eyes around Eddie. And he always stayed close anyway.

Like he had since the cafeteria, five years ago.

Later that night, the lock was rusted, the side door warped just enough to slip a crowbar through. Eddie grunted as he wedged it in, muscles tense, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. With one good shove and a metallic clank, the door creaked open.

“After you, partner in crime,” he whispered, bowing with a flourish.

You stepped inside, the soles of your sneakers crunching on old tile dust. The air smelled like mildew and grease that had long since congealed into memory.

A few rays of moonlight filtered through cracked windows, casting long, silvery shadows across the booths and checkered floor. The whole place looked like someone had locked up in ’64 and never came back. A half-burned “Daily Special” board still hung above the counter. A stack of chipped coffee cups waited behind the bar like someone might show up to pour a round.

“Holy shit,” you breathed. “This is so cool.”

“Told you.” Eddie’s voice was soft, reverent even. “Place is like a time capsule. All it needs is a jukebox and someone to roll by on skates.”

You wandered past the booths, running your fingers over the cracked vinyl cushions. The red had faded to dull maroon. He followed a few steps behind, glancing around with wide eyes like a kid in a haunted house—excited, cautious, thrilled.

“Bet there’s still silverware somewhere,” he said, hopping over the counter with a thud. He pulled open a drawer, rattling around. “Bingo.”

He held up a rusted spoon like it was buried treasure.

You chuckled, ducking behind the counter with him. “I’m stealing a salt shaker. This is too good not to commemorate.”

“Here,” he said, digging deeper into the drawer. “Comet-brand bottle opener. Still shiny.”

You pocketed it with a grin. “We should open a museum.”

Eddie stood up on the counter, arms spread wide. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Hall of Bad Decisions. Featuring cigarette burns, petty theft, and a distinct lack of adult supervision.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound echoing off the walls.

The truth was, no matter how dusty or broken the place, it always felt electric with Eddie around. Every forgotten building was a playground. Every half-dumb idea felt like genius. With him, even rusted cutlery felt like gold.

You leaned against the counter, smiling up at him.

“This place is gonna be ours for a while, huh?”

He looked down at you and nodded, his grin softening.

“Yeah,” he said. “Until the next one.”

Eddie’s van purred softly in the driveway, headlights off. The glow from the porch light was enough to see the curve of his grin as he leaned across the driver’s seat to look at you.

“You sure you don’t want me to summon Satan again?” he teased, voice low. “Might scare your mom into going easy on you.”

You laughed quietly, hand already on the door handle. “Pretty sure she’s more terrifying than Satan.”

He tilted his head, mock serious. “Valid.”

A beat of silence passed. You looked at him. He looked at you.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said. “That diner was… weirdly magical.”

He smirked. “Like I said—teenage legends.”

You leaned over and bumped his shoulder gently. “Call me when you get home.”

Eddie saluted you, then added, “I’ll keep an eye out for demon cops. You never know.”

You rolled your eyes, but it made you smile as you slipped out of the van and jogged up the front steps. You gave him one last wave before unlocking the door and slipping inside.

The smile dropped as soon as the door clicked shut.

The hallway was dim, the only light coming from the kitchen. Your mom was sitting at the table, elbows resting on a half-folded newspaper, her fingers pressed against her temple. She didn’t even look up when she spoke.

“You know what time it is?”

Her voice wasn’t angry—just tired. Drained in that way that made your chest twist a little.

“Yeah,” you said softly, stepping out of your shoes. “I lost track.”

Your mom finally looked up. Her eyes flicked to your jacket, your tangled hair, the faint whiff of dust and old grease you carried back from the diner.

“You were with him again.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

She sighed and sat back in her chair, eyes heavy. “You can’t keep doing this, sweetheart.”

You stayed by the doorway, hands in your pockets, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you mumbled.

“Not yet,” she said. “But trouble follows that boy like a shadow.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but you thought it anyway.

Good. So do I.

Without another word, you walked down the hall and shut your bedroom door behind you.

The only light in your room came from the moon outside your window. You crossed the floor, dropped your jacket on the bed, and fished into your pocket.

The bottle opener from the diner caught the moonlight just right as you turned it over in your hand.

You smiled again—just a little this time.

The smell of questionable pizza and overcooked green beans lingered thick in the air, but it didn’t matter. You were already weaving through the tables with your tray in hand, heading toward your table—the one where noise, weirdness, and near-constant laughter were part of the deal.

“Okay, but we cannot open with ‘War Pigs’ again,” Gareth was saying, waving half a sandwich like it was a conductor’s baton. “We’re becoming predictable.”

Jeff leaned across the table, chewing thoughtfully. “People like predictable. It’s crowd control.”

Doug piped up with a mouthful of tater tots. “Predictable gets you heckled.”

“And heckled means notoriety,” Eddie added from the center of the chaos, his boots kicked up on an empty chair, half a Twinkie in hand. “Notoriety builds legacy.”

You dropped your tray across from him and plopped into your seat, arching an eyebrow. “You guys planning a set list or starting a revolution?”

Eddie pointed the Twinkie at you like a preacher. “Both, sweetheart. Both.”

“You’re late,” Doug said, nudging his tray your way. “We almost gave your seat to a freshman.”

“You touch my seat, I take your soul,” you deadpanned, snatching a tater tot off his tray.

He shrugged. “Fair.”

“Anyway,” Eddie said, pulling a notebook from beneath his jacket like it was classified intel, “we’re down to two opening tracks—‘The Trooper’ or ‘Symptom of the Universe.’”

You bit into your apple. “You’re seriously debating this like it’s the damn Super Bowl.”

“Because it is,” Gareth said, dead serious. “Thursday night. The Hideout. Four people in the audience max. Maybe five if Jeff’s mom shows up.”

Jeff raised his soda can. “She always does.”

“I’m just saying,” you said, setting your apple down, “no one in that bar cares what song you start with. They just want something loud, something angry, and maybe to get a free beer if they flirt with the bartender.”

Eddie beamed at you. “And that’s why you’re an honorary member of this band of degenerates.”

“Honorary?” Doug asked. “She literally helped us roll for loot two weeks ago.”

“I fell asleep halfway through,” you reminded him.

“And still somehow survived the ogre ambush,” Gareth muttered.

“Yeah, ‘cause Eddie kept rerolling behind the screen.”

Eddie gasped, hand on his chest. “Are you accusing your fearless Dungeon Master of cheating?”

You grinned. “Not accusing. Just observing.”

He tossed a crust of bread at you. You ducked. The others laughed.

The table was loud, obnoxious, and borderline unbearable to anyone sitting within a ten-foot radius. But to you? It was home. You didn’t care about the campaign schedule or the band drama half as much as they did, but it didn’t matter. You were part of it anyway.

Here, no one tried to change you. Or warn you away from being yourself. Or away from Eddie.

Which, judging by the way he was still looking at you over the rim of his soda can—with that crooked smile that always spelled trouble—you’d have to deal with later.

But for now, you kicked your feet up beside his, stole another tot from Doug’s tray, and settled into the noise.

Later that day, you were walking toward Eddie’s locker, planning to meet up before heading to the parking lot. But you knew something was wrong before you even saw it.

The crowd gave it away.

A couple of underclassmen lingered nearby, whispering and pretending not to look. A few seniors passed, snickering behind their hands. That knot in your stomach twisted tighter with every step.

And then you saw it.

FREAK

Spray-painted in jagged red letters across Eddie’s locker door. The paint still dripped, fresh and bold and proud.

Eddie was already there, standing in front of it like it wasn’t even his. He had one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the strap of his bag, eyes scanning the word like it was graffiti on a bathroom wall and not a personal attack.

You approached slowly. “Jesus…”

He looked over at you, then back at the locker. “Creative, huh?”

“Are you okay?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

But you didn’t buy it. Not from the way his mouth pressed into a thin line. Not from the way he wouldn’t touch the door.

“It’s bullshit,” you said, voice low, sharp. “We should tell—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “It’s not worth it.”

“Eddie—”

“It’s just a word.” He finally reached forward and popped the locker open like the paint wasn’t even there. “I’ve been called worse. Hell, I am worse. Freak’s kind of a promotion.”

You stared at him. He looked tired. Not angry. Not even hurt. Just used to it—like he’d seen this coming the day he first wore a Dio shirt to school and never looked back.

He pulled out a book, slammed the locker shut, and slung his arm around your shoulder like nothing happened.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do something illegal.”

You tried to smile. Tried to match his energy.

But you kept glancing back at that word. And the way he didn’t even flinch.

You weren’t even in a bad mood until you heard the voice.

“…yeah, I did it. Told you I would,” some guy was bragging just outside the door. “Spray-painted it right on his locker. FREAK—like billboard size.”

A snort of laughter followed. “No way.”

“Swear to God. My cousin had that red paint in his garage. Took like three seconds. Guy’s a loser anyway—no one’s gonna do shit.”

Your jaw clenched. You peeked out through the cracked door just enough to see who was talking.

Ryan Garrison.

Smug. Stupid. Already walking away with two other guys, all of them laughing like they’d just pulled off a harmless prank and not openly vandalized someone else’s property.

Your hands curled into fists inside your sleeves.

You didn’t say anything then. Not yet.

But you had a name now.

And something about the way Eddie had looked at his locker yesterday—like it was a fact of life, not something he deserved to fight back against—stuck to your ribs like ash.

This wasn’t going to slide.

Not this time.

Behind the bleachers, Eddie was sitting on the concrete, knees pulled up, lazily plucking at the strings of his guitar. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the air. He didn’t look up when you approached—he never had to.

You dropped beside him, legs stretched out, pulling your sleeves over your hands.

“I know who did it.”

He paused, just long enough to let the words settle. “Did what?”

You gave him a look.

He sighed through his nose, set the guitar down gently beside him. “Doesn’t matter. I already told you—”

“It was Ryan Garrison.”

Now he looked at you.

You could see it then—how his jaw tensed for just a second. Not surprised. Just… disappointed in the predictability of it all.

“He was bragging about it in the hallway,” you went on. “Didn’t even bother to whisper. Just loud and proud with his dumbass buddies like it was a joke.”

Eddie leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky. “God, I’d love to be that stupid. You think life’s easier when you’re that full of yourself?”

“Probably,” you muttered, then nudged his knee with yours. “But also… I have an idea.”

Eddie turned to you slowly, brow arched, curiosity piqued. “Oh no.”

You grinned. “Oh yes.”

“What level of felony are we talking here?”

“No felonies,” you said sweetly. “Just… maybe some light vandalism. Minor property damage, at worst.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I say we skip last period,” you continued, “grab a carton of eggs from the corner store, and redecorate Ryan Garrison’s shiny little Camaro.”

Eddie blinked. “You want to egg his car?”

“Don’t you?”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I do love performance art.”

You bumped shoulders. “Thought so.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like he was trying to be the voice of reason, but couldn’t quite resist. “You’re gonna get detention.”

“You’ll be right there with me.”

“Oh, I’m definitely not letting you do it alone,” he said. “If you go down, I’m going down with you.”

“Us against the world,” you said, holding out a pinky.

Eddie linked his pinky with yours. “Always.”

The lot was mostly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the faded lines and scattered cigarette butts. Ryan Garrison’s Camaro—sleek, waxed, obnoxiously red—sat like a trophy near the back row.

You crouched behind a scraggly bush with Eddie, both of you gripping your smuggled plastic bag of ammo: a dozen slightly-warm eggs from the corner store fridge. You could barely contain your grin as you peered around the shrub like war criminals on a covert op.

Eddie whispered, “Okay, listen. We do this fast, like guerrilla warfare. You take the driver’s side, I’ll take the back. We launch, we leg it. Got it?”

“Got it,” you said, cracking your knuckles dramatically.

“One… two… go!”

You darted out from cover, pulling an egg from the carton mid-run. The first one hit the windshield with a glorious splat. The second one smacked the driver’s side door, dripping yolk down the shiny paint.

Eddie whooped from the rear bumper. “Eat poultry, you shiny bastard!”

He chucked two in rapid fire—one hitting the trunk, the other bouncing off the rearview mirror with a satisfying crack.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, breathless with laughter. “We’re going to hell.”

“We were already going to hell!” he shouted gleefully, winding up and letting one rip straight at the hood.

Then, “HEY! WHAT THE HELL?!”

You didn’t even turn around to confirm. You knew that voice.

“Run!” you yelled, grabbing Eddie by the sleeve.

You both took off, legs pumping, laughter bubbling out of your chests as Ryan’s furious footsteps pounded behind you.

Eddie tossed the empty bag over his shoulder as you rounded the edge of the lot, diving into the passenger seat of his van while he jumped behind the wheel.

He jammed the key into the ignition. “Come on, come on, come on—YES!”

The engine roared to life just as Ryan came into view, red-faced and livid, streaks of yolk still dripping down his car in the distance.

Eddie peeled out of the lot with a screech of tires, flipping him the bird out the open window. You slammed the door shut just in time and nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Holy shit!” you gasped, clutching your stomach. “We’re actually gonna die!”

Eddie was howling, one hand pounding the steering wheel. “Did you see his face?! He looked like his soul left his body!”

You were breathless, wild with adrenaline and glee, wind whipping through the open window as the town blurred past you.

“That felt so good.”

Eddie glanced at you as the wind whipped through the cracked windows, hair tousled, eyes gleaming.

And in that moment—in Eddie’s van, hair messy, heart racing—you felt more alive than you had in weeks.

Just two teenage dirtbags with egg-stained hands and nowhere else to be.

The van was parked at the edge of the woods, a spot you both stumbled on years ago—your unofficial hideout from everything. The trees opened into a clearing that caught the last light just right, turning everything gold and soft and quiet.

You and Eddie were lying side by side on the grass, backs pressed into the earth, heads tilted to the sky where the clouds burned orange and pink.

The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving a slow, syrupy warmth in your chest. One of your shoes was off. Eddie’s jacket was draped over both of you like a shared blanket.

He was playing with a blade of grass between his fingers, eyes half-lidded. “Do you think the eggs did any actual damage? Like, cosmetic damage. Paint-eating level.”

“I hope so,” you said softly.

He chuckled. “You’re terrifying.”

You turned your head toward him. “You’re just now realizing that?”

He gave you a lazy grin, and the world shifted just a little.

It was quiet for a moment. Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then Eddie spoke again, voice lower. “You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?”

You blinked. “Breaking and entering? Vandalism? Petty crimes in general?”

He snorted. “No—well, yes—but I meant… this. You and me.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He plucked another blade of grass. “It’s weird, right? Everyone else seems to… grow out of their people. Switch friends like seasons. But you stuck.”

You smiled, looking up at the sky again. “Maybe I just like weirdos.”

“Lucky for me,” he muttered.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. You were too busy trying to memorize this version of Eddie: eyes soft, voice gentle, golden light kissing his cheekbones.

You could feel it again—that fluttery thing in your chest that always showed up when he got quiet like this. You’d buried it for years under jokes and reckless nights and pretending you were just partners in crime.

But it never really left.

And now, lying beside him like this, it itched behind your ribs.

You turned your head slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know… if you ever decide to grow out of me, I’m locking you in that abandoned diner.”

He tilted his head toward you, smirking. “You’d have to catch me first.”

“Oh, I’d catch you.”

He chuckled, and the sound felt like home. Then, more seriously, “Not gonna happen. You’re stuck with me.”

Your chest ached in that soft, good way.

“Good,” you said, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t really want anyone else.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was full of something unspoken.

And you let it hang there, golden and quiet, in the space between your shoulders and his.

You should’ve known something was off the second you walked through the door.

Your mom was in the kitchen, humming. Humming. She hadn’t done that since... since she took your journal and called it "worrisome." And your dad was pretending to read the paper, though he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.

Your stomach dropped.

“Sweetheart,” your mom called, too brightly. “We’re having dinner with the Darrows tonight. Come change, would you? Put on something… nicer.”

You blinked at her, halfway out of your shoes. “The Darrows?”

She smiled, the kind that never reached her eyes. “You remember their son, Nathan? He goes to the youth group at Trinity.”

There it was.

“You invited someone from church?” you asked flatly, incredulous. “Why?”

Your dad folded the paper like he’d been waiting to jump in. “He’s a good kid. Polite. Plays varsity basketball.”

“He wore loafers to gym class,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly. “He said Dungeons & Dragons was ‘satanic.’”

Your mom’s smile faltered just slightly. “Maybe it’s time you spent time with people who could be a good influence on you.”

You stared at her, chest slowly filling with heat. “This is about Eddie.”

“No,” your dad said—too quickly. “This is about your future.”

You laughed. A cold, stunned little sound. “You think I’m gonna marry Nathan Darrow?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“You’re trying to fix me,” you snapped. “Like I’m broken. Like Eddie broke me.”

“He’s not—” Your mom stepped forward, her voice soft but sharp, “—the kind of person you should be around.”

That did it.

You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. You just turned around, walked calmly to your room, grabbed your bag, and climbed out the window like you had a hundred times before.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t have to.

Eddie opened the door the second you reached the top step, like he already knew it was you.

He took one look at your face and stepped aside, wordless.

You dropped your bag on the floor with a dull thud, toeing off your shoes.

Then you just stood there, in the soft yellow light of his living room, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

Eddie watched you quietly. “They tried again, huh?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “Tried to sell me off to a Bible boy.”

He didn’t laugh. He just opened his arms.

You stepped into them without hesitation.

He held you tightly, chin resting on the crown of your head.

The trailer was quiet now. Wayne was working the night shift, and the TV buzzed low in the background, playing some late-night rerun no one was really watching.

You were both at the tiny kitchen table, a half-eaten bowl of cereal between you, cold by now. Eddie was lazily flipping through a tattered Hit Parader magazine while you stared at your hands, still a little wrung out from earlier.

Then, suddenly:

“Let’s get outta here.”

You blinked. “What?”

Eddie looked up, grinning like a spark had just caught in his brain. “Like—out. Just for a night. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

He shrugged, leaned back in his chair. “Chicago. Why not? It’s what, three, four hours from here?”

You stared at him.

He was serious. And maybe a little sleep-deprived. But also serious.

“You want to drive to Chicago tonight?”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

“Eddie, we don’t have money.”

“I have ten bucks and half a tank of gas.”

“I have eight,” you said slowly. “And a granola bar.”

“See? That’s a feast,” he said, mock offended. “We’ll live like kings.”

You snorted. “What would we even do there?”

He shrugged again, that boyish, chaotic light in his eyes. “Get lost. Walk around the city. Maybe sneak into a punk show. Or sit on a rooftop and scream at the skyline. Doesn’t matter.”

And the thing was… it didn’t.

Because he was looking at you like you were the point of it all. Not Chicago. Not the getaway. Just the idea of being free with you.

You looked at him for a long moment, then said softly, “Okay.”

His smile grew, slow and wide. “Yeah?”

“Let’s be stupid.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You threw your bag into the back. He brought a couple of tapes, a hoodie, a few crumpled bills, and his lucky lighter. You didn’t even ask why.

As the van pulled out of the trailer park, the town faded behind you like static. Streetlights blurring. The stars overhead flickering faintly, and the open road stretching out in front of you like a promise.

“Freedom tastes like exhaust fumes and bad decisions,” Eddie declared, one hand out the window like he could catch the wind.

You laughed, head resting on the seat. “We’re gonna regret this.”

“Maybe,” he said, glancing at you with a crooked smile. “But not tonight.”

And for once, it felt like you could breathe.

Like running wasn’t running away—it was just running toward something.

Something that looked a lot like him.

They didn’t even check IDs.

Maybe it was the smeared eyeliner and scuffed boots. Maybe it was Eddie’s jacket with all the safety pins or the way you both walked in like you belonged.

Either way, you were in—bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the ceiling dripping with condensation, someone screaming into a mic like the world was ending and it needed to be loud.

You and Eddie lost yourselves in it. No one from Hawkins here. No judgmental stares. Just noise and lights and sweat and freedom.

He grabbed your hand during a guitar solo and spun you in the crowd, his hair sticking to his forehead, laughing like he was seventeen and unstoppable. You grinned wide, your voice raw from yelling, from singing along even when you didn’t know the words.

Later, after the band finished their set and you’d slipped out a side door that led into an alleyway full of graffiti and old posters peeling off the bricks, Eddie fished out a joint from his pocket like it was treasure.

“You carried that through state lines?” you asked, eyes wide.

He just smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You both leaned against the alley wall, the buzz of leftover adrenaline in your chest, sharing slow, quiet puffs between bursts of laughter.

The world softened.

The city was asleep, or pretending to be. Traffic lights blinked for no one. Steam rose from the grates in the sidewalk. You and Eddie walked side by side, dazed and giddy, your fingertips tangled together without thinking about it too hard.

You were both too high to be cold, too happy to care.

You kicked a stray can down the street. He tried to hop on a newspaper box and nearly fell off. Everything was hilarious.

And then, in a lull between laughs, he said, “Y’know, this feels like a movie.”

You glanced at him, lips parted in a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Like… the part right before the world gets all complicated again.”

You were quiet for a moment. The good kind of quiet.

Your hand tightened around his.

“I don’t care if it gets complicated,” you said softly, watching your steps on the sidewalk. “As long as you’re in it.”

He looked over at you—really looked—and for once, didn’t deflect with a joke.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. No dramatic tone, no grand promise. Just fact.

You nodded, a little dizzy. From the weed. From the night. From the boy beside you who made this whole goddamn city feel like home.

“I’m glad I have you,” you murmured, barely audible.

He squeezed your hand.

“Right back at you, trouble.”

The world was pale and still when you woke up.

Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing gently rocking you awake. One of his arms was curled around you, his other hand half-asleep against your hip. The old blanket he kept in the back was tangled around your legs, and the van windows were fogged from the inside.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

There were no words.

Just the soft hum of morning settling in, the birds starting their songs, the ache in your limbs from a night lived hard and full.

Eventually, Eddie blinked awake, eyes squinting at the light filtering through the windshield. His gaze flicked down at you. He didn’t look surprised. Just… calm.

You gave him a sleepy smile.

He smiled back.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Eddie parked a few houses down from yours like usual. The sun had fully risen now, casting golden light over the familiar neighborhood. Lawn sprinklers clicked on. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Everything felt painfully normal.

You sat in the passenger seat for a moment, your bag in your lap, neither of you ready to break the spell completely.

“Well,” you sighed, hand on the door handle. “Back to pretending.”

Eddie leaned forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel. “We’ll make it out again. Next time—maybe even with money.”

You smiled, heart pinched in the best way.

You opened the door, swung one leg out—then paused.

Leaning back in, you reached across the console and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks for running away with me,” you whispered.

His eyes widened just a little—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. He just smiled, slow and warm.

“Anytime, trouble.”

And with that, you slipped out of the van, hugging your bag close, and vanished up the side of your house just before the neighborhood fully woke up.

Eddie watched the spot you disappeared into for a few seconds longer, his fingers brushing the spot on his cheek where your lips had been.

School was out, and the Hellfire boys were all grouped near the back of the lot like always. Gareth leaned against Jeff’s car, drumsticks tapping lightly against his thigh. Doug was halfway through a story about a kid who fell asleep in math and drooled on his own worksheet. You were only half-listening, the zipper of your backpack clenched between your fingers.

Eddie was off to the side, scrawling something into his well-worn campaign binder, crouched on the curb. The sun caught in his hair. His chain hung loose. He looked ridiculous and perfect.

You smiled without meaning to.

“Alright, nerds, same time Thursday?” Eddie called out, shutting the binder with a dramatic snap.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jeff grinned, already sliding into the front seat.

The group started peeling away, shouting jokes and farewells, backpacks slung over shoulders.

You waved at Doug and Jeff as they piled into the car. “Later, losers.”

“Bye, honorary loser,” Doug called.

You turned back just in time to catch Eddie’s eyes. He grinned, and you shot him a mock salute.

“Drive safe, Munson.”

“I always do,” he lied, winking as he slid into the van.

You didn’t look away immediately.

And he didn’t either.

Then, with a little wave, he backed out and rolled off toward the main road.

You were still watching the van disappear when Gareth stepped up beside you, arms crossed.

“So,” he said casually. “When are you gonna tell him?”

You blinked. “Tell who what?”

He gave you a knowing side-eye. “C’mon.”

You tried to laugh it off. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure,” he said, drawing the word out. “Totally. You just happened to stare at him like he personally invented sunlight.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

Gareth just smirked. “I’m just saying. The rest of us already know. It’s just you and Eddie who haven’t figured it out yet.”

You turned away before he could see the color rising to your cheeks.

“See you Thursday, Gareth.”

“You owe me five bucks when you finally kiss,” he called after you.

You flipped him off over your shoulder—but you were smiling.

His room was a mess of posters, records, and the distinct scent of weed curling through the air. The window was cracked just enough to let the smoke drift lazily outside, and the two of you were stretched out on the floor, backs propped against the edge of his bed.

Eddie held the joint between his fingers, gesturing with it as he recounted the latest Hellfire session like he was reading from a holy text.

“And then—this is the best part—Doug’s bard tries to seduce the necromancer’s skeleton minion, like full-on charisma roll, flowers, everything—”

You choked on a laugh, nearly dropping the soda can in your hand. “What did you do?”

“I made him roll with disadvantage for being a creep,” Eddie said proudly, eyes alight with glee. “And the skeleton punched him in the face.”

You snorted, nudging your socked foot against his leg. “God, you’re so mean to them.”

“I’m fair,” he corrected, passing you the joint with a grin. “It’s not my fault their stupidity knows no bounds.”

You took a hit and leaned your head back against the mattress, exhaling toward the ceiling, warm and light and a little dizzy in the best way.

Eddie kept talking, something about a cursed dagger and Jeff accidentally summoning a demonic goat, but you weren’t really listening anymore. Not fully.

You were watching him.

The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way he moved his hands too much when he got excited. The little scratch in his voice when he’d smoked just enough.

Something in your face must’ve changed—softened, maybe—because he stopped mid-sentence and tilted his head at you.

“…Am I that interesting,” he asked, smirking slightly, “for you to stare at me like that?”

You blinked, startled.

Heat crept up your neck.

“Maybe,” you said, too slow, too honest.

He blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second—then he looked away with a quiet chuckle, scratching the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with the silence that followed.

You passed the joint back to him, your fingers brushing his. Neither of you commented on how long that touch lingered.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking toward the window.

“You’re weird,” he said finally, voice a little softer now.

“You’re weirder,” you murmured back, your cheek tilted toward your shoulder as you watched him.

Then, after a beat, you blinked and looked away.

“…Sorry,” you said softly, the word slipping out like it was pulled from somewhere deeper than you expected. “For staring.”

Eddie didn’t answer right away.

You figured maybe he was trying to think of something funny to deflect with, like he always did. But then you heard the creak of the mattress as he shifted closer, and when you glanced back at him, he was already looking at you again.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. No smirk. No teasing.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Eddie leaned in just slightly, one elbow resting on the floor, hand curling near your knee but not touching.

“I like it,” he added, voice low.

Your breath caught.

“Like what?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“The way you look at me,” he said. “Like I’m… something.”

You blinked. The joint burned slowly between his fingers. You didn’t even notice the smoke anymore.

“You are,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve always been something.”

Eddie let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh, like he didn’t know what to do with the truth of that. “You’re really gonna kill me, aren’t you.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you, his eyes tracing yours like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when you were this close. When the light was soft and low and you weren’t looking away.

“Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for, like, ever, and if you keep looking at me like that…”

You didn’t give him a chance to finish.

You leaned forward, slow but sure, giving him time to stop it—he didn’t.

Your lips brushed his in the softest, smallest movement, and then again, fuller this time, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt to hold onto.

Eddie let the joint fall into the ashtray. He kissed you back with both hands cradling your face, warm and a little clumsy like every nerve in him was firing at once. His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he pulled you closer, tasting like weed and soda and every shared laugh you’d ever had.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.

It just was.

Something about kissing Eddie felt inevitable now — like you’d already been halfway doing it for years in every shared secret, every getaway, every “you okay?” and “come with me.”

The weed buzzed warm through your limbs, making everything feel hazy at the edges. Soft. Slower.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed against your lips, eyes flickering over your face like he wasn’t sure you were real. “You’re really doing this to me, huh?”

You smiled, fingertips tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Just shut up and keep kissing me, Munson.”

That got a breathless laugh from him, the kind that disappeared into your mouth as you pulled him into another kiss. Deeper this time. Messier. Less careful. His hands slid up under your hoodie, thumbs tracing the skin of your waist like he couldn’t believe you were letting him.

You rocked into him just slightly — enough to make his breath catch, enough to let him feel you weren’t playing around.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then under your ear. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You’ve been ruining me since seventh grade,” you whispered back, tilting your head to let him in.

You felt him smile against your neck, his hands tightening on your hips like he couldn’t help himself.

“Take me to your bed.”

Eddie’s eyes widened — pupils already blown out from the joint you shared earlier, but now they were all you could see. “You sure?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

For a second, he didn’t move — just looked at you like he was trying to etch this moment into his soul. Then, carefully, he lifted you off his lap and helped you to your feet, tugging you gently by the hand toward the bed.

Once you were sitting at the edge, Eddie stepped between your knees, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Still with me?”

You answered by kissing him again, pulling him down with you until your back hit the mattress and he was leaning over you. You could feel him — his cock, hard and pressing into you through layers of clothes — and your cunt clenched in response.

Hands fumbled with zippers and fabric, laughter slipping between kisses as you both struggled with nerves and anticipation. You helped him pull off your hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, followed by your shorts. His shirt went next, then your bra, then your underwear — and suddenly you were bare beneath him, flushed and glowing.

Eddie’s eyes roamed every inch of you like he’d never seen anything so sacred.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Like… shit, I don’t even have words for you.”

Your face flushed deeper. “Then maybe just kiss me.”

And he did — from your lips to your neck, down your collarbone, teeth grazing gently as his hands explored you. When his fingers found your folds, he paused at how soaked you were.

“You’re really like this for me?” he murmured, running soft, slow circles that made your thighs twitch. “Goddamn…”

Your back arched, head falling back with a gasp. “Eddie…”

He took his time, working you open with gentle touches, one finger inside you, then two, curling and coaxing until you were clinging to his arm.

Only when you were writhing, panting, nearly coming undone from just his fingers, did he reach for a condom from the drawer.

You watched as he pulled his pants and boxers down, revealing his cock — flushed, thick, and hard. You swallowed at the sight, nerves and need colliding in your gut.

Eddie noticed. “Hey,” he whispered, leaning over you again. “We go slow, alright? You say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You nodded, hands trembling slightly as he rolled on the condom and settled between your legs, guiding himself to your entrance.

The stretch was slow — deeper than anything you’d felt, and you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. Eddie stilled, brushing your hair from your face.

“You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah… just full.”

He kissed your temple. “I got you, sweetheart.”

When he started moving, it was careful — slow thrusts, each one deeper than the last, his hands bracing on either side of your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting more.

Every drag of his cock against the walls of your cunt made heat bloom low in your belly. His name left your lips like a chant, and in return he whispered yours with quiet reverence.

“Feels so good… you’re so perfect,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as his thrusts got a little faster, a little harder. “I’ve wanted this—God, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Your fingers clawed into his back as the tension built in your core — a tight, spiraling burn. And when his hand slid down to circle your clit just right, it tipped you over.

You came with a cry, clenching around him, and that was all it took.

Eddie moaned your name as he buried himself deep one last time, spilling into the condom with a quiet, shuddering gasp. His body collapsed over yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder as your breaths mingled in the thick silence.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Just breathing.

Just there.

Eventually, Eddie rolled to the side and pulled you with him, your limbs tangling as you lay together in the warmth of it all.

You stared at each other in the dim light, faces flushed, lips swollen. Then, shyly, you leaned in and kissed him — soft and slow.

“Still high?” he murmured.

You smiled. “Maybe. But also just… happy.”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek and grinned. “Me too.”

Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart as your fingers absentmindedly traced circles on his skin. The room had gone quiet except for the hum of the amp in the corner and the soft rustling of sheets every time either of you shifted.

His arm was wrapped around your shoulders, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“You good?” he asked eventually, voice a little raspy from smoke and breathless moans.

You nodded against his skin. “Yeah. Really good.”

A beat.

Then his voice dropped quieter, more uncertain. “So… that wasn’t just a high thing, right?”

You tilted your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, softer than you'd ever seen them. There was no teasing in his face, no cocky smirk. Just Eddie — wide-eyed, open, vulnerable.

You shook your head. “No. It wasn’t.”

A long breath left him, like he’d been holding it since the second your lips first touched. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve had feelings for you since, like… forever. And if I just ruined everything by being a horny idiot, I’d probably walk into traffic.”

You laughed quietly, scooting up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t ruin anything. I like you too. You know I do.”

He let that sink in, blinking up at the ceiling for a second. Then he turned back to you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “So what does that mean for us?”

You hesitated — not out of doubt, but the weight of saying it out loud.

Then you smiled, heart full. “I think it means you’re my boyfriend now.”

He blinked, a beat of silence… then lit up like someone plugged him straight into the power grid.

“Yeah?” he grinned. “Like officially? I get to tell people you’re mine and everything?”

You smirked, tucking your face into his neck. “Only if I get to tell people you’re mine too.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you impossibly closer. “You’ve always had me.”

There wasn’t a formal declaration, no big gesture. Just the two of you tangled up in each other, whispering and laughing and exchanging quiet kisses until you both dozed off.

And when Eddie drifted to sleep with his arms still around you, he had the softest, dumbest smile on his face — like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

The cafeteria buzzed with noise, same as any other day — clattering trays, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, the occasional yell from the jocks’ table. But none of that mattered as you made your way toward your usual spot.

You slid onto the chair beside Eddie with a lazy grin, and without saying a word, you reached into your pocket and handed Gareth a crumpled five-dollar bill.

He blinked, then slowly smirked as he took it. “Knew it. Knew it.”

Eddie glanced between the two of you, confused. “Wait, what the hell is this?”

“She owed me five bucks,” Gareth said casually, tucking the bill into his jacket. “Told her the day you two finally kissed, she’d owe me.”

Eddie’s brows shot up. “There was a bet?”

You shrugged innocently, picking at your lunch. “It wasn’t a bet. It was a prediction.”

Gareth snorted. “Same difference.”

