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starrykitn · 15 days ago

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My Friend, Superman

Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: You’ve spent months falling for two men: Clark Kent and Superman. One soft but distant, the other larger-than-life and burning. But when a rooftop secret finally breaks, the truth hits harder than any fall—because they’re the same man, and he’s been in love with you from the start.

Word count: 16k

T/w: 18+, mdni, Friends to Lovers, Filthy Sweet Smut, Praise Kink, Oral Sex (f. receiving), Cowgirl Position, Clark getting jealous of himself, Clark Kent is So in Love It’s Embarrassing

The rooftop is cold this late, even in spring. The kind of cold that wraps around your ankles like smoke and settles in your bones, unnoticed until it’s already made a home there. The wind comes off the river with a low, lonely howl, threading its way between the buildings, tugging at your sleeves, chilling the tips of your ears.

The glow from the Daily Planet’s rotating globe above casts a soft gold halo over the rooftop, broken in places by rusted beams and pigeon-shadowed ledges. It makes everything look softer than it is. You sit near the edge with your knees pulled up, mug cupped between your palms, fingers curled tight around the chipped ceramic. The coffee is reheated, burnt, far too bitter. It sticks to your tongue like ash, but the warmth helps.

Your legs dangle over the ledge like a dare. The city hums below, alive and indifferent. Sirens scream in the distance. A car honks and doesn’t stop. Neon flickers against the glass of neighboring buildings. A billboard across the avenue cycles through three rotating ads, each brighter and more ridiculous than the last.

You close your eyes. Let your head tilt back. Let the noise blur. It’s been another long day, endless edits, typo corrections that weren’t yours, layout arguments you weren’t invited to fix but were expected to solve. And then, of course, there was him.

Clark Kent passed you in the hallway again this afternoon. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie slightly loosened. He smiled that sweet, bashful smile that always makes your chest feel too small and kept walking. Like nothing flickered. Like you didn’t want to stop him. Like he didn’t carry the weight of your attention in every step.

You sigh.

You stay late a lot these days. At first it was about deadlines. Then it became about space. Solitude. Stillness. Avoiding the sound of your neighbor’s latest “guy,” or the way your apartment echoes too much when you’re alone in it.

And then, somewhere along the way… he started showing up.

You don’t hear him land. It’s more like you feel it. The air shifts. The rooftop pressure dips like a storm rolling in, only calmer, warmer, like a held breath finally let go. Then the sound: a barely-there thud of boots on concrete, subtle enough to mistake for imagination if you weren’t already listening for him.

You open your eyes just as the wind stills and there he is.

He stands against the backdrop of the sky like he belongs to it. Silhouetted in starlight. Backlit by the city’s glow. Red cape stirring in the wind behind him, long and silent and soft like a sigh. The blue of his suit catches flecks of gold from the globe above, glinting like embers trapped under fabric.

He’s not smiling yet. Just watching you. That steady, unreadable expression he wears when he’s reading the wind. Reading you.

By all logic, you should be awestruck. He’s a myth made flesh, a force of nature walking on two legs, a god who could turn the Earth if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t look like a god. Not tonight.

He looks like a man who’s tired. Gentle. Steady. Someone who knows how to carry things without making you feel their weight.

“Long shift?” he asks, voice quiet. It’s always quiet with him. Low and smooth, with something careful threaded through it. Like he doesn’t want to break the stillness you’ve built.

You exhale, your breath curling visibly in the air between you. “The longest. The Planet rewrote the front page layout for the third time today. I think I’m legally married to my keyboard now.”

That makes him smile. Not the heroic, picture-perfect smile the world’s seen on the front page. This one’s smaller. Warmer. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention, just gives it.

He laughs under his breath, a sound so rare it always feels like it was meant for you.

You shift over on the ledge without thinking, and he moves just as naturally. Sits beside you with one knee bent up, the other hanging over the edge. The cape pools behind him like a banner at rest.

You don’t dare look too long, but you feel the heat of him beside you, unnatural in the cold. Like he carries the sun in his chest and lets you borrow some of it when you forget what warmth feels like.

“You always show up when I need someone to talk to,” you murmur, sipping your coffee.

He hums. “Just lucky timing.”

But when you glance over, you catch the way he’s looking at you, soft, focused, and unblinking. Like maybe he knew you’d be here. Like maybe he was already halfway across the sky and turned around when he heard your footsteps.

Like maybe he’s been listening for your heartbeat all night.

You pretend not to notice. Pretend not to care that his shoulder is inches from yours. That if you leaned just a little closer, you could rest your head against the emblem on his chest and hear the steady beat beneath it.

He looks back out over the city. You do too. The quiet settles between you, not empty, not awkward, just full. Full of all the things you don’t need to say out loud. All the truths you haven’t worked up the courage to voice yet.

It’s been a few months now. Of this. Of him. Of late nights turning into quiet rituals. He never stays too long. Never explains why he comes. But he listens. Always listens.

You’ve told him things you haven’t told anyone. About your childhood bedroom wallpaper. About the first article you ever published. About the funeral you didn’t cry at, and the birthday you still can’t bring yourself to celebrate.

He never interrupts. Never offers false wisdom. He just… stays. Present. Real. And that matters more than you can admit.

“I think I’m getting too used to this,” you whisper, barely above the wind.

He glances at you. One brow lifted. “Used to what?”

You smile, soft into the rim of your cup. “You. Dropping in like this. Talking to me like I’m not just some reporter who yells at politicians and gets coffee orders wrong.”

His head tilts. That unreadable look again. “You’re not just anything,” he says. “Especially not to me.”

The words fall heavy. Solid. You don’t know what to do with them. So you look at him. The sharp line of his jaw. The softness of his mouth. The way his eyes, those unearthly, unforgettable blue eyes, don’t look through you. They look at you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like you’re something he’s memorized from the inside out.

Your heart trips over itself.

You look away. You don’t know why he comes here. Or why he stays. But you’ve stopped questioning it. Because somewhere between deadline nights and rooftop coffees, between quiet smiles and colder hands brushing too close, you’ve found something here that you didn’t know you needed.

Something that feels like peace.

And for now…

That’s enough.

You don’t know what pulls the words from you tonight. Maybe it’s the stillness, how the rooftop seems to hold its breath when he arrives. Maybe it’s the way the wind dulls, the chaos of Metropolis softening at the edges, as if even the city knows to hush when Superman lands.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The way he listens. Not with the kind of vacant patience people use when they’re waiting for their turn to speak, but the real kind, the kind that makes you feel like your voice is the only sound left in the world worth hearing. Like what you say matters.

Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup, ceramic warm against your chilled palms. The bitter scent of burnt roast curls into your nose, the taste still lingering on your tongue like old pennies and late nights. You focus on the swirl of it, watching steam rise into the cold air, hoping it might offer you grace. Or courage.

“There’s this guy at work,” you say at last, voice soft, hesitant. Barely audible over the distant rush of traffic. “Someone I probably shouldn’t be thinking about this much.”

The words feel like they’ve been trapped in your chest for weeks. Maybe longer. You half expect them to get stuck in your throat, but they fall out too easily. Too real.

Superman’s head turns slightly toward you, just enough to catch the shift in his attention. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just waits, still as marble, quiet as snowfall. Only the flick of his cape in the breeze betrays that he’s anything more than stone.

“He’s sweet,” you murmur, tucking a knee beneath you, curling inward. “Kind of dorky. Like… charming in a way that shouldn’t work, but does. Nervous ordering lunch if there’s a line behind him. Stammers sometimes when he talks too fast.”

“Sounds charming,” he says with a soft huff beside you. More breath than laughter, but it’s there.

You let out a low groan and lift your coffee to hide behind it. “He’s impossible.”

“Oh?” he says, amusement warm in the single word.

“I flirt, and he just gives me this wide-eyed look like I’ve offered him a kidney. I complimented his tie once and he turned red all the way to his ears. Like I’d said something indecent.”

You shake your head, laughing into the rim of your mug. It’s easier to talk now, the thread pulled loose and unraveling.

“I brought him coffee every day for a week,” you say, voice quieter. “Put smiley faces on the lid. He said thank you. But not like, ‘thank you beautiful I love you so much’ thank you. It was more like I handed him his dry cleaning and he was thanking me.”

Superman’s lips twitch. Barely. But you catch it. The faintest hint of something, humor, maybe. Or fondness. Or something heavier under the surface.

“He blushes if I so much as stand too close,” you add, half into your cup. “I told him he looked handsome once and he looked like I’d just told him his fly was down in front of the White House press corps.”

“And what’s this mystery man’s name?” Superman asked you.

You pause. The steam from your cup rises, fogging the bottom of your lashes. You can feel the heat blooming in your cheeks before you even say it. Shame coils around your ribs, sharp and a little humiliating, but there’s no point holding it in now.

“…Clark Kent.” The name slips out like a secret. And maybe it is.

The rooftop shifts. Not the wind. Not the world. Him.

He stills beside you. Not visibly. Not obviously. But something settles in his spine. Like the air around him goes denser. Like gravity tugs harder on his frame. Like the whole night narrows.

“Ah,” he says.

Just that.

You glance at him, but his gaze is fixed out on the skyline, jaw set, expression unreadable. The light from the city paints his profile in gold and shadow, and you can’t quite make sense of the tension in it.

You start to regret saying anything. You forgot that Superman and Clark… they know each other. Clark’s the only guy in all of Metropolis to get an interview with Superman, afterall.

“And… he hasn’t made a move?” he asks, but his voice is different now. Quieter. Tighter. Like he’s holding back something sharp in his throat.

You give a small shake of your head. It’s meant to be light, casual, but it doesn’t land that way. Not with the ache behind your words.

“Nope. He probably doesn’t see me that way.” You force a laugh. “I’m background noise. The coworker who won’t shut up about punctuation and calls him out when he leaves his press badge in the copier.”

He doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, but heavy. Like the weight of something unspoken is pressing against both of your ribs.

You shift again. Tuck your hands tighter around your mug. Try not to look at him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is different. Lower. Rougher. “I think you’d be surprised.”

You blink. “What?”

His gaze hasn’t moved. His face still turned toward the skyline. But the edge of his voice has changed. It’s softer, yes, but more certain now. Like every word is deliberate. Measured. Carved from truth he’s not supposed to say aloud. “I think… he notices more than you realize.”

The wind brushes past your cheek. Your pulse kicks behind your collarbone.

You stare at him, searching his profile for something you can’t name. “I’ve worked beside him for two years,” you whisper. “He’s never looked at me like…” Like you do, is what you almost say. But you don’t. You can’t.

His throat moves as he swallows. His jaw clenches, subtle. Barely a flicker of tension in a face the world trusts. And you realize, suddenly, that he’s still not looking at you. Like if he does, something will give.

So you don’t push. Just sit beside him. The city below, alive and uncaring. The mug cooling in your hands. The scent of ozone and air and something warmer than either hanging between you.

And Superman, quiet and still beside you, breathes slow. Deep. Like he’s anchoring himself to the edge of something that might, if he isn’t careful, unravel him completely.

The next morning, Clark drops his coffee. It’s not the first time, but something about this one feels more tragic than usual. The lid pops clean off on impact, and a swirl of tan foam splashes in a perfect arc across the bullpen floor, darkening the tile and sending up a scent that’s almost comically specific: oat milk, cinnamon, and the quiet grief of wasted caffeine.

“Shoot,” he mutters, already kneeling to mop it up with a stack of napkins he must’ve grabbed on reflex from the breakroom.

You move without thinking, half-awake and still carrying your own coffee, already reaching into the mess beside him, crouched close enough to feel the residual heat coming off his skin.

Your hands brush and it’s like touching live wire. Just a flicker, skin on skin, the edge of your pinky against the side of his thumb, and he jolts, hands jerking back like you’ve burned him. The napkins flutter to the ground.

You blink at him.

He clears his throat, face already flooding with color, not just his cheeks, but his ears, the back of his neck, the hollow beneath his jaw. All glowing red, like the heat of your touch raced through him and caught fire on its way out.

“I-I’ve got it,” he stammers, not meeting your eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin your shoes.”

You glance down at your boots. Scuffed, cracked, streaked with old ink from a long-forgotten protest assignment. You’d had to sprint through a barricade once in those boots. You’ve poured coffee into storm drains in them. You’ve climbed scaffolding. Sat cross-legged in back alleys. Run from gas canisters.

“Clark,” you say dryly, “they’re already ruined.”

But he doesn’t seem to hear you. Or he’s pretending not to. His attention is fully locked on the floor, hands sweeping in wide, erratic strokes like his whole sense of balance depends on fixing this one, dumb mistake.

You step back slowly. Your coffee cools in your hands as you watch him move. Something in your chest pulls. Tightens. Because he’s been like this all week. Not just awkward. Not just shy. This is different.

This is haunted. Quieter than usual. Smiling too long, like he forgets to stop. Laughing a beat too late, like he’s processing everything on a delay. Tripping over words he used to wield like second nature, like the language itself has turned to static in his mouth.

He’s dropped pens when you brushed past him. You called his name yesterday, just “Clark,” just a greeting, and his voice cracked so hard it drew a stare from Perry across the room. And twice now you’ve looked up to catch him watching you from across the bullpen. Not admiring. Not casual. Not distracted. Just watching. Pinned. Focused. Quietly wrecked. Like you were a flame he couldn’t afford to get closer to and couldn’t look away from.

And yet… he’s everywhere. Holding elevator doors. Pulling out your chair. Leaving an extra muffin, your favorite kind, on the edge of your desk with a Post-It that says “just in case.” Walking you to your car with that sweet, bashful smile, his hands shoved too deep into his pockets like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for you.

It doesn’t make sense. You’d think he was avoiding you. You would think that if he weren’t in your orbit every day like he doesn’t know how to leave it. And you don’t understand it.

Not after last week. Not after the rooftop. Not after you told Superman, told him that Clark Kent barely knew you were alive. That he didn’t see you, not really. That your crush was doomed from the start.

But now? Now Clark looks like a man undone. Like he’s holding something in his chest so tight it’s splitting him open from the inside, and all he knows how to do is mop coffee and run away.

Maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut. Maybe Superman said something to Clark. Because now, everything’s shifting.

You feel it in the way he lingers at the corner of your desk. In the way he fumbles over simple questions. In the way his gaze drops to your mouth mid-sentence before he curses himself for it and looks away.

Something’s unraveling.

Some invisible line between you, tugging tighter every time he glances at you like he’s terrified you’ll see what he’s hiding, and even more terrified that you won’t.

“Somebody’s flustered,” Jimmy singsongs, materializing behind your desk like the chaos goblin he is, grinning around two fingers full of instant photos and an open packet of jelly beans.

You blink up from your laptop, still trying to blink sleep out of your eyes from the late night. “What?”

He jerks his chin toward Clark’s desk, where the man in question is currently hunched over a spreadsheet like it personally insulted his intelligence. He’s squinting with such intensity, you’d think the cells were written in code.

“He nearly walked into the copier when you complimented his blazer,” Jimmy says, plunking the photos on your desk and popping a red jelly bean into his mouth. “That’s new, right? The blazer?”

You glance across the bullpen. Navy wool. Soft plaid. A perfect shoulder line and slightly-too-long sleeves that he keeps rolling up mid-morning. You’d said something innocent when he passed your desk earlier, Looks good on you, Kent. Real sharp. Just a kindness. Familiar, warm. Like always. And he’d flushed to the roots. Mumbled something that might’ve been thank you, dropped his papers, and nearly backed into the copier trying to get away.

You cringe a little. “Maybe I’m making him uncomfortable.”

Jimmy snorts so hard he nearly chokes on a jelly bean. “Oh yeah. Uncomfortable people always look like they’re one compliment away from asking for your hand in marriage.”

You shoot him a look.

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I’m just saying. If that boy looked at you any longer earlier, we’d have to slap a warning label on it. Caution: prolonged eye contact may lead to heart palpitations and poor balance.”

You roll your eyes and push his photos back toward him, but his words stick like burrs. Because it’s not just Jimmy.

Lois has been watching you. Watching him. Watching the space between you like it’s saying more than either of you are brave enough to.

She hasn’t said anything directly, Lois rarely does when it comes to other peoples business, but she’s started clearing her throat very pointedly whenever the two of you are in the same room. She’s also taken to referring to you as “Kent’s emotional support columnist,” which you’re not convinced HR would approve of.

And Clark… Clark’s unraveling. His smiles linger too long. His hands fumble around you. He hovers at your desk like he’s building up to something and then chickens out at the last second. Like he’s balancing on the edge of a confession he can’t let go of.

And meanwhile… the nights haven’t stopped. You still find yourself pulled to the rooftop. Coffee in hand. Laptop bag abandoned in a corner. Hair tangled by the wind. Shoulders stiff with the weight of another day trying not to stare at a man who looks at you like he doesn’t know how to stop. And he’s still there.

Superman. He doesn’t come every night but you always hope he will. He lands in silence, always behind you, always just far enough that you hear the wind shift before his boots touch down. The air changes when he arrives. It gets warmer. Quieter. Fuller.

He doesn’t speak at first. Never does. He waits until you do. Until your shoulders drop and your hands stop trembling from typing too much, caring too much, feeling too much. And then he folds into place beside you, a god rendered down into something human, into something yours. Not rehearsed. Not formal. Just… present. Like a ritual neither of you want to name.

You’ve started wondering if he looks forward to it the way you do. The stillness. The city stretched beneath you like a breathing thing. The wind tugging at his cape, the occasional flicker of sirens far below. Sometimes you wonder if you’d even know how to fall asleep without these nights. Lately, though… he’s been asking about Clark.

Not directly. Not enough to raise alarm. But there’s a shift. His silences are longer. His questions softer. Slipped in between sips of coffee and quiet laughter, between stories about Metropolis weirdos and the latest editorial disaster.

“Rough day?”

“Is he treating you well?”

“Has that punk said anything to you?”

You answer honestly. You always do.

Tonight, your mug is balanced precariously on the edge of the ledge beside you, both hands clasped around your knees. The wind threads through your hair. The chill touches the inside of your sleeves and curls behind your ears, but you barely notice it anymore.

“I don’t think he even sees me,” you say. Your voice is barely above a whisper, like if you say it too loud it’ll finally be true. “He looks at me like… like I’m glass. Like I’m going to break if he touches me. Or maybe like he’ll break if he does.”

Superman says nothing at first. Just watches the skyline with those quiet, unreadable eyes. The light from the globe behind you paints him in shifting golds and blues. His cape flutters. The night breathes around him like it belongs to him.

Below, the city pulses. You can hear the muted beat of club bass echoing through the alleys. A woman’s laugh rising somewhere in the distance. A radio playing soft from a cracked window a few floors down, some tired, romantic song about wanting someone who never looks your way.

He turns toward you slowly. “He’s never been good at letting people close,” he says, finally. His voice is low. Strained around the edges. “Sometimes he worries that if he opens the door… the whole house will fall down.”

You frown, studying him. “That sounds… oddly specific. You two must actually be friends, after all.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. Eyes so blue they look painted. Like rain and lightning and old sky. There’s something burning in them tonight, something bright and breaking beneath the surface.

He swallows. Barely. “It’s not hard to recognize fear when you’ve lived in it,” he murmurs. “Even when it wears glasses.”

Your breath catches. But before you can say anything, before you can make sense of the words, or the look on his face, or the way your heart thunders suddenly in your ribs like a warning bell, he moves. Rises. One smooth motion. The wind catches his cape, lifting it like a banner. His silhouette darkens against the glow behind him.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, voice soft. Warm. But weighted. And before you can respond, before your tongue can wrap around the questions you don’t yet know how to ask, he’s gone. Up. Away. Gone like he was never there at all.

You sit there long after the breeze settles. After the heat leaves the space he stood in. The sky blinks with planes and stars and satellites. The wind has teeth again. You feel small. And for the first time, you start to wonder if maybe Clark Kent has been looking at you this whole time.

You just didn’t know what you were looking at.

You’re colder than usual tonight. You hadn’t meant to stay this late. Just one last draft, one last paragraph, one last search for the perfect headline. You’d meant to go straight home, swing by the corner bodega, heat up leftovers, maybe fall asleep to something senseless on TV. Something that wouldn’t make you think of him.

But instead, your feet took you here. Just your bag slung over your shoulder, your thermos in hand, and that quiet, persistent tug in your chest that’s been pulling you to the roof more nights than not. You didn’t bring your coat. You never do when the air feels like this, biting, honest, but so alive. The wind is sharper than it was last week, slicing along your arms in cold ribbons, sneaking beneath the hem of your sleeves and lifting strands of your hair to whip across your cheeks.