Doug leaned forward, frowning. “Wait, kissed?”

Jeff narrowed his eyes. “Are you two—?”

Gareth grinned smugly. “Oh yeah. They’re a thing now.”

Doug blinked. “Since when?!”

You leaned back with a smile. “Since Friday.”

Then, just to twist the knife, you added casually, “Might’ve been more than just a kiss.”

There was a beat of silence before all three of them — Gareth included — let out overlapping groans of “Ew!” and “Dude!” and “We did not need to know that!”

Eddie was laughing, head thrown back, clearly loving every second of it. “God, I love this table.”

Doug covered his ears. “There are things you keep to yourself, man!”

“I did!” you said through laughter. “I was just being honest!”

Jeff shook his head. “There’s honest, and then there’s traumatizing your friends at lunch.”

Eddie leaned in, dropping his arm behind you on the chair. “They’ll live. Let them suffer.”

You grinned and rested your head against his shoulder for a second, completely unbothered by the dramatic reactions surrounding you.

Gareth muttered, “If you guys start making out at the table, I swear I’m transferring schools.”

You winked at him. “Noted.”

In the weeks since that night, everything had shifted — but in the best way. You and Eddie were still you — still sneaking off, still laughing until your stomachs hurt, still thick as thieves — but now there were kisses between conversations and fingers laced under the lunch table. He left scribbled notes in your locker. You stole his flannels. Everyone in school knew, and honestly, neither of you cared.

Being with Eddie was easy, loud, chaotic, and soft in all the right places.

But even with how bold you both were, one line remained uncrossed: your parents.

Until one afternoon, completely unannounced, Eddie Munson showed up at your front door.

You were in your room when the knock came. Then the second knock. Then your mom calling your name, a note of confusion in her voice.

When you came down and rounded the corner into the living room, you nearly choked on your own breath.

Eddie was standing in front of your parents, hands folded politely in front of him, hair surprisingly tamed, black jeans swapped for clean, hole-free ones, and his usual graphic tee replaced with a collared shirt. A button-up, no less.

He looked like someone had dressed him for a church bake sale.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. Sir," he said, with the most forced, dramatic smile you'd ever seen. “I hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to formally introduce myself.”

Your mom was too stunned to speak. Your dad just blinked.

You, on the other hand, stood frozen behind them, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You could practically see the effort Eddie was putting into this performance — the polite tone, the slightly bowed head, the complete absence of any skull rings or visible chains.

He even brought a Tupperware of cookies. Store-bought. But he tried.

Your mom finally said, “Well… that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, I do my best,” Eddie replied with a small chuckle, glancing briefly at you behind their backs — and the look he gave you was pure mischief.

You were going to lose it.

Your dad finally broke the silence with a gruff, “Well, we weren’t expecting visitors.”

Eddie nodded solemnly. “Understandable, sir. I wouldn’t want to barge in, but I figured—” he held up the Tupperware like it was an offering to a god, “—it’d be rude not to say hello properly. Y’know, now that I’m… dating your daughter.”

Your mom gave you a sharp look. You stared back, eyes wide like I didn’t know he was coming either! And then you looked at Eddie, who just stood there, proudly holding his plastic box of cookies like it was a peace treaty.

“Anyway,” he continued, his voice syrupy sweet, “I just wanted to assure you both that I have the utmost respect for your daughter. She’s brilliant. And funny. And kind. Also, she's terrifying when she’s mad, so I know better than to screw it up.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow. Your mom tried to hide a smirk.

You were going to explode.

“I cleaned out my van this morning,” Eddie added helpfully. “Even vacuumed.”

Your mom blinked. “…Oh?”

“Just thought it might help my case,” he grinned.

And somehow, some way, it did.

Your parents weren’t charmed exactly — not yet — but Eddie’s sincerity was hard to deny. He wasn’t pretending to be someone else. He was just turning the volume down. Being presentable. Being brave.

After a few more awkward exchanges and a polite invitation to sit (which he accepted with way too much formality), you ended up next to him on the couch while your parents asked him safe, small-talk questions.

He answered everything — enthusiastically, but just shy of theatrical — and even managed to win a chuckle out of your dad with a well-timed joke about shop class.

When your mom stood to go grab drinks, Eddie leaned toward you slightly and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I feel like I’m in an episode of Leave It to Beaver.”

You snorted.

“Don’t laugh, you’ll blow my cover.”

You stifled your smile behind your hand.

And when your mom returned with a tray of iced tea and Eddie accepted his glass with a “thank you kindly, ma’am,” you realized just how far he was willing to go — not to change who he was, but to show the people you lived with that he cared. That he wasn’t just your bad influence. That he was something steadier, something that could be good for you.

He caught your gaze while sipping politely from his glass, and his pinky stuck out just a little — just for you. Just to make you laugh.

God, you were in trouble.

You walked him out with the front door clicking shut behind you, silence stretching over the porch like a blanket. The evening air was warm, a slow breeze rustling the trees above as you both stepped down the driveway toward his van.

Eddie was quiet for once, hands in his pockets, still wearing that ridiculous button-up. His curls had started to frizz a little from the heat, and the edges of his nerves were just starting to show again.

You didn’t say anything until you reached the passenger side.

“That was stupid,” you said, arms crossed, but your mouth was tugging into a smile.

Eddie turned to you, playing innocent. “Define stupid.”

“Showing up like that. The shirt, the cookies, the ‘yes ma’am, no sir’ routine—”

“Hey, that was sincere performance art,” he shot back with mock pride. “Do you know how hard it was not to swear for twenty minutes straight?”

You laughed, stepping closer until you were right in front of him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his cleaned-up façade. “It was so stupid.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “But did it work?”

You looked up at him, letting your eyes soften just enough to let the truth slip through. “Yeah.”

Eddie exhaled, just a little. “Good.”

You leaned in, pressing a hand to his chest, fingers curling against the collar of his shirt. “You didn’t have to prove anything to them.”

“I know,” he said softly, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “Wasn’t for them.”

Your heart fluttered.

You let that hang between you for a second before pulling back, smirking. “Still stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “But you like stupid.”

You nodded. “I like you.”

He kissed you gently — not rushed, not greedy, just warm and sure and a little amused. When he pulled back, he whispered, “Same.”

Then he opened the driver’s door with a dramatic bow. “Until our next ridiculous adventure, m’lady.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed him lightly toward the seat. “Go before my dad changes his mind.”

He blew you a kiss and climbed in. As the van rumbled to life and pulled away, you stood there barefoot on the driveway, grinning like an idiot.

Yeah, you liked stupid.

Especially when stupid came with a heart like his.

Things didn’t change overnight.

Your parents didn’t suddenly love Eddie — they weren’t inviting him over for Sunday dinners or quoting Iron Maiden lyrics at the table — but they were trying. The edge in their voice softened when they said his name. The disapproving glances turned into skeptical ones. Your mom even smiled at him once, unprompted.

That was a big day.

Eddie kept being Eddie. He didn’t start tucking in his shirts or going to church — he just showed up with a little more patience and a lot less noise when it came to your parents. He didn’t mock the rules anymore (at least not out loud), and you made sure not to push every boundary just to prove a point.

You were figuring it out. Together.

And as for the two of you?

It was good. Stupidly good.

The dynamic hadn’t shifted much — you were still sneaking off in his van, still laughing until they wheezed, still lying side by side under open skies talking about nothing and everything — but the label gave it something extra. Something real.

Calling each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” didn’t change who you were. It just put a word to what you'd already been feeling for a long time. Like a puzzle that had been finished for months but was missing that one last piece.

Now, it was all there. In place. Whole.

Sometimes, you’d look over at him while he ranted about guitar solos or rolled a joint with theatrical flair and think — God, how did I ever live without this?

And sometimes, he’d catch you staring and smirk. “You’re doing it again,” he’d tease.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

You'd smile, lean in, and say, “That’s because you are.”

And Eddie — blushing, grinning, stupid, hopeless Eddie — would mumble something like “Damn right,” and kiss you like he meant it.

Because he did.

And you never stopped letting him know you meant it, too.

#eddie munson #one shot #smut #em oneshot #em smut

2K notes · View notes

spookyreads · 5 days ago

Text

A nice bonus.

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: reader is in a car accident but it's not particularly serious; reader breaks her wrist; possible medical inaccuracies; suggestive; reader gets a bad bruise; no use of y/n or related.

Summary: Jack sees you get hit by a car and becomes your doctor and more.

AN: Listen friends, I was missing Jack viscerally because it has been a moment since I have written for him, so I started this and have no idea where it came from or what it truly is, I just rolled with it. It's fluffy and suggestive at points and there's lots of banter. Jack Abbot has a lot of game, even over text, I believe this in my soul. This is a little bit of my Ted Talk about that towards the end. I don't know what I'm doing here anymore. 😂 Based on this ask from the 1k celebration! The prompt was "Show me that bruise please." I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading! ♥️

“This feels quite overkill if I’m honest, Dr. Abbot.”

The stupidly handsome doctor you’ve just met smirks at you in the back of the ambulance. Truly, he has to be the most attractive man you’ve ever had the privilege to lay eyes on.

Jack knows he’s literally just met you but there’s just something about you that has him already at ease with you. “That your professional medical opinion?” You watch his eyes flick up to the monitor and his smirk deepens when your heart rate increases a little. It would embarrass you a little more if you hadn’t seen Jack move a little to readjust himself where he’s sitting when you called him Dr. Abbot. “Call me Jack.”

Jack was walking to work when he saw you get hit as you were walking across the street on a walk sign by someone turning right who hardly slowed, either assuming there wouldn’t be any pedestrian traffic or forgetting there could be. He’d run over to you of course, let someone else call 911 while he introduced himself and made you stay laying on the asphalt. Once the ambulance arrived he just jumped in the back with you since they were taking you to the Pitt.

“A C-collar and backboard, really?” you huff. “I have a broken wrist and my hip and side will have nasty bruises. The rest of me is fine. This is just embarrassing.”

“I know it’s easy for me to say but you shouldn’t be embarrassed by some absolute fucking moron hitting you with his car.” He’s angry, it’s clear from his tone and the set of his jaw. Something about how he looks at you as he says it feels almost protective in a vaguely possessive way. Like he’s angry it was you they hit because it’s you. “And you’ll thank me if you have a spinal injury and I just preserved your ability to walk and use your arms.”

You sigh at him. “I think you just like having me strapped down and being in control.”

“It’s a nice bonus,” he teases.

You’d tilt your head at him if you could but you’re forced to settle for smirking at him. “Kinky.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters, rolling his eyes to try and pretend it didn’t affect him. But you can see the blush that tinges his cheeks an adorable shade of pink. “Morphine have you a little uninhibited?”

“It’s not the morphine” you laugh softly.

He smiles at you and shakes his head as the ambulance slows to a stop and the back doors open. He can’t believe you’re actually interested in him and flirting with him.

“Jack?” A different male voice calling his name has Jack breaking eye contact and helping get the gurney out of the ambulance.

“Witnessed.” Jack explains to Robby as he hops out of the ambulance behind your gurney and walks in with you. “Pedestrian versus Honda-CRV, low velocity, maybe 5 miles per hour but accelerating. Vitals are stable at 100 over 70, pulse 90, resps 14, pulse ox 97, no LOC, no head injury, oriented times 4, obvious distal radius deformity. Five of morphine en route. Hit on the right side, lower abdomen and pelvis took the brunt of the impact. Pelvis is stable. Abdomen tender on exam but otherwise unremarkable. Sensation in all extremities intact.”

“Wow,” you hum. “If I wasn’t mad at you I’d tell you how impressive I find it that you remembered all of that without writing it down, Jack.”

Jack huffs a soft laugh and shakes his head as he looks down at you. “Collared and boarded her to be safe, much to the patient’s chagrin.” You don’t miss the looks between the two other men now walking with your gurney. They seem surprised by how Jack is with you and that you called him Jack. “Liter of NS going in due to significant dehydration.”

You scoff. “I resent that. Diet Dr Pepper has water in it.”

“I, no,” Jack shakes his head at you. “No. That’s not how that works.”

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch. Everyone calls me Dr. Robby. And this is Mateo.” Robby looks between you and Jack. “Do you two know each other?” The amusement is clear in his voice, like he thinks he just caught Jack in something.

“Hi Dr. Robby and Mateo.” You give them both a friendly smile but Jack notices it’s not the same smile you gave him and something about that pleases him. He’s really into you. Perhaps more than he wants to admit.

“No. We only met when I saw the accident and went over to help,” Jack explains.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Okay, I think you watching me get hit by a car, running to my aid, palpating my pelvis, riding in an ambulance with me and letting me call you by your first name qualify us as knowing each other.”

“I think that just means I’m your doctor.”

“I think your reticence means you don’t want to know me.” Jack snorts a laugh. “Reticence?” He says it like he can’t believe you just used that word and gives you a look to silently communicate that what you said is the furthest thing from the truth.

“Chagrin?” Your tone matches his as you smile.

Jack shakes his head at you and looks up at Robby. “I’ll just stay with her. No point getting one of you guys involved just for you to leave in five minutes. Send in one of the nurses on with me once it hits seven, yeah?”

There’s a slight pause before Robby says a drawn out, “okay,” and smirks at Jack.

Jack gives Robby a look and already knows Robby will hound him with questions when they run the board. He can just tell Robby thinks there’s something going on. Maybe Robby is a little right.

Once you’re in a room they’re quick to transfer you and the paramedics leave, Robby and Mateo clearing out with them leaving just you and Jack in the room. You’re still in the c-collar and on a backboard and you still hate it and find it embarrassing.

Jack logs in on the computer that’s in the room and starts a chart on you, puts in your first and last name and date of birth for now before ordering a few different sets of x-rays. “Are you wearing a bra with a clasp?”

You laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

He walks over to your bed and looks down at you. Jack is doing his best to keep it professional now that he’s officially your doctor. “It’ll make a difference on whether we have to cut your clothes off.”

“Oh.” Your face sobers quickly and it makes Jack smile to himself. You’re adorable. “It does have a clasp, yes. Am I making you uncomfortable? Because I can cool it.”

“You’re not.” He gives you a lopsided smile. Maybe he should tell you to cool it at least while he’s your doctor but Jack just can’t bring himself to. It’s not that big of a deal as long as it’s mostly one-sided for now and he stays professional, right? “And good. We won’t have to cut anything off.” Jack nods at you, looking away from you when the door opens. “This is Bridget, one of our nurses here.”

Bridget appears on the other side of your bed and smiles down at you. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” you greet her with a smile and your name. “Thanks for helping take care of me.”

“Bridget’s going to get you in a gown and they should be able to grab x-rays.” Jack turns his attention to Bridget. “Sweatpants are loose enough you should be able to get them down easily. Bra has a clasp so it can come off and her shirt can stay on for now and come off once her spine is clear. I ordered all the x-rays, portable, they should be in to do them all soon. I’m going to set my stuff down and run the board with Robby and will come back once the x-rays are in.”

You click your tongue at Jack’s words. “Oh so we get to work and you just abandon me like this, I see how it is.”

Jack’s eyes find yours again and he gives you a small, amused smile. “I’m not abandoning you, I have other work I have to do, unfortunately. Somebody has to run this place. Don’t do anything funny like code when I’m gone, okay? I’ll be back.”

“I didn’t realize I was just work to you, I’m hurt.” You make sure the pout is clear in your voice since Jack is walking to the door and no longer looking at you. “And, sure you will.” You draw out the sure for a few seconds. “It was nice meeting you Dr. Abbot, maybe our paths will cross again.” You can hear him chuckling as he walks out of the room and smile to yourself at the sound.

When you look over at Bridget she’s waiting for you with raised eyebrows and an amused smile of her own. The two of you share a laugh before she throws a gown over you and starts getting your clothes off.

Once your clothes are off and Bridget has a gown laying over your bottom half the x-ray techs come in with the portable machine and shoot images of your spine, neck, pelvis and wrist. You and Bridget chat idly while she cleans a few cuts and scrapes you got from the car and hitting the ground and you wait for the x-rays to come back and a doctor to come clear you.

You hear the door open and you know it’s Jack even with your inability to see him. You can just feel his presence. “See, I’m back, just like I said.”

“No, actually, I can’t see. I’m still boarded and collared,” you deadpan.

Jack walks over and smiles down at you. He swallows down the flirtatious comment that immediately formed on his tongue. He’s your doctor. He has to be professional. But he can’t stop his eyes from sparkling mischievously. “Your spine’s clear.”

You take in a quick breath and raise your eyebrows, mouth forming a small ‘o’ as you fake surprise. “I’m truly shocked at this news, Doctor.”

Bridget and Jack help you out of the collar and off the board, rolling you towards Jack who very deliberately keeps his eyes on yours so that you don’t think he’s trying to check out your bare ass as much as he would like to. He steps over to the counter and turns his back to you while Bridget helps you get your shirt off and into the gown properly, starts reviewing your chart on the tablet he’s holding.

“Thanks, Bridget.” Your words and the absence of the sound of fabric shuffling tell Jack he can turn around again.

“Of course.” She gives you a smile and steps out of the room for a minute.

“And thank you.” Your eyes find Jack’s. It’s a thank you for everything he’s done so far, coming over when he really could have just kept walking by, protecting your spine even if you bitched about it. For coming back.

“You’re welcome. Anyone we can call for you? Significant other? Family?” Jack asks lightly, glancing up at you from the computer and trying to keep it casual and professional. But you both know what he’s fishing for and you’re happy to give him the answer.

“Oh, no, but thank you. Bridget told me my phone survived luckily. If you don’t mind handing it to me? It’s in the bag.” Jack nods and hands you the bag, takes it back from you and sets it down again once you’ve gotten your phone out. “And I’m painfully single.”

He’s looking back down at the tablet but you catch the way the corners of his lips quirk up just slightly for a couple of seconds. He clenches his jaw to avoid verbalizing the ‘good’ or ‘maybe not for long’ that want to slip out. Jack settles for nodding at you while he grabs the stool and rolls it over to the side of your bed and sits.

“Obviously your wrist is broken,” he turns the tablet and holds it towards you so that you can see your x-ray, uses his pen to point to the very obvious line representing the break, but the move isn’t condescending. He’s just showing you. “Distal radius fracture, but it’s a pretty clean break so we just need to reduce it and get it casted, you won’t need surgery or anything.”

“Well thank fuck for that,” you huff. “Imagine me having to take time off for surgery a week into starting a new job.”

Jack chuckles. “Your pelvis looks fine on x-ray and you don’t have any symptoms of internal bleeding or other injury there, but I’d like to get a CT just to be sure, have Ortho review both sets of films.”

“This feels like even more expensive overkill now.”

“I know.” Jack nods slowly. “But that car hit you pretty good and pelvic injuries can be deceptive and life threatening. I promise you that I’m not one to order unnecessary tests because I know how expensive it gets. So humor me please.” Jack tilts his head at you for a second. “Also remember the insurance company of the guy who hit you or your underinsured motorist insurance is going to end up paying for this.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “I guess I can humor you yet again.”

His eyebrows raise a little and he smirks. “Didn’t realize you’d humored me before.” “I could have refused the backboard and collar but I didn’t. And I could have refused even coming to the hospital but I didn’t.”

“With that wrist?” He cocks his head at you.

You cock your head back at him. “We both know a walk to urgent care would’ve been astronomically cheaper.”

He nods, moving the tablet so that one edge is pressed into his lower abdomen, his wrists crossing as both hands hold the opposite side of the tablet. He leans back a little. “So why didn’t you decline?”

You shrug. “This really attractive doctor persuaded me to humor him.”

Jack feels his face heat up and glances away. You giggle at the blush that crawls up his neck to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He knew some answer like that had to be coming but hearing it in your voice still throws him for a couple of seconds. “You should text or call a friend, ask them to spend the night with you. Maybe two depending on how you’re feeling tomorrow.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” you laugh softly. “I just moved here from California. I don’t know anyone here and I’m not about to ask someone back home to take a plane to come take care of me for 24 or 48 hours because I was bumped by a car.”

Jack rolls his eyes at you playfully and you have to bite your lip at it. “It was a little more than a bump.” He pauses and looks at you for a second. He believes you but it’s still hard to believe that you don’t know anyone here and that you’re this chill about being hit by a car in a city you just moved to and are essentially all alone in. “You really don’t know anybody here?”

You shake your head. “Nope. I haven’t started work yet. So actually, Dr. Abbot, Jack, you’re the first person I met and now know in this city. Oh, but wait,” you hum to yourself, “that’s right, we don’t know each other,” you tease.

He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m honored to be the first person you know and to know you in this City.”

“You shouldn’t be,” you laugh with him.

He can hear how serious you are about the self-deprecation even as you laugh, can see it in your eyes and how you look away from him. Jack almost reaches out to squeeze your hand and get your attention back. Almost. He’s your doctor. He has to be professional. So he settles for growing a little more serious so that you know he’s happy to have met you.

“And yet I still am.” You look back up at him and Jack offers you a small, knowing smile. “We’ll get you in a cast, get the CT and then watch you for a couple hours and have you on your way home, okay?”

“Alright,” you nod, “that sounds like a plan, thank you.”

“How’s the pain? You need more meds?” Jack opens the tablet back up to put in the order for the CT of your pelvis.

“Oh, I’m okay, but thank you for asking.” Something about the small smile you give him makes Jack’s heart ache in a way he can’t describe. He’s falling for you. Just you and your personality and the way being around you makes him feel because he really doesn’t know much about you. He knows more about your health history than he does about you as a person. He’s been a doctor for a long time now and this has never happened with a patient.

“Alright, I’ll give you more before we reduce your wrist and cast it.” Jack forces himself to push up off the stool and stand. “Need anything before I go?” You shake your head at him. “Okay. Call button is there if you do need anything,” he points to it, “and we’ll get you casted and scanned here shortly.”

“Sounds good, thanks Jack.” You give him a little wave with your good hand as he turns to walk out.

Not long after Jack leaves you’re taken to CT and then returned back to your room in the ED. A little over an hour later and you’re surprised when it’s Jack who walks in with all the reduction and casting supplies.

“Hey. How are you doing?” he greets you as he steps back in the room and sets everything down.

“Hi.” You can’t help but giggle and it makes you feel like a teenager in front of her crush all over again. “I’m okay. How are you? How’s the day?”

Jack laughs to himself as he starts getting things set up. “I have to tell you that you are the most polite patient I think I’ve ever had. You’ve thanked me more than I get thanked by all my patients combined in an entire shift most nights. And I genuinely can’t recall the last time I had a patient ask how I was and how my day was going.”

You give him a shy smile and shrug a little, look down at your good hand where it picks at a non-existent piece of fuzz on your blanket.

“I’m alright. Haven’t been hit by a car today, so I’ve got that going for me,” he teases you with a small smirk. You laugh. “Glad one of us can say that.”

“And the day has been fine, so far. Can’t really complain.” Jack shrugs and gives you an easy smile as he wheels the tray with everything set up over by your bed and sits on the stool and rolls over to you.

“Especially because you have me as a patient,” you stage whisper and wink at him.

He wants to say it back to you in confirmation, to tell you that you actually have no idea how much easier and better you’re making this shift for him. Instead he just nods at you. But you know. You know he’s confirming it. It’s obvious in how bright his eyes are. “I’m going to give you some more morphine, then reduce your wrist and have some post reduction films taken. Then I’m going to start casting you before the films even come back because I’m pretty confident it’ll be aligned since it’s a clean break. And if it’s not then I cut it off and we start over. Sound good?”

“Are you asking for my professional medical opinion again?” You smirk while nodding so that he knows you’re okay with it.

Jack laughs as he pulls his gloves on because your answer was so unexpected and so you as he’s coming to learn. After prepping your IV Jack sticks the needle with morphine in and finds your eyes as he presses the plunger down. “I don’t think I asked for your professional medical opinion last time, I asked if it was your professional medical opinion.”

“A trivial distinction.” You can feel the morphine hit your system and you let out a breath. “Hit harder that time, wow.”

“Because you’ve already had some and that was a bigger dose,” Jack chuckles. “I need you nice and relaxed for this and don’t want it to hurt.”

There’s so much you want to say to that last sentence but you don’t because words are a little hard as you adjust to the morphine. “Mission accomplished, Doc, thanks.” You breathe a laugh, acutely aware of how it feels like you’re floating. You’re momentarily wrapped up in the feeling enough that you miss the way Jack’s jaw clenches at you calling him Doc.

Despite the morphine it still smarts pretty good when Jack reduces your wrist and palpates it after to check the alignment. It brings you right back to reality, the slight haze of the morphine clearing, though you’re still feeling good from it.

“What color cast do you want?” Jack asks you as the techs wheel in the portable x-ray to shoot your post reduction films. It takes you a few seconds to answer because you become almost transfixed on watching his hands as he takes his gloves off. Something about it is stupidly hot.

“Um,” you start, desperately trying to think about what color cast you want. You like red, but black makes the most sense because it matches everything. “Sorry, I’ll have black, please. Thank you.”

Jack’s lips press together in a small smile as he nods at you and steps out of the room to grab the black fiberglass.You’re still so polite. He finds it so incredibly endearing.

By the time Jack gets back to your room with the fiberglass they’ve just finished your x-rays and are wheeling the machine out. “Doing okay?” Jack checks with you again as he sits back on the stool and slides on another pair of gloves before starting on your cast.

“I’m good, yeah, thanks for asking.” You tilt your head as you watch Jack start. “Though this feels like a job for an intern if not a med student.”

Jack’s hands slow and he looks at you as he wraps the cotton around the stockinette on your arm. “You trying to get rid of me?” He smirks, letting his eyes linger on yours for a few seconds before looking back to your arm.

“No, no.” You shake your head. That is the absolute last thing you’re trying to do and you both know he knows it. “It was just an observation.”

“It’s good for me to do one every now and then.” He tilts his head and shrugs. “Keep up my skills.”

“Well I’m very glad I can provide this opportunity for you, Dr. Abbot.” You smile at him even though he’s not looking at you. But Jack knows you are. He can hear the smile in your voice and can just feel it radiating off you.

“Post reduction films are back,” Bridget lets Jack know as she walks in the room with a tablet. Jack rolls on the stool towards her and she flicks through the images for him so that Jack doesn’t have to take his gloves off.

“Looks good, thanks Bridget.” Jack nods and smiles at her before starting to roll back over to you.

“Thanks Bridget!”

“You’re both welcome,” she chuckles to herself as she walks back out of the room.

“So you run this place?” you ask Jack as he finishes with the cotton and starts getting some fiberglass strips ready. You remember Jack saying someone had to run the place when he was leaving you initially.

“At night, yeah.” Jack grabs one of the strips and starts wrapping your arm with it. “I’m the senior attending when I’m on.”

“The man in charge.” He can already hear the smirk in your voice. “Hot.”

“You know, Robby is technically somewhat above me because I don’t want to deal with the admin side of things in any capacity.” He glances up at you for a second.

“Dr. Robby doesn’t have salt and pepper curls that threaten to put me into cardiac arrest.” You think that’s a thought you’re saying to yourself in your head until Jack stifles a laugh and glances at you again with slightly flushed cheeks this time. “Oh fuck I said that out loud.”

“You did indeed,” Jack confirms amusedly.

You take in a breath and hold it for a second before letting it out. “I’m blaming that on the morphine this time.”

Jack chuckles at you and shakes his head. “You’re too much,” he laughs under his breath.

You catch it. You know exactly what he means by too much, know that he means it in a good way. “Too much or a challenge?”

“A challenge, yeah. Fits better for some reason.” He nods as he puts another piece of fiberglass around your arm.

“And do you like a good challenge Dr. Abbot?” You’ve dropped your voice just a little.

He stills for a second and you’re ready to apologize for going too far but before you can he makes that intense eye contact he seems to have a proclivity for with you. He knows he should look away from you and back at your cast and make some casual comment to keep the conversation moving along, but he doesn’t want to. And telling you this is just telling you something about his personality that you asked about, right?

Jack drops his voice a little too. “I love a good challenge.”

You and Jack share an especially intense moment of eye contact before he turns back to your cast. It doesn’t take much longer for him to finish it up and leave you to rest, promising his return once your CT results were back and he had a chance to check them out.

And Jack does return to check on you and let you know your CT looks fine. He lingers though, sitting on the stool by the edge of your bed just chatting with you until he knows he has to get back on the floor. An hour or so later he checks on you again, bringing you food this time. He brings some for himself too, says he figured he’d just multitask and check in on you while having lunch. You know it’s bullshit and an excuse to spend more time with you. Jack knows you know it’s bullshit. Both of you love it, the time together.

He’s back in your room checking in on you for a third time now and after talking for a bit you finally can’t help but tease him about it a little. “You know, Jack, I’ve been watching you and you don’t seem to spend this much time checking in on your other patients.”

“None of my other patients are as cute and funny as you.” The sentence slips off his tongue before Jack has any hope of stopping himself.

You grin at him. “Is that why you’re keeping me here?”

“No.” He trips on the word just a little, slightly flustered that he just said that to you at work while acting as your doctor. “I really did want to keep you under observation for a while since you’re going home alone. Getting to stop in and see and talk to you, that’s just…” He trails off as he searches for the right words.

“A nice bonus?” you offer, repeating his words from earlier.

Jack smiles at you and nods slowly. “A nice bonus, yeah.”

“Hey Jack,” Bridget sticks her head in your room and you both look at her, “STEMI two minutes out.”

“I’ll be right there.” Bridget nods and walks off. Jack turns his attention back to you as he gets up and walks backwards towards the door of your room. “I’m discharging you. They’ll get the paperwork all ready and get you out of here, okay?”

He’s turned around and speed walking towards the ambulance bay before you can even respond. You feel so ridiculous with the way your heart sinks. You know it’s his job and it’s busy and shit happens and you don’t hold it against him of course, and you know that the two of you aren’t anything anyway and try to tell yourself that this was just some harmless flirting, but you thought you’d at least be able to say a real goodbye and give him a real thank you. And yeah, maybe get his number or give him yours.

You guess it just wasn’t meant to be because you’re certain you’re not seeing Jack again today and you know he’s not the type to pull your number from your patient chart to text you. It surprises you a little because you really felt like there was something there for both of you. Your certainty grows when Dr. Shen swings by to review your discharge paperwork with you, telling you Jack is caught up in a trauma and they don’t know how long he’ll be and didn’t want to keep you waiting. You sign what you need to and Dr. Shen removes your IV before leaving you to get dressed and letting you know a nurse would be in to wheel you out soon. You get yourself dressed once he’s pulled the curtain and left, and you feel every single second of it already. You know tomorrow is going to be something.

After thirty minutes or so Bridget comes into your room with a wheelchair and the two of you chat as she wheels you towards the street exit.

“Bridget!” You really want to hate the way you smile to yourself when you hear Jack’s voice, but you can’t. Bridget stops walking and you both look over at Jack who’s walking towards you briskly.

“Yeah?” She smirks at him, clearly already knowing what’s coming.

“Shen asked for you in north 2.” Jack notices the way you look kind of surprised to see him. “I can wheel her out.”

Her smirk grows and she glances down at you, shaking her head a little. “Okay, thanks.”

You smile at her. “Thank you Bridget, for everything.”

“Of course, Honey.”

“My uber is picking me up at the designated spot out front,” you tell Jack as Bridget walks away.

“Okay.” Jack grabs the handles on your wheelchair and continues in the direction Bridget was taking you. “You didn’t really think I was going to let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?” He asks once you’re outside.

You shrug. “Dr. Shen went over the discharge paperwork with me. You’re a busy doctor. You’d finished treating me. You’re the senior attending,” you sing that last part a little before growing a bit more serious. “You have much more important and better things to be doing with your time than saying goodbye to me.”

Jack wants to tell you that nothing could be more important than seeing you again, and that there is nothing better he could possibly be doing than spending time with you. But he’s pretty sure verbalizing that would make him sound way too intense at this point.

“I’m not that busy.” It’s not really a lie in the scope of things but he’ll have to hustle to make up for spending this time outside with you. More than worth it to him though. He rolls you over towards a bench and positions you so that he can sit on the bench and the two of you can see each other. “And even if I was that busy, I would have made time to say goodbye to you.”

You have to bite the inside of your lower lip and smile to yourself at that. “Because I’m the cutest and the funniest?” you tease him.

Jack chuckles, his eyes glittering in this light. He nods. “Because you’re the cutest and the funniest,” he confirms.

The two of you share a laugh and you glance down at your phone, glad for once that your uber is taking a bit longer to get here. Your eyes catch on the silver sharpie in the pocket of Jack’s scrub top.

You look back at him for a second. “You wanna sign my cast?” Your eyes flick down to his chest pocket and back up.

Jack looks down and sees the sharpie. He’d used it earlier for a kid who wanted a black cast and all the doctors and nurses to sign it. He smiles as he pulls it out and uncaps it. “Sure.”

You hold your casted arm out to him and Jack pauses for a second, trying to decide whether he should really do this or not. But you’re not his patient anymore technically and he knows you’re interested in him. He starts writing his name and then continues.

“Taking an awfully long time to write Jack.” Just as you start teasing him Jack pulls away and caps the sharpie as you bring your arm back and look where he signed. He hasn’t just written Jack or even Dr. Abbot or Dr. Jack Abbot like you thought he might have. He’s written Jack followed by his phone number.

“Oh,” you laugh breathily when you see it, “that was smooth, Dr. Abbot.” You look up at him with a wide smile, your eyes glittering just like his. “I’m impressed.”

Jack nods just a little, self-satisfied smirk decorating his face. “I figure you can black it out with sharpie once you’ve got it down.” You nod but hold your phone out for him to put his number into so that you know you have it correctly. He’s quick to type it in and give you your phone back, his eyes finding yours again. “And I just want you to know that I promise you’re the only patient or former patient I’ve ever… flirted like this with and given my number and that you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to flirt like this with and give my number to.”

You can’t help what has to be the most love sick idiot screaming smile that pulls onto your face at his words. “I’m special?”

“Very.” Jack’s smirk has morphed into a smile that matches your own.

You push your bottom lip out in a small, fake pout. “Because you feel bad for me not knowing anyone?”

“No.” Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Because there’s something about you. Something that makes me happy and want to be around you.”