You wrap your arms around yourself and lean against the edge of the rooftop wall. The city stretches out below silver and gold and humming. Neon reflections ripple in puddles on the street like melting stars. Cars honk. Voices blur. A siren cuts the night, two blocks over, and fades.

And then he’s there. The air stills. Pressure shifts. The rooftop tilts, not physically, but in your body. In your blood. You turn your head slightly, already knowing what you’ll find.

He’s landing behind you in silence, as he always does. The wind swirls at his heels. His cape flutters in a long, slow wave. The light from the Planet’s rotating globe skims across the high planes of his face, painting soft highlights in his hair and casting shadows down the hard set of his jaw.

He’s already walking toward you. His steps don’t make a sound. But your heart does.

His brows knit the moment he sees you properly, hair tousled, shoulders tense, arms crossed too tightly against your chest.

“You’re shivering,” he says, voice quiet and laced with concern.

You inhale through your nose. “I’m fine,” you lie, biting the inside of your cheek to stop your teeth from clicking. “Didn’t realize how cold it got.”

He doesn’t move at first. And then, his hands lift.

Your breath hitches as he reaches up to his collar with a slow, practiced ease, fingers sliding beneath the gold insignia at his shoulder to unclip the cape in a single, effortless motion. The weight of it drops all at once, a sweep of red that catches the wind like silk dipped in fire. The hem kisses the ground beside him as he steps closer.

You don’t move.

You’re not sure you can.

He takes one more step, and you can smell it before you feel it, the scent of him. Not cologne, not aftershave, just the strange, clean weight of sun-warmed metal and wind. Air after lightning. A kind of warmth that doesn’t belong to earthbound men.

Then, carefully, like you might startle, he drapes the cape around your shoulders. It’s heavy. So much heavier than it looks. Dense, heat-soaked fabric that settles against your back like gravity. Like memory. The inside is impossibly soft. Lined with something smooth and brushed, like worn-in velvet or sky-cured cotton. The warmth of it sinks straight through your skin, down to the aching hinge of your spine.

You look down at it, stunned. At him. He’s still close. Closer than usual. His boots barely a breath from yours. And that’s when his hand comes up, gentle, deliberate. Not rushed. Just his knuckles, brushing along your jaw.

A featherlight stroke, the back of his hand tucking the cape tighter beneath your chin, like he needs an excuse to linger. Like it matters to him that you feel protected. Covered. Kept.

Your breath catches in your throat and doesn’t come back because he’s never stood this close before. He’s taller than you remembered. Broader. The space between you contracts under the pressure of his presence. His chest nearly brushes yours with every breath, and each exhale from him is warm and steady, a living current wrapping around you like a second skin. Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. You wonder if he can hear it even though you know he can.

Your chin tips up. Instinct or need, you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. And his eyes are already on you. Not politely. Not blankly. Burning.

And then his voice drops. “Does he know,” he asks, slow and low, “how lucky he is?”

Your lips part, breath escaping in a visible puff. “Who?”

His gaze doesn’t flicker. “The man you told me about.” There’s no game in his tone. No mask. Just that same deep gravity you’ve felt in him since the very first night he landed here, coatless and patient and endlessly kind.

“Clark?” you ask, your voice a thread of sound.

“Does he know what it means to have your attention?” He asks while nodding.

Your skin feels too tight. Too aware. The cape is clutched in your fingers now, bunched between your knuckles, and still it’s not enough to anchor you. You shake your head, barely. “He doesn’t seem to want it.”

And that truth, raw and quiet and far too vulnerable, lands between you with all the weight of gravity. A small confession. But sharp.

His throat works once. Then again. He swallows, visibly. His gaze travels from your eyes to your mouth, where it lingers a second too long before flickering back up to your eyes.

The air gets thick. Charged. Like a storm is about to break in the sky. Or inside him.

You think, for just one heartbeat, that he might kiss you. His lips part. But instead, his voice roughens, like the truth is scraping its way out.

“He wants it,” he says. “Believe me.”

You can barely breathe. He’s still watching you, like he can’t stop. Like your silence might fill in the answer he isn’t allowed to give. And you, wrapped in his cape, standing in his heat, breathing his air, don’t know what to do with your hands. Or your heart. So you say nothing. You just let the quiet stretch between you, trembling and hot and precarious, as if a single word would shatter it all.

And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to release you from the grip of his proximity. Enough to leave the ache behind.

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just rises, slow and unhurried, into the sky. The wind tugs at his cape, lifting the edges from your shoulders, but you hold it tighter. And then he’s gone. Up. Away. Silent as ever.

And you stand there in the dark, wrapped in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the ache of him, wondering how long this can go on before the truth spills out of someone’s mouth and ruins everything. Or makes it real.

You realize it slowly. Not all at once. Not like a switch being flipped or a line being crossed. But in the spaces between sentences. In the hushed air between thoughts. In the moments where he doesn’t speak, just watches you with that carved-stone stillness, that impossibly patient calm that feels less like restraint and more like reverence.

You notice it in the way he lets silence breathe. Doesn’t fill it. Doesn’t try to solve it. Just lets it hang, heavy or light, whatever it needs to be.

And in the way he listens. Really listens. The kind of listening that feels like being held. Like your voice is something he doesn’t get anywhere else. Like your thoughts carry weight. Like your day matters. Like you do.

It doesn’t hit you all at once. It comes in waves. Realization blooming slowly under your skin like something long dormant waking up.

It sinks in one night when you’re talking about something stupid. Trivial. Work drama. An editorial you fought for, again. The way Perry’s notes clashed with the layout. The headline Lois rewrote over your shoulder with a red pen like a scalpel. You’re venting more than storytelling, sentences peppered with sarcasm, words tumbling loose because it’s late and you’re tired and he’s here.

You sit cross-legged on the rooftop ledge, shoulders hunched slightly from the wind, palms wrapped around a lukewarm thermos. Your legs have that faint ache from a long day, that tension that says you should’ve gone home hours ago. But he’s sitting beside you, and so you didn’t.

Superman is as still as ever. But not in a way that feels distant. It’s the stillness of someone utterly tuned in. Shoulders relaxed. Elbows resting loosely on his knees. Fingers curled near his thighs like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands unless they’re catching someone. Holding something.

His cape shifts when he breathes, deep, quiet, full-bodied breaths that move the air around you. The red fabric stirs in soft waves across the rooftop, occasionally brushing your ankle, like a heartbeat you’re not supposed to notice.

His mouth is curved into that private smile. The one you’ve never seen in photographs. The one he only wears with you.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t offer advice. He just listens. Watches. Quiet and open and focused like you’re telling him the weather patterns of your heart and he doesn’t want to miss a single cloud.

And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of it. How much you’ve told him. Not just tonight. Not just recently. But over the weeks. The months. One late night at a time.

Your job. The daily grind. The politics. The moments you feel seen, and the ones you don’t. Your childhood. The wallpaper in your bedroom, the way your mom used to hum while folding laundry.

Your heartbreak. The one that gutted you quietly. The one you never tell anyone about because it wasn’t dramatic enough to justify the pain. Your favorite books. The one you reread every winter. The one you lied about liking just to impress someone. Your fears. Driving. Water. Getting close.

Your loves. Thunderstorms. Orange peels. Songs you’ll never admit make you cry. Clark. Sweet, dorky, utterly-unaware Clark.

You’ve told Superman everything.

And not once, not once, has he pulled back. Not once has he made you feel small. He doesn’t flinch when you speak. Doesn’t glance away. Doesn’t soften your edges to make you easier to digest.

Some nights, he says almost nothing at all. Just nods. Hums softly. Maybe says your name in that low, near-sacred way of his, like it’s a prayer he’s memorized. But he never leaves. He never looks bored. Or burdened.

He just stays.

And that matters more than you can explain. Because no one stays.

But he does. And now… you’re looking at him differently. Not like a symbol. Not like a god. Not like the man in the sky who breaks the sound barrier and holds tectonic plates steady with his hands.

But like a man who knows your laugh. Who remembers your favorite movie. Who lets you rant. Who makes space for your silences. Who carries your stories in his chest like they’re precious cargo. Who gave you his cape without thinking twice. Who touched your jaw like it meant something. Like you meant something.

And maybe that’s what unravels you. Not the fact that he’s Superman. But the fact that he feels more real to you than anyone else in your life. Not larger-than-life. Not untouchable. Just real. And right here. And that realization?

It’s starting to feel like falling.

The night is warm for early spring. The kind of warmth that clings not just to your skin, but to the air itself. Heavy and intimate, like a whispered secret. It seeps into your sleeves, wraps around your ankles, settles between your shoulder blades like a held breath. It makes your heart race without quite knowing why.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the ledge, the cape he gave you still draped over your lap. The fabric’s weight is familiar now, dense and soft and slightly creased where your fingers keep fisting in the hem. He hadn’t asked for it back. Just showed up with a different one. So, you haven’t offered to return it. It feels like something borrowed, yes, but more than that. Like something left.

Superman is beside you. Boots planted. Elbows resting on his thighs, back slightly hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Like he doesn’t trust what might happen if he really let himself take up space next to you.

He’s closer than usual. Not touching, but not far. If you leaned the slightest bit to the left, your shoulder would brush his bicep. If you exhaled too sharply, your knee might nudge his. You keep your spine rigid.

You’re not looking at him. You can’t. Not when you know he’s watching you.

His gaze is a weight you’ve come to recognize. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just steady. Open. Unyielding. Like he’s trying to memorize you in case you vanish. Like you’re the only anchor he’s allowed to hold onto.

You take a breath. Your voice comes soft. Tucked between heartbeat and hesitation. “Sometimes I think,” you murmur, not looking at him, “if I met you first… things would be easier.”

The words come from somewhere low in your chest. Somewhere bruised and tender and aching with the question you don’t want answered. You don’t even know why you say them. You only know that they’re true. They hang there in the dark. Fragile. Bare. They make the space between you feel suddenly infinite.

You finally glance over. His eyes are already on you and he looks wrecked. Not in any way most people would notice. Not in any way he would ever allow. But you see it.

You know what it means when his jaw stills like that. When the cords in his neck draw tight. When his eyes dim like a stormcloud passing over the sun.

His breath catches. Just barely. Just enough. “You think,” he says, voice low and rough, “you didn’t?”

Your pulse stutters. You blink. Turn toward him fully, heart climbing into your throat. “What?”

His gaze drops for a second, to your mouth, then to your lap, where his cape is still clutched in your fists, and then rises again.

When his eyes meet yours, they are unshielded. Wide open. Pleading. Quiet. Raw. And suddenly, you realize how close he is.

His thigh presses against yours now, light but solid. His knee nudges the side of your folded legs, grounding you, like he’s trying to anchor you in place. And you can feel his warmth radiating outward in slow, low waves—the heat of him seeping into your skin, into your chest, into your pulse.

He burns.

And you’re burning too.

The rooftop goes still. The wind holds its breath. The world softens to nothing but sky and concrete and you and him.

You don’t know who leans in first. Maybe you both do. But suddenly, he’s closer. And so are you. Your noses nearly brushing. Your lips one breath apart.

You stop breathing. His eyes flick to your mouth. Your gaze falls to his. His exhale fans against your cheek, hot and steady. Everything stills.

“I—I should go,” you say, the words cracking in the back of your throat as you jerk back a fraction too fast. “I should… yeah. I’ve got work early.”

It’s a lie. You know it. He knows it. But you can’t stay here. Not when everything inside you is straining toward him like gravity. Not when you’re wrapped in his cape, bathed in his warmth, and trembling with the almost of it all.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. Just sits there. Still. Burning. Quiet. He nods once. Slow. Like it costs him something. But his eyes don’t leave yours.And the look on his face? He looks like he wants to follow you. Like if he could just reach out and touch you again, the world might break open. Like he’s waiting, begging, for some rule to shatter so he can finally cross the distance he’s been holding back from all this time.

But he doesn’t speak.

So you stand. Your legs are shaky beneath you, but you manage. You hold his cape tighter around your shoulders like it’s armor, or a secret. And you walk away. Not because you want to. But because you do want to kiss him and you don’t know what it means yet.

Not when he’s Superman.

And not when the other man who you’ve wanted for months, the man who gives you bashful smiles and spills his coffee at work, sits across from you every day like he doesn’t already own your heart.

And then he says it. Quiet. Fractured. “I’m him,” he whispers. “I’m Clark.”

You stop breathing. You stumble. Not like a graceful backpedal. Not a clean retreat. You falter, feet catching on the uneven edge of the rooftop, where rough concrete meets rusted metal, and you reel. Your hand shoots out, catching yourself on the freezing ledge. Stone bites into your palm, rough and sharp. You barely feel it.

You’re too busy drowning. Because no—no, he can’t be. He can’t.

You look at him. At Superman. But it’s not just Superman anymore, is it?

It’s Clark.

The curve of his mouth. The way his shoulders hunch like he’s afraid he’s just ruined everything. The blue of his eyes, familiar, even now. Especially now. You know that look. You’ve seen it across desks, over cheap coffee, in elevators and quiet newsroom corners where his hands would twitch like he almost reached for you and then didn’t.

And now it’s him.

All along, it’s been him.

It’s like all the air’s been sucked from your lungs and replaced with something heavier. Something that won’t let go.

The night tilts around you. The city below blurs. Headlights streak like comets across streets that no longer feel tethered to the world. A horn honks in the distance. A siren wails. Somewhere, down there, life goes on. Unchanged. Unknowing.

But not here. Not in this moment. Not with him standing in front of you.

“No,” you whisper. It’s barely a sound. Barely a breath. The word scrapes up your throat like broken glass. Your fingers clutch the ledge behind you as if it might keep you from flying off the edge of everything you thought was true.

He’s still standing there. Not just Superman. Not just Clark.

Both.

The duality of it fractures something in you. His suit is still darkened from the flight, the blue and red dulled beneath smears of ash, streaks of soot, faint scuffs of battle left behind. His hair’s mussed from wind, curling slightly at his temple, a little out of place. Too human. Too familiar.

His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate rhythm. Controlled. Heavy. Measured like he’s trying to keep the world steady by breathing for it.

But his face…his face is just him.

Clark.

Open. Quiet. Devastated.

“No,” you repeat, louder now, shakier. “No, you…Clark can’t. He wouldn’t lie like that.”

He flinches. It’s small, barely a twitch of the mouth, a pull at his brow, but you catch it. “I didn’t lie,” he says softly, the words fragile and frayed at the edges. “I just… couldn’t tell you.” His voice sounds like gravel and heartbreak. You can feel it sink into your chest.

Your heart’s thundering. Slamming against your ribs like it wants to escape. Your hands are trembling where they hang by your sides, fingers curling against your thighs as if you could hold yourself together if you just gripped hard enough. The cape he gave you what feels like forever ago rests over your shoulders. Too much now. Too heavy. Too warm. Too intimate. It feels like wearing the secret. Like being draped in all the things you didn’t see, couldn’t name, wouldn’t believe.

You don’t take it off. You don’t know how.

“I told you everything,” you say, and it tears out of your chest, raw and wounded. “I told you how I felt about him…about you. I trusted you.”

He doesn’t look away. His jaw tightens. His shoulders lock in place. But he doesn’t look away.

“I know.”

“I told you things I don’t even tell my friends,” you go on, voice rising. “I told you things I don’t admit to myself. And you just…” You shake your head, disbelief washing over your skin like a fever. “You sat there. You listened. And you let me think…”

His voice cuts in, low and sharp. Pained. “That you didn’t matter to me?” His eyes are bright with it now, wild with something barely restrained. “That I didn’t want you? I never wanted you to think that.”

“But you let me,” you whisper. The words fall out like grief. You don’t scream them. You don’t have to. Because the pain is in the quiet. In the way your voice breaks open around the edges like glass fracturing under heat. “Every time I told you how much I wanted him,” you say, softer now. “Every time I said he didn’t see me.”

His voice splinters. “I saw you,” he says. “Gosh, I saw everything.”

And you believe him. That’s the worst part. You believe him.

You take one step forward. Only one. The wind brushes against your back, cool where the cape has fallen open. Your voice is a knife now. Precise. Controlled. Made of something sharp and trembling. “How could you sit there every night and-,”

He doesn’t let you finish. “I just wanted to be yours,” he says. “As him, as me, I didn’t care! As long as I could be here with you.”

The silence after that is scorching. It wraps around your ankles like fire. It climbs your spine like a scream caught in your throat. It burns through every inch of space between you and doesn’t stop.

You can’t speak. You can’t move.

His hands hang at his sides, fingers twitching. Like he wants to reach for you. Like he wants to close the space, undo the damage, gather the broken pieces into something whole again. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, chest rising and falling, lips parted like he might still say more if you don’t run.

And you? You can’t run. But you can’t stay, either. Your whole body feels splintered. Rattling under the weight of everything you thought was real and everything that’s now changed.

He was there for every word. Every late night. Every secret. Every quiet ache you handed him under the guise of friendship. You thought you were speaking to someone else. Someone you trusted. But you were speaking to him. The other version. All of him, in some confusing way.

The wind picks up just as you turn your back on him. It lashes up from the edge of the building like a living thing, tearing across the rooftop with a howl that cuts straight through your sleeves and raises goosebumps along your skin. It grabs at the hem of the cape still wrapped around your shoulders. It smells like him. Like warmth and home and sunlit wind. Like the person you trusted with every soft part of yourself.

Clark.

Superman.

You can’t look at him. You can’t even breathe around the twist in your chest.

The rooftop blurs around the edges, gold light from the Planet’s globe warping against the swell of tears behind your eyes. The city spins beneath you, thousands of feet and faces and voices, but all you can feel is the pounding of your pulse. In your throat. In your ears. In your fingertips.

You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to get away. That if you stay a second longer, you’ll either fall apart in front of him or worse, let him hold the pieces.

“Don’t,” he says. It isn’t loud. Isn’t commanding. But it slices through the wind like it’s cutting straight through bone.

Your steps falter.

“Please,” he says again, softer now, frayed at the edges like paper soaked through. “Don’t walk away.” There’s something in his voice, hoarse and unraveling, that hits a nerve you didn’t know was exposed.

Then his fingers brush your wrist. Not tightly. Not enough to stop you. Just a touch. A question.

Your breath hitches.

You freeze.

“You don’t get to ask me that,” you whisper, without turning around. Your voice shakes in your throat like glass. “Not after…”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You spin, fury catching like a spark in dry grass, the cape snapping around you with the force of it. It wraps around your legs like it knows it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Or maybe it never did.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t,” he says immediately, his voice rising, not in anger, but desperation. “I never lied.”

“You let me talk to you,” you say, stepping forward, teeth clenched. “You let me sit next to you and tell you everything I felt, everything I wanted, and you just sat there and watched me.”

“I couldn’t-,”

“You could have.” You cut him off as the words rip out of you, jagged and breathless. “You chose not to.”

His shoulders hitch with the effort of his breathing. His fists curl, uncurl. The muscles in his jaw flex like he’s grinding the truth down between his molars.

“You think I didn’t want to tell you?” he snaps suddenly, sharp and exposed. “You think it didn’t kill me every time I saw the look in your eyes? Every time you hoped for something and I couldn’t give it to you?”

Your heart stutters. But the ache won’t let you relent. “Then why?” you demand. “Why wait? Why let me think Clark was this sweet, shy guy who would never want me, when the whole time, it was you? When Superman looked at me like he wanted me. When, fuck Clark, when you have wanted me as long as I’ve wanted you.”

His mouth opens, then closes. His chest heaves once, like the truth hurts too much to force out. “Because I was scared,” he says finally, shouting. “Because if you saw all of me, you’d leave. I thought if I kept that part hidden, just a little longer… I could keep you.”

You stare at him. You burn in anger. He thought you’d leave? After he always, always stayed for you?

The rooftop hums beneath your feet. The heat of him radiates in waves, too close and too far away all at once.

“I told you everything,” you whisper, stepping in close now, voice unsteady. “I told you what he…what you meant to me. And you didn’t say a word. You never left. Why would I leave you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He repeats, chest heaving. “I just know that I kept every word,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “Every single one. Because they meant everything. Because you do.”

The silence that follows is so thick it aches in your ears. Your chest rises. Falls. Rises again. Somewhere below, the city keeps pulsing, car horns, distant sirens, a train echoing under concrete, but up here, it’s just the two of you. Just a rooftop and a mistake that doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore.

Your hands curl around the edge of the cape. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, raw, reverent.

You whisper, almost against your will, “So every night I told you about him…”

“I was listening,” he says, voice ragged. “As both versions of me… who loves you.”