There’s a poignant pause and your soft smile of disbelief that melts into one of adoration makes Jack want to scream because you’re so precious. After a few seconds you find words. Not particularly good ones, but words nonetheless. “Yeah… I feel the same.” Your phone chiming interrupts the moment. “Oh, shit! That’s my ride.”

Jack stands and wheels you over to the car you point out, offers you his hand to help you out of it. “Let me know you make it home safely, yeah?”

You take Jack’s hand and let him help you. Between the laying in the hospital bed and sitting in the wheelchair you’re pretty stiff. “I will.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, opening the door for you and helping you into the car.

“Jack.” He looks at you with slightly raised brows, hand on the door ready to close it. “Thank you for everything. I really appreciate your care and kindness.”

He smiles and gives you a single nod. “You’re welcome. Get home safe, okay? Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay,” you giggle as Jack shuts the door.

Less than ten minutes pass before Jack’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

You - Made it home You - In one piece and everything

He smiles to himself.

J - Good. Get in bed and rest

You - Yes, Sir 🫡

Jack’s so fucking glad he’s in the breakroom alone and can adjust himself as he reads you calling him Sir over and over again. He swears it makes him a little lightheaded and he has to tell himself to pull it together.

J - Let me know if you need anything J - I’m off at 7 (in theory) and will be asleep during the day since I’m back on tomorrow night, so you’ll probably have to call if you do need something

You smile to yourself now because he really is so sweet and caring, especially towards someone he barely knows and just met.

You - I will and good to know, thank you

J - Sleep well

For some reason your heart flutters at that.

You - You too You - Eventually 😅 You - And let me know you make it home safely

J - I will

You’re asleep when Jack texts you around 8:30 in the morning. It’s not that he forgot to text you, he just got off late.

J - Was there late but made it home. In one piece and everything ;)

Jack isn’t surprised when you don’t respond to his text. While he’d love to get to chat with you for a bit he’s glad you’re managing to get some sleep.

You wake up around ten and smile when you see a message from Jack, bite your lip at the way he echoes your words. You’re both fond of doing that.

You - That’s what I like to hear

You spend the day lounging in bed, dozing on and off and watching your favorite show. You’re beyond sore.

It’s around four when your phone chimes, your heart racing at the prospect of it being Jack. Jack smiles to himself when he wakes up to a message from you. He knows he’s so done for you with you.

J - I’m awake. How are you feeling?

You - Like I got hit by a car

J - Not just bumped?

You roll your eyes and shake your head at him but are beaming because it’s him and he’s funny and he makes your heart race and butterflies flutter in your stomach.

You - 🙄 Rude of you to use my own words against me

He chuckles to himself, sitting up in bed and running a hand over his face.

J - You like it

You - Yeah, I do 😌 Bet I’ll end up giving you a lot of my own words to use against me 😏

Now that you’re not his patient, Jack can more openly flirt with you and he’s chomping at the bit for the opportunity. So when you give it to him he takes it. Again and again and again as it’ll turn out.

J - Oh, I expect nothing less, Sweetheart. You strike me as quite the brat J - And yes, I do like it 😌 J - But only from you

Your eyebrows shoot up. He’s not wrong in the slightest, he was just so relatively reserved last night that his forwardness now is augmented. You greatly enjoy it. You can feel how much you enjoy it between your legs.

You - 😳🥵 You - Kinky You - Your flirting game is joining your salt and pepper curls as something about you that threatens to send me into cardiac arrest You - And I’m down my dominant fingers. What’s a girl to do?

Jack swallows a groan. He can’t help the way his palm glides along himself over his boxers. He woke up hard and you’re just making it worse. The smile he wears is smug as he types out and sends his next two messages.

J - There’s my little challenge J - Is that your way of asking for help? Because if you want anything you’re going to have to ask properly Sweetheart, and I expect a please and Sir in there somewhere

Your heart races at the way he calls you his little challenge, but your jaw actually drops open a little at his second message. This man might actually be the death of you. He’ll absolutely be the little death of you because you just know his confidence is earned and that he has a big dick and knows how to use it. Knows how to fuck.

You - JACK

J - Yes?

You - You’re going to fucking kill me before you even get the chance You - You have no idea how serious I am, oh my god

He chuckles to himself.

J - Not god, just me J - And I would never let that happen J - I’m going to get spotty as I get ready for work, I promise I’m not ignoring you. You need anything? J - On a serious level

You swear you’re fucking vibrating over him. You might have to find a vibrator, or you would if you knew it wouldn’t just hurt and not in a fun way with how sore you are, especially in your pelvis since it took the brunt of the impact. But you’re also melting because the man can communicate and keep you from slipping into anxiety or even panic at the change in response time. It’s just as big of a turn on as the rest of his words and self.

You - On a serious level I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you telling me that. And I think I’m okay for now, thank you for asking You - Though I was going to make a lot of good jokes about what I need

J - Why do you think I added the on a serious level? J - Let me know if that changes. My ability to look at my phone at work is inconsistent at best, but I’ll do my best to check

You - Because I’m special?

Jack smiles, rolls his eyes at you affectionately even though you can’t see.

J - Yes J - And the cutest and funniest

The man is so fucking sweet you could scream and you do actually kick your feet in bed a little before abruptly stopping and wincing.

You - Baby 🥺🫠 I’m melting You - You are so unbelievably sweet, Jack

J - I aim to please

You - You succeed

J - I know

You - Confident but not cocky. I like it You - I might end up falling asleep, so if I don’t reply that’s why

Jack is equally as appreciative of you communicating and letting him know that you might stop responding so that he doesn’t worry about you in a physical sense since you’ve just been hit by a car, but also in the sense of wondering if he did something wrong or if you lost interest or if he made you mad.

J - Good. Thank you for letting me know. As much as I’ll miss you the rest is good for you 🙂

When you don’t respond Jack figures you do end up falling asleep. It’s why he’s particularly concerned when Lupe comes and finds him at the hub talking with Robby around 6:45 and lets him know that you asked for him and are waiting in chairs, but that she can get rid of you if he wants.

“No, no.” His face clouds with concern. “I’ll get her.” Jack doesn’t even end his conversation with Robby, really. He just takes off.

He walks over and opens the door to chairs, walking towards you quickly as you walk towards him once you see him. He hates how antalgic your gait is. Even though you’re smiling at him you look like you’re in a fair amount of pain. He can’t help how he goes straight to something being wrong.

“Hey, you okay? What’s up?” He asks with deep furrowed brows and a slight frown as he rests his hand on the small of your back and guides you into the closest open exam room, leaving the door open but pulling the curtain so you have a little privacy.

“Hey. Nothing is wrong, I didn’t mean to worry you.” You give him a reassuring smile and are relieved when his face smooths out and he smiles a bit. But you still feel a little bad now for making him worry at all. “My wrist has just really been hurting.”

“Did you take your meds? Did you re-injure it somehow?” he queries, ready to go into doctor mode.

“I don’t think so and yeah, I took them. They just don’t work well.” You shrug a little, a shy smirk pulling on your face. “I was thinking maybe you could just kiss it better.”

Jack lets out a relieved chuckle and rocks back for a second. “It’s casted. I’m afraid I can’t kiss it better Sweetheart.”

“Hmmm,” you hum. “Well, I think kissing me elsewhere might make it feel better.” You take a step closer to him.

“Oh yeah?” Jack closes the last of the distance between you, hands feather light at your waist so that he doesn’t hurt you.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, resting your good hand on his chest and keeping the other off to the side.

“Probably worth a try,” he murmurs as he leans his head down. Your lips meet in an achingly sweet kiss. You both pull away just slightly and open your eyes to take in the other’s, both sets of eyes hooded, with pupils that have blown wide. You’re quick to lean back in for another kiss, and then another, and another that gets a little more heated, lips moving against each other like satin. You nip at Jack’s bottom lip as he pulls away. “Feeling better?”

“Oh, so much better,” you laugh breathily before leaning back into him and letting Jack kiss you again. You’d let this man do whatever the fuck he wanted with you, would hand yourself over to him, body, mind, and soul. You already know it.

Jack knows this is really not the place to be doing this but he just can’t bring himself to care right now. He lets his tongue swipe along the seam of your lips and licks into your mouth when you open for him, groaning softly at the taste of you. He has to force himself to pull away and while you’re just as sad as he is about it, you understand and respect it.

“How’d you know I’d be here early?” He takes your casted arm and brings your hand up so that he can gently kiss at your fingers.

“You just have that air about you. And you would’ve been early yesterday if you hadn’t gotten involved with me,” you giggle.

“Observant,” he murmurs against your fingers before gently bringing your hands back down together. “Can I check out the bruise on your side while you’re here? Please.”

You fake a scandalized gasp. “Are you asking me to take my pants off for you? Because you got that for free yesterday, but now it’s going to require dinner first.”

“No,” he shakes his head at you with a knowing and slightly smirked smile, “I’m asking you to pull your shirt up a little and the waistband of your pants down just slightly so that I, as a medical doctor, can evaluate the bruise and make sure you’re okay.”

“You’re not my doctor anymore,” you point out. “And yet you’re here asking me for pain relief,” he’s quick to fire back with a smirk. It’s hot how fast the words slipped off his tongue. “Which I happily gave you and will continue to give you.”

You raise and eyebrow and smile at him, bob your head once. “Touché.”

“I want to ask you out to dinner, believe me,” Jack sighs. His eyes are so earnest as he smiles at you, almost imploring you to believe him like you don’t already. “And I was planning on it tomorrow when I had a chance to call you, but right now in this conversation I don’t want you to think that you have to say yes or that I’m only asking you out to find out if you’re really okay or that I expect you to take your pants off for me at the end of the date.”

You soften, your hand still on his chest rubbing at it softly in what you hope is reassurance. “Jack, please don’t worry about any of that. None of that ever occurred to me with you. I know you’re not like that.”

“Good.” Jack raises his eyebrows just a touch and widens his eyes a little, tilts his face. “Show me that bruise please,” he whispers.

You laugh softly and nod, adjust your purse and then pull down the waistband of your pants. Jack helps and lifts up your shirt just enough for him to see. He winces as the bruise comes into view.

“You can see the grill marks, it’s kind of cool,” you laugh.

He grimaces as he looks up at you, unamused at the way the grill marks of a car are bruised into your skin and the thought of you hurting as much as you must be. “Pain hasn’t changed? No new symptoms or anything?”

“Nope.” Jack drops your shirt back down and you pull your waistband back up.

He’s in full Dr. Abbot mode now. “No abdominal tenderness or distention? You don’t feel bloated or anything? No blood in your urine?”

You give him what can probably only be described as a gooey smile. “No, Dr. Abbot,” you murmur.

“What?” The lightest blush colors his cheeks at the way you’re looking at him.

You shrug gently. “I just think you’re incredibly sweet. Worrying like this about me.”

“I told you,” he cups your jaw in one of his large hands, thumb brushing over your cheek, “there’s something about you.”

“There’s something about you too, Jack.” You wrap your good hand around the wrist of his hand that cups your jaw, anchoring him there. He leans down and the two of you kiss again, slow and soft and achingly sweet.

You’re both grinning like idiots at each other when you break apart.

“You really came here just to see if you could get a kiss?” Jack raises his eyebrows slightly and moves his hand back to your waist when you let go of his wrist, your hand settling on his chest again. “You have to be in a lot of pain. I know you are. I can see it in how you’re walking.”

“I mean yeah, some. It’s not so bad though. Especially not after the kisses. I’m only two blocks away so it’s not like it was a ton of walking. And in addition to seeing if I could get a kiss, I also had a hunch getting to see me would help ease some of your worry and I don’t like you worrying.” That makes Jack’s heart melt. You don’t like him worrying. You care about him enough to walk the two blocks down here to see him just so he could lay eyes on you and reassure himself that you’re okay. He’s not sure if he deserves that. “Plus I forgot my insurance card last night. But I waited all day to come get it so that I could see you!”

Jack huffs with mock offense. “So it wasn’t even me!”

“No, that’s not true! It was you. I could’ve had them mail the insurance card back to me or picked it up during the day when you weren’t here. Getting to pick up my insurance card was just a nice bonus.” You wink at him.

Jack laughs and shakes his head. You have to laugh with him because his laugh is so infectious and hearing it makes you happy.

He smiles at you like you’re the only thing in the world that makes him happy as his laughter trails off. “So will you let me take you out on a date?”

“I thought you’d never ask Dr. Abbot.” You nod and bite your lip, thumb brushing across his chest. “I’d really like that.”

“Good,” he gives you a quick kiss, “I can start showing you Pittsburgh’s best.”

“I think you already have,” you giggle.

You and Jack both start laughing again. “That was terrible,” he teases.

“Hey, it made you laugh.” You’re falling for the sound, chasing it already. “And it’s true.”

Jack shrugs and blushes again as he thinks about your words. “I’m the first person you’ve met here. You have nothing to compare me to. I could be Pittsburgh’s worst. Maybe you just think I’m the best because I’m the first.”

“I know you’re not the worst.” You shake your head. “You’re the best. Of everywhere. You’re just the best.”

“I mean,” he draws the words out a little. “I’m this old and single. Could mean something.”

“Yeah, it does,” you say simply. “It means you’re a doctor and a workaholic.”

“That obvious, huh?” He cocks his head.

You cock yours back at him. “Maybe the universe kept you single because I hadn’t moved to Pittsburgh yet and it knew I’d be the one who could handle and be okay with you being an emergency room physician and workaholic.”

Jack grows a bit more serious. You can tell this is something that’s burned him before. “Could you? Handle it? The hours and… workaholic-ism? If this went somewhere? Because I’d really like it to.”

“I could, yeah. We’ll work it out together. Promise.” This is something that’s burned you before too. “Could you?” you ask quietly, letting him know that you’re also somewhat of a workaholic with long hours. “Because I’d really like this to go somewhere too.”

“I could,” he nods, gives you a lopsided smile. “Like you said, we’ll work it out together.” Jack leans in and gives you another lingering kiss before murmuring against your lips. “Promise.”

I hope it was okay and silly and fluffy and a little hot! I really love hearing your thoughts and comments, they give me so much inspiration and liking, replies and reblogging are always so so appreciated! My inbox and DMs are always open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming, I'm always up to chat!

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#jack abbot #one shot #ja oneshot

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spookyreads · 5 days ago

Note

Congratulations on the milestone!!! Happy to be one of a thousand lol

From the five word sentences "did you lie to me?" with Jack Abbot. For the vibes, maybe angsty with a happy ending?

Thank you so much friend, I am so happy and grateful to have you here with me! ♥️ Also I love your url so much 😂 Thank you for sending this in and I hope you enjoy!

It's planned.

Jack Abbot x F Doctor!Reader

1.2k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: The tiniest reference to cheating with an italicized that but in the context of reader thinking how that's not where her mind would go to with Jack. Robby had to take one for the team here for this storyline. Very very soft and fluffy! The smallest dash of angst (like barely, especially for me). I was told it was giving Jack in the vignettes in Part 1 of NML vibes.

Summary: Robby talks too loud. A surprise is ruined.

AN: I genuinely have no idea where this came from it just kind of came out when I opened a doc for this prompt so I hope it's okay!

“Did you lie to me?”

That was certainly not what Jack was expecting to come out of your mouth when he saw you walking up to him. Your tone isn’t accusatory as such, just questioning. Almost a hint of joking in there. Almost.

He looks up at you, makes that eye contact he loves so you know he’s telling you the truth. “No.” He says it with a confidence that's reassuring. And you like that his reply wasn’t ‘about what?’ it was no. And Jack doesn’t need to ask about what because he doesn’t lie to you. Ever. About anything.

Jack was right there at one of the charting stations as you looked up so you just walked straight to him to ask without even really thinking about the implications of what you’d overheard. You’re strong communicators. It’s why you work so well together as a couple and, yeah, as doctors.

“I thought we didn’t have breakfast on Sunday because you were getting lunch with Robby before the game.” You shrug at him a little.

You were going to run out and have a late breakfast with Jack before he left for the game but he’d told you that Robby asked if they could meet early for lunch. You didn’t have any problem with that of course. Sure, you were bummed a bit about not getting breakfast with Jack but it wasn’t the end of the world by any means. You’d have him all night.

It’s not so much that you particularly care what it was Robby and Jack were doing before the Sunday afternoon baseball game they went to five days ago. You trust Jack. You know based on what Robby said that they were together. And even if they hadn’t been, that is not the first place your mind would go with Jack. It would go to him hiding a doctor’s appointment from you because something was seriously wrong with him and he was trying to protect you until he had more answers. But from what you overheard Robby telling Dana it doesn’t seem like they had lunch. They were together so it doesn’t really matter to some extent. You just want to know why he didn’t just tell you what they were really going to do.

Jack stiffens, his jaw setting a little. But he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Yeah. And he and I had lunch. Why?” He and Robby had gotten lunch like he told you. They’d made a couple of stops before that he omitted but he couldn’t really tell you where they were going without giving it all away.

“I heard him tell Dana that before the game you guys went to a couple of jewelry stores…” It’s as you say it out loud and start to really think that it clicks. Jewelry stores. “Oh.” You don’t have a birthday coming up. There’s no anniversary, no other big thing to celebrate on the horizon. Or maybe there is.

“Oh.”

Jack confirms it. “I’m gonna kill him,” Jack breathes, shaking his head. “I’m going to fucking kill him.” It’s only then that he finally drops your gaze as he lets out a long sigh and runs a hand through his hair as he looks up at the ceiling for a second. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to ask Myrna to kill him for me.”

“Jack!” You whisper shout his name as you grab his hands, bouncing up on the balls of your feet a little as you beam at him. “Seriously? You want that with me?”

“Of course I want that with you. We’ve talked about it. And you’re it for me, Beautiful.” He pushes through his irritation at Robby to give you a real smile and pull you gently by your hands a little closer to him. “I can’t imagine the rest of my life without you next to me.”

“Jack.” You draw his name out in a slightly higher pitch as you tilt your head at him for a second. You’re getting emotional. You love this man more than you could ever possibly know what to do with or express. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” Jack almost never kisses you on the floor when you’re both on shift together, but he does right now, short and chaste and sweet, just long enough to really feel it.

You bite your lip and giggle at him as he pulls away. “You might as well ask now!”

Jack looks at you amused but it turns into amused incredulity when he realizes you’re serious. “No!” He shakes his head at you, letting out an incredulous laugh. “I am absolutely not proposing to you in this god forsaken place.”

“It would be sweet! Our friends are here!” You nod encouragingly.

“No,” Jack laughs, “it wouldn’t. It would be… I’m not proposing to you in the middle of the Pitt. I’m not.”

You nod slowly, in thought. “We could go to the roof? Or just outside the ambo bay?”

“I’m not proposing to you anywhere within a two mile radius of this hospital.” He shakes his head as he says it, amused smile on his face.

“So when we get home?” You raise your eyebrows at him and nod as you grin.

“No.” Jack shakes his head and lets go of your hands to move his to your shoulders, squeezing them gently. “It’s planned. You deserve a real proposal, one that’s ‘us-’”

“I mean, this place is pretty us,” you offer quietly with a little shrug and pull down of your lips.

Jack has to laugh. He loves you so much, his sweet, tenacious, problem-solving, intelligent, warm-hearted woman. “Beautiful.” He shakes his head at you. “It’s planned. The plan is still in place and is going to remain in place.”

“So I just have to wait in suspense for the day or night it finally comes?” you huff playfully.

“Blame Robby.” Jack shrugs. “It was supposed to be a total surprise.”

“Okay but is it soon?” Jack loves the eager smile you wear as you ask.

“It’s sometime within the next five years, yes.” He smirks at you.

“Jack!”

“Fine, it’s within the next two years,” he offers.

You pout at him, give him the big puppy eyes and everything.

Jack gives you a knowing smile and tilts his head. “Do you really think I, of all people, went out and got a ring knowing I was going to sit on it for a long time?” he whispers like he’s telling you a secret.

You tilt your head and raise your eyebrows in thought. It makes Jack chuckle. And then he sees Robby.

“Dr. Robinavitch!” Jack calls just loud enough for Robby and Dana to hear as they walk out of a patient room 25 or so feet away. Jack takes his hands off your shoulders as you both turn to face Robby and Dana. He waves his hand to get Robby to come over. Dana accompanies him, of course. “I’m gonna kill you,” Jack says when Robby gets loud enough to hear it at just below a normal volume.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” Robby smirks at him.

Jack playfully bumps his hip with yours to let you know that you should tell Robby. “Jewelry stores.” A huge smile breaks out over your face and you grab Jack’s hand and lace your fingers together before bringing it over your heart. Jack and Dana smile and laugh softly at your infectious enthusiasm and excitement.

Robby doesn’t smile. Instead, his eyes flick between you and Jack and he pales. “Oh fuck.”

#jack abbot #one shot #ja oneshot

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spookyreads · 6 days ago

Text

Ringing Pavlov’s Bell

Gif by @/aanakin, dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Experienced!Eddie Munson x Virgin!Reader

Summary: You’ve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, you’ve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?

Word Count: 15.9k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, fluff, PiV unprotected sex, condom removal during sex, loss of virginity, virginity talk and shame around still having it, lots of yearning, teasing, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (fem rec), nicknames (sweetheart, sweets, pretty girl, etc.), dirty talk, arguing, best friends to lovers, jealousy, possessiveness, mention of vomit (not R or E), bad first time (not R), mention of a hypothetical junk-punch, one instance of R described to have breasts with a little weight to them, if I missed anything lmk!

Song Rec: Pavlov’s Bell by Aimee Mann

A/N: I herald his beginning. I herald your end. I herald…experienced!eddie. It’s been a while since I’ve posted a oneshot, and I tried something new with how I wrote this, so pls lemme know how you guys feel about it <33333 Born from this ask!

Masterlist

“So, what do you think?” you eagerly ask.

Eddie’s sitting across from you in the small metal chair, his fingers threaded as they rest on the laminated wooden table in his trailer. His expression is still—frozen. He’s not too sure what to make of your plan.

Honestly, he’s waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just a joke. A very unfunny, crass joke.

But you don’t, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages a response.

“That is the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, sweetheart, and I listen to every single one of Gareth’s ‘million-dollar-cashgrabs.’”

He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan.

Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall—

The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman.

You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first?

It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans.

He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence.

“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight.

You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—

“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”

Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting.

Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface.

“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.

A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing.

After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin.

“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”

Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor.

And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction.

From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong.

And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave.

Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you.

It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.

With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter.

Not when it’s you.

Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.

Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all.

“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head.

“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy.

Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes.

For you?

Yes, it should be special—

“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.

“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”

He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met.

He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.

When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.

He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix.

Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time.

One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—

Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.

It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to.

And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.

Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours.

You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness.

He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night.

He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.

A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss.

But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him.

After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily.

All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had.

White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.

He feels like throwing up—

This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—

He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.”

But he was just being used.

The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.

And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story.

And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy.

But he’s not a hypocrite.

He’s just a liar.

He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him.

Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time.

He can’t let you feel how he felt.

Not you.

You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words.

“You wore it like a badge of honor!”

Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—

“Yeah, and I lied!”

Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence.

Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—

“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.

“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”

Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles.

But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.

The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.

“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.

Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off.

Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.

A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.

But you’re killing him.

Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.

That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you.

You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor.

You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.

And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance.

If given the chance.

If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—

“What’s the rush? Why now?”

He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.”

Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.

Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice.

“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”

Your eye twitches.

“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”

Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale.

The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played.

Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit.

You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.

Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze.

After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you.

Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb.

He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh.

“I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”

Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?”

You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake.

But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse.

He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.

Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.

You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.

He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—

“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.”

Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—

“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…”

You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.”

Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love?

As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—

Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion.

But he doesn’t do either because love is awful.

It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back.

Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part.

He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him.

And love is fickle.

Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you.

The pain of wanting it and not getting it.

If he could….

If he could get it…

If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you.

But love is fickle.

“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.

You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—

“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze.

His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.

If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—

“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.”

For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight.

Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.

He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him.

A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.

“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen.

Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—

When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity.

You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?

What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him?

Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—

He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”

All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy.

Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston.

“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two.

You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”

“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs.

When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement.

“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!”

“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”

Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen.

Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump.

Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section.

“What the f—”

Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers.

“Hey!”

You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud.

“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.

You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him.

Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.

In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more.

“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.

“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor.

Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy.

Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand.

Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work—

His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side.

Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.

He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him.

“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist.

Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number.

As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—

Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him.

Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.

You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm.

A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint.

In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you.

Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms.

“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!”

“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages.

“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow.

“Don’t care.”

His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old.

Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again.

“Ugh, you’re a child.”

He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.”

You huff at his declaration. “Am not!”

“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter.

“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.”

He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.

You watch him for a moment, then—

“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.”

You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section.

Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?”

Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”

He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone.

Fuck it—

“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again.

He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears.

Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.

You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes.

Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it.

Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now.

More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze.

“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”

“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.”

You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues—

“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”

You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.

Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.

He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind.

Like it would mean nothing.

An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.

But what if you want strings?

Does he want strings?

Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches.

But it’s him—

“Eds—”

Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”

The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you.

Because he looks like him—

The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more.

All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place.

Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.

And now, he’s finally offering something much larger.

Reaching for you with a divine gift.

How could you possibly say no?

Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.

Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—

Fuck it.

Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity.

You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table.

Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises.

There’s something there, you find.

Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown.

Something you want to know more about.

Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his.

You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore.

You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants.

A sacrifice.

Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built.

Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.

His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.

Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again.

He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.

A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.

Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.

“D’you want this?”

He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.

“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.

Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to.

But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together.

“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”

The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night.

The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life.

Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands.

Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—

Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut.

Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.

He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it.

Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back.

His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.

Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.

You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—

“Can I take this off?”

His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne.

It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—

You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—

“Words.”

A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.

When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.

“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”

Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake.

Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—

His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—

“I— I, um…”

You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key.

His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.

Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.

You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—

Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?

Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?

You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only—

“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him.

You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.

Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.

“What do you want, baby?”

You bite back a whimper at the new endearment.

Because that’s reserved for lovers too—

“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.

In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have.

With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation.

His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts.

Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more.

But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—

“Eddie, please. Please, touch me. I need you…. Wanna feel you.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees, nodding.

Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness you’re not accustomed to.

Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like he’s devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide.

You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize you’ll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what you’re looking for.

With a level of speed you’ve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room.

Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest.

You’ve only ever seen them a few times—mostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldn’t get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired.

And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his body—all heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans.

Whatever lies—

But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.

All heat and hardness.

Drawing you from your trance, Eddie’s deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes so…raw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you.

With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so soft—so gentle—you think you might cry.

Barely anything has happened yet and he’s taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris.

Nobody could compare to Eddie.

Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes.

“You look…” he pauses, swallowing harshly, “you’re so beautiful.”

Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you can’t catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the wind—real and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.

Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs.

Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldn’t have foreseen—as if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like you’re allowing him, not like he’s the one doing you a favor.

You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. He’s stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that you’re certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened.

“C-Can I?” His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants.

It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip.

Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. It’s like it’s his first time, the way he’s looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken.

With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. “Y-Yes. Please, Eddie.”

A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.

Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it.

You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he can’t control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling.

With one targeted swipe, Eddie’s tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.

“Want more,” he mumbles into your heat. “Sweets…”

“Yes,” you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. “Need you—”

He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenly—a lewd sound of appreciation.

The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you.

“Oh, god, Eddie,” you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance.

Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until you’re nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.

Your hips hang off the edge of the mattress—one foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddie’s right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress.

You’re panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate.

Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until you’re shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more.

The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But it’s not enough. The material is so thin, you can’t get the grip you need.

Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal waves—like he knows the feeling—Eddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushing—

Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way he’s moved your restless hands into his hair.

The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto him—to use him.

And you do.

You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says you’re his—

Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision.

“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna— Please, Eds, I—”

Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. “Give it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckin’ good—”

The tone he’s using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like he’s not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But it’s like he’s speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for more—more arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.

Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterline—almost there, almost there.

Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you.

“Oh, god! Oh, fuck!”

His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coil—crackling and tight—just below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and out—gentle yet firm in his actions.

“Eddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!”

Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.

When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his head—appealing for mercy.

Like he’s not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesn’t yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he won’t let your thighs close—it’s like he’s reveling in your heady scent—

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezin’ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,” he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.

You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.

In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like he’s searing a promise into your skin—

His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your mound—soaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth.

Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. What’s more, his face is covered in you.

All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesn’t seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on him—like a badge of honor.

“Eddie, please. I want more,” you whine, breathless from the come-down.

“Pretty girl,” he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, “so desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?”

You shudder at his smug grin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word “my.”

“Please,” you mewl.

His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because he’s not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way he’s eyeing you like you’re a meal and he’s famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire.

“Alright, pretty.” He pats your thigh before backing away from you. “Up on the bed.”

It’s a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed.

Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers.

Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. It’s flattering, but more than anything, he’s leaking at the thought of fitting inside you.

“That’s— You’re—”

Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length.

Heat warms Eddie’s cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldn’t be like this—he should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smug…eager.

Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer.

“I’ll make sure it feels good, don’t worry. You’re gonna help me with that,” he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. “Good girl.”

A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimper—the way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but can’t help it.

He’s starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like it’s fighting its way out of you.

He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his words—

His body warms as he wonders what you’ll sound like when you’re wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises you’ll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him.

He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when you’re nearly there, searching for just a little bit more.

But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection you’ll share. The secrets you’ll spill. God, he’s aching to hear you.

If he could, he’d lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straight—just to find out what makes you tick. He’d take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. He’d hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy.

His.

Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it open—

“Safe sex,” he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper.

His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension.

“Stupid,” you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on.

Once he’s done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. “You sure you wanna do this?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yes, Eddie. You already ate me out.”

That leaves him frowning—

“Sweetheart, just because we did that doesn’t mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you don’t want it to.”

You remain silent, only staring up at him with so much…something…in your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was bad—

“I know,” you mutter softly. “But I want to. With you. Will you…. Will you take care of me?”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and there’s a stinging feeling behind his eyes—one he knows all too well.

You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion.

“‘Course I will.”

He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes.

Delicate because you’re asking him to take care. In the way he’ll touch you. The way he’ll guide you. The way he’ll—

Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed.

His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs.

“You look so pretty like this. I mean…you look— Well, you look…pretty all the time,” he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower.

He wants you to know he means you. You’re pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous.

You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.

He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, he’s memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips.

Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only then—when his pulse beats wildly against your fingers—do you meet his eyes.

Wandering palms—soft and unfamiliar in their affection—travel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh.

“You’re pretty, too,” you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists.

Eddie chuckles, then swallows. “No, I’m not.”

The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttal—

“Not like you.”

His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like you’re about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you don’t complete the motion.

And neither does he.

Because he’s not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you.

If you allow him to have you in that way—

He’s not sure he’s strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his.

He couldn’t go back to living a lie. To live like he doesn’t think about you every single day. Like he doesn’t wonder what you’re doing when you’re not with him. Like he doesn’t do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you.

So he doesn’t kiss you. He can’t. Not when you’re not his to keep.

Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.

Another cop-out from a coward.

You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer.

“Need you,” you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth.

“Fuck— Okay.”

You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness.

The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lips—an accidental slip portraying just how much you’re aching for him.

“It’s gonna feel a little weird, like…pressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?”

Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips aren’t enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm.

“Hey, pretty girl, you with me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, nodding your head.

“What did I tell you?” he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times.

“Um, you— you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.”

“Good girl.”

His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for more—yearning for it.

Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like he’s fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of view—the way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.

“Oh, god. Mmm.”

Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressure—exactly what he warned you about. It doesn’t hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like you’ll find reprieve once he’s fully inside you.

“How you doin’, baby? Need a break?” he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.

“Need more.”

“Fuck, y’want more? Wanna feel more o’ me?”

You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. He’s just barely got the tip in—

As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasn’t looked down once, not to where you’re connected. You wonder if it’s self-preservation or if maybe it’s part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like he’s monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe it’s the latter. Probably both, really.

But you’re thankful he’s looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort.

His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.

“Baby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelin’ pain?”

You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice it’s not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and you’re sure that’s what you’re feeling now—

“Hey, look at me.” His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. “I can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of you—the rotted, selfish part—wonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tongues—

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he implores.

“‘S just a pinch, ‘s just— It’s fine,” you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides.

“Alright, we’re gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we don’t mean to.”

You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again.

“Okay, you…you can move now.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.

When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan that’s been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.

Then a hiss—the kind that sounds like it’s bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasure—escapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.

Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs.

“Oh, good girl,” he huffs out, voice strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. How’s it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wan’ more?”

Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. “Mmm, wan’ more. Please, Eddie.”

For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.

In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull out—to chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amused—

“Oh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?”

Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, it’s only a couple inches because—to your burgeoning frustration—he’s following your guidance, and your arms don’t reach nearly as far as you need.

But you’ll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides.

So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.

Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips.

Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. “Please, please— I need more.”

“More? But you’re doin’ so well all by yourself,” he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. “Look at you go, pretty girl. Makin’ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.”

His teasing shakes you to your core because it’s so him. It’s your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, you’ve allowed him too much power—

“Eddie! Please! I’m— I need it. I need you…”

Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.

“Whatever the princess wishes,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way.

The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its stead—a reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. They’re not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute.

Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.

You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection he’s searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.

Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh.

“Shit, you feel so good, sweets— Oh, god, wan’ you to be— Fuck!”

Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence you’re dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparking—all livewires itching to explode.

All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, it’s still not enough—

“Eddie, n-need m-more, ple—aseee!”

“Ah, fuck, baby, I know. I got you—”

Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit.

And suddenly, it’s like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot you’re almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like you’re mere seconds from bursting.

Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movements—to stop what you know is coming.

“H-Hold on, I— Eddie, I need to— I wanna feel you! Please, please, let me—”

Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.

“What— You can feel me. Aren’t you feelin’ me, sweets?” He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.

You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like it’s trying to entice him back into movement.

And, God, you can feel him—

He’s burrowed his way deep inside you, but it’s still not enough—

“No— Yes, I— Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I just—” Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.

You’re vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in.

His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesn’t open—it’s not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water.

“What do you wanna feel?” he asks patiently, like he’s ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition.

When you don’t respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses.

“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you want—”

The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your name—reverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee.

Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him.

“Wanna feel you. All of you. I don’t want— I don’t want anything in between,” you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.

Eddie’s mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like he’s observing you for any lapse in conviction. But there’s none to be found. You’re certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.

Before he can even shift his weight, you’re already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex.

The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention.

Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body.

The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like he’s gorged himself on you and now he’s utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesn’t make the best decisions when inebriated—

The reminder that he’s here for you—that he’s supposed to be the one guiding you—is hard to hold onto when you’re expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum.

He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?”

You only hum in response, deep in focus.

“Unh, unh, look at me.”

Eddie’s thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris.

But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to him—

He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.

“No, up here, pretty girl.”

Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.

“Are you sure you want this?”

As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly.

And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and you’re righting yourself. Forcing the words to come—

“Yes! God, please. I need you…”

Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him.

“Okay.”

Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his grip—wanting, asking.

Knowing exactly what you’re missing—a quick learner in the language of your desperation—a smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl—”

Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest.

His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Shit, y’gotta stop squeezin’ me like that. You’re not gonna give me enough time to pull out,” he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace.

Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of.

“P-Please, please, E-Eddie! Oh, god, oh—oh god! Feels s-so g-good!”

Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes.

“I’m— E-Eddie, I—”

“I know, baby. I know,” he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.

Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping.

His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last time—

And if it’s the last time, maybe he’s allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this once—

“Fuck it,” he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.

Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like you’re trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier.

Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. You’ve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him—

“Baby, we can’t— I gotta— I need’ta pull out,” he slurs against your mouth.

“Please don’t,” you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.

Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wanting—the weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take… is just to let go. To make you his.

He’s not strong enough—

“Please don’t,” you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claim—or rather, be claimed—you muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you.

Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. They’re firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like he’s trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. It’s a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.

“Fuck, sweets. I— I—”

“E-Eddie! Ed—die, I’m— I’m c-cl— Please, don’t— Don’t—”

Eddie’s thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing.

Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snaps—

Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more.

His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skin—every sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, you’re aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe you’re babbling incoherently, it’s unclear—all your senses are fried.

All you’re certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, down—you’re dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you.

“Ah, s-shit, baby— I—”

By the time you find your way out of the depths—crawling back to him—you register the tail end of shivers wracking his entire being. His arms haven’t loosened around you and his softening cock is still twitching and flexing inside of you, goaded by every pulsing constriction of your warm walls.

Nosing into your cheek, Eddie pulls back for a second, just to get a look at you—to memorize.

What he sees is exactly what he expected—

Something he could never forget.

Something he could never be normal about.

In your eyes, in soft pants, in the flutter of lashes over mascara smudged skin—he sees you.

Just you.

A glutton for punishment, he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you before dipping down for more. One more.

Like he’ll never live long enough to see you walk out of his room—his sweat staining your skin, his spend safe inside you—he kisses you, slow and rottingly sweet. Swallowing every sigh, stealing every breath—he prays to you with selfishness in his heart.

“I felt something,” you mumble against his mouth, pressing your hands to his shoulders.

Ignoring the ache in his chest—the kind that blooms when space starts to grow between his body and yours, like a weed whose roots never truly die—he forces a laugh that crumbles to dust in his throat.

“Well, yeah…. God, I hope so,” he huffs, all strained amusement and bitter jokes.

A small smile pulls at your lips. “No, I mean.… I mean— You said, um, earlier, you said…”

While you struggle to find the words, his touch seems to act as a hindrance to your search. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter as he smooths his thumb over your sweat-soaked hairline.

“You said if I was gonna sleep with— If I was gonna f-feel nothing with a stranger, then I should…feel nothing with you.”

Realization dawns on him, almost at the same time he decides this conversation shouldn’t take place with him inside of you—

“Maybe we should—”

“No!” You stop his movements, pressing your fingers into his hips before he can slip away. “Please, don’t! Don’t— Don’t go.”

Eddie watches your features soften from panic into an amalgamation of nerves and reserved urgency. The mess of emotions darkening your once-twinkling eyes are enough to stop his movements, but he still wishes every square inch of him could liquify and seep through the floor of the trailer until he reaches the earth. Maybe then he could be free of your dominance over his heart—

“Okay. Okay.” He nods, placating.

Shifting above you, his attention oscillates between your wide-eyed stare and the space on your neck he kissed like he owned it. Then, as if he suddenly forgot how to behave like a human, he sucks his teeth and fumbles to respond—

“What, uh, what did you feel?”

Your nails sink into him with a pinch, but by the way you seem lost in your own head, he doesn’t think you’re aware. Then—

“W-What— Um, did you…feel…anything?”

He stares for a moment, considering your evasion of the question, but then he looks to your neck once more.

A million thoughts zoom through his mind like advertisements on big city buses. He can’t discern all of them, but one has YOU written in what he’s certain is your handwriting. Another says everything in posh, looping cursive. A third one is void of any advertisements, and unfortunately, that’s the one that stops for him—

“I don’t think it matters,” he mutters, avoiding your frown. “It’s— I’m not the one who lost their virginity.”

You cock your head to the side, the kind of movement he knows means you’re not letting him slip by. “Yes, it does.”

Your tone bites at him, scrambling the illusion until he’s a clear picture of vulnerability, bare under your hardened gaze.

“I just mean, it matters more how you felt. If you— If I made you comfortable. Doesn’t matter how I felt,” he tries, wondering how likely it is that he could be struck by lightning indoors, on a sunny day—

Because you’re looking at him like he’s eighteen again. Like he’s stupid and boyish and easily breakable. But there’s something else in your eyes—

Something that makes him feel almost mendable.

“No, but it does matter how you felt. How you feel. It matters. I care how you feel. I wanna hear what you think,” you implore, holding onto his wrists beside your head. You press the pads of your fingers into his pulse and he worries you’ll feel it before he says it—

“But did you—”

“Yes, I felt good. Yes, you did a good job taking care of me. Yes, I felt safe. Now how did you feel?”

“I feel like— I don’t want you…to…” He closes his eyes, hanging his head. “I feel like I wish you were mine,” he says, letting a humorless chuckle float out of his mouth and electrocute the air with tension. “And I feel like calling up Jimmy and Chris just to curse them out for being the ones you thought of first.”

In the loll of his admission, something shifts in your features, and every molecule of air leaves his chest like you just rolled a grenade at his feet, unpinned and already three seconds deep into the fuse delay.

As if you have nothing better to say, you pluck the lowest hanging fruit—

“Well, technically you suggested Chris,” you half shrug.

Charged silence fills the room like rushing water until he blinks at you.

“Okay.” He begins to back away, ignoring your grasping hands.

Your face falls. “No, I’m sorry! I— That was a joke! ‘M sorry, it was stupid—”

“Okay,” he repeats flatly, peeling your fingers from his bicep. He pulls out of you smoothly, pretending not to hear the low whine deep in your throat—

“Eddie, no! Don’t— I love you!” you utter quickly, as if the words will act as a balm upon his burning skin—the skin that broils under your touch. And for a moment, he almost accepts it. He’s so selfish with you—

But when your eyes grow wide, like you hadn’t meant to let something so damning slip past your lips, he realizes the truth—

He was right.

He doesn’t leave you to explain yourself—doesn’t wait for you to quantify the secret.

“It’s okay,” he answers your worried gaze. “I told you, sex has weird feelings attached to it. Things get said in the heat of the moment, it’s all good.”

Hopefully, if he repeats the sentiment enough, he’ll start to believe it too.

But instead of appreciation, he sees indignation warp your face.

“I’m sorry, where have you been? The heat of the moment was five minutes ago,” you huff, eyeing him like you can’t even begin to comprehend his level of delusion. “True, I didn’t mean to say it just then. But I felt it. I have felt it. For…” you laugh, a humorless sound that grates Eddie’s heart, “years.”

And suddenly, he feels like he got his wish—

Every muscle in his body has turned to mush, every nerve is frayed, every wire is uncrossed—

“I’ve—” you pause, then scoff. “Like, Jesus Christ, Eddie! Do you know how long—”

He melts into you, his lips on yours, his hands on your face, holding you right where he needs you most—

Swallowing your surprised moan, he takes your needy grip in stride—every bite of painted nails against pale burning flesh, every tug and drag, seeking a closeness he craves to sate.

“I don’t care,” he slurs against your mouth, too intoxicated to hear how much time he’s missed out on. Then he pulls back a fraction of an inch, instead deciding he wants to know every single detail—even the painful bits—

Even if just to hear you talk—

“Well, I do care,” he amends. “I just—”

You peer up at him through heavy lids and a teasing grin, and he feels too far from you.

“Not right now,” he drawls, unable to think past ‘I love you, too.’

A/N: Please say nice things about this, it took so fucking long lmao.

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#eddie munson #one shot #smut #em oneshot #em smut

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spookyreads · 6 days ago

Text

𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: you're too young for me and this is wrong and i'm supposed to be teaching you float around jack abbot's head. but every time, knowing that he shouldn't, he still leans in to kiss you.

word count: 17.9k

tags: first year!reader (but no age mentioned + she has a stupid nickname), illicit workplace relationship, lots of guilt/we shouldn't do this (mostly from jack), yearning/pining, shea's version of slowburn and a bubbly reader and much too much dialogue, regular hospital talk/mention of injuries/death and fourth of july special scene <3 maybe out of character for the other doctors but i tried my best!, smut (fingering, orgasm denial, dirty on-call room sex, creampie because.. duh).

note: based off of the intern baking for jack during his bad week blurb, also known as i can't help myself

jack abbot stares at you, then down at the containers in his hand filled with cookies that you baked for him after he spent the better part of a week yelling at you, and then back at you.

and then he laughs for the first time all week and wonders to himself—what the hell am i going to do with you?

because truly, you are something else. jack’s seen you in passing during day shift sign-offs at seven pm, and occasionally walking to the lockers a touch early. reflecting back, while placing the yellow tupperware into his own locker, he thinks he’s even seen you as early as six-thirty in the morning some day, if not most days.

he can’t resist—who told you about his sweet tooth, he’s not actually sure—but he opens up the lid. just like you had told him before you walked away to start your shift, the round chocolate-chip cookies don’t have any sea salt on them, not that he minds.

he bites into one and chews on it while trying to remember what else he knows about you—all that comes to mind is your teary eyes day before last when he yelled at you over something he can’t remember right now.

it hadn’t been that big of a deal—there was a patient presenting with disrupted kidney function and you hadn’t discontinued their nsaids on your initial evaluation. the solution, usually, is a stern conversation and to inform you for next time. no ibuprofen for the guy with bad kidneys, something you would have figured out in the next hour even if they hadn’t immediately caught it.

but for some reason (he knows the reason, he thinks grimly) he had yelled instead. raised his voice, caused a scene. every nurse nearby had looked up and started whispering—and he knows how the gossip goes in this place.

even ellis had intervened and dragged you away, glancing back to give him a look something akin to what the fuck, man?

because he doesn’t yell—it’s not hardwired in him to do so. he was raised in a loud house but he’d almost looked to avoid it everywhere he went, trying his hardest to not become like his father in that way.

the realization that he never yelled when his wife was still alive hits him like a slap to the face every time. he can’t help it, and he’s sure everyone justifies it for him. even when he’d yelled at you and you’d stood in front of him like a kicked, teary-eyed puppy, he hadn’t realized he’d done it again—taken out his frustration on the nearest thing. he’s sure that parker’s with you in some corner, telling you how he usually never yells and it’s his week from hell and you’ll see the real abbot next week.

that doesn’t take away from the fact that he made you cry, though.

nor does it erase the fact that you made him cookies. quite frankly, delicious cookies. maybe the best ones he’s ever had. soft and chewy and made with semisweet chocolate chips. before he realizes it, it’s seven pm sharp and he’s eaten the whole thing, shoving his go-bag into the locker carefully on top of the container you gave him and going out to join you for sign-offs.

and he doesn’t realize it either, not until you stare at him for a moment too long, garnering a cough from mckay as she tries to tell you about the patients from the chairs, the ones that you’ll be following up on and taking care of for the rest of the evening.

there’s chocolate smudged on his fingers, and he’s licking it off, trying to pay attention to robby—who looks at him confused, and then glances at you, and turns back to jack almost… knowingly—while you’re paying attention to him.

and jack, well, everyone knows about jack’s staring thing. they call it just that—he has a problem with overdoing eye contact. he doesn’t know when he picked it up, though he’s sure it’s another one of those military attributes he pretends he doesn’t have. what he does know is that he’s always been able to tell when someone’s looking at him, like you are now.

jack turns his head just to look in your direction for a moment and he finds you already facing in his direction. your gaze quickly goes from his eyes to his fingers and then back to cassie, and he doesn’t have to be near you to know that you’re flushed.

then he stops himself—he doesn’t have any business digging around in your thoughts, wondering what exactly made you look away, was it the fact that he turned to look or that he already knew you were staring—and for the first time all night, he tries to pay attention to robby.

fuck. is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of your time on nights? resisting the urge to turn and lock eyes with you, to make sure you’re there and make sure you’re looking, even when he knows you are?

no, no. he’s not that guy. he’s not the guy who obsesses over the nice, pretty intern and accepts her cookies when he’s the one who made her cry to begin with.

you have a place in this hospital, and it’s to learn and grow and better yourself under his guidance, not stay nestled in his thoughts that linger somewhere between inappropriate and really inappropriate.

no, what jack wants to do is get you alone somewhere quiet so he can apologize, and make sure that you believe him.

rarely does jack abbot get what he wants.

you’re talking with mckay still, going on about something at a mile a minute, in more of a carefree tone that he’s never been on the receiving side of. every time he’d spoken to you the previous week, he’d been angry and you’d been dejected. it’s not how teaching is supposed to be, especially not jack’s teaching. he’s always been proud of how he treats residents, how they flourish under him, how they end up liking nights like john and parker did.

he catches the ending half of your conversation with cassie.

“-but the recipe doubles really, really easily, so if you make them and you feel like you want more, because, i mean, i made them for a bake sale once-”

“and it’s always a crowd pleaser?” cassie asks, tilting her head at you, looking as focused as jack has ever seen her. he doesn’t know the context, though he’s sure it has something to do with harrison and his school.

you, on the other hand, are completely engrossed in the conversation. as though cassie’s son and his school’s bake sale are the most important things on the planet.

“always! it’s so good. but just make a test batch—it’s so easy. half the recipe, try it out, and then if you like it, you can use the extras to let people try it before they buy it-” you’re interrupted, parker calls out your name somewhere in the distance.

the day shift has began to filter out. robby pats jack’s shoulder firmly before muttering i’m outta here, but jack stands frozen in place, wanting for some reason, to hear the end of your conversation.

he didn’t know people could be so passionate about baked goods—but he guesses it makes sense. for you, that is.

“actually, that’s not a bad idea. you sent me the recipe already?”

“yes, i texted it. but i can email it if you want, or i-”

jack actually laughs—you’re so eager to get cassie this recipe. he thinks you have more energy right now than he’s had all day.

he hears cassie thank you, and he gets a glimpse of you beaming at her, a bright, pretty smile, before the charge nurse calls out his name and his shift really starts.

shen jumps on with him and he sees you somewhere in the distance, probably running through your game plan for some patient in the chairs with ellis. you smile brightly at her too, and for the first time in a long time, jack has a thought that he deems in the category of uncontrollable.

he’s a disciplined guy, always has been. thoughts don’t consume him like wildfire, rather they run through a series of checks and balances before he even fully thinks them. last week his system had been all off, leading to you getting yelled at in the first place, and right now, the whole thing seems like it’s gone haywire, focused on one thing in particular.

what does he have to do to get you to smile at him like that?

the night shift is a place of routine. jack wants to get you on a trauma with him, wants to show you what he’s like when he’s of sound mind and not thinking about how last week, a couple of years ago, he had the worst day of his life. and then a couple years before that, another worst day of his life.

he has an overpowering urge to show you what he’s like on a normal week. he can even picture it in his head—handing you gloves and asking you questions that help you run the trauma, to get you in the habit of approaching the cases like he does. the questions are to make you believe in yourself—if you know the answers, you could have run this whole thing by yourself. if you get something wrong or don’t know, he throws in an easier one next time.

you might be a little worried at first but you’d get the hang of it. and then, after the patient was stable and he got to tell you good job, you’d do it. smile at him, beam up at him like you’ve been doing to the others. the kind that makes your eyes light up, makes little lines crinkle in the corners of your face, lets him see your lips—well, that’s not important.

what is important is that you realize that jack abbot is there to help you, not to make things worse. that’s the side of him he wants you to see.

but unfortunately, the night shift is a place of routine. interns are on chairs, getting every move double-checked by a senior resident. there’s enough hands on the day shift to allow first years to jump on every incoming but nights are not nearly as well distributed.

so, you and jack fall into a routine—you both show up early for your shifts, walk to the lockers together in silence. sometimes you stare and he catches you, and other times you catch him. you think about asking him what he thought about the cookies, or if you can get your tupperware back, but then you stay silent and head out into the chaos.

one day at six forty-five, he sees you looking at him while mel is trying to tell you something that you are decidedly not paying attention to. after he looks your way, you turn back to her and start profusely apologizing.

he turns back to robby, missing half of what he said.

“you okay?” robby asks, gaze flickering towards jack, and then back at you, somewhere in the distance. jack nods. “how’s she been doing?”

he doesn’t have to say your name for jack to know who he’s talking about.

“fine. good. i haven’t gotten much of a chance to teach her, so-”

“right. teach.” robby says it and looks at jack differently—as if he’s amused.

“what?” jack snaps, suddenly irritated by the line of questioning.

“nothing. this week’s probably gonna be her last on nights, just so you know.” before jack can respond, robby puts his hands up in defense. “don’t shoot the messenger. apparently we’re supposed to be cycling interns and r-twos so they all get to experience nights. something about equality and fairness. i don’t know but you can read the memo.”

“fairness?” jack grumbles, though it’s mostly to himself. he’s annoyed, and he knows why, and he doesn’t like the reason why. “they used to put us on nights for three months at a time and the only memo i ever got was too bad.”

“careful, jack,” robby says, a little too sing-songy for his current mood. “you keep talking like that and she’s gonna think you’re an old grump.”

jack glares up at robby, wanting to reply but nothing biting comes to mind.

“you have a good night, jack,” robby says and jack mutters back a yeah, yeah. he turns to watch robby leave, but somehow, his gaze still ends up back on you, like it always does. it’s harder still throughout the course of the night, nerves somehow taking over him every time he wants to tell you to drop whatever patient’s hand you’re stitching and jump on this trauma with him.

the vision he’s been chasing, aimlessly at that, seems further and further away as the hours pass each night. your shift is filled with first degree burns and sprained ankles and kind-of, sort-of allergic reactions, when it should be spent by his side, learning everything he has to offer you before you’re back with the day shift.

because that’s why he’s so invested in making sure you’re on a trauma with him—because of how much he has to teach. parker and john haven’t said a bad thing about you, and even the day crew during passing exchanges—nothing besides wondering how you have so much energy at seven am without a cup of coffee in your system.

that is why he’s so invested—right?

on your last shift of nights for this block, you show up a little extra early. you think you can avoid jack by doing so, but he comes early too, wanting to catch you alone, if just for a moment.

you walk with your hands filled with more tupperware that he recognizes. the very same containers are sitting on his countertop right now, the contents mostly eaten. he doesn’t want to finish the last of your cookies even though they’ll get stale soon. and why that is, he pretends to not know the answer.

he follows you into the break room at six twenty-five while you open the lids and set out napkins.

“oh,” you say, surprised when you hear the door click behind you. you didn’t think anyone would have noticed you sneaking in there. “dr. abbot-”

“listen, kid, i need to-” jack’s eyes, without intending to, fall from your confused expression to the table in the room. you have more cookies—maybe snickerdoodle—in the containers. “what’s this for?”

“it’s my last day on nights.”

“so you made cookies?”

“it’s to thank everyone,” you ramble on, like you have to justify the idea to jack. “for being so patient with me. interns are already so annoying and then on top of that when they’re not sleeping. i just thought it would be nice. and there’s no nuts or chocolate so it’s more allergy friendly, you know. i-i’m gonna stop talking now.”

“no-” he says, too quickly, and you look just as confused as ever. your eyebrows knit and your mouth opens a bit and he stares at you, while you stare at him. in fact, jack wishes you wouldn’t look at him like this—cute and confused and too nice for your own good. “no, i mean-”

what does he mean? what he really wants to say is please don’t stop talking, but all that comes out is—

“that’s…nice. i’m sure they’ll appreciate it. and interns, well, they’re supposed to be annoying. that’s how you learn.” jack pauses, thinking he’s done well, that this is a good place to stop. “not that you’re annoying, that’s not what i-”

“thank you, dr. abbot,” you supply, smiling at him. and god, if it isn’t exactly how he thought it’d be—your bright smile feels like it sends a halo of warmth over the person you’re looking at, and this time, it’s lucky him. your face changes too, the confusion and concern melt away and are replaced with sheer joy, like you’re thankful for every bumbling word in a fairly awkward conversation.

he’s never been like this, he thinks, or maybe the confidence that surged through him during every trauma had nestled somewhere permanently, constantly hitched along into his real life. he’s never considered himself a don juan but he’s not a stranger to women either—and he certainly doesn’t stutter through sentences and backtrack because he’s worried he’s offended you. that doesn’t happen to him. it’s never happened to him.

but he supposes, taking in how you smile with your entire face and what else he can do to get you to stay smiling, that there’s a first time for everything.

“you were saying something? when you came in?” you ask.

“yes, uh-”

damn it. what was he saying? he can’t remember. it’s distracting—you, the cookies, your radiant smile, all of it. especially when he thinks about a week ago today, when you were standing in front of him with your wet eyes and wobbly chin, when he was angry about something he can’t even piece together right now. right—the apology.

“i just wanted to apologize for my behavior last week. i-i hope you-”

but before he can finish the sentence the door opens. it’s dana.

“jack, robby’s asking for you. three incoming mvc’s and mckay left early for something with her son and no one else is here yet, and-” she stops, glancing between you, jack, and the cookies on the table. “hey, kid. you jumping in?”

you glance to jack when dana asks that, big eyes staring at him for permission. you really shouldn’t have done that, because he thinks you’re only making all the rest of this much worse, whatever he’s been pushing down and burying for the last week that seems determined to hit the surface today.

“tell him we’re coming,” jack says, and though he had more to say to you, he has to stop for now. on the walk to the trauma bay, jack recaps how he runs through traumas with you. he ties your gown while you pull gloves in his size, and then the ones in your size.

when you hand him the gloves, he gets a look into your eyes—pretty, nervous, excited. in that order.

“what do we have?” jack asks, and trail behind him momentarily, taking a big breath before walking out and following him into the trauma bay. robby jumps on the first ambulance with heather and leaves the second to you and jack. you see frank and mel walking towards the third one, still driving up.

the paramedic starts rattling off the vitals and the patient keeps speaking over him, thrashing up and trying to crane her neck despite the c-spine collar wrapped around it.

you know what you’re trained to do in these situations—listen to ems, treat the patient, figure out what she keeps interrupting for after you’re positive that she’s not going to die on your table. but some part of you just can’t let it sit like that. you can’t stand when someone thinks you’ve ignored a part of their sentence, much less ignore them entirely.

“wait, wait,” you tell the paramedic as they’re wheeling the gurney into one of the trauma rooms. all around you, the nurses have started their work, setting up iv’s and rolling in portable x-rays. they set aside blood and wait by the phone to call for the surgical consult or to clear up ct as soon as you and jack decide the patient needs one.

“excuse me?” he replies, turning to look at jack with an expression that asks are we listening to her? and even jack looks at you a little confused while you get closer to the patient, until you’re in her line of sight and she stops moving so much. the noise around you will never fully go quiet, but it dims down for thirty seconds.

“you have to stop moving so much, ma’am. what are you trying to say?”

“i really think we should-” the paramedic interjects, but you snap your head towards him, trying to figure out how to say shut up without really saying it.

“can you please, just give me a second?”

“my daughter, my daughter, she’s hurt, please-” she responds, not thrashing anymore, just crying.

jack looks between you and the patient for a moment. this case is surgical—she practically went through the windshield. there’s glass that needs to be removed, a concussion, possibly a chest tube, and an airway if she crashes.

“you guys need hands in here?” you hear trinity ask from somewhere behind you.

jack knows you have a choice here, and he thinks, for a moment, you’ll tell her to find the daughter while you finish this trauma with him. it’s for your own learning, your education. it’s to show you what the some of the worst outcomes from car accidents look like, things to check for in the future even if your patient looks fine.

“i’m gonna find your daughter, okay? but i need you to stop moving so they can take care of you. because she needs her mom, too.” you turn to santos, and trinity jumps in while you walk out. jack catches one glimpse of you before turning to his patient, laying still and compliant, crying silently.

an hour later, most of the day shift has gone home. trinity even stops at bed 19 where you’re suturing the little girl’s arm while she drinks a juice box and waits for a head ct in case she has a concussion too.

“when is it gonna be my turn on nights? abbot is so cool. i put in the chest tube and got to bring her up to surgery.”

you get an uneasy feeling in your chest thinking about someone else on nights with jack in your position—not the yelling, but rather the apology he never got to finish. how sincerely he looked at you when you left to find the daughter instead of finishing up with your patient—maybe it was a mistake. maybe he’ll be upset with you, but it doesn’t matter, since it’s your last shift, anyways.

“and those cookies are fantastic. alright, thanks bubbles. i’ll see you back on days.”

“bubbles? wait, those cookies weren’t for you-” you call out after her, but she walks away without responding. you turn back to the little girl.

“there’s cookies?”

“yes,” you sigh, taking your seat again. her arm is nearly done, just needs a bandage. dad is on his way, the social worker is informed, and someone should be coming over to take over to watch her until ct is ready. “i can give you one after your dad gets here, if he’s okay with it. but for now you have to rest.”

she asks you if her mom is going to be okay, and in truth, you don’t know the answer. you should, but you don’t. you excuse yourself when one of the nurses gets there to monitor her, and try to find parker so you can move onto the next.

jack must be in another trauma, because you don’t see him anywhere and though you’re not eager to get yelled at again, you do need to finish the conversation from earlier.

and you need your tupperware back.

you end up seeing six patients, getting four of them ready to be sent home and two waiting for beds upstairs and consults that are taking far too long. parker pulls you aside while she chews on one of your snickerdoodles.

“can you do nights more often? these cookies are great, bubbles.”

“okay, when did this catch on? i know trinity likes her nicknames but this is the first time i’ve heard it. also, what the hell does it even mean?”

parker looks at you with a tilt of her head.

“seriously?”

“bubbles? maybe something like, i don’t know, crybaby, i would have understood.” you pause, hesitating, and then glancing up from the screen you’ve been staring at, your half-assed attempt at a proper note. “wait, how long has she been calling me that?”

“since your first day. but it doesn’t sound like nearly as much of an insult as it used to.”

at least parker will give it to you straight.

“can i ask you something? about dr. abbot?” you don’t know where the surge of confidence comes from, but you think you need to ride the wave to some answers before your shift ends. you glance at your watch while parker does the same. almost midnight.

“i’ll give you five minutes. by the way, he was in the break room if you want to ask him directly.”

“really?

“yeah. shoveling down cookies. you’re gonna give him pre-diabetes.”

“really?” and it’s hard to hide your smile, entire face lighting up. “it’s my favorite recipe. well, second favorite, i guess. my roommate in medical school had a nut allergy so i always made snickerdoodles for her, but those brownies i made for him are probably are my actual favorite-”

parker’s expression changes.

“you made him brownies?”

“yeah?” fuck. “it-it was to apologize. for last week, the nsaids thing.”

“he yelled at you.” she pauses, staring at you a little more quizzically. “he made you cry.”

“he was having a bad week?” you offer sheepishly.

“right.” another pause. “what was your question?”

“i don’t remember. i’m gonna go see a patient now.” you save the contents of your note and decide to finish it later, during the three am lull with a hot cup of coffee and a cookie if there’s any left.

your question was going to be disguised with a ramble of some sort, asking ellis if she thinks jack abbot is the type to apologize for yelling at her or if there was something else he was going to tell her before those traumas came rolling in.

but lucky for you, you get your answer. four am, in the break room, running a little late on finishing your notes, behind on a schedule that you had invented in your own head. the last patient you saw had been really frightened of the hospital, as well as a language barrier that you had to wait thirty minutes to find a translator for at this hour.

you need a coffee, a cookie, and a computer to finish your notes. and then you need to leave the night shift and not be stuck in the hospital with jack abbot for twelve hours.

though there’s a smile on your face when you open the door, at the very idea that jack liked your snickerdoodles enough to shovel them down, or whatever parker had said. you look up and your smile gets replaced with surprise at the man standing in front of you.

it’s mental beetlejuice, or something. every time you think about him, boom, there he is. facing the counter, pouring black coffee into his steel gray tumbler.

“oh. hi.” how can you be so shocked that he’s in here? it’s four am with no incomings and it’s really not that big of a department. you passed the other two doctors on with you on the walk here—parker at central talking to a nurse and shen at a computer eating a granola bar.

“hey, kid. coffee? just made a pot.”

“yes, please.” you walk over, fetching your yellow mug from the cabinet. you glance at the table—your containers empty save for the crumbs of cinnamon sugar on the bottom. “was gonna have a cookie too. i should have made more.” jack pours you a cup and then hands you the creamer and the sugar. you notice that his own coffee is drunk just black though.

“it’s john, i’m telling you. he’s got a sweet tooth worse than mine. and don’t let parker fool you. i saw her in here three times tonight.” jack takes a seat in one of the chairs, but first he pulls one out for you.

you sit down and smile, laughing at his comment.

“well, she said that you were in here shoveling them down, so, i don’t know who to believe.”

“she said that?” you nod, taking a sip of your sweet coffee.

the coffee in the break room is notorious for being just fine. it’s never great, or even just good, it’s just fuel. but it tastes a lot better today.

“i’m gonna plead the fifth on that one.”

you laugh again. you look over, realizing there’s one cookie left in the container.

“one left. but you can have it,” you say, the caffeine and this conversation doing wonders for your energy levels. “i had a bunch at home earlier today and i make them all the time, so-”

“nah, kid. we’ll split it.” jack breaks it in half and slides it towards you on a napkin, and you smile at him again—warm, generous, compassionate.

a lot of big words to describe the smile of a resident he just got to know better this week, but he can’t turn it off. the radar in his head alerting him that the person he’s been thinking about for hours is sitting in front of him now, nibbling on half a cookie.

“that was a nice thing you did, earlier. with the mom and the daughter. she was completely compliant after.”

“i figured. i can’t believe the paramedic didn’t listen to her the whole ride in, though.” you take another sip of coffee before putting your mug down on the table. “not that he did something wrong. i know he was trying to help and they’re trained to focus on the patient and all that. but she was moving around in a c-collar, so i figured-well, i’ll stop rambling. they said the surgery went good so that’s all that matters, i guess.” you go quiet, taking another bite just so you stop yourself from talking too much again.

“both things can be true. he should have listened and he did his job. how’s the daughter?”

“good, good. i gave her stitches and she had some minor cuts. i think the mom thought she was bleeding a lot worse. dad’s with her, so…”

“you had the chance to jump on the trauma but you left to take care of the kid.” jack doesn’t say it with any sort of tone, presents it to you plainly, like a statement.

“is this the part where you’re gonna yell at me?” you blink up at him, worried again.

“no, no. i just-” he pauses, thinking about his words carefully. he smiles, like he’s about to laugh. “it’s just the sort of thing i can’t teach, so-”

there’s a knock on the door, and you audibly sigh. is it the worst thing in the world to ask for some privacy for five minutes in this place, to be able to finish a conversation with your attending for once?

it’s john.

“incoming. three minutes out. aw, man, are those the last of the cookies?”

you do get to jump on the case with shen and abbot, though the man isn’t in bad condition at all. took a spill on his kid’s toys and bruised his tailbone, but his wife called for an ambulance. he waits for a head ct and x-ray and the room clears out, and you wonder if you’ll get a chance to finish out your conversation with jack abbot.

you don’t.

he stays behind to tell robby something and parker and john usher you out for a celebratory latte—decaf, obviously—to finish your first small taste of nights. you carry your empty containers in the tote bag you brought them in, and realize you didn’t even get a chance to tell him to bring your containers back.

(whether you want the containers or an excuse to talk to him again, you don’t know. it’s a can of worms not worth opening now that nights are done—though you’re sure he must have finished the contents by now. the idea of your yellow tupperware sitting on his counter or his kitchen table, well… it leads your mind to wonder about other things.

what does his place look like? did he sit on his couch with brownies and farmer needs a wife, like you had suggested? what about in his bed? jack doesn’t seem the type to have a television in his bedroom, or the type to eat in bed, though sometimes you’ll make an exception for dessert, and maybe he can be convinced.

and then you cut the entire thought out of your head, because it’s downright unprofessional and you have no business spending time wondering about his bed or his couch or anything else. stupid tupperware. and what’s even worse is going home with the realization you might not get to find out what jack was going to say to you in the break room, either time.)

if you ask a hundred emergency room doctors what the worst day of the year is, you’ll get a hundred different answers. halloween, thanksgiving, and new year’s are all up there.

but jack abbot’s answer has never changed—fourth of july.

a day littered with sunshine, grilling, and sparklers. to any emergency medicine specialist, it’s more about sun-poisoning, choking on hot dogs, and burn injuries from at-home fireworks. the hospital is flooded with back-to-back traumas, ranging from people passing out at the beach in the afternoon to full body burns by the evening.

you had always predicted the worst part is how a lot of the injuries are on children. they’re the ones left unattended while mom and dad drink themselves silly or let them play with firecrackers on the pavement, assuming they’ll be fine. you’ve done two emergency medicine rotations in school and you think you know what the fourth will be like, that you’ll be unnerved the entire day by the sound of crying children and trying to hold back anger on the irresponsible parents.

but walking through the doors of the hospital on your second week back on days, you realize you really don’t know much.

like, for example, that jack abbot walks in beside you and mel at six forty-five. you look at him confused, and then turn to mel, who doesn’t match your expression but is also confused, you’re sure. jack is quick by the lockers—takes off his backpack and heads straight back out.

mel speaks up first.