Your knees nearly buckle. He steps closer, slow like he’s worried you’ll vanish. The wind dies down again, or maybe it just stops touching you. Everything narrows. Your vision. Your world.

He’s the only thing in it now.

“You’re all I see,” he breathes. “Since the day you walked into the bullpen. You were arguing with Perry about a comma splice, and I remember thinking—God, she’s a spitfire. And then you looked at me. Not at Superman. Not through me. At me. Like I mattered.”

Tears crest at your waterline. You don’t stop them.

“I didn’t know how to handle that,” he goes on. “Because I’ve saved cities. I’ve faced gods and aliens. But nothing’s ever undone me like you.”

You step in. You don’t remember doing it. But suddenly you’re toe to toe. Close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. Close enough to see the freckles across his nose, the vulnerability in his eyes. The man inside the myth.

“You already had me,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to pretend to be two people to earn that.” He looks like he might break apart. “I still am yours,” you say.

And that’s all it takes. The air between you detonates. He surges forward and you meet him halfway, lips crashing together like two storms colliding. It’s not neat. It’s not careful. It’s need.

His hands are on your face instantly, cradling, reverent, thumbs sweeping your cheekbones. You fist the front of his suit like it’s the only thing tethering you to gravity. You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down like it’s sacred.

His body crowds yours without overwhelming you. His thigh brushes yours, his arm snakes around your waist. The cape wraps around both of you like it remembers who it’s meant to protect.

“I thought you’d never,” you gasp between kisses.

“I couldn’t,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Not until I knew you wanted…”

“I want you, Clark,” you say cutting him off, and it tears him in half. He groans, wrecked and low, and kisses you again. Deeper, hungrier. You feel it everywhere, like heat under your skin, like sparks running down your spine.

This isn’t just a kiss. This is a confession. This is every night you sat beside him, aching. Every touch you didn’t ask for. Every word you swallowed. This is the answer to the question you were too afraid to ask.

And he gives it to you with everything he is. He kisses you like you’re the only thing worth saving. Like no other world matters. And you kiss him like you finally believe it.

Because you do. Because he’s not just Superman. And not just Clark. He’s yours. And for the first time since this whole tangled, aching, breathless thing began, you let yourself want all of him.

The next kiss isn’t as gentle. It slams into you like a second confession, hot and unrestrained, a shattering thing made of teeth and tongue and all the silence you’ve held between you. It doesn’t ask. It claims. The kind of kiss you give when there’s no going back. When the dam finally bursts and all that longing surges out at once, tidal and wild and so, so overdue.

His hands are on your face before you can even blink, big and steady, palms spanning your cheeks, thumbs sweeping the corners of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize the curve. He tilts your chin up, reverent and aching, and then he kisses you deeper this time, like he needs to taste every breath you’ve ever used to say his name.

You gasp into him, and he doesn’t hesitate. He drinks it down like it’s sacred. Like he’s starving for it. For you. Like he’s been holding this want back so long it’s turned molten. There’s nothing shy in the way he kisses you now. No restraint. No hesitation. Only need, blistering and bright and alive in every touch of his mouth.

Your hands fist in the collar of his suit, desperate, clumsy, and aching. You drag him closer, grounding yourself in the heat of his body, the muscle beneath the impossible fabric. You can feel the taut stretch of his chest against yours, the flutter of his heartbeat too fast for a human man. You dig your nails into his shoulders just to feel something solid.

He groans when you do it, low and wrecked and surprised, like the sound’s been punched out of him. It jolts through you like lightning, crackling through every nerve ending. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, just for a second. The breath he exhales is shattered.

The wind rises again, as if it feels the shift, tugging at the cape still tangled around your shoulders, snapping it wide like a sail as it lifts behind you. But it doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It doesn’t feel like a reminder of what you didn’t know. It feels like being chosen.

And then, he lifts you. Not roughly. Not even consciously. Just a subtle shift, his hands sliding to your thighs, hoisting you into his arms like you weigh nothing at all. His fingers find the bend behind your knees, curl around your body with effortless strength, and you wrap yourself around him without a second thought.

You cling to him like instinct. Like gravity no longer applies. One of his arms supports your weight as the other pulls you impossibly closer, and your chest collides with his, heart to heart, soul to soul. You feel everything now. The heat of him. The tremble in his breath. The tension in his body barely held in check.

And God, he’s warm. He radiates heat like a furnace, like the sun. It bleeds through the fabric, through your clothes, into your skin, curling deep in your belly. Your breath catches, shallow and unsteady, and he leans in to steal it again.

His lips move with yours, soft, then hard, then soft again, tipping into a rhythm that feels like home. His mouth finds your jaw. Then your neck. Then lower, open-mouthed and reverent. He trails heat down the column of your throat, and you shiver, clinging to his shoulders like your knees might give out if he wasn’t holding you already.

When his nose brushes under your ear, the sound he makes could level buildings. It’s wrecked. Unsteady. A groan dragged from somewhere deep, like kissing you is both a relief and a ruin.

“I love you,” he breathes against your skin, words shaped like worship. Like surrender. “In every name. In every form.”

The rooftop drops away beneath you in slow, gentle increments. A moment suspended between earth and stars. The skyline unfolds like a painting in motion, glittering and vast. You’re cradled against him, the wind swirling around your ankles, the city a blur of golden light and dizzying height, but all you see is him. His face. His eyes. The heartbreakingly earnest look carved into every line of him.

You rest your forehead against his. Close your eyes. Feel the press of his breath against your lips. He groans again this time quieter. Broken in a different way.

“I never wanted to keep it from you,” he says, and each word is a bruise, tender and aching. “I just… I didn’t want you to fall in love with the symbol instead of the man.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. The man you knew before you knew. The man who carried your coffee and read your work and smiled too long when you complimented his tie. The man who gave you his cape. Who listened to your secrets. Who never stopped showing up.

He’s both. He’s always been both. And you love him. All of him. So you smile, soft and aching and sure.

“Too late,” you whisper, fingers sliding into his hair. “I fell for both.”

His breath hitches. Then his mouth is back on yours, harder this time, wrecked and desperate and so alive. It’s not polished. It’s not controlled. It’s wild and tangled and almost clumsy, because neither of you can stop now. Because this is the moment everything changes.

He kisses you like a man finally let off the leash. Like he’s been holding back for months. Like kissing you is both a promise and an apology, a confession and a vow. And you kiss him back like you’ll never let him forget what it means to be wanted like this. Fully. Completely. Every impossible part of him.

Because you do. You want every name. Every version. Every inch. Every impossible heartbeat.

And finally you know he’s yours.

The wind wraps around you like a secret. It rushes past your ears, a low, thrumming hush, and you can barely hear anything beyond the pounding of your heart. He’s carrying you, arms locked beneath your thighs, your body cradled to his chest like something precious, fragile, and known. His warmth surrounds you, shields you from the cool bite of the atmosphere, and even though you’re climbing through the clouds, you’ve never felt safer.

You don’t look down. You look at him. At the way his jaw tightens with focus. The furrow of his brow. The set of his mouth, determined and tense, like he’s still holding his breath even now, even after everything.

And then you’re descending. The city lights blur past, amber and blue and gold. A flash of neon. A billboard. A train. A million lives moving just beneath your feet.

Then it’s quiet again. His boots touch down with barely a sound, just the faintest thud of contact, the shift of air as he slows, and suddenly you’re home. Not yours.

His.

You don’t notice it at first. You’re still clinging to him, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. But then he steps forward, gently sets you down, and your feet meet solid ground. And you realize you're in his apartment.

The windows are open, letting in the scent of spring, cool earth, rain-soaked pavement, the metallic tinge of the skyline at night. The curtains ripple softly. There’s a shelf to your left, lined with worn books and framed photos. A navy-blue couch. A single coffee mug left on the desk beside folded glasses.

This is Clark. This is where he lives. Where he wakes. Where he dreams. You’re standing in the middle of it, barefoot and stunned, wrapped in the cape of a man who isn’t supposed to exist this way, tangible, warm, and so painfully real.

And then he turns and pushes you back against the glass. You gasp, startled, breath stolen, as your spine meets the windowpane. It’s cool, shocking against your overheated skin, and your hands scramble for something to hold. But he’s already there, already pressing in. One arm braces against the glass beside your head. The other finds your waist. His body is heat and muscle and reverence, crowding you in until all you can feel is him.

His mouth is on yours before you can speak and it’s not like before. It’s deeper now. Hotter. Less desperation, more claiming. His lips part over yours with fevered intent, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he wants to taste every breath you’ve taken without him. Your fingers find the collar of his suit and pull, and he groans into you, low and helpless, like the sound’s been trapped in his chest for too long.

Your hands shake as you work the suit off his shoulders. The fabric is cool and slick, too perfect for this world. It gives way beneath your fingers, sliding down to reveal the impossible lines of his body, smooth skin, golden and flushed. He shudders when your palms find his chest, and he kisses you harder, faster, like he needs this. Needs you.

Your shirt joins his suit on the floor. Then your pants. Your bra. His boots thud somewhere behind him as he kicks them free, then the last of his suit slips down, crumpling in a heap like the man inside it finally let go of the performance.

And now you’re both bare.

You stand there for a moment, staring. His chest rises and falls in tight, uneven pulls. His skin glows in the warm lamplight, all soft curves over hard muscle. His shoulders are broad, his thighs thick, his arms trembling slightly like he’s fighting himself from reaching for you too soon.

And his hair. Still mostly slicked back from the flight, but now…now it’s human. Disheveled. One single curl has fallen out of place, slipping down over his brow, and your throat closes around the sight.

He’s beautiful. Not because he’s Superman.

But because he’s Clark. Because he’s standing in front of you with reverence in his eyes and nothing left to hide.

He moves first. His hands find your waist, firm and warm and grounding. Then your back. Then your thighs, hoisting you into his arms again like it’s instinct. Your legs wrap around his hips. Your arms drape over his shoulders. He pins you to the glass again, skin to skin now, mouth trailing from your lips to your throat.

Your breath stutters when he presses closer, hips slotted between your thighs, his skin hot and flush with yours. You can feel the tremble in him now, subtle, buried under muscle and strength, but there. Not from fear.

From restraint.

His mouth drags along your neck, slow and open and reverent. “I thought I could be patient,” he murmurs, voice frayed. “But I don’t want to wait anymore.”

The confession sends a shiver racing down your spine. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging lightly, and that one loose curl falls again, curling over your knuckles as you tilt his face toward yours.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes. He shifts, effortless and practiced, and suddenly you’re weightless again, your back sliding higher up the window, glass cool and unyielding behind your shoulder blades. You cling to him instinctively, thighs tightening around his hips, heart thrashing against your ribs like it’s trying to reach him before you do.

He exhales like a man drowning finally given air. “You feel like gravity,” he breathes. “You’re the only thing that’s ever kept me still.”

“Then fall,” you say as you bite your lip.

His eyes darken into something that reflects heat and ache and something dangerous, and he kisses you again, deeper now, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s starved for it. For you.

When he pulls back, just far enough to look at you, his gaze is wrecked. “Tell me you want this,” he says.

“God, I do,” you pant. “I always have.”

And it’s true. You don’t want the distance anymore. You don’t want the waiting, the almosts, the ache of not knowing. You want him like this. Right here. Right now. Skin to skin. Name to name. All of him.

So when he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Then I’m yours,” the words brand themselves across your skin. And you believe him because he says it like a vow. Like something he’s waited his whole life to give.

He kisses you like the world is still ending. Like if he stops, it’ll splinter apart. Like nothing outside this window matters. Not the blinking cursor on your half-finished article, not the skyline pulsing with sirens and starlight, not even the cape still pooled at your feet like a red ripple of everything you thought you knew. Just his mouth. Just your body. Just the soft, unraveling sounds you keep making into the heat of his lips.

You’re breathless already. Drunk on him. And then he adjusts you. Not in a rush. Not rough or frantic. Just slow. Steady. Like a ceremony. Like he’s afraid to jostle something sacred.

His hands are under your thighs, spreading warmth that seeps into your bones, fingertips curled just enough to make your breath stutter. Your arms lock around his neck tighter and without hesitation, fingers tangled in his hair, cheek pressed to the side of his head, heart thudding wild and open against his.

He rises off the floor like he doesn’t even notice gravity anymore. You don’t, either. You’re floating, suspended in the hold of a man who could catch planes midair and stop bullets with his chest but chooses to hold you like you’re the most delicate thing in the world. His chest is a furnace, pressed tight against yours, every heartbeat pounding in slow, powerful rhythm beneath his skin. You can feel it. You can feel him. All of him.

The apartment blurs around the edges as the wind stirs gently, coiling around your ankles, brushing through your hair, pushing open the bedroom door like it, too, has been waiting for this. And then he lands. Soft. Like a promise.

His knees touch the edge of the mattress first. Then he lays you down, slow, reverent, arms still wrapped around you like he doesn’t want to let go yet. Like he needs the grounding of your body beneath his, your breath fluttering across his collarbone, the softness of your thighs caging his hips.

The sheets are cool against your back. His body is fire against your front and everything in you aches.

You feel undone just from being looked at like this.

The weight of his gaze as he hovers above you is unbearable and electric and necessary all at once, like sunlight held in place, golden and scorching and all-consuming. His eyes roam over your face, your chest, your parted lips, drinking you in with the slow hunger of a man who’s been starving for years.

His palms glide over your ribs, your hips, your thighs, long, unhurried strokes that leave sparks in their wake. Every touch is mapped with intention. Every inch of skin he brushes feels claimed. Worshiped. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to lay his hands on you and can’t quite believe he’s finally allowed.

And then his mouth. It moves like it knows exactly where to go. He starts at your collarbone, soft and lingering, then down the center of your chest in a line of kisses that feel like punctuation marks to every word he can’t say fast enough.

“Gosh,” he whispers, voice shaking, breath hot against your sternum, “you’re so beautiful.”

You shiver as your hands find his hair, thicker than it looks, soft at the roots but mussed now, wild from your fingers. One curl falls forward again, brushing your temple, and your heart aches with how human he looks like this.

“You don’t have to say that,” you murmur, but even you don’t believe it.

“I do,” he says, instantly. Fervently. His thumb drags across your cheekbone, reverent. “I need you to know what you are. What you’ve always been.” His voice is low. Wrecked. Like it’s crawling up from somewhere deep and fragile.

“I’ve watched you walk into the newsroom a hundred times,” he says, “with your chin up and your hands full and that look on your face like you’re two seconds from telling someone off, but your eyes…” He lowers his head. “You smiled at me once,” he says, mouth brushing your jaw. “That first week. You don’t remember it. But I do. I’ve never stopped.”

You arch into him, neck exposed, breath trembling. His lips drag lower.

“I memorized you,” he says, kissing down your throat. “In daylight. In shadows. In every storm and silence. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

Your nails scrape down his back, over bare shoulder blades and taut muscle and the smooth dip of his spine. He gasps into your skin, voice stuttering like a skipped heartbeat.

“I used to come home and wonder how I’d survive another day pretending I didn’t want you.” He mouths at your shoulder, then lingers at the hollow between your collarbones.

“I used to dream about this,” he murmurs, each word hotter than the last, “but it never came close. You’re more than I ever let myself imagine.”

His hands slide lower, palms dragging along the underside of your thighs, up to your hips, splaying wide at your waist like he’s trying to memorize your shape by feel. You’re so aware of every inch of skin he touches, the press of his chest to yours, the strength in his arms braced on either side of your head.

And his voice breaks again, soft and desperate. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, breath falling into your mouth like a confession. “You undo me.”

And you do. You see it in every tremble. Every kiss. Every sound he makes. This isn’t just sex. It isn’t just release.

It’s ruin. And he wants it. He wants you.

All of you.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, spread out beneath him, bathed in the low golden hush of the bedside lamp, your fingers tangled in his hair and your breath rising in time with his.

He looks at you like he’s praying. Like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like every kiss is a test to see if you’ll disappear.

“Clark,” you whisper, brushing your fingers down the flushed slope of his cheek, across the trembling line of his jaw. His skin is fever-warm beneath your touch, soft in places, rough with stubble in others. Tangible. Human. Yours. “You’re allowed to want this.”

“I do,” he says, barely a breath. His lashes flutter, dark and damp, clinging together from sweat or tears or both. “I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like not to.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, hips tilting up, subtle and slow, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are. His eyes flutter closed at the contact, a stuttered gasp catching in his throat. His arms shake slightly, trying to brace. Trying not to lose control.

“I used to touch myself,” you breathe, lips ghosting over his ear, “after you’d leave.”

His breath catches, sharp and wrecked.

Your teeth graze his earlobe. “After you flew off. After you walked me to my car, all shy and soft-spoken like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me.”

He makes a sound you’ve never heard before, half groan, half whimper, like the words are unraveling something deep in his chest. His hand tightens on your hip, and he lowers his head, pressing hot kisses down your collarbone to your breast.

“I imagined your hands,” you murmur, dragging your nails up the back of his neck, “your mouth. I thought about your voice while I came. Thought about how you’d sound if I let you hear me.”

“God,” he moans, mouth vibrating against your skin. His hand slips between your legs, slow and reverent, dragging through your slick. When two fingers push into you, you arch instantly, moaning loud enough to make the windows tremble.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice thick with awe. “You’re so…baby, you’re perfect.”

“All for you,” you pant. “Only you.”

That breaks something in him. He kisses his way down your stomach, dragging his mouth over every inch of skin he can reach. His palms splay across your hips, holding you still, and then he’s burying himself between your thighs, tongue warm and slow, lapping through your folds with careful, aching need.

You cry out, high and shaking, fingers gripping his hair as your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. He groans in response, the sound vibrating against your clit, making your thighs tremble around his ears.

“You taste so good,” he breathes. “You sound so good.” He adds a third finger and you sob, eyes rolling back, body twisting. You grind against his mouth shamelessly, chasing the pressure, the heat, the rhythm. He’s moaning like it’s his own orgasm building, like your pleasure is unraveling him from the inside out.

“Clark, fuck. Baby, please.”

“Cum for me,” he murmurs. “Please. I need to feel you break.”

You splinter like glass in sunlight, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name again and again. He holds you through it, lips soft against your inner thigh, murmuring praise so low and full of want it sounds like worship.

When he finally climbs back up your body, you’re shaking, boneless, breathless, slick and ruined. You reach for him. Your hand wraps around his cock, hard and flushed and leaking against his stomach. He jolts at the touch, body going rigid above you.

“Wait. please.”

You stop. Look up. His cheeks are red. His lashes low. His hips twitch in your grip.

“I just,” he bites his lip. “I want you on top.” You blink. His hands slide to your waist, gentle. “I want to feel all of you,” he says softly. “I want to watch your face. I want,” his voice cracks “I want to be good for you.”

Something hot and tender curls in your stomach. You shift. Press a kiss to his jaw. Then his throat. And then, carefully, slowly, you roll him onto his back. He lets you. He exhales like it’s a blessing.

You straddle his hips, watching the way his chest rises, watching the way he looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. You reach down, guide him to your entrance. The head of his cock slides through your folds, wet and hot and aching.

“Is this what you dreamed about?” you whisper.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, please.”

You sink down slowly. He groans, head thrown back, throat taut, hands flying to your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You take him inch by inch, stretching around him, moaning at the fullness, at the way his eyes flutter and his chest arches and his lips part around a helpless sound.

“Oh, you feel,” he gasps. “You feel like…like home.”

You bottom out, sitting fully in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, his hands reverent on your skin. You haven’t even moved yet and already he looks wrecked. Because you’re everything he’s ever wanted, finally his, and there’s nothing left to hide.

You don’t move at first. You just sit there, straddling him, full, breathless, and trembling. Your thighs quiver where they press to his sides, your hands spread wide over the endless warmth of his chest. His heart pounds beneath your palms, thrumming like thunder, like a war drum in the silence between you. Too fast. Too strong. Too much for any man.

But not for him.

You know this heart. You’ve felt it before, soft against your shoulder during late-night walks, pulsing warm through the rooftop air when he stood too close. You’ve felt it through every brush of his hand, every quiet smile, every almost.

Now it’s yours.

And it’s racing.

Your lashes flutter as you look down at him—his eyes wide and glassy, flushed all the way to his ears, mouth parted like he’s still trying to breathe through the heat of being inside you.

You shift just slightly. Tighten around him. His body jolts, hips twitching up in pure reflex, a broken sound bursting from his lips like it was torn from his chest. His hands fly to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Baby,” he gasps, voice thick with awe, “please.”

You lean forward, chest brushing his, nose skimming along his cheek. “I could stay like this,” you whisper, lips grazing the corner of his mouth. “Just like this. Forever.”