“i didn’t know dr. abbot does days,” she says, taking off her jacket and folding it neatly.

“i didn’t either. do you know why?” it’s really an unnecessary question—it shouldn’t matter to you at all. but it does, and you’re terrible at burying things. it’s written all over your face that you want to know the answer why.

“well it’s likely just for overflow. i’m sure they’re expecting double the amount of patients today.”

“right. yeah, that makes sense.”

“though it is surprising-”

“what is?”

“-that he didn’t take the day off, i suppose.”

“why’s that?” you ask, and mel shrugs.

“fourth of july is a usually tough day for a lot of veterans. when i was at the va hospital, some of the other doctors who had served would stay at home with their families. and the noise from the fireworks, too-”

mel goes on, but you have a hard time paying attention to the rest of her story. one thought washes over you, filling you with enough dread to last all day, making your blood feel icy cold in your veins. jack doesn’t have any family to spend the day with at home, so instead he’s here for the day shift, to help with the extra patients.

“i hadn’t thought about that.” you say quietly. you put your stethoscope around your neck and hold the familiar container in your hands.

“that’s okay, a lot of people don’t. i don’t think i did before my year there. wait, are those more cookies?”

it seems that robby shares some of your dread. you head out with mel, putting the star shaped sugar cookies with red and blue frosting in the break room. during sign-offs you tell parker and john to grab a few—just a few! leave some for the rest of us—before they head home. you smile politely at frank, who seems very concerned with making sure mel knows how hectic this holiday gets in the pitt and ask cassie how that bake sale went.

and then robby pulls you aside, leading you in front of central.

“i brought sugar cookies, i hope that’s okay. is something wrong?” you ask, gauging how robby is looking at you right now.

“yeah, everything’s fine.” he looks around distractedly, or maybe like he’s trying to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “listen, i know you just got back from nights-”

“are you sending me back? to nights?”

“what? no, no, we need you on days. i mean, you just finished nights and you were with abbot for a bit. how’d that go, by the way?”

“dr. abbot?”

“nights.”

“oh,” you say, feeling yourself flush. warmth spreads over you despite how cold it runs in the hospital. flustered, you continue. “it was good. um, busy and i learned a lot.”

“and you got to spend some time working with abbot, right?”

“yeah. some-uh, yes. i did.”

“great. because today is a bit of a weird day for him. he’s not used to days and we get overwhelmed pretty quickly. he’s here to help and it’s always great to have extra hands, especially his hands, but-” you zone out for a moment at the thought of jack’s hands. “-he seems a bit off and i want to make sure he’s doing okay, and he’ll just ignore me if i ask. so if you could—?”

robby trails off and you stare at him blankly, blinking after fifteen seconds of silence.

“if i could what?”

“just, check on him, y’know, throughout the day. just make sure he’s alright. thanks a ton kid, i knew i could count on you.”

“wait, what-” but then robby is gone, and you’re left at central with dana behind you, handing you a tablet with a patient’s name on it and somewhere to your left is jack, immersed in a conversation with heather. you stare at him, and the he notices you looking, and looks back.

any other day, you’d turn and go straight to your patient, but not today.

today your attending has given you a task—check in on jack. make sure jack’s okay. and you are not the type of person to disappoint your superior.

you walk over to them, smile at both, and then watch as heather excuses herself. had robby told her about the task he’d assigned you?

“hey, kid. don’t tell me—america themed cookies?”

you shirk under his gaze, the idea that felt very cute last night suddenly seeming exceedingly corny.

“it’s just festive,” you argue. “the frosting is made with blueberries and strawberries instead of food coloring. it’s healthier, i mean, it’s practically like eating fruit.”

“i don’t think you’re winning that argument, but sure, whatever you say. if parker and john left any for the rest of us.”

“i made a bunch this time. i figured there’d be more hands on deck today, i guess.”

(you hadn’t figured that. your logic with doubling the recipe and yielding twice as many cookies was that maybe there’d be some leftover for the night shift to take home with them—specifically one salt and pepper attending who already has two containers of yours at his home. what’s a third?)

“smart. we’ll need them. it’s gonna be a busy day.”

“that’s what i’ve heard,” you look up at jack again with a small smile—trying to disarm him without alerting him of your motive from robby. “how are you feeling, by the way?”

jack knits his eyebrows together.

“how am i feeling?”

“are you okay? do-do you need anything? i can go get you a cookie now, if you want, before they’re all gone. it’s not just the night shift, you know, trinity plows through them. and mel doesn’t have as much of a sweet tooth but since it has the fruit frosting, you know, i think she’ll like them.”

jack looks at you with a twinkle in his eyes, like he’s holding back a laugh, stopping it short at just a smile.

“i’m, i’m fine, kid. and that’s alright, i’ll go get one in a bit.”

“oh. okay. well that’s good.”

“are you okay?”

“yeah, why wouldn’t i be?” you lock eyes with him again.

“no reason. well, maybe we can go get that-”

“dr. abbot?” someone says, and you hold back the groan. it’s getting harder and harder to keep it inside.

the people in this hospital really don’t want you to finish a conversation with your attending.

“yeah?”

he gets pulled up, and you do too—back to the chairs. it’s the usual residual patients from last night, but as the hours pass, you get more injuries related to the holiday. the allergic reactions and sprained wrists turn into burns from the grill and heat exhaustion.

you find jack three more times in between seven patients—asking him he’s okay, how his patients are, if he wants that cookie now, or maybe water? all these people are dehydrated, it’s no good if their doctors are too, right?

the next time you do it, he locks eyes with robby right after. you sneak your way past moving gurneys and crying patients, just to tap his shoulder and check in one last time before you sit down to debride a severe burn, one that’ll have you gone for at least an hour.

“what the hell did you do, robby?” he asks, while they monitor a man who came in on the ambulance after setting half his body on fire trying to grill hot dogs.

“what do you mean? nothing.”

“that kid has-”

“did you try those cookies? they’re fantastic. no wonder you want her back on nights.”

maybe another two hours later, during a surge of ambulances, you realize you haven’t seen jack in a while.

you pat your patient on the shoulder—a little girl with her mom who took a spill on the pavement while chasing her sister—and tell them you’ll send the nurse over with their discharge papers, and set out to find jack before sitting down with yet another burn—your tenth or so at least so far today. you close the curtain and look at the chaos in front of you—gurneys lined up against walls, patients crying and the entire place smelling of burnt flesh and salt water.

dr. abbot is by the trauma bay, organizing patients as they come, and the whole thing feels more like a triage unit than it does an emergency room.

you see trinity seeing the others from the chairs, heather jumping onto an incoming with robby. mel and frank are in one trauma room and jack is standing in the middle of everything.

is it the best time to ask him how he’s doing? no. that much is clear to anyone with a functioning frontal lobe.

but you are not just anyone, you’re you. you get slightly muddled in the head when it comes to jack abbot, and you definitely are not going to disappoint robby when he put you in charge of checking in on him.

you weave your way through the floor, avoiding nurses walking through with supplies in their hands and telling whoever you were supposed to be checking in with that you’ll be right back.

you dodge two gurneys that almost took your knees out just to get close enough to say his name and for him to hear you. you don’t see the one rolling right behind you.

“dr. abbot, are-” you’re interrupted by the sound of your own yelp, when jack reaches out to clasp his hand around your arm. he yanks you hard, pulling you out of the way, and suddenly, all the noises of the emergency room die down.

you hear the paramedic behind you, apologizing as he wheels the gurney out and back to the ambulance bay. you hear dana shouting from central to you—watch out, kid!—and even the wails coming from the trauma room robby and heather are in—a woman crying.

but you don’t really hear any of it. your eyes are locked on jack’s hazel ones, his fingers still tight against your bare skin. his hands are softer than you’d imagined.

you blink at him stupidly, mouth falling open a little. you must look as dumb as you feel, almost getting hit by a gurney in the middle of a very busy shift. it’s like intern 101—things to avoid doing, especially in front of your attendings.

but jack doesn’t seem mad. he looks at you with concerned, pretty eyes, a focused expression. and then, at the same time—

“are you okay?”

you both stare at each other for a while. you must look the equivalent of someone starstruck, staring with sparkling eyes, looking almost as grateful for him as you feel. that gurney would have taken you out of commission—at the very least you’d hit your head and be filling out paperwork under gloria’s watchful eye.

but you’re fine, save for a large bruise forming on your upper arm with each second that passes by as you continue stare at jack.

“you two!” dana shouts over the other commotion, effectively snapping you out of it. all the noises return at once, making you wince, and what’s worse is that people are staring. “incoming, two minutes out. the rest of you, back to work-”

“come on, kid. you’re with me.”

you most certainly are.

at around quarter past eight on the fourth of july, you’re seated across from jack abbot at his favorite twenty-four hour diner.

well, to be fair, you’re making more assumptions in the thirty minutes you’ve been sitting here with him than you have for the entire time you’ve know him. first—that this is his favorite diner. second—that he’s as interested in you as you are in him. and third—that you’ll finally get to finish the multiple conversations you’ve started with him and been unable to finish due to interruptions.

but there’s no interruptions here. post dinner rush, with a group of teenagers a few tables away and a couple in business clothes eating on the stools by the counter. there’s no nosy residents or gossipy nurses or incoming traumas. it’s just starting to get dark out, and you know the fireworks will start soon.

what you don’t know is if jack is going to be completely okay tonight. you don't care if you’re a temporary distraction from the noise, but you do care if you’ll be enough of a distraction for him.

the two of you order enough food to feed the entirety of the night shift at the hospital right now. the short staffing is the reason why you didn’t sit down to eat until seven forty-five, but it’s fine. as long as you’re here with him now.

you justify it mentally while jack steals one of your french fries—the ones he said he didn’t want half of when you asked—that you just need to finish the conversations from earlier. that it’s not wrong or inherently bad to order half the menu with your attending, one that was responsible for all of your anxiety three weeks ago.

but staring at him like this, you wonder what you had been so worried about. in fact, over the last few weeks, you’ve realized he’s nothing like what you thought at first.

“okay, i know this must be sound terrible,” you start, setting down your soda and reaching for another salty fry. “but that was amazing. like, the thrilling kind of amazing. does that make sense?” you stare at jack while you await his response.

“yes, it makes sense,” he says, but he can’t contain the laugh anymore. it comes out from his chest—unadulterated laughter, the rumble taking over his entire body.

“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, though you don’t actually seem upset about it. it’s hard to feel any sort of upset when you’re listening to what may be your new favorite sound in the world.

“no, no, i promise i’m not. you’re just so… you. even on a day like today.”

“what does that mean?” you reply quickly, sitting up straighter in your seat, expression turning deadly serious. “god, i’m so sorry. is that completely insensitive? i know it can be a hard day, i mean, well i didn’t know know. but mel brought it up this morning when we saw you and then robby told me to check on you and i thought i was helping until that stupid gurney almost took me out. but i just meant after that! the traumas and doing them with you. i-i hadn’t done any yet, with you, so i-”

“when do you breathe?”

“sorry,” you sigh. “it’s a bad habit.”

“don’t apologize to me, please. it’s-” jack goes quiet, his mind searching to fill in the blank but coming up empty.

it’s nice, he thinks. sweet. refreshing. funny. you’re all of those things and more. you don’t bite your tongue and hold back thoughts. you ramble until he can step into your thoughts completely—see it from your perspective like he’s inside your brain.

and jack—well, jack has friends. army buddies, guys he used to study with during medical school, a couple people from his residency that he stays in touch with. he has robby, though his friendship with him is going to be on thin ice after what he put you up to earlier, and dana. his parents are gone and so are his in-laws but he calls his sister when he really needs to talk about something and he checks in with his wife’s siblings once or twice a year, usually around the anniversary of her death.

(he hadn’t done it a few weeks ago, though, and he has trouble figuring out if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. but then he stares up at you, sipping your drink, patiently waiting for him to finish his sentence, before you, undoubtedly, ask him if he’s okay again. like if he tells you that he’s not—because really, he’s not—that you’ll make it your personal mission to make sure that he is. and that, well, what is he supposed to do with that?)

luckily the waitress interrupts the silence with the rest of the food—grilled cheese and waffles and whatever else sounded appealing in a hunger-driven craze—and he doesn’t have to finish the thought.

you two do talk about other things—how he’s sorry about yelling that week and how you completely didn’t deserve it. you tell him it’s fine and that he had a bad week and that you’re not upset, that it would feel wrong to hold that against him. he tells you about how good the brownies and the cookies were, and you beam at him with that smile again.

the conversations ebbs and flows—how it was nice of you to take care of that woman’s daughter. how great you did in the traumas today. how stupid robby is for asking you to check in on him—don’t listen to him ever again, just, come to me first next time.

and then once the food is eaten and your drinks run empty, and the sound of fireworks is littering your eardrums, you just say it.

“i don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“i’ve spent lots of july fourths alone, kid. i’ll be fine.”

he probably will be fine. he has noise cancelling headphones and though his apartment is close to the park where the fireworks are held—an oversight he didn’t think of when he moved in—he can distract himself enough to get through the night. he’s been doing it for years—taking care of himself when it comes to things like this.

“no, i-i know you will be. i just don’t think you should be alone.”

and then, for a split second, the force of your caring, of your affection for him hits him like a blow. it rushes over him—the feeling of how easy it might be to let you take care of him. to let someone else do it for once. reality seeps back in slowly, bringing his senses back one by one.

the first thing it does is remind him that you’re an intern.

“kid,” jack says firmly, sitting up straighter in the booth. he rests his elbows against the table, staring straight at you, boring into your soul like he always does. “i don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“why not?”

“well, for one, i’m your attending.”

“oh, who cares about stuff like that? it’s not like i’m gonna tell anyone,” you reply, as though the words had come to you quickly, like you really believed them.

as if you’d already put some thought into your response before he’d asked you the question.

you don’t seem the least bit hesitant about basically telling him to spend the night with you—whatever that might mean to you. he doesn’t want to assume things, but it’s been a while since he’s done something like this. he doesn’t know what’s changed in the last decade and he certainly has never done something like this with a resident, much less an intern.

the whole thing is seeming much too bill clinton to him. he wants to express the thought to you, though it doesn’t make much sense—he’s not married and he’s not the president but you’re an intern and he was raised right so it feels wrong—and then he realizes it quickly. are you even old enough to remember that scandal? he shakes his head, as though he can dispel the thought by physically removing it.

“i care about stuff like that. there’s a power imbalance here, and-”

“i’m not even on nights anymore!”

“but you will be on nights again in the future. in a few months from now, when you’re a second year. you’ll do a whole month of nights in third year, too.”

your lips curve up into a playful smile.

“getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”

“kid-”

“i said you shouldn’t spend tonight alone. you’re thinking three years ahead. i mean, don’t get me wrong, jack, i’m totally flattered, but i think you should scale it down. one day at a time and all that.” his expression changes and so does yours—it’s the first time you’ve ever called him anything other than dr. abbot. “i’m sorry. is that completely unprofessional? oh my god, am i one of those people? is that harassment?” you whisper the last part, as though you’re worried he’ll leave to report you this instant.

jack wants to bang his head against the table. he thinks, not for the first time and certainly not for the last time about what he’s going to do with you.

the waitress brings the check and he places his card in her hand before you can so much as glance at it.

“i… i just meant that, i think it’s a bad idea if you spend tonight alone. we can watch a movie or make cookies or whatever you want to do. it’s just-” you trail off, suddenly quiet.

“it’s just what?”

“if we both go home alone, i’m just gonna spend the whole time worrying about you, anyways. might as well worry about you while i’m sitting next to you.” you stare at the table the whole time you say it, and then your gaze flickers up at him before looking back down quickly. “that must sound crazy. i’m sorry-”

“stop apologizing to me, kid.”

it’s hard on a regular day to resist the urge to listen to everything you say, to comply since he knows how good you are. made of a kind of sweetness that he really doesn’t know the first thing about—how you got to be this way, with an abundance of compassion, enough to make him feel like he’ll explode from the sheer strength of it.

what jack does know is that he wants to find out.

you both get up, and you put on your pullover from what can only be your alma mater, grabbing the containers you’d brought into the break room this morning. he swings on his backpack and you both walk outside. it’s dark now, and you can hear fireworks somewhere in the distance. the noise is loud and uncomfortable even to you, and you briefly wonder how it might sound to jack, and decide again that you really, really don’t want him to be alone tonight.

“listen, kid. i don’t want you to waste your night worrying about me. you should-”

“oh, trust me, it’s not a waste. i have an ulterior motive for wanting to go back to your place,” you say, nodding when jack tilts his head at you in confusion, wondering if he’ll bite.

“yeah? and what’s that?”

“i need my tupperware back.”

your back thuds against the wall beside jack abbot’s apartment door. you’ve never been here but you try to blink open your eyes to take it in, to see if it’s just as you thought it’d be while his lips—soft and wanton and kissing you—stay against yours.

it’s stupid—why are you worried about his apartment when your attending is kissing you like you belong to him? but then you remember something frank had once told you during your first week, something about adhd and how all of you probably have it, and then you start giggling against jack abbot’s lips.

his fingertips, which were brushing against the skin of your waist after sneaking under your shirt, tighten around the soft skin there. you can feel them digging in, but stupidly, deliriously, and a little light headed, you wonder if you’ll bruise if he pushes hard enough.

“y’know, kid,” he mumbles against your mouth, pulling away for just a second. his breath is hot against your lips and his touch makes goosebumps rise all over you, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up tall. “i haven’t done this in a while but if you’re laughing, i must be doing something wrong.”

you should say something, say anything, so he stops talking and keeps kissing you, but nothing comes out besides another laugh.

“i’m sorry,” you say, trying to catch your breath while jack’s hands hover over your hips. “i-” you glance up to lock eyes again, but when you see the way he’s looking at you, you stop laughing completely.

“if you’re uncomfortable, we can stop. you don’t have to-”

“no! no, i’m not uncomfortable. i-i’m laughing because this is so funny. you’re my attending and now we’re kissing and i’m in your apartment and it looks, exactly how i pictured it. and you’re so nice to me, but it’s the fourth of july and i want to make sure you’re okay because-”

jack interrupts you with another kiss, his lips pressing against yours. this time he doesn’t let up, his tongue slipping into your mouth while you collapse against the wall, knees suddenly very weak.

but it’s alright, because jack’s got you. he holds you up by your hips and your legs mindlessly wrap around him, his hands going to your ass to hoist you up and secure you around him. he lifts you up and starts walking, and you whine against him, impatient and fairly comfortable where you were.

it’s like he’s a mind reader.

“our first time is not going to be against a wall,” he mutters, mouth on the column on your neck, tracing kisses from your collarbone to your cheek and then back to your lips. you want to reply, you want to tell him that you would have been perfectly content against that wall, or the door, or the couch, or even the floor, but nothing comes out.

you pull away just for a moment to look at him in the dim light of his bedroom—flushed cheeks, breathing heavy, taking a moment to push a piece of your hair behind your ear before kissing you again. and then with his mouth on yours again, you realize that jack abbot has discovered some way to turn your brain off.

his touch is rough on your skin—when your scrubs got peeled off of you, you don’t actually know. he throws them somewhere on the ground and you paw at his shirt until he gives in and takes it off.

it should be slower, he thinks briefly, he should slow down and take his time and not even give in and slip inside of you until you’re already a writhing, aching mess. he’s out of practice but he knows how you are, knows what would make you fall apart piece by piece.

that’s what he thinks of when your hands go to the button and zipper of his pants. for everything he knows about you, you’re also impatient. and lucky for you, he is too.

jack is out of practice, but it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten everything.

“c’mon, kid,” he breathes against your collarbone, wrestling your hands away from and then pinning them over your head. “be patient.”

“i’ve been patient—!” you whine, but he doesn’t give in just yet.

“it’ll hurt, sweetheart. i have to stretch you out first,” he says, and you feel dizzy with lust. it washes over you and makes you dumb, and you, for everything you are, are not a dumb girl. at least—not normally.

jack skips the teasing this time, trailing fingers down your chest, between the valley of your breasts and over your stomach. when he gets to your leaking cunt, he collects the wetness there with two fingers, and when you start whining again, impatient and antsy and your entire body humming with want, he does it again.

reminds you to be patient, and then plunges a finger inside of you. a moan leaves your throat—choked and loud, but he wants you to be even louder. you don’t know when he adds a second, and then a third, but you feel the delicious stretch of your walls, how his palm stays in place for you to grind up against. your hips buck up and you’re ruining his sheets and crying for more though you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

and jack takes it all in. how wet you feel against his fingers, how beautiful the noises that you’re making are. so focused on you—the sheen of sweat on your skin and how responsive you are to his touch, the noises outside his walls get drowned out.

“jack, jack, more—” you plead, but jack doesn’t listen. everything in your body feels ready to finish. your muscles ache, the knot in your belly tightens, and heat washes over you while your toes curl in anticipation.

and then jack just stops.

“no—” you whine, the rush disappearing all at once. “no, no, jack!”

“patience, kid.”

“you’re being unfair-”

“no, i’m not.”

“then why’d you-”

“because the first time i make you finish is going to be when i’m inside of you. understood?”

and for once, you’re silent.

“i would have gone to the roof, probably.”

you blink open your sleepy eyes. you’re pressed against jack’s chest, your head resting there while he trails his fingers through your hair. you’re wearing his shirt, sleeping in his sheets, a cup of water that he got you from his kitchen resting on the nightstand.

you can’t feel your legs, but that’s a problem for tomorrow—but at least you know now that you might have bitten off more than you can chew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly. the fireworks stopped an hour or so ago, and the only noise you hear now is jack’s heartbeat thudding against your ear.

“the rooftop, at the hospital. i go there after my shifts sometimes.”

a lot of the time—but you don’t need to know that. from the way you immediately sit up in bed, his sheets slipping a little and exposing more of your soft skin that you don’t seem to care about, he can tell you’re concerned already.

his shirt looks good on you.

“tell me it’s just for fresh air?” you ask, reaching your hand over to run your fingers through the hair near his temple. his eyes close when feels your touch there, and suddenly, it feels more intimate than it has all evening. jack takes a deep breath, and then sighs.

“something like that.”

“jack-”

“it’s just… i don’t know. i got used to it, i guess. at first it was just to see what it felt like being up there. then it just turned into something else. i go up there after a bad shift and look at all the people below and… decide if it’s still worth it, i guess.” his hazel eyes look towards you and jack nestles himself more comfortably against your hand that hasn’t left him.

“what’s gonna happen if you decide it’s not worth it one day?” you ask quietly, wet eyes sparkling up at him.

teary-eyed and flushed in his bed, all for him. you feel your emotions so strongly that he can watch them flooding your body, taking their course, almost sense them radiating from you.

that’s the second time you’ve cried because of him, and he decides he’s not going to let it happen a third time.

he takes the hand that you had extended against him into his own and presses a kiss against your palm.

“i don’t think i have to worry about that anymore.”

you get back to your apartment around four in the afternoon—you have a rare day off today. jack’s back on the night shift at seven, and though he offered to let you stay the night while he was gone, you wanted to give him time to get ready before going into the hospital. everyone has a pre-shift routine, even if they don’t recognize it.

now that you’re back on days, yours consists of waking up early to stretch and eat a big breakfast and leave enough time lay in bed for an extra ten minutes before you actually have to get up.

you don’t know what jack’s is but you’re sure you’ll find out soon enough.��

the two of you slept in, courtesy of his black out curtains. you’re more of a get up with the sun person, but exceptions can be made.

(you’ll be making a lot of them from now on. jack abbot made you cum three times in his bed and once in the shower, and then he washed your body with his soap, the one you can still smell on your skin now. he kissed you while making you breakfast—eggs and bacon—and then told you to stop apologizing every time you accidentally hit your foot against his prosthetic under his dining table. and finally, he gave you one of your containers to take back home, and said he’s keeping the other one here. why? you’d asked. insurance, he’d replied.)

so you go back home, make dinner for yourself and wash your singular yellow tupperware and text jack to have a good shift tonight.

you set an alarm for five, get out of bed at five-fifteen and get ready for work, more giddy for a shift than you have been since your first day of intern year.

when you walk into the hospital, early like always, you see jack talking to parker. he looks in your direction and even parker can notice his gaze following something, but she doesn’t say anything. you look away before smiling to yourself, the grin being glued to your face the entire walk to the lockers as you recall memories of the last time you saw jack.

one of the perks of always being early is that there’s no one by the lockers when you arrive.

(you’ve never thought of it as a perk until now though.)

jack walks in behind you a few minutes later—right as you’ve tucked away your pullover and your bag and he stands beside you as you reach to pick up your stethoscope.

“ah, hold on,” he says, taking the stethoscope of your hand and into his. he loops it around your neck carefully, setting it in place for you. “there you go.”

“really?” you ask with a laugh, closing the door to your locker. “when you walked in here i thought i was gonna get a kiss. wait, what did you tell parker-”

“c’mon, kid,” jack says, looking at you with an expression you’re not sure you could ever get tired of. “i’m not that obvious.” you stare at him. “yeah, okay. i told her to go finish the note from the last trauma.”

“lucky for you, i’m your best resident. these other chums don’t show up until much closer to seven. actually, one time, santos came five minutes late. so-”

and for the second time, jack interrupts you with a kiss. he leans in, pressing his lips against yours, and your hands go slack by your side. his mouth tastes like coffee and even after a twelve hour shift he still smells like jack, the way his sheets and his soap and his shirt had smelled when you wore it.

he pulls away, and your eyes blink open slowly, like you’re figuring out where you are. fluorescent lights and the smell of the alcohol wipes they use to clean everything lingers around you.

and, of course, your attending, the one who sneaks into the locker rooms before shift change to give you secret and likely highly forbidden kisses.

“my lips are sticky,” jack says, bringing a finger to his mouth and rubbing it against another. you can’t bear to look at his hands right now, so you look away, at the risk of being useless for at least the next hour.

“it’s this lip peptide thingy. i don’t know, it’s good for them, i think. better than chapstick and they have all these flavors. they say it-” you trail off, staring at jack while he stares at you. he licks his lips.

“tastes good, kid. see you out there.”

oh god. you lean against your locker and watch jack leave. a minute later, mel walks in with trinity.

“i don’t want to hear it, bubbles. i’m here extra early, and not just to prove a point-”

“well, actually, i think it is to prove a point, but not-”

“what’s wrong? did the cat finally get your tongue?”

“i never understood what that meant-”

oh god. it’s going to be a long shift.

and outside the lockers, robby finds jack.

“so?” robby asks, leaning against the counter while jack sorts through tablets. he hands one to parker and then another to john, and they go off to pass on their patients to everyone arriving.

“am i supposed to know what you’re talking about?” jack replies, noticing you from the corner of his eye.

you’re coming out with santos and king, a water bottle in your hand. he had filled it for you before you left his apartment, after you’d refused his offer of walking you home. you look in his direction, and then you both look away at the same time. jack picks up his coffee cup to take another sip—if he doesn’t get the taste of you and your lip peptide thingy out of his mouth, he’s going to have a freudian slip in front of robby.

“i’m talking about you and the kid.” jack sputters, choking on his drink mid-swallow. “woah. you okay?”

“f-fine. uh, what? me and the kid?”

“yeah. since the fourth, you know, are you two good again?”

robby looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to fill in the silence with an answer.

“uh, yes. yeah, of course.”

“good. that was my goal. she started on nights at a bad time, and uh, i mean no one blames you. but we don't want to scare away all our interns, either.”

“right.” jack looks back at robby. “anything else?”

“no.” robby arches a brow at him. “you sure you’re okay? because she’s back on nights soon, and i don’t want-”

“i’m good, robby.”

“alright then. where are we with sign-offs?”

you on the day shift is something manageable. something he can handle, something that shouldn’t be too terrible for you two to figure out. you always come early and he always stays a little late, and he’s sure that it won’t look suspicious.

if you’re on days, then he’s not the one primarily in charge of your post-graduate medical education. that falls to robby and heather and frank, and he can trust that none of them are going to accidentally interfere with you learning everything you need to learn to be a good resident.

to be a great resident—because he knows you have it in you. you’re made of the stuff it takes to be teaching other interns one day—compassion and kindness and how to treat the person while you’re fixing the patient.

robby and heather and frank can help you with that. but if you’re on nights, it’s an entirely different ball game. he’s responsible for your education, for approving your notes and questioning your decisions and making you jump onto incoming traumas and justify every choice you make. he’s also responsible for correcting you when you’ve made a mistake. making you drink a cup of coffee if he thinks you’re getting tired. waking you up if you fall asleep at your desk at three in the morning.

and that’s just the problem. for the first time, jack abbot wonders if he can do all of those things if you’re the intern he has to do them to.

for god’s sake—he couldn’t even wake you up to ask how you wanted your eggs.

that’s the conundrum he’s facing when you come back home that night, near seven thirty. he’s off tonight and back tomorrow night, which means he gets about eleven or so hours with you until you leave tomorrow morning.

“hi,” you breathe, when he opens the door to let you inside. you’re clad in your pullover and you drop your bag by the front door when you come inside. “it feels weird to not go straight home.”

“oh, sweetheart, you could have gone home. i could have met you there-”

“no, no, it’s okay. i have a noisy neighbor and, well-” you drift off, smiling up at him the way you usually do.

“well?”

“i’d rather wear your clothes anyways.”

what’s he supposed to do when you say things like that? a couple of words that make him happier than he’s felt in years, lifting the storm cloud that’s been following him around since the conversation with robby this morning.

but it’s an important conversation, one that needs to be had. jack is a lot of things, but he is absolutely not a meddler in the lives of pretty interns or in the business of hindering their education.

“did, uh, robby say anything to you today?”

“jack,” you start slowly, turning on the couch to face him completely. “he’s not a mind-reader, you know.”

“no, i know. i just meant—well, did he?”

“no. he was normal. he even apologized for giving me side quests on an already busy day.”

“oh. that’s good.”

you bring your hand to his hair again, running your fingers through it. it’s almost an instinct to him now—jack closes his eyes for a moment and you watch his shoulders relax.

“what’s wrong? what’re you thinking about?” his pretty hazel eyes meet yours.

“i just want us to be careful-”

“hey, you’re the one who kissed me this morning-”

“i know, i know. i need to be careful, too. i don’t want-”

“i understand. i wouldn’t want everyone knowing i’m screwing the intern either. it’s kind of a cliche, honestly, we’re no better than-”

“what? no, no. i don’t want anyone to say anything that could hurt you, or for this to interfere with your education. it is a cliche, and i know you’re close with the others and people can act very differently when they think that-”

“jack,” you start, moving yourself closer until you can crawl into his lap. his eyes flick over you, settling to watch your lips before he locks eyes again.

“yeah?” he asks, his throat dry.

“in five minutes, i’m going to be wet and naked in your shower. you can either keep talking about this or you can come join me.” then you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek. “c’mon, i wanna hear all about how you spend your days off, old man.”

and then you get up, peeling off your sweatshirt, and then your shirt, and leaving him a trail of your clothes that ends with your panties on his bathroom tile.

jack is a lot of things. but stupid isn’t one of them—so he follows you in there and leaves the rest of the conversation for another day.

but that day doesn’t end up coming that quickly.

as it turns out, interns on day shift barely get to spend time with their attendings from the night shift. on top of that, he has no idea how anyone manages to have an affair with a resident—they’re at the hospital every single day, pulling eighty hour weeks and coming home, if jack is even at home, completely exhausted.

but he also learns that glimpses of you at shift change and sign-offs at seven am and seven pm are enough to sustain the two of you.

it starts with conversations in the locker room before your shift starts. he makes sure his residents are distracted before sneaking away to get a kiss or two and leaning against the metal lockers like a lovesick high schooler.

“you know that patient i was telling you about yesterday? with the bleeder? well, i came to change my scrubs and trin was grabbing something and she saw me and asked if i was mauled by a bear.”

“oh, god,” jacks says from his position, watching you do the same thing you do every morning. put away your hoodie, grab your protein bar for later, tell him whatever you’ve been thinking about since he left you yesterday night. “what’d you tell her?”

you smile.

“something like that.” you laugh, so then jack laughs.

“that’s a little dramatic, no?”

“i also told her i’m clumsy, but i think she’s come to the conclusion that i’m a sex freak.” you close your locker, facing your boyfriend-slash-attending.

“well, i mean-”

“shut up. do not-” you start with another laugh, but your smile fades when you see mel walking in with frank.

“uh, make sure to check that with ellis, alright?”

“yes, i will, dr. abbot.” jack leaves, smiling politely at frank and mel and turning back to look at you once. he really shouldn’t but he’s gotten in a bad habit of it, even though one day, someone is going to notice.

“did you just tell abbot to ‘shut up’?” frank questions, and they both look at you, waiting for your answer.

“no! no, of course not. i was just telling him about something a patient said and, um, dr. ellis wants to document it. yeah, she wants, like, really thorough notes, so he was just telling me. about that. um-”

mel looks at you thoughtfully, before bringing her hand to frank’s arm.

“i have noticed that she writes her patient encounters in a very specific format,” she says, and you sigh without realizing it. you let her carry the conversation into how frank’s notes could use some work, and then the two tease each other while you quietly make your exit.

another morning, jack stands at central with dana and robby, filling both of them in on two patients who are due to come back in the afternoon and the three patients still waiting for a bed upstairs.

heather and frank are bickering next to the three of them like they always do, like they’re siblings fighting in front of the parents, when he hears what they’re talking about.

“well, now i feel bad, ‘cause she’s mel’s friend, but i don’t even have that kind of energy after two red bulls, so-” frank starts, before heather interjects.

“it’s not about energy, it’s just a conversation about burn-out. candles don’t burn on both ends for a reason.”

“okay, you lost me with the metaphor.”

“you can��t be that nice to every patient forever. at some point you have to pick.”

“be nice or save their life?” frank supplies. “so basically, when is she gonna become like the rest of us?”

“i mean…” heather trails off, turning to dana. “what do you think?”

“i think they call her bubbles for a reason,” dana says, pushing up her glasses. she cranes her neck to stare at the screen of patients, looking for the next empty bed. “and i think north-two needs to be discharged, so if you two are done-”

“let me test our theory,” frank says. he waves over the lot of you coming in for your shift—you, cassie, mel, and trinity. you look over at jack, and he looks over at you, before you focus back on frank. “need someone to discharge this bed and then go grab the next patient from chairs. dana—?” he holds the clipboard and looks over at all of you, but it’s only half a second before you chirp up.