He whimpers. A real, helpless, soft sound. It hits you low, makes your core throb where you hold him, pulsing around him like your body’s already begging for more. Your hands rise to cradle his jaw, and you kiss him slow. Deep. Languid. Your tongues slide together, hungry and slick, and you feel him tremble under you. His fingers grip tighter, possessive and sweet, reverent like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you like this, even now.

You start to move. Your hips roll slow, dragging over him with obscene friction, and his breath catches in a low, strangled moan. He’s thick inside you, stretching you open perfectly, his cock dragging along every nerve ending like it knows where you’re weakest. The base of him rubs right against your clit with every grind, his pubic bone nudging it just enough to make you shudder.

“Oh my god,” you whisper into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

His grip on you stutters. “You’re so warm,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “So tight, so perfect.”

“You are,” you murmur, hips circling. “You feel so good, Clark. I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this.”

A groan cracks out of him, full-bodied and deep, like the sound was buried under years of restraint. He tilts his head back, jaw clenched, eyes glazed with disbelief.

“I can feel every inch of you,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “You’re so deep… it’s like you’re under my skin.”

He cries out when you clench around him, and it’s not even intentional, it’s just how your body reacts to him. To his size. To the way he fills you completely, every stroke rubbing right up against the spot that makes your toes curl and your thighs tremble. His hands flex and slide up your back, down to your hips again, dragging you harder against him. The pressure builds with each deep grind, slow, dragging, and thick.

“You ride me so good,” he pants, wrecked. “Like you were made to do it. Like…like you knew.”

“I did,” you moan, nails sinking into his shoulders. “I knew. Every time you touched me. Every time you looked at me like I was something precious. I knew I could be so good for you if you’d just let me.”

He looks like he could cry. You keep rolling your hips, slow and deep and aching, chasing your high with the kind of devotion that feels holy. The friction against your clit is relentless now, dragging against the ridge of his body with every glide, heat blooming fast behind your ribs, down your spine, between your legs.

Your rhythm falters. You bite your lip and cry out his name.

His eyes fly open. “I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. Let me feel it please.”

You break. Your whole body locks, back arching, nails clawing down his chest as your orgasm crashes through you. Your pussy clenches around him, soaking, pulsing, dragging another wrecked moan from his throat.

He grabs your hips, tight, trembling, and thrusts up into you. Hard. Again. And again.

He can’t stop. Won’t. Your thighs are still shaking, your body still fluttering around him, and he’s fucking up into you with open desperation now, hips snapping, cock pounding into you with each gasp of your name.

He’s not even trying to hold back. He’s completely undone. His head tips back, his neck straining, jaw slack.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “You’re perfect. You're everything. I can’t, oh gosh, I can’t.”

You lean down again, your chest pressed to his, lips at his ear. “Cum inside me,” you whisper, voice soaked in heat and need. “Fill me up, Clark. I want to feel you. Want all of it. Please.”

He shatters. His thrusts lose rhythm, stuttering, gasping, almost violent with how hard he jerks beneath you. He moans your name as he spills inside you, deep and hot, cock pulsing again and again as his arms crush you to his chest.

You cling to him, shaking, slick and overstimulated, every inch of you pulsing, his body buried inside you like it’s where he belongs.

His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, kissing, panting, whispering your name over and over like it’s a promise. And in that breathless silence after, nothing else matters. Because you’re still joined. Still trembling. Still his. And he’s yours. In every name. In every form.

You don’t move for a long, long time.

You just stay there, straddling him, body flushed and heavy, every inch of you slick with heat and sweat and the kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. Your cheek rests against his chest, and beneath your ear, his heart is still racing, loud and erratic, faster than it should be, but steadying with every breath he takes.

The sheets are tangled beneath you. Warmth radiates off his skin. Your thighs still tremble from the way he touched you, how deeply he filled you, and his hands haven’t stopped moving. One spreads over the small of your back, thumb drawing slow, grounding circles. The other is cradled between your shoulder blades, fingers splayed wide, holding you like a precious, delicate thing he’s still scared to break.

His cock is still inside you. Not fully hard now, but not soft either, just there, nestled deep in the heat of your body, like he’s reluctant to let go. Like you both are. You’re sensitive. Wet. Tender and raw and sore in the best way. The way that says he’ll still be inside you long after you’ve pulled apart.

And God, you don’t want to move. Not yet. You hum softly against his chest, the sound barely audible over the soft rise and fall of his breathing. The golden light from the bedside lamp casts long shadows across the room, painting you both in honeyed warmth. The air smells like sweat and sex and skin. Familiar. Safe.

He shifts beneath you, just enough to press a kiss into your hairline. His lips linger. Stay.

“My girl,” he murmurs.

You smile sleepily, feeling more content than you have in years.

“I am yours,” you say softly, trailing your fingers over the broad line of his ribs, feeling the rise of each one beneath your palm. You press your hand flat over his heart and feel it jump beneath your touch. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” he says, his voice a whisper against your temple. “I think I’ve always known.”

You tip your chin slightly, kiss the underside of his jaw. “You’ve never said that before. My girl.”

He stills for a moment, then smiles, shy and crooked. “Felt right,” he admits. “Hearing you call me Clark while you were wrapped around me like that… I just,” he breaks off, breath catching. “You’re the only person outside my parents in this world who’s ever made me feel like I belong somewhere.”

Your heart clenches. You lift your head, look down at him. His face is flushed, hair mussed and curling, lips still kiss-swollen. The curl of his smile is dazed and boyish, eyes glassy with the remnants of pleasure. And beneath all that is hope. Fragile and shining.

“Clark Kent,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “You’re still inside me. You don’t have to sweet-talk me right now.”

He laughs, quiet and startled and disbelieving. “Can’t help it,” he says, wrapping his arms tighter around you, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “You’re here. You’re with me. I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up.”

“You won’t,” you promise. “I’m real. This is real.”

He swallows thickly. Nods. “I’m still not over it,” he says quietly.

“Over what?”

He hesitates. The hand on your spine pauses. “You’d come to me on the rooftop,” he says, his voice soft, “after everything. And you’d talk to me. About your day. About your coworkers. About how Jimmy kept stealing your snacks and Lois left you on read.”

You smile. “She always leaves me on read.”

“And I’d just sit there,” he continues, “listening to you, watching you, and all I could think was how jealous I was.”

You blink. Lift your head again. “Jealous?”

“Of me,” he says, sheepish. “Of Clark. I wanted to be the one you gave that smile to. The one you leaned against. The one who got to touch you without gloves.”

You stare at him Then burst out laughing.

He groans and hides his face in your neck. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“You were jealous of yourself?”

“I didn’t say it made sense,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin.

“Oh my God,” you giggle, propping yourself up on your elbows so you can see his face. “Clark, that is-,”

“Don’t say it.”

“The most romantic and stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

His cheeks are flushed. “I just…I wanted your attention like that. All of it. I wanted your mornings. Your evenings. Your jokes. Your voice. I wanted to be the one who made you laugh in the elevator and flushed when you got too close and…Golly, I wanted this.”

You study him. Let the smile fade into something softer, warmer. “You already had me,” you whisper. “I was already yours.”

His breath catches like it hurts.

You kiss him slow. Then start pressing long, melting kisses that leave him trembling beneath you. You press soft kisses to the corner of his mouth, then down his jaw, to the hollow beneath his ear, to the curve of his throat.

His breath stutters. His hands tighten on your waist. “What’re you doing?” he asks, voice rough.

“Leaving marks.” You suck gently at the side of his neck, slow and steady. His hips twitch beneath you and his cock stirs slightly inside you, still too soft for more, but warm and twitching with every brush of your mouth. “Since you were so jealous of yourself,” you murmur, “I figured I’d give you something else to be jealous of.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No,” you whisper, kissing lower, “just making sure everyone knows who you belong to. Including you.”

You suck another mark onto the curve of his shoulder, deep and dark and possessive, and feel his breath hitch beneath you. His whole body is pliant now, muscles loose and ruined, chest rising in slow, shaky breaths.

His cock gives one last twitch inside you.

“You good down there?” you tease. “Or are you going to be jealous of your cock too?”

“Hush,” he groans into your shoulder, face bright red at your words.

“Or maybe the blanket because it’s on me, too?” You glance down. The cotton is bunched low around his hips, sticking to your thighs, damp and tangled.

“Sweetheart,” he warns. “You’re real cute when you try to give me guff.”

You laugh, quiet and smug, and settle against his chest again, your arms around his ribs, your head tucked beneath his chin. He holds you like he’ll never let go. And maybe he won’t. Because after a long pause, he exhales slow, and presses one last kiss to your temple.

“My girl,” he whispers. The words ripple through you like heat.

You press another kiss to the pulse at his throat and whisper what you’ve known for a long, long time.

“Yours.”

The breakroom smells like burnt toast and freshly ground coffee, too much char, not enough cream. The overhead fluorescents buzz faintly, cold and unforgiving, a little too bright for how wrecked you feel inside. There’s a smear of something sticky on the counter no one’s bothered to wipe up, and a half-eaten blueberry muffin sits abandoned near the sink.

You lean against the cabinets in your yesterday blouse, buttoned all the way up this time, tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt, trying to fake normal with every careful inch of fabric. But your legs still ache faintly from being wrapped around him. Your throat’s a little sore from moaning his name. And your skin hums like it hasn’t fully come down from last night’s altitude.

Clark stands at the counter, frowning at the coffee machine like he’s trying to will it into compliance. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms with the faintest bruising at the knuckles. His tie is crooked. His hair is damp from his morning shower, curling faintly at the nape of his neck, with one stubborn curl already starting to fall over his brow.

He’s still flushed. Still bashful. Still trying so hard not to look at you. And yet, he does. A lot.

You cross your arms loosely over your chest and watch him, your shoulder brushing the doorframe as you tilt your head.

“You’re really going to pretend everything’s normal?” you ask, lips tugging into the barest hint of a smile.

“I made coffee,” he says, quiet but hopeful, lifting the carafe like it’s some kind of peace offering. “I figured that’s… normal.”

“Clark.” You arch a brow and step forward, slow and teasing, until the hem of your skirt brushes his shin.

He stills. The air between you tightens. Sharpens. He turns to face you fully, mug still in one hand.

And there he is.

All of him.

Clark Kent. Superman. The man who pressed his mouth to your neck like it might save him. The man who made you come with his fingers buried deep, who whispered your name into your skin like he could make a home of it.

And somehow, impossibly, he still looks like the sweet, clumsy guy who brings extra muffins to the bullpen and blushes when you call him “Kent.”

You reach for the mug he’s holding, fingers brushing his. His hand is warm as always, but rougher than usual. You catch sight of the scrapes on his knuckles, red and fresh, a little dried blood along the cuticle. A mission. A fire. A fall. You’ll ask later. But for now, you just let your fingers linger a moment longer than necessary before taking the mug from his hand.

He watches you sip like he’s worried it’s too hot. Like the coffee might hurt you and he’ll never forgive himself if it does.

You lower the cup with a slow exhale. The taste is terrible, over-brewed, too bitter, but it makes your chest ache, anyway.

“How’d I miss it?” you murmur.

His brow furrows. “Miss what?”

You nudge him with your hip. Playful. Testing. “That you were Superman.”

He gives you a small, sheepish smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Guess I’m just a really good reporter.”

You shake your head and set the mug down beside the sink. “No,” you say, voice quiet but sure. “You’re a really good liar.”

Something flickers across his face. Guilt, regret, something heavier than either. His shoulders slope slightly. He looks down.

“I never wanted to lie,” he says softly. “I only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

Your heart catches. You step closer again, your hand rising to smooth his crooked tie. Your fingers brush the front of his shirt, warm from the heat of his chest beneath. He smells like soap and cedar and ozone.

“Clark,” you say gently, fingers settling at his collar. “I know.”

He finally looks at you, eyes wide and blue and full of something that hurts to hold.

You rise up on your toes and kiss his cheek, just beneath his eye, where the skin is soft and warm and still slightly flushed. The kiss lingers longer than it needs to. When you pull back, his eyes flutter closed for half a second like he’s anchoring the moment.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you whisper.

His throat works on a swallow. The flush deepens, rising high into his ears. He smiles small and wrecked and completely undone.

“I really am,” he says. Then, quieter still, he adds, “I’m so in love with you, it scares me.” The words hit somewhere deep. Behind your ribs. Beneath your skin.

You pick the coffee back up, sip again just to steady yourself, and glance at him over the rim. “Good,” you say, voice light. “Now you know how I felt all this time.”

He huffs a laugh, almost disbelieving. His hand finds your hip. Light. Tentative. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you in this setting but can’t help needing to.

You lean into it. Into him. He presses a kiss to your hairline. His thumb strokes lazy circles at your waist.

There’s a sound outside the breakroom, someone laughing, printers firing up, but none of it touches you. Not here. Not in this quiet corner of morning. Not with his lips brushing yours, slow and reverent, like he’s thanking you for something he doesn’t have words for yet. The coffee. The newsroom. The bruise on his knuckle and the blush in his cheeks.

This is Clark. Yours. And for the first time since all of this began, he’s letting himself be.

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starrykitn · 1 month ago

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thinking about jason todd leaning down to hear you when you talk.

if i’m being honest, i feel like he does it often. sometimes, it’s because it’s a little too noisy where you’re at, and other times, it’s because you’re a little too soft-spoken, which makes it hard to hear you. overall, it’s because jason is just too damn big for his own good, so, most of the time, he just can’t hear you and has to lean in close so you don’t have to repeat yourself again for a third or fourth time.

it happens like this: he’ll be standing next to you with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes focused raptly on something going on in front of him. maybe it’s the news, maybe it’s a movie being watched on the couch by your friends— whatever it is, jason is locked in, jaw set in concentration as he focuses on what he’s seeing. then, when you quietly add commentary, his brows will twitch and he’ll mindlessly turn his head to the side, prompting you to say whatever you said again. it’s autopilot for jason— like it’s programmed into him already.

he doesn’t move all at once, either. his head turns first, then his body follows, but his eyes? oh, those fall to you last. his pretty blue eyes (that also flicker with this mysterious shade of green sometimes) stay trained on what’s in front of him for a few seconds longer. in comparison to the rest of his body, it’s almost as if they’re on a delay.

it’s only after he mumbles a quiet “hm?” to get you to speak again does he finally look at you, hinged at the hip with that white tuft of hair he has hanging in his face. all he’s met with in return is the lack of an audible response and the sight of you staring up at him in awe, your jaw slack and your eyes wide. whatever you were saying is clearly lost on you now, and jason realizes that, but it’s not a big deal. it would never be a big deal. you’re just nervous, and luckily for him, jason loves making you nervous.

“i didn’t say anything,” you lie unconvincingly, throat hoarse from this sudden bout of dryness that’s seemed to set in. you whip your head back towards the tv and jason snorts at your reaction, standing back up to full height with a cheeky grin plastered across his face.

“yeah, okay,” he replies, doing nothing to hide the amusement in his voice. “whatever helps y’sleep at night.”

# — navigation

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starrykitn · 1 month ago

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Michael Robinavitch’s Body x Reader Moodboard 💕

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starrykitn · 1 month ago

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Things Michael Robinavitch has said to his three wallet drainers daughters:

“Why are you wearing all black? Are you in your Reputation era?”

“Why is my stethoscope bedazzled?”

“I think it’ll just be easier if I start going to Costco for tampons.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t care if you like girls or boys. Or both. But if you marry a Steelers fan, you are never welcome in this house again.”

“I think there are more stray bobby pins in this house than microbes.”

“Don’t listen to your Uncle Jack. He’s a Steelers fan.”

“You’re all as pretty and stubborn as your momma.”

“What the fuck is a Labubu?”

“Your brother is upset because you deleted his Transformers movie to download more episodes of Love Island.”

“Can I borrow this earring? I’m taking your momma out on a date tonight.”

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starrykitn · 1 month ago

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I'm sorry. David Corenswet brought his dog to set in her own Superman costume?

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

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just got back into gardening so i’ve forgotten. are basil leaves supposed to be this big

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

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Dr. Jack Abbot Fic Recs Pt 2

06/24/2025

⭒ Routine by @john-get-the-salt

The nightly routine of working in the pitt with your husband

⭒ Rage by @/john-get-the-salt

An incident brings the rage out of Jack, but luckily you have the ability to calm him

⭒ PAGING DR.LOVE by @linaaparkes

𝘾𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙤-𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙛𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙, 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙'𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙬𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧, 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩.

⭒ We’ve got this by @duskbornraven

You get a little too drunk at the bar and your boyfriend is kind enough to get you home.

⭒ push and pull. By @killishin

⭒ Beside you by @writing-girlie

In the wake of Pittfest you have to prepare to confront your past when you and Jack are called in to help.

⭒ Lose Control by @makethatelevenrings

⭒ Just Talk To Me by @leo-in-the-pitt

After having a fling with Dr. Jack Abbott for half of intern year, you’re confused as to where your relationship stands. Heading into 2nd year, your determined to focus on the medicine and away from trouble. It isn’t until a difficult night with a patient that you and Dr. Abbott come together again

⭒ I’ll Be Seeing You by @helenanell

The shift ends and in the aftermath, it’s once again Dr Abbott who anchors me.

⭒ His Rock by @mind-empty-just-fictional-people

⭒ Overactive Empathy by @lol-im-done

A story of an ex-army doctor still haunted by his past who strives to maintain control of his emotions and a nurse with a sixth sense for the emotions of others that everyone has come to rely on- will a traumatic event force them to confront their true feelings for each other or pull them apart forever?

⭒ Angst by @pittrabbit

jack's insistence on pulling away from you finally caused you to break. that, combined with an unlucky day full of bad outcomes, had you visiting jack's favorite spot

⭒ rookie mistake by @highdramas

⭒ spinning out by @/highdramas

you are pittsburgh’s sweetheart, the ice princess, the hometown hero. when you come into the emergency room on the worst day of your life, jack is the one who meets his match.

⭒ it had to be you by @/highdramas

it is the first year you’re attending PTMC’s annual gala as an attending. it’s also your first year with a date.

⭒ Simmering by @/highdramas

you and jack are spent. you stumble into uncharted intimate territory in the confines of his luxurious shower.

⭒ 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter two by @nemo-writes

your day off opens in a quiet, comforting way. errands and small talk feel almost enough to keep the world steady. but scattered signs—disturbed spaces, cryptic messages—suggest unseen eyes on you.

⭒ You’re Okay by @butyoudidthis4what

⭒ dr jack abbot x dr!reader by @astreamofcolors

⭒ Edge of the Dark by @thepencilnerd

⭒ Just Can’t Help It by @playbucky

You and Dr Abbot worked together when he was in the army. Even when you’re on leave from training, you manage to find yourself covered in blood and in The Pitt.

⭒ Daylight by @literazine

reader drops off lunch for jack after they accidentally swapped, only to walk in on him being flirted with egregiously by a mom; of course, the reader has no choice but to remind the people of what's hers

⭒ BITE THE HAND by @/literazine

being casual with jack abbot was never going to be easy, and soon you realize that you've fallen for a man who's afraid of love

⭒ JE TE LASSERAI DES MOTS by @/literazine

seven ways jack abbot says i love you without saying the words—until he finally does.

⭒ I pay attention… by @writtenbyafan

⭒ Jack Abbot x resident!reader by @storiesfromasmalltown

⭒ No Man’s Land by @butyoudidthis4what

Development of your relationship through vignettes of the past and conversations between Jack, Dana and Robby. There's a shooting where you work. Jack is at the ED when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.

⭒ No Man’s Land Part 2 by @/butyoudidthis4what

⭒ you shouldn’t be (down here with me) by @youvebeenlivingfictional

When you’re almost shot at work, your body snaps into autopilot as your mind goes into overdrive. Jack has always recognized parts of himself in you—he knows a mind teetering on the edge when he sees one.

⭒ you shouldn’t be (up here alone) by @/youvebeenlivingfictional

Jack had told you. After he’d eyed the clock, called time of death, roughly ripped the PPE from his body, he’d rushed past you, warned: “I’m going upstairs.”

⭒ Gravity Part One by @/youvebeenlivingfictional

⭒ Heartbeats and Bombshells by @brainddeadd

⭒ Jack Abbott x ER paediatrician who is sunshine personified by @/brainddeadd

⭒ Guilty by @/brainddeadd

⭒ You’re My Best-Kept Secret by @/brainddeadd

⭒ Claimed by @/brainddeadd

⭒ Loyalty by @writingliv

After years of watching you stay in a loveless marriage, Dr. Abbot may finally have the opportunity to win you over and help you get out.