“i can do it,” you say brightly. you smile at frank and dana, reaching for the clipboard, while jack watches it happen.

“thanks bubbles,” trinity says, while the others dissipate. you make a slightly dampened face at the use of the nickname.

“one other thing,” heather asks. “when are we gonna get more cookies?”

“oh! i’m so glad you guys liked them. i guess another holiday, if there’s one coming up? or someone’s birthday? actually, i think there’s just labor day and i don’t know what kind of themed cookies i’d make. well, chocolate chip cookie day is in august, i think-”

“kid?” dana asks. “the patient? north-two?”

“right. i’m sorry. i’ll come check in after i bring the new patient back,” you say, still smiling when you walk away with the clipboard in your hand.

“what exactly were you testing?” heather asks.

“i don’t know, but she’s definitely doing whatever your metaphor meant. are we taking bets yet? i wonder how long she’ll last-”

“alright, enough,” jack snaps. “do you two not have anything better to do? who’s this helping?”

“jack?” robby questions, his eyes flicking towards dana, who looks back at him with a shrug.

“why would you want her to be jaded? isn’t it better for our patients that she stays like that for as long as she can? i thought you’d try to keep her that way, but i guess-”

“jack-” robby interrupts.

“you two, go help somebody,” dana says to heather and frank, before turning to jack. “what the hell was that about?”

jack sighs, not realizing when his hand had turned into a fist. probably when your name was brought up.

“nothing, i just- bad night. that’s all.”

“o-kay,” robby whistles. “you going up to the roof, or?”

“no. no, i’m going home.”

jack walks away, not in the direction of the door, but rather towards the beds on the north side, almost instinctively.

“what the hell’s wrong with him?” dana asks.

“i don’t know. since when does he just go straight home after a bad shift?”

“i have no idea.”

(that night at six-fifty, trinity pulls you aside before you two head home. you’re antsy since you want to get a couple of quiet minutes with jack before you have to leave, but when she starts talking, you forget all about it. listen, trin says, i’m sorry about the whole bubbles thing, i didn’t think it was bothering you. but collins told me that abbot was yelling at them about it and he was pretty upset, so i- but sadly, you don’t hear much of the rest of the conversation.)

you walk away from her after she finishes, reassuring her that you’re fine, before setting out to find jack. he’s putting his backpack under the desk at the hub, and you go straight to him, not entirely caring that people can see the two of you, supposing it’s fine as long as they don’t hear you.

“what’s the matter?” jack asks, and then much quieter—”everything okay, sweetheart?”

“you defended me?” you ask softly. you’re normally full of words but it feels hard to find them just now, your head feeling cloudy.

“no, no, i just told them to knock it off.”

“was it something bad?” you question, your expression knitting into worry.

this is exactly why he got upset—why he didn’t like their conversation from the jump, why he knew that he wanted frank and heather to stop talking before someone else overheard and jumped in and you found out what they were saying.

it’s not bad, even you wouldn’t think it’s bad. but jack doesn’t like it. he doesn’t like anyone speaking of you in any way that he doesn’t like and he especially hates the idea that you’d be upset when you found out.

“no. i just-” jack trails off.

“you just?”

“i don’t like anyone talking about you. and i don’t like that stupid nickname, so-”

you smile at him, not the sort of innocent smile one casts at their attending—the result of being told good job on a case or have a good night on your way out. no, you smile at jack the way you do everything—with the full force of every emotion behind it, wearing your heart on your sleeve.

and jack couldn’t look away from you, even if he wanted to.

(the two of you look like idiots—googly eyed and lovestruck and every other way to describe people who like each other a bit too much. this time it’s dana who sees the two of you. she does a double take on her way to hand a stack of tablets to the night shift charge nurse and blinks twice to make sure she’s seeing the right thing. jack abbot, a regular on the roof, and the intern who they call bubbles, looking at each other like the rest of the hospital has faded away into nothing. and then she walks away, and decides she’ll wait for robby to bring it up.)

it’s mel next—she’s incredibly observant as it is, but even more so when it comes to someone she considers a friend, someone like you. trinity jokes about the continual bear attacks that explain the hickies on your neck and chest when you change out of your scrub top and pull on your hoodie, but mel knows it’s more than that.

she’s always known you get to work early, but recently, every time mel comes in to put away her belongings, the space that you usually occupy is already empty. your things put away, locker closed and locked, your yellow water bottle already resting by the computer that you usually write your notes at.

and after that, it’s just a game of paying slightly closer attention. you walk out from behind a curtained bed and come say hi to mel, ask her how her evening was, how becca is doing. but when mel glances up at the screen to see what patient you were with behind that curtain, it’s empty.

that bed was empty. and well, mel’s not much of an detective (though she has her moments), but it’s worth a shot. waste a few minutes, stare at that curtain to see if she can figure out what, or rather who is behind it. she’s almost about to call it quits, frank was running late but he’s here now and there’s an incoming so she should start moving and then—

dr. abbot comes out from behind that same curtain. he leaves it open, comes to the hub, smiles politely at mel and tells her to have a good day, dr. king, and then he walks away.

more specifically, he walks in your direction. the back of his head moves slightly in your direction. you beam at the tablet in your hands. and then—

“mel? you okay?” frank asks, and she’s snapped out of it.

(she could have figured it out ages ago, she thinks afterward, reflecting on how dr. abbot never used to tell anyone to have a good day or hum while finalizing notes or look up and smile in your general direction before looking back down at whatever’s in his hands. the first time she met him, she thought he was the type of person you categorize in the debbie downer sort of group, whereas from the moment she met you, you were clearly more of a chatty cathy. but you’re her friend. and when she had told you about her feelings for frank, you had listened and supported her and never made her feel that it was anything less than okay.)

so the next time she sees you at seven am, already out by your computer or walking back from around an empty corner, when she notices dr. abbot trailing behind you, she doesn’t say anything. when dr. abbot hangs around late finishing up a trauma and you go ask him for his opinion on whatever patient you’re seeing, even when robby is free just over there, she doesn’t say anything.

even when frank brings it up over dinner with her and becca, a side conversation while they eat spaghetti—you noticed anything different with abbot recently?—she doesn’t say anything.

in fact, the closest she gets to saying anything is when dr. abbot comes in early—maybe around five-thirty one evening—because they’re getting swamped and heather and cassie have the flu and it’s been a terrible mess of a day.

you and mel have been running around the entire shift, barely stopping to drink water or eat something. when jack shows up and flocks straight to you and leans in to tell you something, your hand moves to touch his arm for half a second before you remember where you are and put it down. jack pulls out a granola bar from his pocket and leaves you with it to jump on the next incoming.

mel watches the encounter and puts her head down when you look her way, pretending that she’s drinking her water and staring at a tablet. when she looks up, you’re gone in another direction, but dana stares at mel, both with an understanding of what they just saw.

and then they go on with their shift.

it all comes crashing down, just as it had the first time, after a particularly terrible night shift. it’s always hard when someone dies in the first few hours, leaves a horrible, bitter taste in his mouth that makes him want to walk outside and not come back in.

it’s even worse when he knows he did everything he could, that there was no way this patient was making it off the table. that the devastated husband and the crying kids were completely unavoidable, that he still has to go back and jump on the next case and start fresh and try to drown out those noises.

drowning, drowning, drowning. he’s always trying to drown out something. if it’s not the fireworks then it’s the kids sobbing over their dead parent, and if it’s not that, then it’s how he relives his own worst day of my life every time someone’s wife dies in front of him.

it’s been one of those days. you’re due to start on nights in two shifts from now, and he still has no idea how he’ll manage to be any less obvious when it comes to you.

(the last thing he keeps trying to drown out is how wrong this is. the voice in the back of his head keeps reminding him, seemingly unable to stop, no noise being loud enough to get it to stop repeating itself. you’re still a while away from being a second year, but is that even any better? or is that another excuse he’s invented to stop feeling so guilty about the fact that you sleep in his apartment every night and leave cookies for him on the counter so he has something nice to come home to? jack doesn’t know.)

you show up at six-thirty, smiling sweetly at parker and john, telling them to grab a cookie on their way out. parker asks you why and you tell her just because, and you want five minutes alone with your boyfriend before he leaves.

you’re impatient, always have been and always will be, especially when it comes to any and all matters related to jack abbot. you’re eager to go back on the night shift because you think you’ll be able to appreciate it so much more now—learning under his tutelage, being able to discuss those foreign medical journals he shares with you over coffee at four in the morning rather than through his illegible, scribbled print on post-its and your neat handwriting in the margins.

you want it all, and you want it now.

so you made more cookies—oatmeal raisin—to make jack’s apartment smell nice, and you pack several of them to have a valid reason to distract the others so you can get those five minutes, maybe ten, in peace.

“hi,” you sing, while jack stands in front of you, tablet in his hand and blood on his shoes. “how was your night?” he doesn’t look up, but you don’t wait for an answer. “i made oatmeal raisin last night and i put some in the break room so i think we have five minutes. i want ten but i won’t be greedy, i mean, we’ll be on nights together soon, so at least that’ll be-”

“we need to talk, kid,” jack says, looking up at you with an expression you don’t recognize.

“what’s wrong ja- dr. abbot?” a nurse walks by just as you start your sentence, changing it mid-way.

“that,” he says, coming out a bit louder than he meant it to. “that’s what’s wrong.”

“jack?” you say it quietly. he doesn’t mean it like that—he doesn’t want you to be upset and worried about him when you have a whole shift ahead of you, one that you show up early to with distractions so the two of you can have a few minutes alone.

it’s all of it—it’s the fact that you even have to do things like that to get five minutes alone with him. it’s that you can’t let someone overhear you calling him anything besides dr. abbot.

it’s the realization that you deserve much better than what jack abbot can give you. more than five minutes behind a curtain or a couple minutes in the break room or thirty seconds at central hub before the charge nurse comes in with another incoming.

“come on,” he says, leading you away for a moment. you have twenty-five minutes before your shift starts and he has two senior residents who can run the show until robby walks in. he leads you to the on-call room, four walls enclosing four beds. surgery has rooms of their own, but sometimes the trauma surgeon on deck will crash in there waiting for the next page, so he checks the room before letting you into it, closing and locking the door behind him.

“i thought you were gonna yell at me. this is so much better,” you say.

your mouth has gotten you into trouble before, especially with dr. abbot. in fact, it’s what got you into this whole thing to begin with, but where you expect jack to laugh in the privacy of this room, he doesn’t.

“kid, we need to have a serious talk about this.”

“about what?”

“this. us.”

“oh, jack, come on-”

“no, i-i’m being serious. this is not okay, it’s not sustainable.”

“you’re upset because we don’t see each other? honey, i start on nights in two days, i think we can make it,” you say, coming in closer to bring your hand to jack’s shoulder. “what’s going on? really?”

“don’t you think that… what i’m doing is wrong? you’re an intern. this is about your education, i-”

“why do you think you’re disrupting my medical education just because you’re my attending? i know i get stupid around you but i promise, i’m not gonna stop paying attention to my patient because you’re standing near me. i am a doctor, you know-”

“kid, i-”

“no, stop. half this hospital is dating each other. robby is heather’s attending and i don’t see you storming them into on-call rooms to debate about his influence on her medical education-”

“that doesn’t even make sense-”

“it doesn’t have to,” you sigh, out of breath and a little winded from how loud you’re being. “we make sense. you and me. we’re good together. a lot of things in this place don’t make sense but we do. people die everyday and i don’t want to die wondering what could have been if i’d just-”

“don’t,” jack interrupts, his hands coming to your waist. they feel tight, like the first time he’d help you like this. he brings his face closer to yours, foreheads almost touching. “don’t say that.”

“oh my god. i am so sorry. that must sound so insensitive, i just meant-”

“stop talking.”

“but i-”

and this time, he doesn’t give you a choice, pressing his lips against yours quickly. you mumble against else against his mouth, but he can’t make it out, choosing instead to ignore it. like always, jack’s mouth tastes like coffee and you take it in—your boyfriend, your attending, and whatever else jack abbot is to you, kissing you like he’s finally realizing that he belongs to you, just as much as you belong to him.

jack’s fingertips travel under your scrub top, hands roaming the expanse of your back and then settling onto your waist again while you keep kissing, realizing that when you go back out there, you’ll be flushed and warm and your lips will be swollen.

and then you realize that you don’t care, and you let your body lean against jack’s. he pulls away for a moment, but you don’t let him get the chance to stop, leaning in to resume the kiss, desperate to feel his tongue against yours again.

jack does pull away finally, holding your jaw with his hand.

“this is so much better,” you mumble again.

“kid, we can’t-”

“yes, we can. we have so much time, jack,” you say, trying your best to sound convincing.

“it’s seven in the morning,” jack argues, though he doesn’t resist when you pull his navy shirt off and over his head, exposing his chest to you. you run your fingers down the exposed skin, pressing your mouth against his shoulder.

“no it’s not,” you reply, leading hot, open-mouthed kisses from his collarbone to his neck, back up to his lips. “it’s six forty-something.”

“someone’s gonna-”

“no one’s gonna,” you say, smiling in that way that you do, the way that makes it impossible for him to say no. “not unless you stop talking, old man.”

“oh. that’s how you wanna do this?”

“i’m not doing anything,” you say, pulling off your own scrub top, and then your shoes.

“you’re gonna kill me, kid,” leaves his mouth as your hands go to the tie of his scrub bottoms, undoing the knot. jack brings his hands to either side of your waist and lifts, bringing you down onto one of the beds with all of his strength, making you squeal as your head hits the pillow.

he starts with a kiss to your jaw, and then your neck, trailing down between your breasts while he undoes your bra. your hands find his shoulders, gripping him tight while he works his way down, littering your stomach with kisses until he gets to the drawstring of your pants.

his fingers work on undoing it while you whine, and then try to push yourself to sit up against jack’s weight on top of you.

“oh my god, this is so embarrassing. i didn’t know we were doing all this. i have so many matching sets of underwear for this very occasion and the one day-”

“sweetheart, i love you, but you really need to stop talking right now.”

“you love me?” you repeat back. “you love me. oh my god, i-”

you lean in, lips crashing together hard, until jack moves and he’s on top of you again. he slides off your bottoms first, his fingers dancing around the waistband of your panties—navy blue with lace on the sides and he thinks they’re awfully great so he’s not sure what you were talking about—and then you start giggling. nearly uncontrollable.

“kid, that’s twice now you’ve done that-”

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry jack,” you plead, trying to keep a straight face but being unable to stop laughing. “i can’t believe this is how we’re saying i love you to each other-”

“you’re the one who wanted to date your attending-”

you burst into another fit of giggles, which jack effectively silences by kissing you again.

“one day,” jack starts, tugging your underwear down until it’s discarded somewhere by your feet, or maybe somewhere on the floor next to your clothes. “i’ll get to take my time with you again.”

that sentence leaving jack’s mouth makes your entire body tense up, a flood of want washing over you until you feel loopy.

you pull him in for another kiss, and you feel him against you, memories of the first time he stretched you out on his fingers running through your mind. you two don’t have enough time for that today, and you both know it, but it still makes your cunt throb with anticipation.

jack lines himself up against you, running his thick tip over your opening, collecting wetness and making pleasure course through your body when he bumps against your clit. it’s electric—like a live wire hitting your nerves and making everything feel like lightening.

your limbs already feel like jelly, and you let jack maneuver your legs up onto his shoulders, watching him while he looks down at where you two are connected.

he pushes inside and you moan—loudly and unfiltered—feeling that ridiculously amazing stretch again, your toes curling and every muscle tensing. jack leans in to kiss you and swallow the noises you make, but you still think it might not be enough.

when he pushes all the way in, your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head.

“i’m sorry, kid, we can’t be loud,” he breathes, followed by a groan. he uses his hand to cover your mouth, pulling out and then thrusting back in all at once. the bed creaks as jack starts fucking you with an intense rhythm, the thin wooden frame hitting against the wall repetitively.

you lock eyes with jack, moaning against his hand, feeling how big he is like it’s the first time all over again.

every ridge and vein makes you see stars while you focus on how full you feel—full of jack, how you want stay like this forever if he’ll let you—in a tiny on call room with the door locked and people looking for the two of you.

you repeat it against his palm—jack, jack, jack—while he keeps fucking you with an intensity that makes the coil in your belly keep tightening. he’s so deep inside of you that you’re sure you won’t be able to walk after this, let alone finish your shift, but the thought drifts somewhere far away when he changes the angle slightly.

jack pushes his hand against your lower belly and thrusts back into you, while your back arches and tries to fight him. maybe you’re trying to get away from how good it feels, that overwhelming sensation that the ground is about to give out beneath the two of you. you stare up at jack through teary eyes, taking in how he looks hovering over you, taking care of you and watching out for you and thinking about you first like he always does.

and then it happens, the hot sensation in your belly tenses, and then snaps, and it washes over you like a current. you feel it—the ringing in your ears feels like it’s making its way through your entire body and your walls clench and pulse around jack’s girth.

your eyes snap shut but when they open, you keep looking up at jack, finally forcing his hand away from your mouth.

“jack,” you get out, your throat dry and sore and lips aching. “i love you too-”

you hear jack groan, a noise that makes your walls flutter, and then you feel it again—jack’s hips stuttering, his grip on you tightening, and then warmth filling you, hot streams of cum coating your walls until it’s leaking out of you.

you take deep breaths, head hitting the pillow while jack collapses on top of you, and then rolls over until he’s beside you.

the room is silent besides the two of you breathing, until of course, you speak up.

“i can’t believe this is how we said i love you.”

“you already said that, kid.”

“i know. i just really can’t believe it. i figured it would at least be outside of the hospital, but, i guess that wouldn’t feel right.”

“sweetheart-”

“am i doing it again? the not knowing when to be quiet thing?”

“no, but i-”

“wait,” you cry out, sitting up immediately. “what time is it? oh my god-”

“don’t worry about that right now. i gotta get you cleaned up before-”

“jack, i have never been late for a shift before.” you sigh dramatically before you keep going. “i just knew it. this relationship is completely affecting my medical education-”

jack shuts you up with a kiss before you can finish the sentence, capturing your laugh against his mouth.

he starts making half a plan in his head, though what he wants to do is take you home with him right now.

“i think i’m ready for you to be back on nights now.”

“yeah? why’s that?”

“because at least we can sleep next to each other if you-”

“jack!” he hears robby’s voice shouting from the other side of the door, followed by three pounds that rattle the wood. “do not tell me that my intern is in there.”

“fuck,” jack whispers, while you stare at him with wide eyes.

“what should we do?” you mouth, while jack gets up, finding your scrubs and pocketing your underwear while he pulls on his own clothes.

“stay in here,” he tells you quietly. “just take your time.”

“okay,” you whisper back, leaning in for another kiss with a smile. “i love you.”

“i love you too.”

jack pulls on his shirt and unlocks the door, closing it quickly behind him as he steps out to meet robby on the other side.

“you’re kidding me, right?”

“i can explain, robby. we-”

“i don’t want to hear it. the on-call room? that’s disgusting, you know.”

“robby, i-”

“go talk to hr before gloria gets on my ass about this.” robby walks away, shaking his head.

you open the door, poking your head out, and jack turns back to look at you.

“gosh. i sure hope hr doesn't think you’re interfering with my medical education-”

♡ thanks for reading!

#jack abbot #one shot #smut #ja oneshot #ja smut

2K notes · View notes

spookyreads · 6 days ago

Text

Loose Morals

MINORS DNI

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Younger!Fem!Reader (college student)

Summary: You and Jack have been friends for two years when you start having hot dreams featuring his father. Unfortunately, Mr. Hotchner happens to be just your type...

Tags: age gap, daddy issues, migraines, alcohol consumption, dirty talk, implied daddy kink, daddy kink if you squint, praise kink, Jack isn't necessarily a good friend, trauma bonding in a way, masturbation, smut, fluff, etc.

Word count: 11.2k

A/N: I wanted to take a break from editing Vanilla Twilight by writing a short one-shot. The thing is, I don't know when to shut up... Anyway, this ask and this pic inspired me, and I opted to write an entire fic around them. I just really needed to write smut after all the fluff and angst these past few times. I hope you like this one!

Being Jack Hotchner's best friend had its perks.

For one, he was honest and kind, and he was simply different than the rest of the guys your age.

Honesty had always been at the core of your friendship, through your first two years of college, you’d not only found a friend in him, but a brother.

You weren’t sure he saw you as his sister, but you didn’t care. He was still your family.

You were the first person he came out to, and he was the first person to whom you had admitted you had major daddy issues (which you still believed had been caused by not having a father around growing up).

Considering your mother had punched out when you turned 18, Jack was without a doubt the most important person in your life even if you weren’t the most important person in his life.

But being Jack’s best friend was sometimes a curse.

A sharply dressed, tall, and broad man disguised as a curse, that is.

Jack had an incredibly handsome dad, and to make matters worse, Mr. Hotchner was exactly the type you went for when you needed company.

Jack knew you had slept around with older men, he knew what your type looked like, yet he had never once mentioned his dad fit that pattern to a T.

Of course, you knew Mr. Hotchner was off-limits. You’d never try anything, you’d never do anything to jeopardize your friendship with Jack. But you couldn’t help how your eyes lingered on Mr. Hotchner sometimes, and it didn’t hurt anyone to just look.

You could control yourself, but forbidden things always had an extra appeal to them, didn’t they?

It was why, very early on in your friendship, you had reached an unspoken agreement with yourself: You would never spend the night at Jack’s house and you would avoid being alone with Mr. Hotchner at all costs. Thus, when party season was in full effect, you never drank to make sure you could drive yourself home after dropping Jack off.

Ironically enough, Jack loved having you around even more during that time because since you didn’t drink when you went partying, you could always be the designated driver.

Tonight had been no different in that regard, but a recent breakup had made Jack miserable and he had ended up drinking way more than usual.

Bringing him home was something you were happy to do, and each time you did, Mr. Hotchner thanked you profusely for bringing Jack home safe.

Each time, you tried not to make a fool of yourself, and you smiled and left without adding anything.

Truth was, even tired beyond words, Mr. Hotchner was extremely handsome. He was so effortlessly beautiful that you didn't trust yourself not to say something incredibly stupid to his face, and thus you actively chose not to talk to him alone when you could avoid it.

Sure, you could engage in small talk when Jack was awake and responsive, but when he was nearly passed out drunk, you did your best to avoid Mr. Hotchner.

There was something about the way his eyes bore into you that you couldn’t deny you liked, but you often explained it away by reminding yourself that Mr. Hotchner looked at everyone like that, with intense fixed gazes that could remind you of every wrongdoing you had ever committed.

Nothing you had tried had ever stopped you from blushing when you felt his eyes on you, and your high-pitched nervous laugh was only deafened by you chewing your cheeks furiously each time Mr. Hotchner said something nice to you.

You were positive Mr. Hotchner already thought you were a nutcase, or at the very least, that you were too shy and awkward to function properly when you were around him.

So, whenever you could, you avoided him out of self-preservation.

You had had to start evading him more in the past weeks when recurring sex dreams featuring him had started invading your nights.

It didn’t help that you were convinced that he was a sex god walking on two delightfully long legs. It didn’t help that you were sure that he had two muscly thighs that surely showed how he ran every other morning.

You had seen Mr. Hotchner sweaty and breathless only once, with his chest heaving big breaths that drew your attention to how deliciously large he was, and you had risked a glance at his whole body, licking your lips at the sight of his hairy legs, instantly concluding that coming over to study before noon wasn’t going to happen again for the sake of your sanity.

From that day, you had started having torrid dreams about grinding down on his damp thighs, dreams which had startled you awake and kept you on the verge of climaxing. Each time, you had woken up too worked up to care, and you had brought yourself to orgasm with only a few flicks on your clit before you screamed his name into your pillow.

It wasn’t right, but it was the only thing that did it. You had tried thinking of other things, you had even tried watching porn, but nothing worked except thoughts of Jack’s dad.

While it was great to be living alone because it meant that whenever the urge was too strong, you could get yourself off, it also meant that you had absolutely no control or restraint since nothing satisfied your incessant hunger for him, since nothing could scratch that particular itch…

You had managed to break two magic wands in the past three months, so you never stayed home too long when you had nothing to do, too afraid you’d turn into a sex addict.

But then there were the other dreams you were having, dreams way scarier than having Mr. Hotchner get you off.

Those dreams, dreams in which you shared a whole life with Mr. Hotchner, were your favorite. Yet, they were also heartbreaking because once realization hit you, once your mind was clear enough, you knew it would never happen, that it could never happen, and that hurt you a little more every time.

You had had so many dreams in which domesticity was the norm, in which you danced around the kitchen to great tunes while cooking together, in which his arms wrapped around your waist as his chin rested on your shoulder, as he hummed and squeezed you into a tight embrace, as he turned you around to kiss your forehead before he told you how much he loved you.

Your longing for him had only intensified in the past weeks as vivid fantasies muddled your mind, and you had had to escape any situation where you would find yourself talking to Mr. Hotchner even when Jack was around just to make sure Mr. Hotchner wouldn’t suddenly realize that every waking thought you had included him.

Mr. Hotchner probably knew most of the signs of attraction. Having been a profiler for the greater part of his life before he got a steady desk job meant that he was talented at observing, and you knew for a fact that he was brilliant and astute. You often chose not to dwell on those facts, instead, you averted your gaze so he wouldn’t read behind your eyes, so he wouldn’t magically deduce how detailed your imagination could be, as if he could know from a quick glance how you had envisioned him around you in every possible position and scenario.

You focused on Jack in the backseat, his blond hair ruffled by the wind coming in through the cracked window. The car smelled like alcohol and bad decisions, and your heart dropped in your chest when you noticed Jack shaking, hearing choked sobs every few seconds.

Fortunately, while you attempted to find the right words, he slumped and grew quiet.

The way it usually went when you brought him home was, you got Jack inside with your spare key, you dropped him on his bed upstairs before you left without making a sound.

But Jack was way drunker than usual, and you weren’t sure you’d be able to make him walk up the stairs by yourself. He was in no state to get himself up the stairs either.

You tried to talk to him to gauge if you could shake him awake just enough to get him up the stairs once you reached his house, but he just muttered strings of syllables.

The closer you got to his house, the more you realized you’d need help bringing Jack upstairs.

He was still mumbling things that made no sense, and you admired how the car ride didn’t make him throw up because he made no effort to hold up his head as he slouched in the back seat.

You chastised yourself for not asking someone to tag along to help you with Jack because now you would have only one option, and you weren’t sure you wanted to wake him.

It didn’t matter what you wanted, though. Jack was your family. You’d do anything for him.

Reluctantly, you asked Siri to call Mr. Hotchner.

He picked up on the first ring and you were relieved that perhaps you hadn’t woken him up by calling at this hour.

“Hi, sweetheart. Is Jack okay?” he muttered sleepily.

Shit. Maybe you had woken him.

Mr. Hotchner often called you ‘sweetheart’ but at this time of night with a husky voice? If this wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever heard…

You berated yourself for being distracted, intently focusing on the road and what needed to be done.

“Hello, Mr. Hotchner. Yes, he is. He’s just too drunk for me to bring him upstairs. Can you come down and help?” you asked, keeping your voice as even as you could.

“Of course. ETA?”

You looked around as you put on the turn signal. “I’m turning on your street.”

“Good. Thank you.”

You hung up just in time to park, getting out of the car swiftly to try to bring a clingy Jack out of the backseat.

Mr. Hotchner joined you before you even noticed he was outside, and a hand on your shoulder made you move back from trying to pick up Jack.

“I got him. Just help me when we get to the stairs, okay?”

You nodded.

It was all you could do because the sight of Mr. Hotchner in pajama pants and a tee shirt was apparently enough to bring your cerebral functions to a halt.

You were unable to comprehend how his hand had even ended up on you and how you could still feel the imprint of his palm on your skin.

Mr. Hotchner grunted from the effort it took to pick up his son, and you did your best not to memorize the sound for later use.

You shut the car door and followed him inside, taking some of Jack’s weight off Mr. Hotchner’s shoulders as you both brought him up the stairs and into his room.

You removed Jack’s shoes as Mr. Hotchner brought the covers over his son’s frame, and you tried not to think about the fact that you made a great team to get Jack into bed so efficiently.

Mr. Hotchner placed a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder, smiling a little at how unresponsive he was.

Clearly, he found the situation relatable and you wondered if Mr. Hotchner had ever been this drunk when he was Jack’s age.

You found it endearing to see how a good father could be so loving to his grown-up son, and even if it hurt that you had never gotten that, you still loved seeing it when it happened.

“Goodnight, bud.”

You didn’t want to intrude so you made your way out of the room just in time for Jack to mutter under his breath something that made you flinch and stop in your tracks. “I fucking hate you, Dad. It’s your fault Mom isn’t here.”

The room was dark, but the silver sheen of the moon glimmered enough that you could make out most of his frozen features. You saw Mr. Hotchner recoil and you heard his breath hitch.

It was fair to assume his face had probably contorted into a deep frown as you witnessed his arm going up, his palm meeting his forehead.

You knew the story. But you also knew Jack didn’t blame him. He never had. He had always said his father was his hero. You had heard him ramble on and on about how proud he was, and he had almost given you a formal presentation to celebrate him and every achievement of his. Every time he spoke about his dad, his eyes sparkled with joy, and getting to know more about how extraordinary Mr. Hotchner was had never helped lessen your deep-seated infatuation with him. If anything, it only magnified it.

So why was Jack saying this now when his dad had always been his role model?

Had he been lying to you this whole time?

You debated saying something, but in the end, you and Jack constantly called each other out on your bullshit or whenever you were out of line, and this time, he was clearly out of line.

For all Mr. Hotchner’s faults, you knew he was loving and present, and Jack shouldn’t take that for granted. You certainly wouldn’t.

“Jack, what the fuck?” you snapped. You clenched your jaw to abstain from scolding him, it wasn’t your place, but you wanted to bark at him to apologize.

The cold glow shone and lit the room just enough, making it easy to see how Mr. Hotchner’s shoulders dropped, and the silent shock that plagued the room made his bleak expression all the more distressing. Luckily, before you could question your next move, he turned his back so you couldn’t scrutinize how pain stained his gaze.

Jack turned towards you, baring his teeth. His glassy eyes and his jutting chin betrayed a rooted but still gaping wound, sadly mixed with an obscure and previously undisclosed fury. “This is a family matter. Leave,” he snarled.

Jack had never once said anything of the sort to you, and to have him belittle your importance so freely hurt you profoundly.

He was your family, but perhaps he was right, you weren’t his.

You left the room before your vision got too blurry to walk out, and you heard harsh whispered tones before you went down the stairs.

You wiped your eyes and were halfway out the door when a firm hand grasped your arm and brought you back inside swiftly.

Your face met a firm chest and you knew who it was before you could try to hide your tears, and you didn’t care about anything other than comfort right now.

It occurred to you that Mr. Hotchner was probably seeking some comfort too, after all, it couldn’t have been easy hearing his son tell him that.

Your arms encircled his softer middle section naturally, and you banished the thoughts that started to emerge. His tummy was a part of him you longed to cherish in your most lucid dreams, but it was unfair to bask in the sensation of his tall build covering yours because this was simply two sympathetic bruised souls engaging in friendliness.

You shut your eyes for a second, trying to breathe in and out, hoping the pain would subside.

“He didn’t mean any of it. He just gets like this sometimes,” he said softly.

You slightly moved away from the hug, still holding on but barely, aware it wasn’t appropriate for you to indulge too much.

You looked up into Mr. Hotchner’s eyes, and his distant stare and set jaw made your heart ache.

He was hurt. He was holding it together, but he was evidently tormented by trauma, and his tense stance wordlessly confirmed that some invisible wounds lurked and continued to run deep.

His gaze softened all at once as it met yours.

“He loves you. He always says you’re his hero. He even told me he never once blamed you for–”

A tentative hand came up to cradle your cheek, and a flick of his thumb picked up a few stray tears. “Sweetheart, even if he hates me, I’m his dad. I’m always going to love him.”

You forced a smile as tears welled up in your eyes.

You truly admired the father before you, and as much as you felt crushed that Jack didn’t consider you important, you could almost forgive him because it had led to this soothing closeness.

“Are you okay?” he fretted with genuine concern in his voice.

You suddenly realized how close he was, how he hadn’t loosened his hold on you when you had.

You could feel how strong he was every time he breathed, you could smell his aftershave and detergent, and a blaring thought reared its ugly head; his scent and his presence made you feel more at home than anything else ever had.

You couldn’t entertain that thought.

Not now, perhaps not ever.

You moved back, hugging yourself as a chill ran over you. “I’m fine.”

Mr. Hotchner frowned, but he didn’t push it.

Truth was, you weren’t emotionally equipped to deal with any of this.

Jack and Mr. Hotchner would have to be on the back burner for a few days, and you would have to go home to lick your wounds before you would even consider talking to Jack again.

You turned away, opting to leave before you did or said something stupid, but again, a firm hand grasped your arm before you could escape.

“You’re not driving anywhere at this hour and in this state,” he protested.

Fuck.

"I'm just going to sleep in the car," you explained, knowing it wouldn’t work but nonetheless hoping it would.

As if he sensed your discomfort, he released your arm and held his hands up in front of him.

"Just take my bed. I'll take the couch."

Sleeping in his bed? Sleeping where he slept? Sleeping where his scent would overwhelm you?

Considering how often you had dreams about him…

You knew danger zones. And this was one.

Hell, no.

"Oh, no. It's fine, Mr. Hotchner. The car seat reclines–"

He chuckled, startling you with the unexpected sound. "When are you going to stop calling me that? We’ve already talked about this. You make me feel old."

"You're not–"

A small lopsided grin graced his face, and the sight reassured you on the spot. “You can either stay the night or you can finally tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’m not–”

He quirked an eyebrow, and you should have known the profiler would notice you avoiding him at all costs when you used to talk to him a lot more, even if most of the time Jack was present, you still used to interact with him more frequently than you did now.

“It’s nothing you did,” you stressed.

He gave you a tight-lipped smile at that. "Come on. Get some rest. I'll wake you early in the morning if you really want to leave before Jack gets up."