⭒ In Sickness and In Health by @frombookstoretobookstore

⭒ A Teaching Moment by @/frombookstoretobookstore

⭒ The Offer by @/frombookstoretobookstore

⭒ jack abbot with a reader who does not like eye contact by @halfpsychic

⭒ Stay by @stellamarielu

jack comes home from a long shift to find you fast asleep in his bed

⭒ All Yours by @wackapedia

⭒ Pushing It Down by @helenanell

Years after transferring off the night shift, I finally accept that I may have been running away from someone. From Jack. And I realise this, sitting beside him on a park bench.

⭒ Domestic by @sarahs-secrets2

⭒ okay doctor by @/sarahs-secrets2

⭒ safety net by @/sarahs-secrets2

⭒ I CAN SEE YOU; by @thecherrypittttttt

⭒ SOLID WORK; by @/thecherrypittttttt

⭒ II HANDS II HEAVEN; by @/thecherrypittttttt

⭒ LIKE THE STAR? BRIGHTER. By @gigiwritess

just another normal day at the pitt—except it’s not. for the first time in a long time, jack might have found an equal in every sense.

⭒ FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; by @yakshxiao

You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days.

Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

⭒ Open a window by @ezraphalitis

You want to start a family with him, it's been your dream, but life does so little to fulfill such dreams (memories are written this way)

⭒ Next time by @16ferrari

⭒ Hurt by @1-800-imagines

⭒ First Impressions by @duskbornraven

Reader gets saved by a poor doctor just trying to go home and sleep.

⭒ weather the storm by @lovableapocalypse

you take you and jack’s son to the er in the middle of the night when he’s sick, but your marriage happens to be on the rocks atm

⭒ Anxiety by @fioreimagines

Jack knew how it looked with his wife being shy, clumsy, and someone with crippling social anxiety.

⭒ Criminal minds x The Pitt Crossover by @candlelitea

⭒ The Pitt x Call of duty Drabble by @/candlelitea

⭒ Say Something: by @quickestgold

A decade of falling in and out of love has turned you and Jack from lovers to strangers. But when a difficult case hits too close to home, you might finally be calling time of death on your marriage.

⭒ somewhere only we know by @imagines-r-s

⭒ safe haven by @ananonymousaffair

while anxiety can be this very loud entity, you are very grateful to have a boyfriend who can help you quiet down those feelings.

⭒ you meet a few of jack’s coworkers. By @spaceyaemonds

⭒ Three by @sarah-the-bird-nerd

⭒ Wrong Name by @randompiecesofwriting

Reader visits her partner Jack in the ED to drop off his lunch catching the excited attention of all of his colleges much to his chagrin

⭒ ’silent orders’ by @maevawrites

⭒ Wildflower by @glamorizethechaos

⭒ BABY, NO by @dulcebloodhnd

⭒ more than a sip by @pomelace

⭒ unintentionally falling asleep on jack abbot's arms by @erwinsvow

⭒ 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 by @/erwinsvow

⭒ 𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 by @/erwinsvow

⭒ Quiet by @butyoudidthis4what

Widower Jack and widowed single mom Reader meet in the Pitt when Reader's baby gets sick. What follows is healing, patience and becoming ready.

⭒ Not A Date by @duskbornraven

⭒ Seeing Ghosts by @7-wonders

A case hits too close to home for you. Jack wants you to know you’re not alone.

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

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love — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer accidentally reveals your secret relationship by kissing you in front of the whole team—oh, and blurting out “I love you” for the very first time, too. content warnings: secret relationship , mention of a case , spencer being very worried about the unsub and case but its mostly fluff !! a/n: haiiii !!!!! hope you didn't miss my secret relationship fanfics too much </3 also i finished writing this like 10 minutes ago but i was too excited not to post it

Things were heating up.

You were getting closer, so close, to catching the unsub. The map was sprawled across the table in front of you, dotted with red circles.You traced another location with your marker, murmuring quietly under your breath, a habit you'd most definitely picked up from your boyfriend.

Spencer was nearby, slouched in a chair, mumbling to himself in a similar fashion. His brows were furrowed. You could tell this case was hitting him harder than most. Maybe it reminded him of something, or someone. Whatever it was, it weighed on him, and that meant it weighed on you, too.

You took care of him as much as you could, though it wasn’t easy with your relationship still hidden from the team. Last night, you’d slipped into his hotel room after everyone else had turned in, finding him already buried in files. You didn’t ask if he was okay, he wouldn’t have answered honestly. Instead, you’d wordlessly sat beside him on the bed, running your fingers through his hair until his shoulders finally relaxed.

“Want to cuddle?” you’d murmured, and he hadn’t even hesitated before nodding, letting you pull him down against the pillows. He’d tucked himself under your chin, his breath warm against your collarbone, and you’d held him, fingers carding gently through his curls until his breathing evened out.

Of course, sneaking out at 6 a.m. had been its own mission. It took you twenty minutes to escape Spencer’s sleepy, koala-like grip. He kept murmuring thank-yous against your skin, kisses trailing from your collarbones to your jaw, like punctuation marks of affection. It had taken everything in you not to crawl back into bed with him.

Now, back in the briefing room, you had even more reason to catch this unsub.

"I got it." Spencer’s voice broke through the silence.

His head snapped up, and the words came pouring out of him like a dam breaking. Facts, patterns, dates, connections. The rest of the team, who had been working in silence, immediately turned their attention to him, hanging onto every word.

“Okay. Morgan and Reid—I want you with me,” Hotch announced the moment Spencer finished unraveling the unsub’s pattern.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, sending the coordinates to their phones in a flurry of clicks. This was one of those rare, high-stakes cases where even she had to join them in the field. “Location’s live on your devices,” she said, her usual bubbly tone subdued. Hotch gave her a curt nod of thanks before striding toward the door, Morgan right behind him.

Spencer, however, seemed miles away as he snatched his brown coat from the back of his chair. His mind was already elsewhere, locked onto the unsub. Then, just before following the others, he turned to you.

You were still standing by the board, capping the dry-erase marker and watching him with a soft, worried smile. He seemed exhausted.

“Be careful,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, as if snapping back into himself for just a second, and mumbled, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you later.”

His fingers caught your chin, thumb beneath your jaw, index curled gently under your bottom lip. Time stuttered. His kiss was fleeting, achingly tender, and then his lips brushed yours again as he whispered, "I love you," like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

A pin drop would’ve echoed like a gunshot.

“Oh. my. god.” Garcia’s shriek could’ve shattered glass.

Your fingers flew to your lips, still tingling from the ghost of his kiss. The rest of the team was frozen, Rossi’s eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline, JJ’s mouth was slightly open, and Emily looked like she was torn between laughing and demanding an immediate explanation.But you barely registered any of it.

Because Spencer had just said I love you. For the first time.And he’d done it in front of everyone.

Garcia was already flailing her hands, rapid-fire questions spilling out of her“Since when? How did I not know? Oh my god, the touching, the lingering looks, the—!”

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice, playing over and over in your mind like a broken record.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your face burned. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t even notice Emily waving her hand in front of your face until her voice cut through the haze. “Earth to lovergirl,” she teased, grinning.

Blinking, you turned toward the team, all of them staring at you with varying degrees of shock, amusement, and sheer anticipation.

“What?” you managed, voice still breathless.

“That’s all you have to say?” JJ asked, plopping onto the edge of the desk in disbelief. She grabbed a Cheeto from an open bag, crunching loudly. Garcia was still gaping at you, hands pressed dramatically over her mouth. Behind her colorful glasses, her eyes were massive. Rossi sipped his coffee slowly, clearly judging the entire situation.

“Huh?” you repeated dumbly.

Emily’s smirk softened just a fraction. “You okay?”

You stared at her, still dazed, before muttering, “He said ‘I love you.’”

Another beat of silence. Garcia gasped. “That was his first time saying it?” Her hands flew away from her mouth, gripping the sides of her head like she might explode.And then chaos. Again.

“Oh my god—”

“Since when—”

“Wait, wait, wait—that was the first—”

You spent what felt like hours fielding an avalanche of questions, barely able to catch your breath between them. At first, you tried to dodge them, played dumb, gave vague smiles, busied yourself with the files on the table, but it was pointless. Garcia saw straight through you, pinning you with a look that practically screamed, You’re not getting out of this, sweetheart.

So you caved. “Six months,” you said quietly. There was a loud collective gasp. Garcia clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. ( She was. ) “Six?! Six whole months? And you didn’t say anything?”

You winced. “We were trying to be subtle.”

“You failed!” she cried, throwing her hands up.

Emily laughed. “Okay, next—who made the first move?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. “He did.” Another round of dramatic gasps echoed around the room. Even Rossi raised his brows, murmuring, “Didn’t peg him for the bold one.”

“He’s… not. Not usually,” you admitted with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress. “But with me… I guess he was.”

And on it went, question after question, as if they were making up for six months of missed gossip in a single sitting. It was messy, chaotic, borderline embarrassing, but it was also kind of nice. Being known. Being happy. Then came the final question.

JJ’s voice was quieter than the others, softer. “Do you love him too?”

You froze.For a moment, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Even Garcia stopped typing. You looked at JJ, then down at your hands, then back up again. And nodded.

Garcia screeched, practically launching herself out of her chair. “I knew it!” she howled.

Emily beamed, her smile so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and even Rossi let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like a proud uncle.You were a little overwhelmed, okay, maybe a lot, but underneath the chaos, you also felt a sheer amount of happiness that you've never felt before.

Hotch interrupted the moment by calling Garcia. “Unsub’s in custody. We’re on our way back. Everyone’s okay.”

Your breath left you in a rush. Spencer was okay. Your heart, though, it hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was still thundering in your chest, hammering against your ribs with every second that ticked by.

The others must’ve noticed the way you kept glancing at the door, because JJ finally nudged you gently toward it. “Go wait. We’ll clean up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Garcia waved a dismissive hand. “Honey, please. You’ve got heart-eyes so intense it’s blinding. Go stand dramatically in the doorway like you’re in a movie or something. We’ve got this.”And so you did.

You found yourself hovering in the doorway of the conference room, a half-hearted folder in your hands, pretending to sort through paperwork as you stared through the glass. Watching. Waiting.

Then you heard it, the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Every head in the room snapped up like it was choreographed. Honestly, for a team of professional FBI agents, they acted like a bunch of high schoolers most of the time.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sure enough, all of them were watching you, wide-eyed and waiting like you were the final act in a romantic drama. You rolled your eyes with a half-smile, dropped the stack of files onto the table and walked out of the conference room.

As you left, you heard Emily mutter, “Garcia, don’t follow her.”You didn’t wait to hear the response.

The moment you reached the main hallway of the precinct, the doors opened and there he was.

Spencer stepped inside, his curls slightly mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold, and as soon as his eyes found yours, he smiled. That gentle, crooked smile that always made you smile.You barely registered Derek behind him, hand gripping the cuffed unsub and throwing you a confused look when you didn’t even acknowledge him. Even Hotch glanced over in surprise as you made a beeline for Spencer.

“Hey—wait, what—?” Spencer managed, eyes widening as you grabbed his arm and all but dragged him down the corridor.

You shoved open the nearest empty office, tugged him inside, and closed the door firmly behind you, leaning back against it.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, your voice urgent, breath a little uneven.

Spencer blinked. “Mean what?”

You stared at him in stunned disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” he said again, completely baffled. “What did I do? Did Morgan tell you about what happened in the field? I know I wasn’t supposed to go near the unsub without backup, but I swear, I had it under control—”He started to ramble, hands gesturing as he pouted in that way he did when he was simultaneously nervous and a little too proud of himself. “He had a weapon, but I de-escalated him. You would’ve been proud.”

“You did what?” you interrupted, your mind now juggling two emotional crises.

Spencer blinked again. “Wait—so Morgan didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you muttered, your voice flat with disbelief. You shook your head slowly, trying to process it all. The nerves, the kiss, the I love you, and the fact that Spencer genuinely hadn’t realized what he’d done.

Spencer’s expression shifted from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

His voice was careful, gentle, and far too kind for how scrambled your brain felt. “Can you tell me what it is?” he added, tilting your chin up just enough so your eyes met his.

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words were stuck. How could he not know? How could he be looking at you like that, all wide eyes and soft brows and pouty lips, and not know?

“Spencer,” you said finally, his name sharp on your tongue.

“Yes?” he replied immediately, those puppy-dog eyes locking onto yours like he was bracing for impact.

“You kissed me.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m—I’m sorry?” he said, clearly confused.

If you weren’t so worked up, you might have laughed at his face. But your heart was hammering, and your nerves were tangled in knots.

“You did it in front of everyone,” you clarified. And then you said it , softly, barely above a whisper. “And then you said—”

“I love you.” His voice cut in before you could finish.You watched as the memory clearly snapped back into place. Realization washed over his face, followed immediately by a bright, burning blush that crept up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding slowly, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you studied his reaction.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, flustered in a way that only made you want to kiss him senseless. “Oh,” he breathed, glancing away for a second before meeting your eyes again.

“Yeah… oh.” you repeated. Both of you stayed silent for a second.

“I did mean it,” he stammered out.

A smile tugged at your lips, finally. After an hour and a half of bouncing knees, chewed lips, the words you’d been dying to hear had finally landed.

“I love you,” Spencer repeated, a little firmer this time, like he needed to hear it aloud again to make it real. Like maybe saying it twice would help his brain catch up to his heart.The warmth that bloomed inside you was instant. You weren’t sure you’d ever felt this happy in your entire life.

Then, of course, Spencer kept talking.

“Did I say it too soon? I’m not sure. On average, men say it around three to three and a half months into a relationship, while women usually wait closer to four months,” he rambled, already blushing furiously, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “And I know we’ve been dating for six months, so technically it took me twice as long, which isn’t statistically ideal, but honestly I almost said it on our first date, which definitely wouldn’t have been optimal and—”

He was spiraling. Fast.

So you did the only thing that would shut him up. You stepped forward, gently grabbed his face in both hands, and said, soft but certain: “I love you too, Spencer.”

He stared. Just stared, like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, burn it into his brain with all its warmth and disbelief and wonder. You watched his expression shift, first stunned, then relieved, then something so bright and boyish it made your heart lurch.You’d never seen him so happy before.

Well, once. That first time you kissed him. He’d looked a little like this, dazed and blissed out. But now he looked like his whole world had just clicked into place.

“Yeah?” he breathed, voice shaky with excitement, his grin stretching so wide it practically crinkled his entire face.

“Yeah.” You laughed through the word, nodding, the emotion bubbling up in your chest and spilling into every part of you. Your smile was a mirror of his.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you anymore. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, grinning against his skin.

“This is real, right?” he asked into your hair, voice muffled. “I’m not dreaming? Because sometimes I do dream about you saying that and then I wake up and it’s just—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the warm skin of his throat.“It’s definitely real,” you mumbled against him.

Spencer let out a shaky breath and held you tighter. You stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, both of you grinning like idiots. It felt absurdly, wonderfully perfect. Then you muttered into his neck, “You do know you outed our relationship to everyone, right?”

Spencer’s arms stiffened around you just slightly. “Yeah. Totally. I knew that. I did it on purpose,” he lied, too quickly, voice pitched a little too high.

You giggled and pulled back, hands still resting on either side of his neck. “You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Reid.”

He didn’t even bother to defend himself, just gave you an adorable, crooked grin and leaned in to peck your lips. “Yeah, I am,” he mumbled, brushing his nose against yours.

You kissed him back, just once, then poked a finger into the center of his chest. “Also, we’re going to talk about your little superhero stunt at home.”

Spencer blinked. “Right,” he echoed, suddenly very aware of his earlier reckless attempt to talk the unsub down without backup. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not not mad,” you replied, giving him a look. “But I love you, so I’m saving the full lecture for later.”

He winced slightly, then smiled. “Fair.”

You let your fingers drift through the curls on his forehead, brushing them back gently. “Well,” you sighed, “for now, we have to go out there… into the land of chaos and gossip.”

Realization dawned slowly on Spencer’s face. His eyes widened. “Oh no. Garcia definitely filled Morgan in already.”

“And Rossi’s probably already told Hotch,” you added grimly.

“And JJ and Emily—”

“—were there when it happened,” you finished.

You both stood there in mutual silence for a moment, dread creeping in. Spencer cleared his throat. “Maybe we could… go out the window?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Nice try, genius.”

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I had to try.”

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the handle of the door behind you. “Ready?” you asked.

“Absolutely not,” Spencer said without hesitation.

You squeezed his hand anyway. “Come on, lover boy.”

To say that the conference room was chaos would’ve been an understatement.Garcia let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal-gasp hybrid, immediately launching into a breathless barrage of questions that involved timelines and pet names. Morgan clapped Spencer on the back so hard he nearly stumbled, muttering something about “my boy finally growing up.” JJ just smirked from the corner, quietly sipping her coffee.Hotch had walked by at one point, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “About time,” and kept moving without missing a beat.

The jet ride was somehow worse.

You’d sat next to Spencer, hoping for a quiet, post-case decompression. Instead, you were subjected to Garcia and Morgan playing twenty questions from across the aisle. Rossi, pretending to read, chuckled behind his wine glass the entire time. At one point, you tried to rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder, and he’d blushed so hard you thought he might combust.

You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed from the attention or just overwhelmed from finally saying what he’d been keeping in for months. Probably both.

But the days that followed? Even worse.

Because the teasing never stopped. Emily sent you heart emojis during briefings. Morgan kept calling Spencer lover boy, which you regretted giving him the vocabulary for. Garcia had created a mood board on her computer and refused to delete it. Even Hotch raised an eyebrow when you asked to share a rental car with Spencer.

But through it all, Spencer stayed by your side. Every awkward joke, every embarrassing comment, every not-so-subtle glance,he never flinched. If anything, he leaned into it. He held your hand in the bullpen and he kissed your cheek at the end of the day. It was domestic chaos.

Romantic disaster. Beautiful, awkward, completely perfect hell.

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

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welcome baaaack! i missed you so much

i've been here since forever and i remember a very long time ago that you promised us insecure chubby bucky. i never forget and i'm still waiting for him (when you get time for sure). i would love to read that whenever you right it! otherwise i'm really happy you're back again.

much love purple<3

Pairing: Insecure!Chubby!Chef!Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Word Count: 4,180

Summary: Bucky runs into his ex, who manages to mess with his head, bringing his insecurities to the surface again. His girl takes it upon herself to show him how perfect he is.

Warnings: 18+ content, bullying (sort of), fat shaming, negative self body image, insecurities, intrusive thoughts, mentions of cheating, a little crying, a little angst, smut, unprotected vaginal sex, cum, multiple orgasms

A/N: Nonnie, omg, you have been here a long time! I love and appreciate you so so much and I can't believe you stuck around for so long wow:"💜💜 Thank you so much for existing and for being here you're the reason I don't wanna leave again💜💜💜 Here's one insecure chubby bucky for you, I hope you like this one and that I did a good job💜 Thank you again ilyyy, please enjoyxx💜💜(y'all i think i forgot how to write smut what is wrong with me)

perfect to me

“I’m so sorry, baby, I have to run,” she told him after checking her phone, pecking his lips and taking quick steps down the aisle of the large store.

Bucky smiled, taking another fruit plate and placing it in their cart. His girl was such a hard worker and he couldn’t be prouder.

It was going to be Christmas soon and his girl was still working hard so Bucky was going to make her the best holiday food she’s ever tasted.

He was focused on picking the freshest cranberries when he heard a scoff, a very familiar one.

“Hey, Ryan,” Bucky sighed, not really wanting to ruin his good mood, as he turned around to meet a face he knew too well.

“What does she owe you?” said Ryan, tilting his head with a smirk.

“What?!”

“There’s no way this chick is seeing you. I figured she must owe you and is just paying her debt!” He smirked further, not even trying to hide his gloating when he saw that his words still had an effect on Bucky.

“My relationship with her is none of your business.” Bucky’s voice was suddenly low as his eyes stared down at the contents of the cart.

“But my relationship with you is.” Ryan put a finger under Bucky’s chin but the latter took a step away.

“We don’t have a relationship. You cheated on me, remember? I was too fat for you.” Bucky’s shaky voice moved nothing inside Ryan. If anything Ryan wanted more.

“And now you’re too fat for her.”

“Shut up. She is nothing like you.”

“Really? Do you even know where she goes when she leaves you? Where she is right now, for example?” Ryan smirked.

“She got called into work and had to run to the office.” Bucky knew he owed him nothing and if he was in his right mind he wouldn’t have went through a conversation with Ryan at all, but he wasn’t.