You knew there was no saying no to him, so you nodded and made your way towards the stairs.

You knew where his room was because there weren't many rooms upstairs, and Jack had made you visit the entire house early on in your friendship.

"Goodnight," he breathed as you trodded up the stairs.

"Goodnight, Mr. Hotchner."

You walked into his room and looked down at yourself. Sure, a summer dress would be fine to sleep in, but if you closed the door and slept in your underwear, no one would know.

You discarded your dress before you lay down in the middle of the most comfortable bed you had ever been in.

You shut your eyes, smelling Mr. Hotchner all around you as you had a bit earlier.

It didn't take long for you to find restful sleep, and it took even less time for your mind to drift off to thoughts of Mr. Hotchner.

You were in the throes of the hottest sex dream you had ever had, so close to reaching your peak untouched as you woke up with a glaring pain behind your eyes and at the base of your skull.

Oh, shit.

You were no strangers to migraines. You had had them for years, but getting one when you were far away from your meds, and in someone else's home, someone else's bed...

Someone's bed.

Right.

You had just been dreaming about that particular someone going down on you.

Great.

You needed something for the pain and you knew where the ibuprofen was, so you tip-toed down the stairs, making your way to the main bathroom.

You were trying to look through stuff in the dark when the light was turned on, instantly stilling your movements.

"I'm just– I have a migraine," you stuttered before he could ask what you were doing in his medicine cabinet.

Mr. Hotchner wasn't frowning, and he didn't look unhappy you had woken him up in the middle of the night again, but as soon as you shared the reason why you were awake, he furrowed his brow with concern.

Then he looked up and down at you.

Shit. I'm in my underwear.

Mr. Hotchner raised an eyebrow as he smirked, removing his tee shirt and offering it to you so you could feel less naked.

His gaze made you feel more naked than anything you could wear or not wear.

He was such a gentleman that he gave you his shirt even if he was the one who ended up half-naked next to you.

Well, better him than me.

You put it on and Mr. Hotchner just waited until you cleared your throat to let his gaze fall back onto you.

You tried not to look at his bare chest or at the scars you knew were there.

You failed within seconds, but you had enough decency to make an effort to keep your eyes locked on his face.

"I'm sorry about your migraine, honey. What do you need?" he uttered in a soft hushed tone.

You shrugged, taking two pills from the bottle before looking away and down at your feet. "Cold compress? I don't know."

Mr. Hotchner offered you a glass of water before he moved around you to wet a cloth with cold water, and instead of giving it to you, he just took your hand and made his way to the couch.

He sat with you, facing you with his legs crossed. Somehow, he looked younger sitting like this, waiting for you to join him.

"Put your head here," he said, gesturing to his lap.

You had no idea what to do, but you were in pain and emotionally unstable, apart from being sleep-deprived, and you would never turn down an opportunity to be close to him under those conditions because your judgement was certainly impaired.

You lay down your head in his lap, looking up at him looking down at you.

He placed the cold compress on your forehead, making you sigh in relief as your eyes fluttered close. Gentle hands started massaging the back of your neck, your temples, and your scalp, making you shudder as he pressed on spots where the pain stabbed and blinded you.

For his apparent rough exterior, Mr. Hotchner had a very tender touch, and you wondered in what world it was okay for you to know that.

"How's that?" he pondered.

Your tense shoulders went limp as you relaxed even more, his fingertips rubbing your nape expertly. "Really good," you purred.

You were at his mercy, lax and drowsing in his lap unashamedly.

“I used to get migraines and tension headaches at your age. You know, law school was– I used to be permanently stressed out, living my life on high alert.”

“You?”

“Yes. Why is that so surprising?” he asked.

You opened your eyes to meet his, watching him wait for an answer.

“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Hotchner, but you just look like the kind of person who has it under control all the time,” you stated.

He looked pensive for a split second, but he resumed massaging your temples, removing the cloth and folding it the other way around before putting it back on your skin. He was apparently making sure it remained somewhat cold enough to provide relief. It was a small thing really, but it spoke volumes that he cared enough to do that.

“Not all the time–” he said calmly. “Anyway, I wished I had someone take care of me when I was– and I didn’t so…”

What about your wife?

You let that go as soon as it echoed around in your head. It wasn’t any of your business why Mrs. Hotchner didn’t take care of him when he wasn’t feeling well.

To be fair, you’d always thought marriage was about finding someone you wanted to take care of. Someone for whom you’d cook soup, someone whose tummy you wanted to rub, someone to hold, someone to pet your forehead when you’re feverish. But that was perhaps the daddy issues talking.

He picked up the TV remote, and he offered it to you.

“Do you want to put something on while we wait for the pills to make you feel better, honey?”

You nodded. “Let’s just keep it low.”

That was mostly for your sake rather than Jack’s since he would have deserved to be woken up by a movie blasting in the living room, considering.

He seemed intent on letting you choose so you settled for something corny that wouldn’t require you to focus. You selected The Fault in Our Stars since you had already seen it and you were certain you would be able to follow the story without having to think.

You decided to move before you dozed off in his lap, but Mr. Hotchner just held you down as he stretched his legs on the sofa, leaving you with some leeway to find a comfortable way to lie down while still keeping you close. You shifted on your side, hugging his leg as your face rested sideways on his firm thigh. It allowed you to see the TV while still feeling his warm hand palming your scalp.

You removed the cloth from your forehead after a while, and Mr. Hotchner took it from you before he set it down on the coffee table.

You pretended not to feel him tremble when the movie took a sad turn, and as his hand came up to wipe his eyes, you had to shut yours to avoid getting tempted to offer to lick his tears away.

You also had to compose yourself because knowing Mr. Hotchner was the kind of softie who cried at sad films only made your longing more acute.

Having your head on his leg was enough of a treat as it was. You just had to reel it in and keep a tight lid on whatever it was you felt.

Your plan to compose yourself with your eyes closed completely backfired when you realized you had fallen asleep.

You woke to soft whimpers and a bulge protruding near the side of your head, right before you realized your name was being moaned.

Repeatedly.

You opened your eyes to find Mr. Hotchner asleep in a way that would surely hurt his neck, and he was rock hard next to your head, moaning your name as if chanting it like a prayer.

It's just a dream. It doesn't mean anything.

You turned on your front to fully see what was poking at your head. The tent in his pajama pants was huge, and the flimsy material of his pajama pants did nothing to hide the fact that he was big.

You salivated at the sight, incredibly aware that everything you wanted was within reach.

A particularly throaty moan escaped his lips and this time, when you looked up, he was frowning at you.

You got down on your knees in front of him, making him turn to follow you, letting him plant his feet on the ground, and you weren't sure how to proceed from there but the man had just moaned your name and followed your move on instinct.

He was sporting an impressive erection, and you wanted.

How you wanted.

It didn’t take much but you were done questioning it.

You smiled softly, deciding to bend down and mouth at his clothed cock.

If he really didn't want this, he would have tried to hide, he would have moved, he would have been embarrassed, he would not have been moaning your name, and simply put, he would stop you.

Instead, the second your lips were around his clothed hardness, his hips jerked up into your face and he groaned loudly.

You were thankful Jack was passed out drunk because surely, this would have woken him up.

"Are you sure you want this?" he hissed.

You just mouthed at his dick with more conviction, making his eyes roll back in his head.

His hands ended up at the back of your head, pushing your face infinitely closer.

“I knew from the second I saw you that you had raging daddy issues. Are you about to prove me right, sweet girl?”

You were putting a wet spot on his pajama pants, trying to taste him through layers of clothing. You placed both your hands on his thighs, sinking your fingernails into his hard flesh. Your fingers dug through the material as your mouth moved on him, but you wanted so much more than this.

“Mr. Hotchner–”

“You’re always so formal–” he tutted. He put a tender hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb on your soft skin. “Maybe one day, I’ll have you calling me by the right name.”

You let your hands roam on his bare chest as you continued to wet his pants with your saliva, trying so desperately to get some friction as you started rutting on his foot.

Mr. Hotchner stopped you, palming himself through his pajama pants.

“Please, Mr. Hotchner,” you pleaded, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“If you really want this, come up here,” he said, gesturing to his lap.

You got up so fast your head spun, but you straddled his lap without hesitation, patting his solid chest with determined hands. You felt him grip your waist, and you opted to trace his sideburns with the tip of your fingers before you let your fingers run through his hair.

He groaned instantly, rocking his hips up into you.

Mr. Hotchner leaned down to put his lips on your clothed breasts, savoring each one with warm breaths and enthusiasm, making you moan gently before he looked up at you on top of him.

He cocked his head while you panted above him, desperate to grind down on his erection to get some sort of relief.

His hands were on your rib cage, his fingertips so close to your breasts that even clothed, it felt like he was voluntarily teasing.

“How often I’ve dreamed of having you like this,” he noted, pushing your hair out of your face and behind your ear.

You started grinding down on his lap, making him gasp as you rocked your core against his. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, exhaling hot air onto your face, reminding you how close you were like this. It didn’t take long for your rhythm to falter and for the shirt to ride up your waist.

You were so lost in everything you felt that you had shifted away from his erection and you were left breathing hard as your panties slid back and forth on his hard thigh.

You saw Mr. Hotchner look down, his smirk wide as you both realized how wet you were. You were leaving an impressive spot on his pajama pants through your panties.

“You’re soaking me,” he croaked, his voice betraying he was as affected by this as you were.

You steadied yourself on his chest, feeling his hands grip your waist more forcefully, and without the tee shirt, he’d surely be leaving a mark.

He helped you rub yourself against his thigh, undoubtedly sensing you were consumed by the kind of craving that made you tingle from head to toe.

“Good girl. You’re doing so well,” he praised.

Of all the things he could have said, he happened to say the one thing that made you clutch his chest with biting nails.

“Mmffhm—”

“Oh, you like being called a good girl, sweetheart?”

You started shaking with need, feeling the coil in your stomach heating up and tightening.

His hand came to wrap itself around your throat, his eyes dark and filled with lust. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Mr. Hotchner.”

“Good girl,” he cooed with a smile, releasing your throat.

The flutters in your stomach melted with the burning desire raging inside you.

“Will you touch me?” you stammered, drunk on the feeling of his stiff thigh.

You could probably come like this if you continued.

Mr. Hotchner smiled cheekily, barely ghosting his finger over your drenched panties.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he grunted.

“Please–” you begged.

“I think you can come just like this, sweetheart. For me…”

You knew you probably could. You were close already.

He put his hands back on your waist, guiding your movements on his thigh, watching your hips rock back and forth intently.

“Are you going to make a mess, dirty girl? Am I going to need to wash you?” he asked huskily. “Maybe I should punish you for avoiding me. For not letting me talk to you or look at you.”

You were too far gone to wonder whether it had been as difficult for him to stay away from you as it had been for you to stay away from him.

You moaned as your hips moved without restraint on top of him, rolling them back and forth just right so the friction of your panties rubbed your clit perfectly.

“Oh, god.”

You were so close to reaching your peak, and you felt unbearably hot on top of him. You knew you were soaking his pants, making a mess on his thigh, and the thought of him wanting to wash you, of him being angry and punishing you because you had avoided him… It only spurred you on. The thought of him missing you in the slightest set you alight.

“Look at you, so beautiful wearing my shirt.”

“I’m too hot,” you whined.

“Do you want me to help you with that?”

You nodded eagerly.

His fingers pulled at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over your head, his eyes stuck on your face as you continued to grind down on his thigh. “You’re breathtaking.”

You smiled at the compliment, doing your best to ignore how delightful it felt that he thought you were breathtaking because you were sizzling from the inside with thirst, and you couldn’t deal with the weight of his admission while you chased your orgasm.

“Mr. Hotchner, you are so perfect–”

Lost in all the sensations and the sea of feelings that you were drowning in, he leaned down, his breath fanning over your breasts. He kissed a spot between them so softly, you thought you had imagined it for a second.

“You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he whispered.

The throbbing started to hurt, and you needed a bit more than just his thigh. You unhooked your bra, freeing your breasts, making your boobs bob up and down as you rubbed yourself on his erection a few times.

“Please, Mr. Hotchner.” You didn’t even know what you were asking for, but you needed him to do something.

He grinned at you before he wrapped his lips around a nipple, licking it before sucking on it, making you whimper on top of him.

He brought his other hand up around your throat before he decided to tap on your lips with his digits.

“Suck on them for me, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth, and his index and middle finger sank between your lips. You sucked on them instantly, making him hiss your name as you felt him twitch in his pants.

Mr. Hotchner started licking your other nipple, sucking on it before he nipped at it gently, blowing hot air onto your skin as he alternated between them.

He removed his wet fingers from your mouth, making you whine at the loss before he mouthed at one nipple, pinching the other with his fingertips.

“So good, Mr. Hotchner–”

You shifted again as your rhythm faltered, rutting on his thigh again.

“Do it. Come on my thigh, sweet girl.”

You moaned loudly into the room, unable to keep the sounds from leaving your throat.

“Quiet,” he warned.

“I can’t,” you pouted with a whimper.

“Do you want me to keep you quiet?”

You nodded.

He put his middle and ring fingers into your mouth while his other hand came up around your throat, barely squeezing it, but it was enough. Sucking on his fingers with a hand wrapped around your throat, having him put pressure on your windpipe whenever you were about to be too loud, well, it did wonders.

You spared a thought for your sleeping friend upstairs, but as petty as it was, you couldn’t care less if you woke him right now.

Mr. Hotchner looked at you adoringly, showcasing his dimples as his lips curled into a dazzling smile, and the sight was enough for you to let go, the coil in your stomach ripped to shreds.

Your high came in violent waves as your body was overtaken by sharp shudders.

Yet, you felt as centered as ever when a soft palm tenderly stroked your back.

You opened your eyes, unaware you had closed them, and you found his gaze instantly, watching his hooded eyes, heavy with desire, survey you. He wasn’t scanning you for signs of uncertainty, his eyes simply darted over every inch of your face as if to take in your bliss.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

You let yourself fall forward, reveling in the feeling of him under you, surrounding you with his warmth, his cologne, his soft hands running up and down your back, his fingertips as they grazed your spine and made you shiver in delight.

“Thank you,” you muttered in the crook of his neck.

You’d probably regret this come morning, you’d probably question it, go over it a thousand times, but right now, he felt too solid underneath you to do anything but appreciate his enveloping comfort.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

You weren’t sure if your coming undone on his thigh would be the end of it, but you were thrilled that it apparently wasn’t.

You quietly entered his room with him, watching him lock the door before you let him remove your panties, watching him discard his pants and boxers eagerly.

He was indeed huge, leaking pre-cum and throbbing in need. The head was almost red, and you knew without a doubt that you wanted to take care of him as well as he had just taken care of you.

But Mr. Hotchner took the lead, and you willingly followed. You would always willingly follow him, and as terrifying as it was, the thought helped you draw in a full breath.

It took a matter of seconds for him to hover above you completely naked, and you couldn’t help but cup his cheek, feeling the shadow of a stubble scraping your palm.

He closed his eyes as if to savor it, and you cupped his other cheek, startling him enough to have him look into your eyes.

“You are so handsome.”

He looked giddy and shy for a second, two things you never would have thought to associate with him.

“This is way better than my imagination,” he admitted.

Wait. Had he thought about this too?

“You–” you started, your mind spiraling with a thousand questions.

“Yes, sweetheart. I’ve had to touch myself a lot because of you.”

“Show me?” you prompted.

He searched your features but he surely found you were dead serious about this.

Seeing his huge paw stroke his cock would fuel every last fantasy you would ever use to get off during your alone time.

“You really want to see, sweet girl?” he queried, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yes.”

“I’ll– Okay. But on one condition: Would you say my name?”

From your very first interaction with him, he had insisted on having you call him something other than ‘Mr. Hotchner’, and you had always been afraid that overstepping that boundary would be crossing a line, that you wouldn’t be able to come back from it if you engaged in something less than formal.

You smiled at him, assured that you wished to trespass.

“Aaron.”

“Hmm…” he hummed contentedly. He positioned himself with his back to the headboard, looking at you sitting down between his legs, facing him. He watched your hands caress his thighs before he looked at you again. “Say it again.”

“Aaron.”

He beamed at you, offering his left palm to you. “Spit.”

You obliged him, spitting into his hand a few times before he wrapped it around his erection, immediately mewling your name as he relieved some pent-up pressure.

Watching his hand move up and down on his dick made you swoon, and the level of intimacy of this whole display wasn’t lost on you.

He trusted you.

And you trusted him.

You leaned down to kiss his thighs, watching his hand speed up on his cock as you gently started biting his flesh, making him growl your name above you.

“You’re doing so well, Aaron,” you applauded.

His hips jerked up at the praise, making him thrust into his fist. He not only loved hearing his name, he decidedly loved this, too.

Aaron looked absolutely delicious, and you would have to appeal to every last ounce of self-control you had not to touch him or taste him.

“Ever since you came into our lives, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind,” he declared, and his voice completely mesmerized you as you observed his movements on his cock like a hawk. “Haven’t been on a date. Haven’t had sex. I can’t even watch porn without thinking of you, sweet thing. Fuck–” he added, gritting his teeth. “I don’t even like porn.”

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your face so close to his cock you could almost taste the tangy salty pre-cum leaking from the tip.

“I touched myself to thoughts of you, too. I touch myself thinking of you. A lot,” you disclosed candidly.

His hand lost its pace when his thighs started trembling, and he grabbed your chin, smiling at you.

“My sweet forbidden fruit.”

You hummed his name again, kissing his thighs in quick succession, biting him gently to elicit deep guttural moans to come flying out of his mouth.

You were positive the soundproofing in this house was decent by now.

“I’m close– Do you want me to come like this, sweetheart?” he asked.

You knew this was Aaron’s way of inquiring where this could go, where the limit was, and whether you wanted this to stop, but you wanted all of it. If this happened only once, you needed to experience all of him.

You shook your head, raising yourself up. “As beautiful as this is, I want more.” You leaned down, kissing his chest gently before you sucked on a nipple, biting it a little as he had done to you earlier. It made him gasp in surprise. “Sorry.”

“No– I– I liked it.” He paused, caressing your face. “Way too much.”

“I want to cherish you. All of you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he uttered smoothly, cupping your face. “We’ll do that some other time. I feel almost ready to explode.”

Another time?

You really wanted another time, more than you cared to admit, and you were beyond happy he wasn’t rejecting the idea of having this happen again.

“I need you,” you blurted out.

He chuckled breathlessly, in no way mocking you but visibly, he was amused by your impatience.

“What do you want? What do you think of when you touch yourself?”

“Just you. Your mouth. Your fingers,” you clarified.

“We can make that happen.”

He flipped you, pulling you down on your back before he started kissing your neck, sucking on your pulse point and making you rock upwards, seeking friction.

Aaron started kissing his way down your body, lending great attention to your breasts again. He licked and sucked before he nipped gently, making you bury your hands into his hair. He groaned against your skin, thrusting his hips into nothing.

“What you do to me…”

He made his way down, kissing your stomach with so much affection that you felt cherished from head to toe.

You’d do the same to him some other him. You promised yourself that right there and then.

You were about ready to lose your mind once he settled between your legs, blowing hot air on your aching cunt.

“Please.”

“Say my name,” he demanded.

“Aaron.”

He grinned before he kissed your inner thighs, spreading you wide and pulling your legs over his shoulders.

“You smell delicious, sweet girl.”

He licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit, not losing any precious seconds before he sucked on it, making you rock your pussy onto his face.

He pressed down on your stomach with one hand, keeping you in place. He flicked his tongue over your clit repeatedly, making you arch your back, thrashing against his face regardless of the hand that he kept on you.

You pulled on his hair as he started sucking more vigorously, shaking his head with the movements of his tongue, making you whimper as you bit harshly into your hand to silence your cries.

He whined the more you pulled, and you released your hold on him. Aaron instantly gathered your hand into his and put it back in his hair.

You resumed the motions, this time gently tugging, and he growled against your cunt, making you thrash more violently under him.

The coil started tightening in record time, threatening to tear incessantly, and you were helpless to his oral assault. He seemed to understand his hand was pointless on your stomach the more you moved, and he removed his mouth, licking his fingers before he breached you with one, putting his mouth back where it belonged before you could protest.

He devoured you while he finger-fucked you, and you were left trying to find the right words to express how absolutely wrecked you were. He was ruining you for every other man, and he looked as if he knew it. He looked way too smug to be able to get you off this easily.

He added another finger, arching them into you just so.

You saw stars before you could even warn him, and you came with a loud shudder as you heard him growl your name from between your legs.

He didn’t relent, and when you started whining because of how sensitive you were, it seemed to fuel him. He was trying to milk this orgasm out of you bit by bit, and he was succeeding. Your legs quivered and unexpectedly, you felt a spurt of wetness drip down your pussy and onto his face.

You could barely comprehend what had happened when you got lost in subspace, but the sound of his voice kept you firmly tethered in the here and now.

Aaron made his way up to your face, kissing your cheek so delicately after basically eating you out like a five-star meal.

His face glistened with your juices, and you realized how soaked his face was, how sticky and warm it was, but he didn’t seem to care and you certainly didn’t.

You cupped his face with one hand, letting the other gently pat his hair to make up for the fact that you had pulled on his roots.

He definitely liked having your fingers massage his scalp, he shuddered as you traced his scalp with your fingernails.

He looked at you with a simple question in his eyes, but the only thing you could think to say was, “Please fuck me.”

He met your gaze with a serious look, his frown deepening. “If I take you, there’s no going back, sweet girl. I don’t share.”

He was making a statement but offering you an out. He was opening the door, but he wasn’t letting it close behind you. He was serious about this whole thing, and it occurred to you all at once that he liked you enough to not want to share you.

And while you were ready to agree to anything to feel him inside you, while you needed it like you needed air, you liked him enough to know what you were agreeing to.

What you felt for him was sometimes inexplicable, but there was no denying that you would not want any other man to touch you after this.

You caressed his raven hair once more, smiling at him without a single doubt clouding your mind. Two orgasms would tend to make anyone carefree, but above all else, as bare as you were, you felt safe. Protected. Cared for. At home.

He smiled back when he didn’t find you uncertain, and he kissed your forehead before he moved to find something in the drawer of his nightstand.

If ever this was the one and only time you got to be with him, you needed to feel him. If ever your morals got to you in the morning, if your head went against your heart, you needed to be as close to him as you could.

“Aaron, I’m on the pill. Please… I need to feel you.”

He nodded and positioned himself between your legs again, but something overcame him as you tried to bring his face closer to yours to finally find out how his lips felt against yours.

He flipped you on your stomach as if you weighed nothing at all, a hand found its way to your stomach, bringing your ass up in the air.

On all fours, you felt incredibly naked before him. But he stroked your skin lovingly, and somehow, it felt right. It felt magnificent.

You didn’t feel all that naked anymore.

He tapped his cock on your ass a few times before he breached you with the head of his cock, making you clench around the width unwillingly.

You groaned and whimpered the more he sank into you, stretching you out and splitting you in half painfully slowly.

“So fucking tight–” he grumbled.

A hand settled on your waist, gripping it tightly as you felt him twitch inside you. He would probably leave a mark if he continued to grip your waist this way, but you would admire it for days to come if he did.

Fortunately, you were still dripping wet so it didn’t take long for the pain to subside and blend with pleasure, a dull throb echoing around your inner walls and making you clench around his dick.

He was fully sheathed, but he made sure you remained bent over, your face breathing in his scent on the pillows.

It was intoxicating to be surrounded by all of him, but it was also troubling because you would never get enough.

He slowly pulled out before he drove his cock back in in one go, and it was obvious as you tried to think that you had been rendered dumb and mute by his dick.

“Mmffhm—”

“You feel so good, sweetheart.”

His hips started snapping abruptly, his rhythm unforgiving as he thrusted in and out of you sharply.

Aaron was surely driven by forces of nature or by sheer animal instinct as he gripped your ass cheeks with his hands, chewing your flesh with his fingers.

It felt absolutely amazing to be taken.

It felt empowering to know he was making you his.

“Go on, tell me this pussy’s mine,” he drawled as his thrusts became sloppy.

“Yours. All yours,” you affirmed, chanting his name into the pillows as each thrust of his hips made your cheek rub against the sheets.

His thumb gently tapped on your asshole, letting you know you were at his mercy.

“All those pretty little holes are mine,” he groaned. “You are mine. Say it.”

“Yes,” you whimpered. “I’m yours.”

He let a hand wander down to your stomach before he reached your clit, palming you enough to make you shiver and thrash relentlessly on the bed.

The only sounds in the room were skin tapping against skin, muffled moans, and low groans.

He worked his fingers on your clit with harsher flicks, rubbing and pinching in succession.

“You’re clenching so hard around me, sweet thing. You have a vice grip on my dick.”

You could only partially moan incoherent syllables. “Mmffhm—”

“That’s right. I’m fucking you so good that you have to keep quiet or we’ll make the entire neighborhood.” He punctuated his sentences with harsher thrusts. “One day, though, I’m going to make sure to memorize all your pretty sounds while you beg and scream my name.”

Would there be another time? It wasn’t the first time he had suggested it tonight.

You couldn’t even think straight.

“I can feel your walls fluttering. Is the coil in your stomach tight?” he whispered breathlessly.

You barely nodded and a few soft slaps landed on your ass cheek, making you miss his fingers on your clit, but the sting of his palm was exquisite, sending an electric shiver down your spine before you felt flutters in your chest. Your stomach burned with need, you overflowed with happiness, and you were so close to losing it for a third time.

“Oh.”

“You like that, too, huh?” he teased. He said it as if he was making mental notes of everything that turned you on, and knowing him the way you did, he probably was. He was nothing if not observant, and he would surely make sure to know exactly how to get you off if the occasion presented itself again.

You couldn’t blame him, because regardless of the fact that you couldn’t form a single sentence, you had still taken note of everything that made him moan somewhere. You’d probably even get to revisit those things in your fantasies.

Aaron was all you could think about and he was all you could feel. He was everything that you wanted, and he would be everything you would ever want.

He drove his dick into you with longer thrusts, hitting so deep you saw stars as you chanted his name. He was not just grazing your g-spot, he was actually hitting it with precision every time he sank into you, and when his fingers found your clit again, you had to bite into his pillow to refrain from screaming your lungs out as your orgasm rocked you in waves.

You hadn’t had time to warn him, but it seemed to be a blessing when you felt him still behind you, his deep groans filling the room.

You felt him throb inside you, pulsating with each shot of cum you felt painting your walls.

He seemed to come for longer than you were used to, shaking violently enough to rattle the bed, but you wouldn’t move because you weren’t sure you could, and you wanted nothing more than to have his seed everywhere inside you.

Aaron suddenly let his entire weight fall down on you, seemingly unable to hold himself up any longer, toppling you over before he pulled you close to him as he rested on his side, watching you on your front as he started to delicately trace your spine with his fingers.

He smiled at you lazily, like a man who had just fucked you silly.

He looked proud, but he also looked genuinely happy.

You smiled back, finding it easy to be lost in this silent moment with him.

Nothing needed to be said or acknowledged.

His cum was shoved so deep inside you, his dick had stretched you so good you’d feel it for days, and he was smiling at you with affection in his sparkling eyes.

You didn’t want to wonder whether it would happen again because you were determined to make sure it would.

You remained transfixed for a few minutes, waiting for your trembling limbs to stop tingling.

Aaron started drifting off, but he shook himself awake and he grabbed your hand with determination. “Come on, I’ll wash you.”

You tried to follow him to what looked like an ensuite bathroom, but your legs were too wobbly to sustain you.

“My legs–” you explained as you almost fell face first.

His arms held you up effortlessly, and he just looked way too smug to have made your legs surrender.

“Oh, I’ll take care of you,” he cooed.

Aaron picked you up bridal style without notice as if it was normal to do so, bringing you to his shower as he started it with one hand.

He made it seem easy to hold you up, and you put your arms around his neck, indulging in the proximity he was providing.

He brought you inside the shower once he seemed satisfied with the water temperature, putting you down worriedly, holding you close as you verified that your legs could hold you up.

He was so gentle and careful, you wondered if this was the same man who had just fucked you senseless into the mattress, the same man who had told you to tell him you were his.

The same man who is your best friend’s father.

It came crashing down on you all at once.

You felt guilty, but you couldn’t bring yourself to regret any of it.

Truth was, you would do it again.

All of it.

Am I a horrible friend?

It didn’t matter when Aaron was looking at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever held.

He kissed your forehead under the spray, letting his lips linger there before he kissed your nose and hovered above your lips.

You didn’t let him hesitate, knowing he had probably not kissed you until now because this was sacred. This was more. This wasn’t about carnal needs or desires, it was about having a real emotional connection.

It was about acknowledging this was more than just fucking.

You grabbed his head and closed the distance, finally finding out that his lips were soft and sweet, and that his breath was warm and soothing.

You kissed him until he let you graze his tongue, until you sucked on his lower lip, until his knees buckled and you had to hold him up as much as he was holding you up.

He was out of breath by the time you pulled away, his eyes dark but soft.

This time, he was the one who couldn’t find the right words.

“Can I wash your hair?” you inquired.

You knew he liked having your fingers in his hair, and you figured that since you were both wet anyway...

He nodded and kneeled, picking up his bottle of shampoo before handing it to you with a grin.

His eyes gleamed with anticipation, and he hugged your waist as you patted his head, watching how much younger he looked like this. The lines on his face were nothing if not incredibly attractive, but his whole demeanor as he kneeled innocently before you was simply adorable. He looked carefree, but above all else, he was unguarded.

Aaron moved back just enough to let you work, his hands on your legs, looking up at you like a golden retriever looked at his favorite human, with pretty and big brown eyes filled with adoration.

You finished washing his hair and you used his body gel to wash yourself clean swiftly, loving that you would smell like him for hours if you wondered whether your mind had played a sick trick on you when you woke up.

Aaron let his head fall down and for a second, you admired his fleeting vulnerability. You had caught a few glimpses of it tonight, but you knew without a doubt he was having second thoughts because of his son.

He was a good man. You were a good person. At least, you thought so.

And you had both just done something very… questionable.

But questionable shouldn’t feel this good, right?

“He doesn’t hate you, you know,” you whispered softly, hoping to calm the quiet storm which seemed to rage inside him.

You lifted his chin with your fingers, meeting his tender but apprehensive gaze. He wasn’t hiding and he wasn’t panicking, he was just calling his morality into question. You knew because you were, too.

He was completely bare before you, in every way possible. “Thank you.”

Aaron didn’t voice that Jack would probably hate him if he found out about this, and you were grateful for that.

Nothing needed to be said. You had both risked your relationship with Jack tonight.

He didn’t mention that he was concerned that his son already hated him either, but you knew he was worried. To be fair, Jack probably hated the entire world because of his breakup right now, and you didn’t think it had been directed at Aaron in particular. You were both just caught in the crossfire earlier.

While he and Jack had had their fair share of hurt, their relationship wasn’t rocky. You knew that much. After all, you were around for the last two years and not once did you feel any animosity between them.

You got on your knees, hugging him close under the warm spray. Whatever this was, whatever happened, he deserved comfort.

You got out of the shower still holding on to one another, wrapping yourselves up into towels before you walked back into his room.

He offered you a tee shirt before he kissed your crown, his arms wrapping themselves around your waist. “Are you hungry? I could make us something.”

He was so thoughtful, so considerate…

I am in love with him.

It wasn’t a scary realization, it wasn’t even unsettling. It was just there.

“I’m good. Thank you.”

He smiled and put the tee shirt down over your head before he put on a pair of boxers. You wondered what the right course of action was as he got settled in bed, but it became obvious as you watched Aaron opening up his arms to you. You didn’t hesitate and you wrapped yourself around him like a koala, your arms finding their rightful place around his waist.

He kissed your forehead again, his lips lingering there.

“What does this mean?” you finally asked, addressing this pleasant energy between you.

“It means that you should sleep here more often.”

“Aaron–” It still sounded foreign rolling around in your mouth, after all, you had called him ‘Mr. Hotchner’ for over two years, but it was not unnatural. “What are we–”

“I don’t know. Just stay with me?”

“This can’t ever happen again, right? Jack would never forgive us if he found out.”

“Why? He doesn’t want you for himself–”

Wait. How does he know that?

“Sorry?”

"I know my son isn't attracted to women, sweetheart. I figure, when he's ready, he'll tell me."

Apparently, Aaron was as observing as you gave him credit for.

But Jack wouldn’t be mad because he was jealous. He would be mad because he brought you here, and you had betrayed his trust.

“It’s not that. He’s my only friend. He’s–”

“Taking you for granted most of the time. He’s everything to you but–” He paused. He clearly knew how much it hurt you to hear it voiced out loud. “You’re a great friend, honey. He’s not. I know my son. I still love him but he’s not perfect– Look, you might have convinced yourself he was the closest thing you had to a brother, but I’m telling you, a friend– a brother– gives back. You bring him back from parties, you make up cue cards for him when he needs to study, you do some of his essays… When was the last time he did something for you?” He paused again, letting you think. “And if he knows exactly who you are like you think he does, he must know what kind of men you like–” he added, tracing your arm with the tips of his fingers, raising goosebumps as he painted your skin with soft touches. “And still, he brought you here…”

“Aaron–”

He kissed your forehead, angling his body so you could curl into his embrace a bit more. His lips were slightly parted as he looked into your eyes, and a faint taint appeared on his cheeks.

You crinkled your nose in amusement at the sight.

He was buried inside you minutes ago, and now he was blushing because you had used his first name unprompted.

He loved hearing his name leave your lips, that much was obvious from his dilated pupils and long lazy blinks.

“I’ll be good to you, sweetheart. I just need you to let me,” he murmured.

His hand finally sat on your rib cage, and you involuntarily pouted because this was exactly what you wanted, and he was offering it to you on a silver platter without any reservation.

“I just–”

“Sweetheart, we could find a million reasons not to but I want–” He paused, long enough for you to admire his pursed lips and furrowed brow. He was gorgeous self-assured, as you knew, but he was somehow even more stunning when he was insecure. He tugged on the hem of the shirt he had put on you, bowing his head down before zeroing in on your face. A fond expression ghosted over his features, looking at you through eyelashes that should be illegal on a man. “Look, we’ll figure it out, okay? You live alone, we can sneak around and… I don’t know. We don’t have to decide anything just yet, but I’d like to explore this. I really like you.”