“How are you still so naïve?” He laughed heartily as if Bucky’s misery was actually amusing to him.

“Leave me alone.” Bucky tried to push the shopping cart and walk away, but Ryan stepped before him.

“I didn’t know your publisher lived in an office.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She leaves you to go fuck your publisher. You know him, black guy, sexily built, very handsome.”

The words left Bucky feeling lightheaded as the world seemed to twirl around him. Could history be repeating itself? No, not this time. His girl was not like that.

“I saw her coming to his building with him.”

“How’d you even-”

“I wait tables in the restaurant across the street from his apartment. I didn’t know she was with you but damn are you lucky you met me today!” Ryan laughed insensitively.

“It’s probably someone else.”

“I think I know what your publisher looks like.”

“You’re lying,” Bucky chocked out, trying to get out of Ryan’s way.

“You don’t sound so sure about that.” Ryan tilted his head again with a smug smirk, poking Bucky’s tummy, “you know why? Because deep down you know she’s too sexy for you. Because you look at her and then at yourself and you can’t figure out why she’d want you. Because you know that sooner or later she’s gonna get tired of your fat ass and—”

“My life now is none of your business, Ryan. You left. You chose to go, so stay gone.” Bucky’s weak voice interrupted, shutting Ryan right up before he sped out of the store, leaving the groceries behind.

“You’ll come back to me when you see for yourself!” He shouted after Bucky, but he didn’t stop nor turn back.

The questions he had raised in Bucky’s head, Bucky had no answers for them himself. Why was this sweet girl with him? What did she see in him? Anyone who met them thought the same thing: they didn’t belong together. So what did she see differently? What was Bucky bringing to their relationship? Could he even satisfy her? Could he keep her fulfilled?

He thought the days where Ryan messed with his head were long gone but he was obviously mistaken. Ryan could still easily hurt him. He could still make him feel as large as an elephant yet smaller than an insect. The dagger he’d planted was in so deep that Bucky couldn’t feel anything but the pain the stab brought.

His ex’s words plagued his mind. They took over and drowned out his girl’s voice, pushing it to the background.

All of a sudden, Bucky was very aware of his size, of the way the couch made the slightest sounds under his weight, and the way his girl could fit her whole self on one of his thighs if she wanted to.

“Bucky bear?” A hand on his cheek pulled him out of his thoughts.

Suddenly, he hated the words she nicknamed him with. Bear? Is that how big she thought he was?

“Hmm?”

“I was asking if you wanna go shopping for last minute gifts with me tomorrow,” she repeated, smiling sweetly, her fingers brushing a few hairs back and behind Bucky’s ear as she yawned.

Bucky’s new cookbook became a best seller after one week of release and the publication house was throwing the amazing chef a party.

She couldn’t be prouder and she wanted to support Bucky all the way. She loved Christmas and now it was going to be even better with this event added to their memories.

She was going to go all out for her man and he didn’t even know it. It was going to be a huge surprise and she couldn’t wait to make it happen.

“Yeah, why not,” Bucky replied, faking a smile back.

“What were you busy thinking about?” Her thumb traced his stubbly cheek as she frowned worriedly.

For a wonderfully successful cook, Bucky didn’t look so happy.

“You,” he answered with the truth though his eyes didn’t sparkle like they usually would at the thought of her.

“What about me?” Her smile returned as she stared lovingly at Bucky’s face.

“Why are you with me?” Bucky couldn’t hide the sorrow in his voice if he tried.

“What?” She sat up straight in his lap as her face fell.

“Please don’t make me repeat the question.”

“Buck, where’s this coming from?” Her hands cupped both his cheeks.

“I just don’t get it.” He shook his head, swallowing as his hands removed hers from his face.

“Don’t get what?!” She placed her hands on Bucky’s chest instead, refusing to let him push her away.

“Why you’re here!”

“I’m here because I love you, what’s hard to get, baby?”

“Do you really love me?”

This was serious. She’s never seen her boyfriend look so broken.

“James, what’s going on?”

“Answer the question, plum,” Bucky requested, the back of his fingers stroking over her cheek, knowing this was probably the last time he would get to touch her soft skin.

“Of course I love you!”

“Then why do you leave me to go meet Sam and then lie to me about it?!” Bucky unintentionally raised his voice.

“W—what?”

There were so many emotions overwhelming her and none of them was pleasant.

She was shocked, hurt and dejected. Bucky has never raised his voice at her before.

“What were you doing together last night? And the night before and the night before that?!”

“Bucky, you’ve got it all wrong.” She shook her head, heartbroken that Bucky would think of her like that.

“Please leave.” He slid her off his lap and stood up, turning his back to her.

“Bucky.” Tears pricked her eyes.

“Leave, plum.”

“Bucky, me and Sam were—”

“If you won’t leave then I will.” Bucky sped to the door, grabbing his jacket from where it was hanged.

The last thing he wanted was to cry in front of her too. He’s already shown his weakness once; never again.

“Bucky!”

He ignored her calls, ready to run out of the door and let his legs take him far away where he’d have to hear no lies and could no longer get hurt.

“James Bucky Barnes, don’t you dare walk out on me!” She blocked the door, preventing Bucky from exiting the apartment.

Her eyes glistened with yet to be shed tears as her heart pounded in her chest. The mere idea of losing Bucky for any reason terrified her more than anything else.

She loved the man with her heart and soul and would go to the ends of the Earth for his sake. Why couldn’t he see that?

“I didn’t wanna ruin the surprise but… your book is a best seller. Me and Sam were planning you a party to celebrate. We figured if we met at the restaurant it’d ruin the surprise so I saw him at his place after work.”

Bucky stared at her dumbly.

“You can call Sam if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh.” Bucky felt like someone’s just dumped a bucket of cold water over his head; felt like an absolute idiot, “oh, plum.”

“I’m sorry I kept it a secret, but I’m not sorry I wanted to do something nice for the man I love.” A tear rolled down her cheek and her lower lip trembled, “and I’m really sad with you for stalking me and doubting me like that. I didn’t expect that from you, Bucky… and I’m hurt.”

“Sweet plum-”

“You can leave now if you still want to.” She took quick steps to the bedroom, leaving Bucky at the door.

It wasn’t often that she and Bucky fought and it was never something that couldn’t be solved within an hour. He could never bear to see her upset, let alone let her go to bed mad at him.

“Plum,” Bucky softly knocked on her door, swallowing the lump stuck in his throat, “can I please come in?”

But this was big.

Bucky has doubted her love for him. He has insulted her loyalty and ruined everything because of his insecurities and the poisonous words of a man who never cared for him.

She opened the door for him in a heartbeat, her face soaked in tears.

“No, no, sweet plum.” Bucky took her in his arms, praying to the deities she wouldn’t repel from his touch.

“You pushed me out of your lap.” She sobbed, her chest heaving and her forehead pressed to his shoulder.

His accusations hurt but the fact that he pushed her away somehow hurt her more.

Bucky couldn’t help but let his tears fall as well.

How could he be so thoughtless? She was the one good thing in his life and he almost let her go. No amount of restaurants he could open could make him feel as happy as a smile from her would.

He could write a library and collect every prize ever known to humankind, and she would still be the best thing Bucky has ever won over.

“I’m stupid, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His hold tightened, engulfing her smaller frame in a desperate hug, “please don’t cry because of an idiot like me. I’m sorry, sweet plum. Forgive me, baby.”

“Why’d you do it?” Her sad eyes looked at him in question, full of confusion yet void of bitterness.

“I- sweet plum-” Bucky didn’t know how to answer her question because now that he looked back, he could see how stupid it all was.

Why did he follow her for 3 consecutive nights while she went to meet Sam instead of just trusting her? Why did he choose to believe and trust in Ryan’s words and not her love for him? Why was it easier for him to imagine her with someone like Sam but impossible to think of her with someone like himself?

“It’s because I’m a big idiot,” Bucky replied.

“Bucky.”

“Please forgive me, plum.” Bucky pecked her temple.

“Tell me what happened.” She demanded softly, wiping Bucky’s own tears away and kissing his chin.

“Nothing happened, sweet plum. I got inside my own head again. I’m sorry, baby.” Bucky lied with a sad smile, too ashamed to admit Ryan’s words almost had him ruining the best relationship he’s ever been in.

She nodded understandingly, her hand cupping Bucky’s face as she rested his forehead on hers.

Bucky would tell her when he was ready. She didn’t want to stay mad at him. She knew he had issues with self confidence and she wasn’t about to make him feel even worse. He would come to her when he was comfortable. Bucky would tell her on his own.

“Please stay.” She whispered, her teary eyes heavy with sleep, yet afraid to go to bed and have Bucky leave after.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweet plum.” Bucky kissed her forehead, taking her by the hand to their bed.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Her soothing voice whispered, filling the dark room.

Bucky was laying wide awake, Ryan’s words playing in his ears over and over again. What he did to his girl and how he made her cry. All the messed up shit he did just hours ago gnawed at him and took the sleep away from his eyes.

“I ran into Ryan,” Bucky finally replied, unable to sleep while he’s hiding something from her, “he filled my head with thoughts about you leaving me for Sam, and I let him.” He admitted to the ceiling, hesitant to meet her eyes.

“I would never leave you,” she promised him without reluctance, cupping his face and making him look at her.

She wanted him to see all the love her eyes held for him with no shame.

“Please don’t. I will lose the weight, I will—”

“Wait, what? He told you I’d leave you because of your weight?” Both hands were back on Bucky’s cheeks, thumbs wiping under his eyes.

Bucky nodded.

“And you believed him?”

“It’s why he left me.” He shrugged.

“Bucky,” she sighed.

“I know I know. It’s what’s on the inside that counts—”

“Don’t talk as if you’re not physically breathtaking!”

“Baby—”

“No! You have no idea how handsome you are, do you?!”

“Plum, you don’t have to say such stuff.” Bucky shook his head sheepishly and regretted it when he saw sadness cover her delicate features.

She quickly shook it off, scratching her forehead before taking Bucky’s hand, helping him sit up in their bed.

“Sweet plum, what are you doing?” Bucky asked when she started moving the covers down his torso.

“Gonna love on my man. Would you let me, Bucky? Can I love on you?” she asked, her voice soft and sweet.

Bucky nodded, hypnotized by the adoration shining in her eyes and she started to undress him.

Her eyes never left his as she took piece by piece of clothing off, revealing his beautiful figure to her, her smile only faltering when she bit down at the sight of her man in all his naked glory.

Bucky’s body was lit up under the soft moonlight coming from the window, helping her appreciate every curve and inch.

This gorgeous human being was his and he was hers.

“You’re so fucking sexy you take my breath away,” she moaned, slipping out of her own sweater, “and I don’t just mean the way you make me cum so many times until I have to fight for oxygen.” She brushed her lips on his.

Bucky was speechless. He could only stare and try not to lose his own oxygen.

“Keep your eyes open for me, Buck.” She pecked his lips once and he opened his eyes at once, not even realizing he’d closed them in the first place.

She smiled at how fast he followed the instruction, leaning back on the headboard and licking his lips.

Bucky’s groan when her bra hit the ground made her giggle. She slipped out of her panties, leaving herself bare before Bucky’s eyes.

“Come here, plum,” Bucky’s arms reached for her but she shook her head.

“This is about you, Bucky Bear.”

She climbed on the bed between Bucky’s legs, her hands wandering along his shins, thumbs caressing up his inner thighs. She bowed forward, peppering kisses on Bucky’s soft flesh.

“I love your thighs,” her lips moved higher and higher, the tiny kisses and nibbles driving Bucky crazy as he tried not to touch himself, “love how thick they are. So strong. So perfect. I would ride them all day if you’d let me.”

Bucky whimpered when she accompanied the honest words with a bite, leaving her mark on his pale flesh.

“And that ass,” she moaned, her hands sliding underneath Bucky, pulling his legs up and cupping his ass cheeks.

Bucky’s shy gasp made her smirk. He was so precious she could eat him. Maybe she should some day…

She let Bucky’s legs settle back on the bed and kept kissing up and up, skipping his twitching cock on purpose and placing wet kisses on his tummy instead. Her eyes locked with his and Bucky bit his pink lip.

He looked so beautiful, blushing, disheveled and turned on like that. His pupils were dilated, his cheeks rosy and his breath uneven; she was falling in love with this chef all over again.

“I love your tummy so so much,” her tongue dipped in Bucky’s bellybutton and the flush spread from his cheeks and on to his neck and chest.

Another moan slipped from his lips as her warm tongue lapped at his skin. She was full on licking him now.

Her words were romantic but the way she was loving him was driving him insane.

“I love to feel it against me when we hug,” she kissed his right side, “I love when you let me rest my head on it and I get to hear you breathe and feel your heartbeat,” she kissed his belly, “I love how it warms my back when you spoon me. And I love feeling it pushing against my ass when you take me from behind.” She pressed a final kiss to his left side.

“My favourite has got to be your cock though.” She gave his leaking dick a single pump and his hips were already bucking off the bed, “I’m a sucker for this cock, baby. Literally.”

Bucky was too busy whining when her mouth wrapped around the crown of his cock to call her out on her bad joke.

His whole body was on fire with need for her. He needed her to do something, anything.

“Plum, please. Let me get you ready. I need you. I need to be inside you.”

Bucky didn’t want to cum in her mouth, not this time. He needed to be buried deep inside her and he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to last.

“I’m ready,” she said, situating herself on top of his cock, rubbing the tip on her wet folds, letting out filthy mewls at the feel of him against the lips of her pussy, “always ready for you, baby.”

Before Bucky could argue that he should at least make sure she was prepared to take him just in case, she was pushing the tip of him in, stretching herself out on his cock with her head thrown back and her mouth open in a silent scream.

“Fuck, plum, so tight,” Bucky groaned, feeling her pussy grip every inch as soon as it disappeared inside her.

When she has completely impaled herself on Bucky’s cock, she stilled, taking a minute to get used to the stretch.

No burn has ever felt as good as the burn she got when Bucky’s dick split her in half. Getting opened on this cock was her favorite thing in the world.

She dragged her lips along his stubbly jaw as she waited, kissing all over his face, savoring the moment as sweetly as possible as if the head of Bucky’s cock wasn’t almost touching up her cervix.

Her open palms glided from around Bucky’s neck to his shoulders and down his arms until she reached his palms.

“and those hands, I think you already know how much I love your hands.” She chuckled as she continued and Bucky nodded, squirming below her.

“I love when you hold my hand; makes me feel safe; chosen,” she rolled her hips, making Bucky groan wantonly.

“I love how fast you can make me cum on the fingers of your left hand.” She whined when Bucky’s hands dug in her sides as she moved on him, surely leaving bruises behind.

“Fuck, plum-” Bucky was so close so fast and he wished he could last longer but the movement of her body on top of his, the words leaving her mouth and her walls snug around his cock were too much.

“I love you. Every inch, every part. I love all of you, Bucky.”

Bucky groaned in reply, chest heaving as he watched her take him.

“I love every part of you. I crave your touch like my lungs crave air.”

Bucky involuntarily thrust up, making her eyes roll.

“Oh Buck!” she wailed, Bucky hitting her favorite spots so good.

He couldn’t stop his hips from meeting hers every time she came down to take his cock over and over again, eyes glued to where he was disappearing inside of her.

“Nothing could ever match the feeling of being filled up of you, Bucky.”

“I love you, plum ahhh fuck,” Bucky moaned, overwhelmed by emotions and ready to burst any second.

“I love you too, Bucky bear. You’re my everything; my one and only.” She kissed him hard, thighs shaking around his body as she came on his cock.

Bucky couldn’t help but let go himself, cumming harder than he has ever before, filling her up with so much cum until he felt it leak out of her despite having her plugged on his softening cock.

She moaned at the warmth of his cum, shuddering when it seeped out of her.

“Fuck, plum,” Bucky sighed on her shoulder, breath still shaky.

She giggled shyly, burying her face in Bucky’s neck.

“Where did that come from?” Bucky asked, cupping her cheek so he could look at her.

She was glowing, smiling at him so innocently as if his cock wasn’t still buried deep up her leaking, pulsing pussy.

“From here.” She pointed to the spot between her breasts.

“Right here?” Bucky leaned forward to press a kiss on her hot skin, making her laugh as she nodded.

“I love you,” he whispered on her lips.

“I love you, Bucky. I love every tiny detail about you inside out. Nothing will ever change that.” She promised, seeing his eyes soften once again, insecurity dissipating.

“Thank you, plum.” Bucky hugged her close, kissing her shoulder and the back of her neck.

“Thank you for letting me show you how much I love you.”

“So you love my cock huh?” Bucky teased.

“Buckyyyy,” she whined, trying to get away as her face heated up.

“No, say it.” Bucky bit his lip, looking at her with a smirk.

“You know I do. Stop.”

“No, plum. I don’t know anything.” Bucky shook his head trying to act serious, “say it again.”

“Iloveyourcock,” she mumbled, trying to take herself off his cock.

“What was that, plum?” Bucky thrust upward into her and even with a soft cock he could make her make the sweetest sound.

“Hngh, I love your cock, Bucky,” she moaned, throwing her head back.

“Hmm, how much?” Bucky swirled his hips, feeling himself get hard again.

“S-so much,” she admitted as his cock stretched her sensitive pussy.

Bucky held her close, turning them the other way around and gave a deep push when he was on top, his cum making the filthiest squelching sounds as she screamed an “oh god”.

“So much you’d let me take you again?”

“Yes, yes,” she nodded frantically, not wanting the man to stop his thrusts.

And he wasn’t going to.

Bucky’s tummy pinned her down as he pressed his lips to hers, eating up her squeals as he pounded her into the bed, showing her how much he loved her.

“So you really don’t care about my weight?” Bucky asked, supporting his body up on his elbows as he stared at her glossy eyes.

She could barely remember her name as she tried to come down from the other two orgasms Bucky has just given her, his body still on top of hers, but that wasn’t a question she needed to think about the answer to.

“I only want you okay and healthy, Bucky. If you’re comfortable, I’m comfortable. If you’re happy, I’m happy. Otherwise, you’re perfect to me,” she told him with a shrug, pushing his wet hair behind his ears, “every little thing about you is perfect.”

“I love you so much, plum.”

“I love you more.” She smiled, heart fluttering at the look he was giving her.

“Not possible.” Bucky kissed her lips, “not possible, plum.”

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1K notes · View notes

starrykitn · 2 months ago

Note

... I think I'm late to the party, but if you are still taking them, I'd love to see #25 with Robby. But maybe with him as the person who needs to be taken care of? I know he's the type of guy to power through work with a migraine/fever/whatever because he's "supposed to" but with the right person, he'd let down his guard (but never on the first ask, he's default answer is always "im fine")

Oh wait I love this!!! I can absolutely do this!! After hearing Noah's body dysmorphia comments, I know exactly how to do this.

25. “I’m going to ask you how you are and I would like you to answer me honestly.”

Today was your day off and Michael was just now getting home at 8 p.m. You could tell something was off with him the minute he walked into your house. He was silent and his hoodie was all the way zipped up. He didn't acknowledge you, just walked right by you into your bedroom.

You followed him into your room, but he was already in the bathroom. You tried the door and it was locked. Fuck! Something is seriously wrong then.

"Babe, Michael, you okay?"

"Yeah sweetheart I'm fine."

"Then why's the door locked?"

"Sorry it's habit from work."

It's not a habit. He's never locked that door before even on some of the worst days. So he's lying to you. You hear the door unlock and you open the bathroom door. The sight in front of you makes you want to cry. It's very clear that Michael has been crying. You walk over to him and wipe away the tear tracks that are cascading down his face.

"I’m going to ask you how you are and I would like you to answer me honestly. I'll know if you're lying to me."

"I'm okay."

"Michael Robinavitch."

"You got me. I'm not as okay as I want to be."

"What happened? Who do I have to fight for making you feel this down?"

Michael just shook his head at you. You tried to undo his hoodie zipper, and he stopped you. Oh fuck no. Now you need to know what's wrong.

"Did someone say something about you?"

All he could do was nod his head. His eyes refused to meet yours.

"Tell me honey. I can't help if I don't know what's going on."

"One of the patients today was Myrna."

"Why did I have a feeling that was going to come out of your mouth? What'd she say this time babe?"

"She kept telling me that I've clearly let myself go. I was just in my black scrubs for a while and she poked and prodded at my stomach. She told me that she remembers when I was a skinny med student and that nobody wants a washed up fat old man."

"If Myrna comes in tomorrow, leave her to me. She probably won't even remember it anyway but I'm going to make sure she never says shit like that again because it's false."

"It's not though. I have let myself go."

"The way you're talking about yourself hurts my entire heart!! Do you not realize that your tummy is one of my favorite things about you?! Like you're so soft and cute and you've got the best body I don't care what anyone else says. You are so cuddly and you give the best hugs and make the best pillow. You keep me warm. And Mikey you're not in your 20s anymore and gaining weight doesn't take away from your beauty, it enhances it. If I hear you talk bad about yourself one more time, I'm gonna start sobbing."

"You mean that?"

"Every word. I love you exactly the way you are. I don't want to change one thing about you because then you wouldn't be the Michael I know and fell in love with."

"I don't deserve you but fuck I love you sweetheart."

"We'll work on that not deserving me thing later. Right now I want to get my hands on you and show you just how much I love this body of yours."

He laughs and lets you unzip his hoodie. You wrap your arms around him and guide him back into your room. He just lets you. You strip him of his clothes and then hand him a pair of gray sweatpants. He puts them on and then lays on the bed.

You crawl onto the bed and straddle his waist. You leave kisses all over his face which makes him turn a beautiful shade of red. You kiss his neck and then move down to his chest. You place kisses all over his tummy. It tickles him so he laughs.

"Alright I got the point sweetheart. You love all of me no matter what and I shouldn't listen to shit others say."

"Oh good, you were paying attention. And yes I do. I love you with every fiber of my being. It's okay to feel shitty about your body sometimes, goodness knows I do it too, but I'm always going to be here to remind you why I love it."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Then you lay your head on his chest and he wraps his arms around you and you wrap your arms around him. He kisses the top of your head. You start to drift off to sleep, but before you reached dreamland, you heard a soft "Thank you."

You murmur "always" and let him rub your back to put you out like a light on your favorite pillow.

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

Note

“I don’t like them all looking at you.” With pope 🫠

Gracie, you kill me honestly! 💀🙈

14. “I don’t like them all looking at you.”

Craig and Deran decided to throw another party since Smurf had fucked off for the weekend. Your boyfriend Andrew would even be there for once so fuck it, you might as well go. You made sure to put on your tightest black bikini and then threw on one of Andrew's shirts and headed over to the Cody house.

When you walked out back to the pool, it was as if time stopped. Everyone turned to look at you. You paid them no mind and took Andrew's shirt off and put it down on the bar. Deran took it and placed it behind the bar because if you lost that shirt Pope would kill him, not you.

Craig wolf whistled at you from across the pool. You laugh and flip him off before diving into the pool. Craig's been your best friend since high school, and Andrew hates the kind of chaos you two like to get into. Deran must've went and got Pope because by the time you resurfaced, Pope was standing by the bar and watching you. Fucking snitch. You swam over to Craig because you might as well rile Andrew up.

"What's up dickhead?"

"Not much bitch what's up with you?"

"In the mood to mess with your brother?"

"Always."

"Let's light this shit on fire then."

You and Craig hop out of the pool and you can feel the eyes of everyone at the party on you. Craig lights the diving board on fire and then jumps off of it into the pool. Then it's your turn. You climb up the ladder and maneuver in a way that won't get you burnt. Then you dive off and hit the water with precision. Deran comes and sets the diving board fire out. Pope gives you a dirty look.

"Hey Craig wanna jump off the roof?"

"Oh absolutely."

"100 bucks says I can do the better dive."

"You're so on."

Craig and you jump out of the pool again ready to cause more chaos. However, you had to walk by Andrew in order to make it over to the ladder to get to the roof. Andrew grabbed you by the waist and picked you up throwing you over his shoulder and walking your ass into the house. Craig just laughed as you were hauled into the house because he knows Pope's down bad for you.

"Andrew David Cody! If you don't put me down this minute, I will kick you."

"No you won't gorgeous."

Fuck him for being right. You just pout until he finally puts you down on the couch. He stares at you.

"Now why'd you go and do that? I was about to win $100 off of Craig."

"I don’t like them all looking at you."

"Baby this is a party. Of course people are going to look at me."

"Yeah they would, but you're wearing the tightest bikini you own and you're doing your chaos twins act again."

"Are you jealous right now?"

"No."

"Oh baby boy, you know I would never leave you for any of them, except maybe Craig."

Pope didn't like that so he walked up to you and bit your neck. You moan and pull him so that his weight is grounding you on the couch. You like when he lays his claim on you.

"Fuck Andrew, I was kidding about leaving you for Craig. But if doing our chaos twins act gets you this riled up, I have no plans on stopping."

"If you be a good girl and go grab my shirt that I know you wore overtop of this bikini and put it on, I'll take you back to your place and show you just how jealous you made me."

You groan as Andrew moved off of you, but you got up off the couch and walked back outside. Everyone could see Andrew's bite mark on your neck which had both Deran and Craig laughing and wolf whistling at you. You ignored everyone else at the party and flipped the boys off and grabbed the shirt from behind the bar.

"Goodbye to you two fuckers. I'm about to go fuck your brother's brains out. So see you later shitheads."

Andrew was standing behind you just staring at his brothers but he smirked at you, so you knew you were fine. You handed him the shirt and lifted your arms allowing him to put it on for you. Then you jumped up into his arms and kissed him. He carried you both through the house and out to his truck but never breaking your kiss.

He puts you down on the ground and opens the passenger door for you. You excitedly get into the truck and wait for Andrew to hop in.

"Let's go baby boy, I've got all kinds of plans for us."

"Alright gorgeous. But I'm the one with all the plans."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself baby."

Pope rolled his eyes, but knew you were right and honestly he couldn't wait to get his hands on you and you couldn't wait to get your hands on him.

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

Note

1. CONGRATS ON 500 🥳

2. From the hurt and discomfort prompt list… “This is not who you are. I know you better than that.” With Andrew because you KNOW soft boy Pope thinks he’s worse than he really is 🥺

(I’ll send some more prompts eventually)

Thank you so much!!! We do know he needs some love because he's not a monster. This one is gonna hurt me in the process 🙈

“This is not who you are. I know you better than that.”

Andrew's been struggling with some things as of late and he's been pushing you away in the process. You don't know if it's because he doesn't want to hurt you or maybe he's just tired of you being around. You hope it's the former and not the latter.

You rocked up to Deran's bar because it was time to talk about the next job without Smurf knowing about it. Craig, Deran, and Pope were already there and talking. When you walked in, the boys stopped talking.

"What, did you start the meeting without me?"

Craig nodded his head towards the back and you followed him.

"Sis, Pope doesn't want you working the jobs anymore."

"Of course he doesn't. Alright. Thanks Craig. I'll just get out of your guys' hair."

You walked back out to the front and just walked right past Pope. Deran just looked at his feet. Pope watched you walk out and he started feeling guilty so he ran after you.

"Angel wait."

You just keep walking to your motorcycle. You have no intentions of stopping.

"Babe will you just hold on a second."

"No Andrew. Leave me alone."

"I can explain."

"Yeah well I don't have the time to hear it."

You climbed onto your motorcycle and took off. Once you got back to your apartment, you locked all of the doors and windows and shut your phone off. If he wants to push you out, you can lock him out.

Ignoring Andrew is a hell of a lot harder than you anticipated it would be. Ever since you walked out of Deran's bar, you just holed yourself up in your apartment for days. Pope's knocked and tried to get in but every time you make sure you've got the chain on.

When you turned your phone back on, it was to see hundreds of missed calls and texts from Andrew. You don't bother to listen to or read any of them. There is one from Deran though so you quickly open that one.

DC: Pope's going crazy with you icing him out. Like batshit crazy. Worse than he normally is. Tonight's the job and I think it would be beneficial if you let him in afterwards.

You rolled your eyes because of course Pope's going crazy and making it his brothers' problem. As if he hasn't been driving you absolutely insane and icing you out first. But fine, if he shows up later, you'll think about letting him in.

2 a.m. rolls around and there's a knock at your door. You already know it's Andrew by how soft the knocks are, as if he's scared you're not going to let him in. You get off your couch and unlock the door, chain lock included, and open the door. The sight in front of you almost gives you heart failure because Andrew's covered in blood.

That has you moving out of the way quickly. He walks into your apartment and you close the door behind him.

"Take your ass to the bathroom. I'll be there in a minute."

Andrew doesn't say anything. He just nods his head and walks down the hallway towards the bathroom. You just needed a minute to breathe and to stop yourself from crying.

Once you get yourself under control you walk down the hallway to your bathroom. Andrew's in there with his shirt off. He's got some deep-looking gashes to his upper torso. You just look at him and see if you can find any other major injuries.

"Do I want to know what happened?"

Pope looks up at hearing your voice and his eyes start to water.

"Hey Andrew what happened?"

"Had to kill a couple guys. It's mostly their blood I'm wearing."

Ah. That explains a lot more than it should.

"Look Pope I have a very important question I need to ask you and I want the truth."

"You called me Pope. You never call me Pope. You always call me Andrew."

He starts to actually cry now. You walk up to him and kiss him hard. You try to wipe away his tears as best as you can. Then you take your suture kit and start stitching him up.

"I did call you Pope and I didn't like it anymore than you did, but why have you been pushing me away?"

"I can feel myself turning more into Smurf everyday and I can't let myself hurt you. You know how she is and how fucked up we all are. I know you're just as into this family now, but I can't let you see me like this."

"Andrew, this is not who you are. I know you better than that. You're not a monster. I understand when jobs go wrong and people get hurt or they die. It's not what we set out to do, but it happens. I also know how much we all despise Smurf but yet secretly want her undivided love and attention. But pushing me away has hurt me more than you could understand."

You just finished stitching up his chest and went to grab some of the larger bandages to cover them up when Andrew collapsed on the floor. He's hysterically crying and his whole body is shaking. You sit on the floor and pull Andrew into your arms, so his back is against your chest. You run your fingers through his hair and just try to get him to stop crying.

You've never seen him cry like this and aren't sure he ever has before. It's kind of scary and only hurts your heart to witness. He stops shaking which allows you to apply the bandages to his chest.

"Babe can you tell me why you're sobbing?"

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know babe. It just sort of happened. You thought you were going crazy because I iced you out, imagine how I felt with you pushing me out. I just want what's best for you and if that's not me, you've got to tell me."

Andrew turned around so he could look you in the eye. He's not sobbing anymore. His eyes are just full of guilt.

"Angel you're the only good thing I have in my life besides Lena. When you iced me out and when you took off from the bar, I knew I fucked up. I was distracted tonight. If you were there I probably would've been a hell of a lot more careful than I was."

"I always did say you were beauty and I was the brains."

Andrew chuckled.

"Nah angel you're the beauty and the brains enough for the both of us."

"I'm not going to argue with you because I know you won't listen to reason even if you are the most handsome man I've ever seen."

"Are we okay?"

"You going to keep pushing me out instead of just talking to me?"

"No. I promise I'll talk to you."

"Then yeah baby boy we're good. But get your ass up, I'm tired, and you need to sleep."

"Yes ma'am."

"Oh don't you start with that. We can play tomorrow. Now it's time for sleep."

You and Andrew get up off the floor and walk into your bedroom. You help him get out of his bloody clothes and give him a fresh pair of boxers to put on. He takes them and puts them on.

You climb onto the bed, already wearing an oversized shirt and your underwear, and hold your arms open for Andrew. Andrew climbs onto the bed and is very careful with how he lays down, but his head is on your chest and your arms are wrapped tightly around him.

"I love you Andy."

"I love you too babe."

He leans up and kisses you before lying back down on your chest. You kiss the top of his head on those messy curls you love so much. You can feel Andrew's smile against your chest. You know you'll both be fine because you've got him back right where he belongs.

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

Note

Those jealousy prompts are all Pope Cody. I was like 2 would be perfect for him... no 5... no 6... shit. They're all good.

Oh nonny, you're coming for my heart! Don't worry I gotchu!

2. “Does he not know that we’re together?”

5. “He shouldn’t go after other people’s girlfriends!”

6. “I’m not jealous, I’m being absolutely reasonable.”

Deran needed you to bartend tonight and you agreed even though Andrew and you had already made plans for the evening. Pope's not mad at you and he's not even mad at Deran. He'll just need to sit at the bar all night and make sure people know just who you belong to.

Being behind the bar is like riding a bike. You might not have done it in a while but you know what you're doing. You always make sure Pope has a beer and that when you're not serving customers you're standing by where Andrew's sitting.

A couple hours into your bartending shift a dude kept hitting on you. He kept buying you shots that you politely took at first. You could see Andrew out of the corner of his eye and he's staring at the dude with the patent Pope stare but the dude isn't paying him no mind.

You lean over the counter and ask Pope to cover you so you could take a bathroom break. He had no issue doing it. He even squeezed your ass as you passed each other. You don’t mind, you just laugh and keep walking.

When you're making your way back to the bar after your quick break, that dude that was buying you shots approached you. You tried to get some distance between you but he just kept getting closer to you. He was so close to you, you could smell the alcohol coming off of his breath.

"Excuse me sir. I need to get back to the bar."

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing around here?"

"Working, so if you wouldn't mind moving out of my way."

"Come on you can spare a couple minutes for me, besides I was buying you shots."

"That I never asked for. Besides I have a boyfriend. A possessive one at that and I can see him from where I'm at."

"Oh please I can be much better than whatever loser you must have for a boyfriend."

That's when Pope made his presence known. Deran must've gone behind the bar to cover you both. Pope turned the dude around and punched him in the face knocking him down onto the floor.

"Does he not know that we're together?"

"Oh trust me Andrew I tried to tell him, but it seems he doesn't listen."

The drunk guy got back up and tried to punch Andrew, but Pope dodged it and pulled his gun out from the back of his jeans and pointed it at the man. The man must've realized he was messing with the wrong man because he backed up.

"Holy shit you're Pope Cody."

"Damn right I am."

You're annoyed that Pope got his gun out so you stick your hand out and look at Andrew with his own stare that you've mastered.

"Baby boy put the gun away. That's not necessary."

"He shouldn't go after other people's girlfriends!"

"I understand that, I do. But I'd like to keep you out of prison. So give it to me and I'll hold onto it."

Pope hands you his gun and you put it in the back of your pants. Then you take Andrew's hand and pulls him up against you. He smirks and gives you an absolutely filthy kiss. If that drunk guy didn't get the message, he sure did now because he took off out of the bar. You guys walk back up to the bar and you make your way back behind it and Andrew sits down on his stool again.

Deran looks at Andrew and just said "really dude?" Andrew just glared at his brother.

"I’m not jealous, I’m being absolutely reasonable."

You laughed into your hand because he was absolutely jealous.

Deran said, "whatever you say brother. I'll be fine, you two get outta here. You had plans to begin with. I'm sorry for being an inconvenience."

"You're not an inconvenience D. I didn't mind helping, but you're right. I'm going to take my jealous man home and show him how hot what he just did was."

"That's too much information for my ears sis."

Pope just smirked and took your hand and led you out of the bar and into the truck.

"Get us out of here baby and I'll make it worth your while."

"Fuck honey you're going to be the death of me, but I'm sorry for all of that back there."

"Don't even worry about it. If you hadn't punched him, I was going to."

"I should've waited then because that would've been hot to see."

"If you get us home in the next 10 minutes I'll show you how hot I can be."

"Yes ma'am."

You laughed as Andrew put the pedal to the metal. He must really want you to get your hands on him. Good because you're ready to get your hands on him and you're ready for his hands all over you. Might as well enjoy all of the attention you're about to get, maybe you should make him jealous more often. It's hot seeing him get all possessive.

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

Text

Happy Father’s Day, Jack

TLWG bonus chapter (part 3.5 : in between phase six and phase seven of sticky fingers, quiet mornings )

a/n : part two to the prequel is still in the works, but thought I'd offer this bonus chapter for you all! wc: roughly 2,300

Father’s Day begins exactly twelve minutes after Jack Abbot walks off a trauma floor that nearly broke him.

It’s 7:12AM.

Pittsburgh humidity clings to the porch railing like breath. The street’s quiet. A dog barks three houses down. Somewhere in the distance, a train rolls through, low and steady. Your windows are cracked open, just enough to let the air in, not the heat. You’ve already brewed the coffee. Toasted the waffles. Set out the card. Tucked her handprint painting between the sleeves of the new Steelers sweatshirt you bought him, folded carefully, placed right on the arm of the couch where he’d see it first. Everything’s ready. You’ve been up since six.

You’re wearing a pair of biker shorts and his old PTMC long sleeve, the sleeves pushed to your elbows, the neckline slouching over one shoulder. There’s a small smear of pink paint on your wrist from when she wouldn’t stop “signing” his card with the side of her fist last night.

The front door opens.

And then he’s there.

Jack Abbot. Black scrubs, soaked in overnight shift fatigue, shirt clinging at the collarbone, badge unhooked, stethoscope looped tight in one hand. His eyes are bloodshot. One shoulder visibly lower than the other, like the weight of the shift is still hanging off him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sees you in the kitchen and stops like something hit him square in the chest.

You meet his eyes.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you say, quietly.

Jack blinks, stunned for half a second, then sets his stethoscope down like he forgot he was still holding it.

“You did all this?” he says, voice rough. “For me?”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

He rubs a hand down his face. “I was gonna pretend I didn’t care. Be chill about it.”

“You? Chill?”

“I had a speech ready.”

You look at him, curious. “For Father’s Day?”

Jack nods, smile barely there, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, sleep still hanging off him like a second shift. He steps closer, the hem of his black scrubs brushing your hip as he leans against the counter. “Yeah. Figured you’d do something. Thought I’d try to be smooth. Say thanks, maybe kiss you slow. Try to talk you back into bed.”

You snort. “You practiced that in the trauma bay?”

He shrugs, cracking the faintest smile. “Tried. Didn’t get far. An intern asked me about marriage,” he says. “Like, dead-ass. During rounds. Whole hallway smells like blood and ketamine, and he goes, ‘Dr. Abbot, is it worth it?’”

You laugh under your breath. “And what’d you say?”

Jack’s hand comes to your waist, fingers curling in over the long sleeve's hem, thumb pressing into the soft skin of your hip like he’s grounding himself.

“I said—‘Imagine the worst shift of your life. Like, seven codes, backboarded GSW, a social worker crying in the supply closet, just hell. And you come home to someone who doesn’t ask anything from you. She’s just there. Coffee ready. Kid babbling in the crib. And you still get to love her like you’ve got time to spare.’”

Your throat tightens. “You said all that?”

He shrugs. “He’s lucky I was running on adrenaline. Any other time I’d have told him to shut the fuck up and chart.”

You grin. “That’s disgusting. I love you.”

“I love you more.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking down your body. “You wore this for me?”

“Maybe.”

“You trying to get me to cry or get me to fuck you?”

“Why not both?”

Jack groans softly and presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “And you’re making it worse.”

“I made waffles.”

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

“They’re heart-shaped.”

Jack mutters something against your skin that sounds like Jesus fucking Christ and then kisses your shoulder. Slow. Open-mouthed. Like he’s remembering you’re real.

Then—

Crackle.

The monitor hums. Both your heads turn.

And there it is.

“DAAA-DAAAA?”

Jack’s breath catches.

You wait.

Then her voice rises again, louder now, sweeter, almost like a song:

“DADA COME NOW. DADA COME.”

You glance up at him.

He’s frozen, eyes locked on the monitor. Silent. Like the sound cracked something open in him and he’s trying not to let it spill out.

Last year, she couldn’t even form the word. No teeth. No words. Just soft coos and gummy grins. Now she’s standing in her crib, gripping the rails, calling for him like he’s the whole damn sun.

You rest your palm over his chest. Feel the breath rise sharp beneath it.

“Go,” you murmur. “She’s been practicing. I caught her saying it to that photo in her room last night, the one of all three of us. She can see it from the crib.”

Jack nods. Doesn’t speak. Just takes one deep breath, like he’s bracing against the weight of it, and moves.

Then, just before he turns the corner, voice low without looking back:

“Don’t eat my waffles.”

You smirk. “No promises.”

You follow him down the hall. Quietly. The morning presses in around you like a held breath.

The nursery door swings open.

And your daughter, the light of your life, is standing in her crib, duck in one hand, hair in total disarray, cheeks flushed from sleep. She points at him like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.

“DADA.”

Jack drops to a knee like she shot him straight through the ribs. “Hi, bean,” he says, voice thick, eyes already glassing over. “I missed you.”

She lifts both arms like royalty, and he gathers her up like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen. Her little body melts against his chest, warm and heavy with trust, her curls sticking to the collar of his wrinkled black scrubs. He holds her like he never wants to let go—but when he turns to you, it’s different. Deeper.

He looks at you like you hung the stars. Like this, this home, this child, this morning, is something he still can’t believe he gets to have. His eyes are wrecked. His voice rough with everything he never says out loud.