“I– uh– yes. Me too.”

He set an alarm on his phone before he kissed the top of your head, squeezing you tightly into his arms.

“Sleep, sweet girl. I’ll wake you. Jack sleeps in till noon when he’s hungover anyway.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

You didn’t miss how his breath hitched at the nickname or how his pulse quickened as you yawned against his chest.

He let out a long breath as his arms engulfed you, lulling you into peaceful safety and unwavering comfort. He played with your hair and massaged your neck, tracing the lines of your face with his fingertips as if he wanted to be able to draw you from memory, effectively rendering you oblivious to the world before you could think about the possible repercussions of what you had just agreed to be for one another.

-------

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#aaron hotchner #one shot #smut #ah oneshot #ah smut

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spookyreads · 6 days ago

Text

Wedding Planning Fights

Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Pre-established)

Summary:

After a year and a half of being engaged, you and Bucky sit down to start planning your wedding. Except it comes out you hate weddings, and suddenly it's not so coincidental that a date hasn't been set. Cue: A petty disagreement, a bomb, and patching up.

Warnings: (mdni) just fluff, brief mentions of blowjobs and making up, first fic so bad writing lmao

Word count: 7.3k

Bucky Barnes had spent decades surviving wars, time, even his own mind. But nothing made the years more worth like you did.

He remembers the day he first saw you, the edges of the memory still sharp, like everything was in those first few months when his head was his own again and it felt like his functions were dialled to 43. Even when his mind was still a little raw from the reversal that Shuri and the rest of the team in Wakanda had put him through to remove the trigger words.

Free at last, sure. But not free of guilt. No, in fact, the weight of his actions only rang heavier. It would take much longer to start touching that, maybe even forever. After all, how could you wash away that much blood. So he did what he thought was right, he joined Steve in the Avengers. Pay it forward. Use all those decades of evil to fight against the same force that had used him against all of them long before the Avengers Initiative even took place. Take them down with their own weapon, the irony… now that was something he could live with.

It hadn’t been instantaneous. Probably about a week after he moved into the compound, still unsure how to sleep in a bed instead of the floor, unsure how to sit in a room with other people and feel deserving. Steve had told the team to give him time and space. To not overwhelm him, give him time to adjust. Of course, he’d met most of them during the whole Sokovia Accords issue. The issue he caused. Tony still avoids him now–hands off his arm repairs to some S.H.I.E.L.D engineer (Fitz something) that they have to specially call in every few months.

But then one day you had been there, perched right outside of Banner’s lab, muttering curses under your breath like he’d kicked you out. When you heard him coming, you only looked up and held out your hand. That was instantaneous. Instinct even, like the drills HYDRA put him through until he knew how to reload a gun in 6.4 seconds blindfolded, and then 4. Then 2.3. That this woman would be the only woman for him.

And you introduced yourself like he was the warm and sunny pre-school teacher your son gushes about or someone who donates 2.4 million to charity every month instead of the brainwashed assassin that you’ve definitely heard screaming through your shared wall in the middle of the night.

It had taken years for them. Years for him to unlearn all those instincts, to build trust and forgive himself. Teammates first. Just two people sat next to each other on the quinjet to whatever HYDRA base Fury wanted gone. He was the intel, the muscle, the animal. THe rest were the heroes.

Second came friends. Evening talks in the kitchen when you ran into him during one of your snack runs. Advice in the gym when you asked him to breakdown one of Nat’s takedown moves so you could be better. And then nights. One night. When everything felt too much, and he felt safe enough to ask for help. Safe enough to expect someone to see the worst side of him and stay.

And you did.

So maybe it’s not so crazy that almost six years down the line that you were both getting married. That is, if you could find five minutes of uninterrupted time to plan the thing.

Between team missions, separate missions, off-the-books clean-ups and attacks, a minor alien invasion and a drastic invasion of alien tech in the hands of HYDRA, things weren’t… progressing. Nat even started to joke you were getting cold feet and were just appeasing him. He found it funny, or at least pretended to, until a year and a half had passed since he’d proposed and the date was still not set. But he supposed, weddings were important to women and the difference between a summer wedding and a spring wedding was just too big of a decision to not think through thoroughly.

Didn’t stop the press from caring. Apparently the lives of a brainwashed assassin now turned supersoldier Avenger with a… colourful past begging the sweet, relatable Avenger who came from a suburban background to marry him was big news. The large gap between engagement and wedding was a very prominent topic amongst the headlines, including theories of separation and even goddamn pregnancy when you wore his oversized sweaters in the city for three consecutive weeks of spring.

But last week Pepper came by to drop off a binder thick enough to rival the entire history of S.H.I.E.L.D and an abominable amount of bridal magazines to ‘help you get some ideas.’ So finally, finally, you were sitting down to sort through wedding plans.

The compound was unusually quiet–half the team taking advantage of a quiet day. The afternoon sunlight spilled across the common room, warming the leather of the sofa. You were curled into Bucky’s side, his flesh arm wrapped snug around your shoulders, the weight of it warm and reassuring as his metal arm rested on your thigh, drawing slow circles that made goosebumps rise from the coolness.

“This is so boring,” you groaned, thunking your head against his bicep with a little more force than necessary. You pointed the seventh bridal magazine of the hour at him. “Is there even a difference between alabaster white and salt white?”

His brows furrowed in exaggerated offense, and he pulled your thigh closer to his lap. “Do you want to ruin our wedding?” And then, a little less jokingly: “You seriously can’t tell either? I just thought years of mind scrambling made all shades of white look the same.”

“I think this is a form of mind scrambling,” you muttered, flipping the page with a little more bite in your wrist than needed. Tearing a page would be considered self-defense.

He dipped his head to kiss your shoulder, the warmth of his lips followed by the faintest brush of stubble. If you asked, he’d say he didn’t have time to shave after spending three days on some covert op with Steve and Sam, but you both knew he did it because you preferred him with the dark facial hair. “Are you telling me you don’t have a burning passion for satin versus silk?” He leaned forward to squint at the page like he does when he pretends to understand Peter’s chemistry homework, except this was a full spread about napkins. Just napkins. Colours. Themes. Materials.

“Satin, obviously.”

Bucky made a show of considering the options, tilting his head and running his metal hand through his shoulder-length locks. He tapped a finger against his chin as if mulling over a life-or-death decision, like he would when assessing different exit strategies for assignments. “I don’t know, baby. I think silk has a certain, ah… elegance to it. It's more... classy, and we’re classy people, don't you think?"

“Not for a napkin. Napkins have to be about practicality. If I’m going to spill a drink on the table, I’d want to go with the material that has the ability to absorb it.”

Bucky gasped, blue eyes wide in mock horror. "Practicality? You want us shunned from every billionaire Stark insists we invite? Our guests will look down and see plain, salt-white napkins—” he lowered his voice to a scandalized whisper, “not satin?”

The grin tugging at his mouth only made you glare harder. “It’s not even funny. God, I despise weddings.”

The words slipped out so casually, casual enough he would have laughed if there wasn’t a trace of honest disdain directed at the magazine. “You hate weddings?” He asked, eyebrows rising in disbelief. He shifted back against the sofa, tugging you with him until you’re resting against his chest. The now-abandoned magazine slipped between your tangled legs, forgotten. “I thought every woman dreamed of the perfect wedding day.”

“Not once.”

He went quiet at that. You glanced up to see his expression flicker—surprise, maybe disappointment—before the walls went up again, his features smoothing out. His hand drifted down your arm, thumb tracing lazy circles, but his mind was already running ahead.

Maybe it was because he had grown up in Brooklyn, in an era a lot different than this one. A time when a wedding was the American dream–the thing girls used to plan from the moment they were old enough to play dress-up with their mom’s dusty wedding dress in the attic. The idea that his fiancée suddenly has a hatred for weddings–the ceremony of it–was foreign to him.

He’d known you’d always been more hesitant about marriage, a result of your childhood, you’d told him. But after discussions about the possibility of marriage from your third year of being together, and your acceptance of his proposal, he’d figured you had come around. That you felt safe enough that he wouldn’t lie, leave or cheat, to be optimistic enough about your future. Your union.

“I dreamed of being an Avenger, so yay me!”

He snorted, but it didn’t reach that level of genuinity that he often did. "You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"

You snorted back.

“I’m serious,” he continued, his voice dry in the way it goes when an argument brews. That was one of the things that took you a long time to figure out about Bucky, he was opinionated and stubborn, but only to those he was vocal about not liking. But when it came to people he cared about–people like you and Steve–he often wrapped his opinions in a joke, something to guage your reaction with first before he went steaming ahead. “You're so enthusiastic and joyous. It's infectious. Don’t think I’m going to sleep for months, counting down the days until our wedding."

He knew he was going to start sounding like a dick sooner or later, but your nonchalance was starting to get to him. The perfect wedding might have been a dream buried with the version of him that fell off the train, but things were different now.

He was happy, healthy, and entirely autonomous. He was secure and safe. And adjusted into a version of himself that was no longer focused on survival but things that normal people want. A house on a quiet street, a cat, maybe even kids one day, if you could both find it in yourselves to walk away from the job. But it was that nonchalance that started to grate.

“What’s wrong with me not being a freak about weddings when I was a kid?”

He huffed, frustration curling in his chest. He didn’t want to be upset about it, he really didn’t and he probably really shouldn’t. It was a matter of opinion, of preference, no different to liking strawberries over bananas. But he couldn’t help but feel caught off guard, like maybe you really had been playing him for a fool like Nat said. And he really wasn’t good with situations he hadn’t been prepared for. “It’s not about being a freak. It's about... tradition. You're supposed to dream of a perfect wedding. Every girl does."

“So, what? I'm suddenly less of a woman because l didn't spend my childhood playing pretend weddings with every celebrity crush I had?”

"That's not what I said and you know it," he bit out, his jaw clenching. How narrow-minded did you think he was to judge your femininity on how much you like weddings. But it would’ve been great information to know one and a half years ago when he asked you to marry him.

“It was a reductive statement regardless.”

You felt his chest rise as he blew out a breath. You were right, and he knew it–old stereotypes laying dormant within him. His fingers resumed their strokes on your arm, unaware of when he had stopped.

"Yeah, it was," he admitted, his voice quieter when he next spoke: "I'm sorry."

And maybe that would have been it, if you hadn’t said: “I just don’t see the point,” in the same breath as his apology.

Because the thing about two Avengers dating, let alone being in the same room together, was the insane amount of head-butting. To do the job you both did, you had to be confident in the decisions you make whilst on the field, and for you and Bucky in particular, there had always been a strong need to prove yourselves. Not to each other, of course, but to other people. Bucky, who had spent decades causing so much pain and damage, had to prove that he was better, that the monster who lurked in shadows wasn’t who he really was. And you? This type of work was a male-dominated field, and you quickly learnt there was a lot of ego to go around, and that meant not taking shit from anyone. Proving being a woman was no different to being a man in this compound.

It didn’t help that you both liked riling each other up. The angrier you both got, the more intense the make-up was after. And that meant pushing each other’s boundaries until you both snapped. Maybe if it was someone else it would be different. Maybe if it was a different guy raising his voice at you, you’d take note of exits, keep your back to the door. Maybe if it was another guy waving his arms around whilst calling you crazy you’d back away. But this was Bucky. Bucky who you spent months encouraging to be a little more handsy in the bedroom when you first got together.

And God, did you love to rile him up. Like that mission in Budapest, when you conveniently went against every precaution and order he had given you. Knowing full well that when you got to the safety house he was going to rip you a new one. He put you through more physical strain than the organisation group you were tracking down thirteen hours prior and six of them had cornered you at once. Can’t say there’s no perks to dating a supersoldier.

But this argument felt different. Less playful and more head-butting.

“The point is us.” He snapped.

“That’s not what I’m trying to–”

He let out a rough exhale, looking pointedly at the kitchen across the room instead of your gaze. “I think that’s exactly what you meant.”

“What are you talking about?”

He huffed in irritation. He wasn’t ready to open up this can of worms, and yet, here you both were. "You said you don't see the point of a wedding," his metal arm squeaked with the force of curling fist. "What else am I supposed to make of that except that you don't see the point of our wedding?"

“That's not tr—”

He cut you off before you could finish, the hurt and anger in his voice raw and biting. "Last I checked, I proposed over a year and a half ago. Most people would either be married by now or waiting for the wedding, because their plans weren’t available ‘til later that year. You’ve just started remembering.”

“We.” You bit back. “We just started.”

“We? Who’s’ been the one pushing to get started. Sure wasn’t you who kept sending those Tiktoks with venue ideas.” That’s… not a lie. Bucky had been the one to send different videos of various influencers and couples getting married with a variety of: ‘What do you think??, Too outdoors?, Used to be a church like this an hour away.’ Or simply: ???

It wasn’t your fault your fyp was slightly different, with videos from the Avengers’ PR team or Labubus and storytimes. Now probably wouldn’t be a good time to bring up getting one for yourself.

“We’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” He mocked. "We're always busy. You'd think a whole year and a half would be enough to at least get the venue booked and the damn date set."

“Because there's so much time to visit different venues,” you shot back.

“Don’t give me that crap,” he retorted, pushing himself off the sofa and leaving you to fall back. “You’re telling me that in the past year and a half you haven't had even five damn minutes to look up wedding venues?"

“Why is it my responsibility? It's your wedding too.” You stand up too.

“My wedding too?” He pointed at himself with his metal hand, expression bordering incredulous. "Last I checked, women were the ones who usually planned the damn things."

“Yeah, though the last time you checked, women were still in the kitchens pushing out babies and waiting for their husbands to get home."

He growled. It always boiled down to that with you. He’d be the first to admit that his opinions often flicked back and forth when it came to the gender gap between the 40s and now. On one hand, he knew plenty of women who were more capable than he was at beating the shit out of someone even with decades of training. The first, being Natasha Romanoff. Though if anyone asked he’d always say you. But yeah, maybe, there was some part of him that still had to adjust to just how different things were now. Didn’t stop him from being pissed off with just how quick she was to shit on it. Sure, the treatment was insane to think back on, and the lack of opportunities present was embarrassing, but it wasn’t like he himself forced every single woman to take on the house role. "Don't bring the feminist crap into this. You know that's not what I meant."

“It was implied.”

"For god's sake, it's a simple fact. Women usually do the wedding planning. It's a goddamn tradition! It's literally advertised as such! I mean you saw Pepper—" He took a step closer to you, and you took one forward.

“Oh, I am so sorry that I'm not an uptight, stuck-up bitch about weddings like she was. I'm sorry I'm not making collages and bringing out childhood scrapbooks.” You were almost chest-to-chest at this point, or whatever version of it that there is when your boyfriend’s a lot taller.

"At least she cared," he shot back, his tone bitter and sharp. "She actually had a vision of her wedding day. She wanted it to be perfect. I bet you don't even know what you want."

“Then how about you go marry her!”

“Maybe I should.” His voice echoed around the open space of the common room, the words no more than a knee-jerk reaction to lash out and win whatever stupid argument they were having now.

“Great, you have her. And I'll have the billionaire fuckboy,”

His jaw clenched, his chest tightening at the mention of Tony. He wasn’t possessive per se, but he was no stranger to jealousy, and it certainly hadn’t cooled down in the past six years of being together. He just got more vocal about expressing it. "Go for it. I mean the guy's practically fawning over you anyway."

“Maybe we should just cancel the whole thing altogether,” you announced. The tension fell flat, the only sound coming from your mixed breaths. You were being cruel, and bratty, and aiming for the shot, and yet you said it anyway. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, maybe even an apology but he beat you to it.

"Maybe we should," he gritted out, his eyes dark with hurt. "Since you don't seem to care about it anyway."

And instead of pulling him down by the shirt, and pulling him in for a kiss like you usually would have done by now, you picked up your hoodie from the sofa and left. You needed a mission.

___________

“I’m sorry, what? Who cares if you don’t like weddings?” Nat’s voice crackled through your comms.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” You adjusted your grip around the small sidearm clasped between your sweaty hands as you made your way down the desolate halls of the HYDRA base you were both raiding, or more accurately, gossiping in. The concrete walls were painted an ugly blend of grey and yellow, and the fluorescent beams of light were starting to form a headache behind your eyes. Somewhere deeper in the base, muffled gunfire echoed but here it was unnervingly quiet.

Straight after the argument with Bucky, if you could call it that, you’d thrown on your stealth suit, zipper catching that little bit of skin on your back that nearly tipped you over the edge. Your boots were laced with jerky, efficient pulls, various weapons tossed haphazardly in a duffel bag. Your engagement ring sat neatly on one of the bedside tables. It felt wrong to take off, even though it was a common occurrence when you went away, not wanting to lose it or break it in the middle of god-knows-where. But this time it felt like a punishment. With one last glance, you made your way to the Quinjet landing pad just in time to find Natasha de-briefing the small team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Thank God, for your workaholic best friend.

“You’re not off the hook either.” She said between breaths, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor and a male grunt. “Both of you are ridiculous. Who even argues about that shit?”

You paused outside a lab door, flattening yourself against the wall. Peeking around the corner, you counted two HYDRA agents and a lab coat inside, backs to you, their attention on the glowing screen.

Once clear, you whisper, “Well if he’d cheat like a normal man, maybe we’d have proper arguments. But no, Bucky Barnes has to be a good boyfriend–”

“Fiancé,” she corrected.

“A good partner.” You rolled your eyes, stepping inside the lab in one fluid motion. The nearest barely had time to turn before you slammed your gun into his temple with a satisfying crack. “He doesn’t leave the toilet seat up, doesn’t leave dirty clothes on the floor, doesn’t follow those Instagram models people complain about. Of course, we have to be petty to argue.”

The other agent lunged towards you, you sidestepped, catching his wrist and twisting hard until he dropped his weapon, then swept his legs out from under him–a move the redhead on the other end of the line had drilled into you long before you advanced to field work.

The dull thud of his head against the floor was swallowed by Natasha’s reply: “But why do you need to argue? If you’re both so happy then surely that’s healthy.”

“You don’t argue just to have fun?” You stepped over the downed agent, watching as the scientist swiftly made his exit with a loud yell. Not a threat. “You really should, the sex gets so much better.”

“What man do you think can keep up with me?” She scoffed. “The closest thing I’ve had to a relationship is that little fling with Banner before you got to the team or whoever this asshole is that I just had between my thighs.” Another grunt and the unmistakable buzzing of her Widow’s Bite. A thud.

“You ever considered a woman?” You asked, ducking under the desk as a stocky agent stormed in with military grace. So maybe the scientist was a beacon instead of a threat. He opened fire, bullets sparking against the metal. You waited for a pause in the spray, then vaulted over the metal table, kicking him square in the chest and sending him and his weapon sprawling in different directions.

“I’ll consider it the next time I start thinking about weddings. Which is never, by the way.”

You punched. He dodged. You kicked. He dodged. His eyes flicked to the gun abandoned on the floor, allowing you to step up on his bent knee and wrap your thighs around his neck. Another gift of wisdom from your best friend. You pull your own gun from your holster. One bullet. You roll into your fall.

“You don’t either? Can you tell Bucky that when we get back.”

“I’m different. I’m not the one engaged to the guy. When you say yes to the ring, you say yes to the whole ordeal.”

“It was a big ring,” you muttered, sneaking through another long corridor lined with lab rooms, your boots silent on the concrete

“Poor Bucky, he doesn’t even know you said yes just to get the jewellery. What’s it been, two years?”

“One and a half as he so gently reminded me. And that’s not true.” Somewhere along the corridor, a faint electronic beeping rang out. You frowned, scanning the doorways for movement as you continued. “I didn’t even look at the ring when he asked, I said yes because it was him asking. The ring was just a big argument. I don’t know, I said yes to being married to him, not the whole circus that comes with it. I thought he’d agree about not wedding some big wedding, but what if we doesn’t see things the same–”

The beeping quickened.

Your head snapped toward the sound, and your stomach dropped.

A small, black device blinked red in time with the rising pitch of the alarm. Right above the doorway of the lab you’d probably wager contained the intel Natasha was looking for. You were never going to live this down. The first rule of basic missions? Use your fucking eyes.

You only got three quarters down the hallway when the bomb went off, a flash of heat and red hurling you into the eastern wall.

___________

Bucky paced around your shared bedroom, his mind replaying the last conversation with you. His heart had sunk at the sight of the ring on your bedside table, right next to the coffee mug he had brought you that morning. He told himself to not read into it, not like he would have in the early stages of your relationship, when he’d take this sign that you had finally realised he wasn’t worth the trouble.

But you took it off for missions. And he had checked, confirmed it with F.R.I.D.A.Y. hours ago that you had in fact boarded the first Quinjet out of here. Given the conversation before, it made sense you wanted to be in an environment you knew like the back of your hand. Over the years, he’d taken up one of the training positions Fury usually guilted Steve into because as it turned out he actually enjoyed being paid to shout at people, but as a result he had met a variety of agents and heroes.

Like Peter, who had taken up the mantle of Spider-Man with innocent curiosity and a need to deal with grief. Wanda, who had signed up and not understood which side she should’ve chosen. And then there was Dr. Banner, who still hadn’t accepted that side of himself. But you? You were born to be on the field. Where other agents drowned in adrenaline, your heart calmed. Where senses were overloaded with gunfire and a thousand different angles of attack, you glided through with the same narrowed gaze of someone who went to the supermarket to pick up two peppers and a bag of rice. Maybe you would have noticed the whole-ass bomb sooner, if you had less self-confidence and a little more fear, he’d later think.

It wasn’t until 4 A.M. when he got the alert from F.R.I.D.A.Y. that you were back. He wasn’t sure at first if he should go to the landing pad, did you find this as ridiculous as he did when he really thought about it? Or was this a problem? Maybe sometime away you realised that the marriage thing wasn’t what you wanted and your conflicting thoughts on a wedding were the iceberg? Should he pretend he was asleep and wait until morning to face each other?

He was already passing medbay when he spotted you, boots hitting the ramp of the Quinjet. Natasha was beside you, one hand hovering protectively while the other tried to prod at the sickening streak of dried blood along your hairline, her mouth moving with teasing comments.

His stomach flipped. Not even your impatient slapping at Natasha’s hands, complete with colorful swearing, was enough to ease the punch of panic in his gut.

"Jesus Christ." The words slipped out as he closed the distance between them, the relief he felt at seeing her alive overshadowed by sheer panic at the sight of the blood. His hands wrapping tight around her waist.

“You’re here.” you breathed, your own hands falling from batting Natasha away.

Natasha patted you on the back, murmuring something about enjoying your pathetic sex lives. “It’s more performative than anything. Just hit a spot that bleeds a lot.”

That didn’t reassure him either. Not even close. His thumb brushed gently against your temple, sweeping back your hair so he could see the wound better, his touch uncharacteristically soft. “You’re getting patched up. Now.”

He’s already turning to take you to the medbay, conveniently built to be right by the launching and landing pads in case of emergencies, but a cold hand on his wrist stops him. “Can you do it? Don’t think I can handle whatever interns are in there.”

He let out a huff, weighing the options but eventually nodding, his hand wrapping around your shoulders. "Yeah, I can do it. Come on."

He guided you through the silent corridors of the compound, his grip firm. His gaze flickered to the blood on your hairline. Dry, sure, but too light to not be recent.

“Headache?” He asked.

“Throbbing. Vision’s going a little dotty too.”

He hummed, likely a concussion forming. He pulled you closer in case you fell.

“Ears are ringing too. So might need you to be louder.”

His head snapped towards you, eyes comical. “Fuckin–” He shook his head, a deep breath and brought you through the common room. “If it gets worse we’re going to medbay.”

Once you reached your room, he guided you to the bathroom before you could notice the bed was still made, unused, and sat you down on the edge of the toilet seat. He attempted the light, but the second you winced, he opted for the smaller one above the mirror, silently grateful for his advanced sight.

Medkit in hand, he kneaded in front of you, expression serious as he examined the injury. Eyes unfocused, you catalogued the sharp furrow of his brow, the lines of worry across his forehead. But those eyes. Those blue eyes contained everything he needed to say.

He was silent for a few moments as he worked on the cut, only broken by his warning of the antiseptic that he was about to press into your head. His hands worked with practiced ease, the motions familiar and precise and there was something almost soothing in the act–a sense of purpose and control that came with dating the former Winter Soldier. Eventually, he whispered: "You gonna tell me how you got this?"

“I’d rather save face.” He applied more pressure to the antiseptic wipe. “Ow– Asshole.”

“You might not have had a face to save. Tell me what happened.”

“Bomb went off. It was hidden very covertly. I mean, even x-ray vision wouldn’t–”

“On top of the door?”

“...Yeah,” you whine, shoulders slumping.

He let out a low sigh, shaking his head. “Keep telling you, baby. Gotta look up too.”

“Was talking to Nat about the argument.”

“Oh good, I was worried that no one has been involved in our relationship lately.”

“I’m sorry. It was so stupid.”

Relief flickered in his eyes. “Thank you. So stupid.” He reached for another wipe when the first came away streaked red again.

You eyed him warily. “Still bleeding?”

“Every time I clean it, yeah. Gotta hold it for a while.” His tone softened. “I’m sorry too, for the record.”

Silence stretched between you, disrupted only by the sound of a packet tearing as he got the gauze out. The sterile scent of antiseptic still filled the room, mixing the metallic from your blood. Your head throbbed harder than before, the thought of the injury only making the room spin more.

“Think I regret saying yes,” you murmured, voice fragile. Maybe now wasn’t a good time to have this conversation, but waiting in ambiguity felt too damaging.

His fingers stilled mid-motion, the gauze poised in the air. For a long heartbeat, his gaze locked with yours, hurt flickering behind whatever neutrality he tried to possess. “You... regret it?”

You swallowed against the pounding in your skull, closing your eyes to try to ease the pain. “Don’t want a wedding. Don’t wanna get married.”

He fell silent, the words weighing down his chest. His breath caught, throat suddenly tight. But his hands kept working, slow and precise, a habit he had whenever you two had a difficult conversation. "You don't..." he repeated, his voice a quiet whisper as he finally pressed the gauze to your hairline. “You don't want to marry me?"

You opened your eyes and reached up, fingers trembling slightly as you brushed a stray lock of his hair behind his ear. It had grown out again and he’d probably ask you to trim it soon, just like you did every few months. “I should have married you years ago.”

His brows knitted together, confusion and hope swirling together. “What are you saying, baby?”

“Should've woken you up in the middle of the night. Told you to get your coat cause m'gonna marry you. Not waited until you had to propose.”

The faintest smile curved the corner of his mouth in the dim light and you traced it with your thumb. He wasn’t sure whether to trust the ramblings of a woman with a concussion blooming the longer they stayed here.

“I'm against marriage. Did you know that?” You continued.

"Yeah, baby," His fingers lifted the gauze to check the status of your bleeding. "You were very vocal about that, just figured we were different."

“I don't want to be your fiancée.”

He dropped the bloodied gauze into the growing pile of stained wipes, then rested his hands on your thighs, thumbs tracing absent circles. It was a habit, an unconscious gesture born from half a decade of touching you like this, he probably wasn’t even aware he did it. He took another deep breath, preparing himself. “Are you breaking up with me? Calling it off?”

You shook your head. “Wanna wake up tomorrow and be your wife.”

He let out a shaky exhale, his fingers tightening on your thighs as if you night disappear like all those nightmares he tried to hide from you. 'You're serious?" he trembled. "Just checking… You want to marry me even though you hate everything that it includes?"

“I don't even know why you want a wedding. You hate pompous things.”

He laughed. He did hate pompous things, that’s why he always avoided Stark’s galas. The thought of having to go through a fancy, over-the-top wedding ceremony with a bunch of uptight assholes... it made his skin crawl. But that didn't change how he felt about you, how he wanted to show you off. "I don't care about the pompous bullshit," he confessed. "Just wanted a day where everyone saw you."

You nodded slowly, eyes heavy-lidded as your head dipped a little, exhaustion threatening to pull you under. He turned back to the medkit, pulling out a strip of butterfly bandages. “You’re lucky this isn’t deep.”

“I put my hands over my head.”

He snorted. “Can’t find a bomb but you can do that?”

“It happens,” you yawned, eyes closing briefly as his fingers brushed your hairline. The cut was nearly invisible now that the blood had stopped. “I'll do the wedding thing. If you want it. I won't be happy about it. And I won't pretend to be. It's not that I'm selfish. Or that I don't care. But none of that stuff means anything to me. It's like when you start naming guns. Or I try to explain online drama. We try to grasp it but we can't, and I can’t grasp the idea of wedding stuff like flowers and menus.”

"Don't do something you don't wanna do just for me," he finally replied, finishing up with the patching.

“If it means so much to you I will.”

His heart clenched, tears making their way to his eyes. He hated the idea of you doing something you didn't want to, to please him but the knowledge that you’d spend months planning with him, spend the day going through the notions just because you knew it’s what he wanted… damn. "You'll hate every second of it, you know that, right?"

You gave a tired smirk. “Probably will run away on the day. Think you can catch a runaway bride?”

He barked out a laugh, his chest tightening with affection. He'd chase you around the world if he had to. "Damn right I can. I'm a goddamn super soldier. Catching a runaway bride would be a piece of cake."

“I have a condition,” your arms wrapped around his shoulders.

He arched an eyebrow, cautious but curious. “And what might that condition be, baby?”

“You marry me first. Just us.” Your heart stalled, maybe you were asking too much. Maybe he was right to think there was something wrong with you for not wanting to be a bride, for not idolizing weddings.

He was quiet for a long moment, gaze tracing every line of your face, the harsh lines of cheeks, the soft curve of your lips. He swallowed hard. “I’m assuming no white wedding dress?”

“For which one?”

“The first one. The one that’s just ours.”

“I can wear one,” you offer.

"You'd do that?" he asked, his voice quiet in the dark bathroom.

You chuckled. “M'gonna have to get two, aren't I? I fear the first one won't survive the first wedding night.”

He let out a shaky laugh, his hand moving to the back of your neck, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. His metal arm whirled, tightening around your thigh. “Yeah, baby. You’ll have to do that.”

“Does that mean we have two wedding nights? Because I don't know if I can compete with myself.”

He smiled against your skin, voice a soft murmur. "Baby, you've had me wrapped around your damn finger since the day I met you," he whispered. "I think you can compete just fine." Two wedding nights. The thought nearly overwhelmed him.

“The second one probably won't be as good as the first.” You teased. “You'll probably be like 'this again? Let's just go to sleep.’”

He chuckled softly, lowering his head to rest against your chest. Your warmth grounded him in ways nothing else could. "Not a chance, baby," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your suit. "There ain't a chance in hell l'd ever say that. You know damn well I'll never get enough of you. Especially not when l'd have a lot to be thanking you for."

“Don't have to thank me for doing a wedding.”

He squeezed your hips, sliding you across the toilet lid until you were almost perched on his crouched lap. "I'm gonna thank you anyway. For doing something for me that you don't really want to do," he murmured. His voice was quiet and slightly shaky, the realization that they were really doing this hitting him like a truck.

“You're not gonna make me smile in photos are you?” You joked.

“I would kinda like it if you didn't look like I was kidnapping and forcing you to marry me. I hear it’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life," he replied.

“And it will be. The day I marry you. Not the day I have to put on a performance for family I don't even want there.”

The tenderness in your words made his heart ache all over again. He sighed softly, arms wrapping around you tighter, cradling your head as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

“Can I have ‘Like a Prayer’ as my entrance song?”

He snorted. "You're really gonna try and walk down the aisle to a song about blowjobs?"

You jabbed a finger in his chest. “I giveyou plenty.”

He bit back a groan at the mental image, heat rising through him as his hips pressed up into yours. “Yeah, I know you do,” he murmured. “Just don’t think your family wanna know that.”

“We could get it in’other language. They won’t even know.” Your words slurred more, a mixture of tiredness and injury.

“Maybe we don’t need that wedding after all.”

“Stevie will get it. Especially after he walked in on us like... every damn day last week.”

He probably owed Steve an apology for the sheer number of times his best friend had caught them in compromising positions. He’d started texting Bucky in advance whenever they went for their morning runs, even going as far as to knock three times before entering your bedroom.

"Your fault for not being loud enough, baby," he murmured, fingers tugging at the zipper of your suit.

“Your fault for not doing a good enough job.”

His eyes darkened, challenging flaring. He yanked the zip down harder, a growl at the base of his throat. "I think you and I have very different versions of 'a good job.' And I'd prove it right now if I wasn't so concerned about that concussion."

“I don't have a—”

"Bullshit you don't. You almost passed out when I touched your head, and you've been slurring your words ever since."

You waved your arms in defense, nearly smacking him in the face. “I drank like a bunch of vodka when you weren't looking is all. Better yet the anti bac stuff from the med kit.”

He made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a snort, shaking his head in amused exasperation. "I know for a fact that's not true because they're the lemon kind. You hate lemons," he murmured, one of his hands lifting to brush through your hair, almost unconsciously looking for bumps and bruises.

“But other than that I'm totally viable for being an anti-bac wipe addict?”

"Very funny," he grumbled, his hand still running through your hair, careful of any bumps or bruises. "And here I thought you were a classy lady who was too good for cheap vodka and wipes."

“Not too classy for good di-”

He let out a strangled, almost guttural groan. "Tomorrow. But we're gonna have to keep you up tonight to make sure you're okay."

“Another good reason to ‘Like a Prayer' you. That'll keep me awake.”

Damn you. His mind had already been heading south, and you were just adding to the fire. "You’re not playing that at our wedding," he concluded, pulling the suit down to your waist.

Is it ‘my voice can take you there’ or ‘your voice can take me there?’

"Yeah, we're definitely getting you in bed before the concussion gets worse." He stood, carefully pulling you up with him, not leaving any room to fall.

“Just like a prayer, my voice can take you there.” You hummed softly. “Just like a prayer, your voice can take you there… wait no… your voice can take me there?”

You continued humming along to the song long after Bucly had replaced your suit with one of his large shirts, long after he had tucked you into bed, and long after he had pushed your ring back onto your finger where it belonged.

It was going to be a long night.

#bucky barnes #one shot #bb oneshot

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