“Best thing we ever made.”

And when he looks at you, it’s not just tired. It’s bone-deep love. That look he only gives when he’s too exhausted to keep the walls up, when all that’s left is the truth. That he loves you. Fiercely. Silently. Constantly.

For one long, breathless moment, the house is still.

Jack Abbot. In black scrubs. A baby in his arms. His whole heart in yours. A Father’s Day that actually fucking means something.

And not a single part of him takes it for granted.

You cross to him and lower yourself beside them, curling into his side like it’s the only place that’s ever made sense. His arm slips around you instantly. She presses herself between you both with a possessive little grunt.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you whisper again.

Jack closes his eyes. Breathes you both in. And then, softly, without opening them:

“I love you”

You lean into his chest. “I love you too. You’re the best thing we’ve ever had.”

His voice is wrecked when he says it. “Don’t ever let me fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

Later that night, 11:42PM.

It’s almost midnight.

The waffles are long gone. The handprint painting’s been magnet-pinned to the fridge, slightly crooked, beside a gas bill and a grocery list Jack added to earlier—diapers, more blueberries, get her favorite tea. The new Steelers sweatshirt he pulled on after his shower this morning still smells like soap and daughter. You caught him wearing it again after dinner, toddler in his arms, rocking on the back porch swing with her cheek pressed to his chest like she’d been waiting all day for that exact configuration of time, weight, and warmth.

She was asleep by 8:40. Out cold by 8:49.

He hasn’t put his ring back on since work, but it’s there, on the nightstand. Next to the baby monitor. Next to the small black leather album he still hasn’t opened.

You told him about it during dinner, leaned across the table while he was chewing and said, “There’s one more gift.”

He blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “I already got three. The card, the sweatshirt, the painting…” He tapped the side of his head. “That’s three. I counted. You’re done.”

You smirked. “I’ll have you open it when we’re alone.”

Now you’re in bed. Jack’s walking out of the bathroom, threadbare navy shirt, boxer briefs riding low on his hips. He’s blinking slow like he’s still catching up with his own exhaustion. But when his eyes fall on the album, he pauses.

“You’re really gonna make me cry three times in one day?”

You smile, heart already racing. “Just open it.”

Jack squints, scrubs a tired hand down his face, and mutters something like I’m too fucking soft for this. He sits beside you. Turns the album over in his palm. His hand is rough from work. Tape residue, fading ink, a healing nick on his knuckle that you know came from a trauma room cabinet door he forgot was broken. His thumb lingers on the spine. He flips the first page.

And then—

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice goes flat. Then quiet. “Oh, fuck me.”

You don’t answer. Just watch the slow unravel.

Jack blinks. And then blinks again. His breath leaves him like he’s been punched straight in the solar plexus. His mouth opens, closes.

“Is this—are you—this is you?”

You smirk. “Don’t act like you don’t recognize your own wife.”

He flips another page. The flush spreads from his neck to his ears. There you are, posed in soft golden light, black lace barely covering anything. His dog tags around your neck. Your hands behind your back, wrapped in his tie. One shot with your fingers curled in the waistband of your panties, gaze sharp, hair mussed, lips parted like you’re waiting for him to step out of frame and ruin the rest of the photo.

Jack swears under his breath. “When—when did you do this?”

“Last week. Took a long lunch. Studio near the firm.”

He flips the page again, and stops cold. His breath stutters. His fingers tighten against the edge of the leather.

You’re wearing his sweatshirt. Not the clean, fresh one you gave him this morning, but his sweatshirt, the grey one with the faded army logo that still smells faintly like old detergent, sand and him. The same one he left on the bed the first night you ever stayed over, when he didn’t want to make it a whole thing but didn’t want you cold either.

And now—Christ.

The hem sits just below your hips, riding up higher on one side, exposing the curve of your ass like a secret you wanted him to find. Your back is arched, thighs tucked, feet flexed like you shifted into that position mid-movement—like you’d just climbed up and waited for him to follow.

Your face is half-hidden in your arms, cheek pressed to the mattress, but he can still see the soft part of your mouth. The barest hint of a smirk. The slope of your spine. The suggestion of everything just out of reach.

Jack exhales like he’s been sucker punched.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “That’s my sweatshirt.”

His voice cracks on the word my.

Jack shuts the album fast, like if he looks at one more page, he’ll fucking combust on the spot.

“I married you,” he says, voice hoarse. “I fucking married you.”

“You did.”

“I thought the waffles were gonna break me. The new sweatshirt, the painting—she said Dada—and I kept it together. Barely. And now...” His hand drags down his face again. “Now you’re pulling this shit?”

You crawl closer, hand on his thigh, voice low, “Happy Father’s Day.”

He stares at you. Then laughs once, quiet, pained, wrecked. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

Jack turns to you. The look on his face is nothing short of reverent.

“Like it?” he repeats. “I want to frame every goddamn page. I want to staple it to the fridge. I want to show that intern from this morning what happens when you marry someone way too good for you.”

You laugh. “You wanna show him nudes?”

“I wanna show him you. I wanna show everybody.”

“Jack—”

“I’m so in love with you,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, like it’s clawing its way out of his chest. “I walk around all night with blood on my shoes, palms aching from compressions, lungs full of hospital air, and all I do is think about you. Think about this house. Think about coming home. To waffles. To her. To you. To this life I don’t fucking deserve.”

You climb into his lap, slow and deliberate. His hands catch your hips without hesitation.

“I was trying to make this special.”

“You did,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You made it sacred.”

You lean in, lips brushing his. “You gonna thank me properly?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He just kisses you, slow, deep, aching. Like gratitude and lust and years of knowing your body better than he knows his own. His hands slide up your back beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re not wearing anything underneath.

He swears again. Then flips you back against the pillows, his body blanketing yours in one fluid motion.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of the night worshipping you,” he says into your skin. “Starting now.”

And when he finally slips inside you, hot, deep, full-body groan into your mouth, there’s not a single thought left in his head but you.

The woman who made him a father.

The woman who still wants him.

The only thing that’s ever felt like home.

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starrykitn · 2 months ago

Text

imagine bein’ loved by me

JACK ABBOT x F!READER

Summary: Jack Abbot is a tease and a bully and an overall menace to society, and you are utterly infatuated with him.

wc: 9.2k (what the fuck)

Warnings: f!reader, resident!reader, implied age gap, power imbalance, jack is a fucking tease, he is also a dummy, tension in the workplace, an almost bar fight, pining, explicit sexual content, brief oral (f!receiving), praise, p in v, finishing inside, oh no, they’re in love

A/N: not only did this get way longer than intended, it also got way softer than I had planned oops. Anyway, y’all are gonna roll your eyes at a certain scene when my clear bias toward Robby is put on full fucking display lmfao enjoy~

He notices it the first time you work a night shift with him.

Jack has seen you in action before. Hell, Robby has even sung your praises (a rarity). You have sure hands, follow spot-on gut instincts, and you’re great with the patients. You’ve proved that you’re competent and confident here in the EC.

However, as soon as Jack steps into any room you’re already in, that sugar-laced smile fades. You stutter, you hesitate, your hands start to tremble.

Initially, he thought it was because he intimidated you. It wouldn’t be the first time, but usually, if a resident is scared of Jack, they’re downright terrified of Robby who’s known to be hypercritical and harsher in his corrections (a side effect of all the stress he’s under, Jack thinks).

That doesn’t seem to be the case with you. He’s seen how you act around Robby, professional but relaxed. You grin, high five, and Jack is pretty sure he witnessed a warm, work-appropriate side hug shared after a particularly harrowing shift.

He comes to the conclusion that this is an issue you have exclusively with Jack, and that doesn’t sit well with him.

He isn’t angry, just curious.

Also, he can’t have you freezing up whenever he’s even remotely close by; that’s just not good in this line of work.

So, in the early morning hours of what Jack knows to be your last shift before you’re off for a few days, he catches your attention and jerks his chin to beckon you over to the nurse’s station. The manner in which you look around and over your shoulders, pointing to yourself in disbelief, makes his lips quirk up on one side.

Jack mouths the word ‘you’ while nodding and watches as you shuffle toward him with wide eyes.

“Um, what can I—” you clear your throat, “what can I do for you, Dr. Abbot?”

“You have a second to talk?” he asks, and you swallow, head moving up and down in slow, silent affirmation. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”

“Okay, do you… do you wanna talk here, or is it—I mean, is it a closed door conversation, or…?”

Jack just does not understand why you get so timid around him. Why is it you can laugh and joke and work with Robby and Shen, but you can’t with him? What has he done to make you so mousy?

“Wherever you’re comfortable. We can step outside if you want, or we can stay right here,” he offers. You’re in control here. You have the choice. No wrong answers.

“Outside?” you half suggest, half ask, and Jack motions for you to lead the way.

It’s about three AM on a Tuesday morning. Not a whole lot of action right now, but you both know that can change on a dime.

As soon as the doors slide shut behind him, you look at Jack in concern. “Is everything okay?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers it could come off as defensive or surly, so he drops them to his sides, except that feels awkward and wrong too. No fucking wonder Robby is always rubbing his face and holding the back of his neck.

Eventually, Jack settles on sliding his hands into his pockets, relaxes his posture, tries not to look like a soldier standing at attention.

“I wanted to ask you the same question.”

You frown, not quite pouty, more like you’re having trouble solving a riddle, so Jack continues before you can catastrophize any further.

“I get the feeling that I make you nervous sometimes,” all the time, “and I want you to know that you shouldn’t be. Nervous, I mean.”

No longer pinched together, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, your gaze repeatedly flicking to and away from his face.

“See, that,” he chuckles, “you look like you just got caught stealing drugs.” Then, in an attempt to ease your discomfort, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial volume and adds, “have you… been stealing drugs?”

It does not make you laugh. It just makes you shake your head urgently, “no, I’d never—Dr. Abbot, s—”

“Hey, hey, calm down. I was just teasin’, kid,” he tries to reassure you while smiling how he usually does, subtle but amused.

If he’s being honest, though, the deer in the headlights look is kind of endearing. Unnecessary, but endearing.

Then, Jack sees that wide eyed stare move down to the slight curve of his mouth and remain there for a few whole seconds, more than enough time for you to see that previously subtle curve lift a little higher on one side until it’s more smirk than smile.

So, that’s what it is.

Jack tries to clear it from his face, but it’s kind of impossible, especially when you’re able to detect the mirth dancing in his eyes.

“I should, uh—ya’ know, actually….” You start backing up toward the sliding doors, “you really don’t make me nervous, Dr. Abbot. I think you just… I mean, no offense, but I think maybe you got the wrong idea.”

A self-conscious laugh, then a little huff when you miss the doors and instead back up into the bricks beside them.

“Right.”

Jack moves closer, finding too much enjoyment in your tiny gasp when he reaches out and gives you a nudge to the side before placing his hands lightly on your shoulders.

He turns you to face the pitt, guides you through the entrance as his footsteps echo directly behind yours.

“Of course you’re not nervous—why would you be?”

You’re absolutely rigid in front of him, even curl forward a tiny bit when Jack gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go.

You pivot to hide your face so fast, he’s surprised you don’t tear a goddamn ligament.

It all makes sense now, he thinks.

You’re not nervous; you’re smitten.

How sweet.

•

You consider begging Dr. Robby to let you come back to days early. It would be out of line and a little pathetic, but you’d much rather deal with that fallout over the very real threat of dropping dead in a trauma room any time Dr. Abbot so much as looks at you.

A single glance is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and he is doing a bit more than that now, so you have a feeling that your time is about to be up.

<< Hey, how many more weeks am I on nights?

You type up some elaborate story about splattering spaghetti all over your dry erase calendar and having to clean it, wiping away your schedule, but the more details you give, the more suspicious Dr. Robby will get.

>> Is it not on Teams?

Damn.

<< Missed the window to change my password, so I’m locked out on my phone.

That seems believable.

It takes him a while to get back to you, but you almost wish he hadn’t when you read his response.

>> You’ve still got another 3 weeks

There’s no way you’ll make it that long. You’ll be a nervous wreck by the time you return to the daylight hours of the EC.

>> Miss day shift?

<< Maybe.

<< Yes.

You also miss working under an attending who doesn’t make you shake like a chihuahua.

>> I promise I won’t make you stay any longer than you have to, but Abbot and Shen need the help for now

Just reading his name is enough to make something jump in your stomach.

Three more weeks of surviving Dr. Jack Abbot as he tries his damndest to kill you.

And, you don’t even know why he’s doing it. You can understand why he’d want to suss out the reason you get so flustered around him, but now he has it. You know he knows because apparently you are incapable of concealing your feelings or even facial expressions when you see that barely-there smile of his.

The exact moment—you witnessed the exact fucking moment that he figured it out. God, just thinking about it has you mortified all over again. And, then he held your shoulders and he teased you and you still had to work another four hours without passing out from embarrassment.

From the very first day, or more accurately, the very first shift change, Dr. Abbot had too much of your attention. Something about his eyes and mouth and the salt and pepper stubble and silver curls and dexterous hands and really everything about him.

He knows that now—maybe not all the details and areas of focus, but he definitely has the big picture.

And, it amuses him. Entertains him. It’s almost like it brings him joy to make you squirm a little.

He isn’t preying on you, you don’t think. It doesn’t feel malicious or coercive. Just inconvenient and confusing and really fucking distracting.

In the shifts that followed shortly after his little discovery, Dr. Abbot just looked at you longer than he did before. Sometimes you’d see the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. Unnerving, but something you could cope with. Mostly.

Now, he’s getting a little bolder, a little closer. Physically. Will come stand right next to you at the nurse’s station or sit at the computer nearest the one you’re using to chart. He doesn’t stare at you when he inflicts this torture. No, the gazes are always from a distance, probably with the purpose of making the back of your neck burn. Here, when he’s right beside you, he just smirks. You think he might try to hide it, but he’s not very good at it, even laughed once when you’d stood up as soon as he sat down.

It’s just—it’s just rude. So rude.

The worst part of it all, though, is that it’s helped steady you. You’ve stopped shaking in exam rooms, rarely stutter when giving reports. It’s like some kind of awful exposure therapy, and while it’s made you a more efficient doctor (still not as good as you are during the day), it leaves you in a constant state of mild discomfort, hot all over for twelve straight hours.

It can’t get any worse, though. There’s no way that Dr. Abbot, revered and respected and selfless, would push things further.

He wouldn’t.

(He does.)

•

The praise is genuine. Jack doesn’t say it to get a rise out of you; he wouldn’t do that.

He’s watching over your shoulder as you prepare to put in a chest tube. Your hands are unwavering, nimble fingers counting ribs and controlled around the scalpel.

In just a couple weeks your confidence in treatment has risen exponentially. He wishes he didn’t have to torture it out of you, but whatever works, works.

Plus, it’s not like he’s not having some fun with it. You may be well balanced while performing procedures, but around Jack, you’re still wide eyed and restless.

It’s cute, your little crush.

Surprising, a little baffling, but mostly cute.

Jack has been told that he has an… effect… on some women. More than he would’ve thought, and he still isn’t used to it. Fuck, he’s only just now started to notice it.

Samira, bless her, was able to break it down for him, said he was a ‘silver fox’. Gray hair, fit, “think Anderson Cooper!”

Then, she’d let him in on another secret.

“Your eyes are your best weapon, though.”

“My eyes?”

“Mhmm. It’s the way you stare. It makes it feel like nothing else exists. Very intense.”

She’s moved on to bigger and better things, as she should. Jack is glad she did, even if he misses having someone to explain the trends and lingo of the modern world. The pitt was never going to be big enough for Dr. Samira Mohan.

It’s perfect for him, though. Exactly where he wants to be, especially right now as you secure the chest tube just fucking right.

“Nicely done,” Jack tells you, still eyeing your work from behind you, catching the way your shoulders raise up close to your ears.

He chuckles, you let out a frustrated, squeaky grunt, and then Jack gives you a little pat on the back and leaves.

You avoid him as best you can for the rest of the night.

Apparently, Jack has more going for him than his silver hair and ‘intense’ stares.

Whether it’s proximity, his voice, or the words themselves, he isn’t sure. He’s more than willing to experiment to find out, though.

The next chance he gets, Jack stands unnecessarily close to you again. It isn’t enough to raise eyebrows, really just looks like he’s keeping an eye on a fledgling doctor’s technique (which he is!). You’re a little stiff but not nearly as done with him as you were earlier.

So, you’ve gotten used to him hovering. That’s good.

“John got everyone lunch,” Jack says, coming to lean against the central hub beside you, voice dipped low and a tad rough.

If you ask, he’ll just say he’s tired. It won’t be a lie.

You don’t ask, however, just glance over at him, eyes landing on his mouth for a nanosecond before flicking back up.

“What, did he lose a bet?” you eventually respond.

Jack laughs quietly, “yeah, actually.”

“Typical,” you snort, “is gambling a hallmark of every EC or is it just ours?”

He shrugs then straightens up, “no clue. Gotta find ways to entertain ourselves, right?”

So far, you’ve seemed relatively unfazed, which is why Jack tosses you a quick wink as he backs away from the station.

That gets a reaction, like a lightning strike that makes your spine go straight, makes you hide your face and whine, “oh my god, I hate you.”

You can’t see him, what with your head buried in your hands, so you don’t catch Jack’s smug grin as he turns around.

“Me? What’d I ever do to you?”

He’s pretty sure he can feel your glare burning holes in the back of his skull.

•

Robby’s birthday finds several faces of the pitt in the bar closest to the hospital. The man behind the counter knows many of you by name and therefore has a line of drinks prepared for you all without even having to be asked.

You sip on your vodka Sprite—easy, decent taste, shouldn’t get you fucked up unless you really want to get irresponsible.

And, irresponsible is the last thing you want to be when you can feel a heavy, hazel gaze on you wherever you go. You talk to Trinity, to Victoria, to Donny, and no matter where you move, those eyes follow you.

It seems a little different tonight, though. Abbot usually watches you with the purpose of teasing. Now, it just feels like he’s watching to watch.

With two drinks and little food in your system, a nice buzz settles in your head, stomach warm with alcohol and courage—not enough to talk to Abbot, but enough to make your way to the table he’s sharing with Robby so that you can wish the latter a happy birthday.

“Unbelievable I made it through another year,” Robby says with a tired smile. He didn’t even work today, and the man looks exhausted.

You grin sideways and tell him too honestly, “I’m glad you did,” then laugh around your straw when he blushes.

Your eyes flit to Abbot who’s looking over at the other man, but as if sensing your attention, he redirects his to your face.

“You can’t say stuff like that to Robby,” Abbot jokes, “one day he’s gonna get so red, his head will explode.”

“Shut the fuck up,” comes a groan from behind Robby’s hands, “aren’t you supposed to be nice to people on their birthday?”

“Sorry, were you expecting birthday kisses?” Abbot puckers his lips and acts like he’s really gonna plant them on Robby’s cheek, but he leans back when he’s swatted away, typical half-smile lifting his mouth when he winks at you as if the two of you are in cahoots.

Robby isn’t the only one blushing now, your face hot as it always seems to be when you’re around Abbot.

Thankfully, Cassie chooses that exact moment to slide up next to you to do exactly what you had come over here for, grabs the attention of both attendings, allowing you to slip away.

An hour and two more drinks later finds you at the same booth. You ate the fries off Mel’s plate with the hopes of sopping up some of the alcohol, and while it probably helped, you’re still nice and fucking tipsy where you sit next to Robby, across from Abbot. With little room, you’re actually on Trinity’s lap, her cheek resting against your back as she chats with Robby, who has had enough beer to divulge a few fun stories about one Yolanda Garcia. Naturally, Trinity is eating it up.

You listen and laugh, happy to be here, happy to see Robby actually relax, and, if you’re being honest, happy to be stared at.

Eyes a little cloudy, you meet Abbot’s, and your stomach flips in a way that’s less to do with nerves and more to do with attraction.

He tries and fails to hide a smirk, and you twist your own mouth to the side to keep your smile at bay, look down and laugh as you shake your head.

You should probably put some distance between the two of you before you say or do something stupid. No way are you gonna let yourself flirt with Jack Abbot in public, especially not with Trinity and Robby so close by.

You slide from your friend's lap with the excuse of getting some water, which isn’t actually a lie. You could definitely use some, and that’s emphasized by how fucking good it tastes and feels when you gulp it down at the bartop.

“Now, that’s impressive,” you hear from beside you, look to your right to see a man a few years younger than you who is blatantly checking you out.

With a little frown, you tell him, “it’s not vodka or anything—just water,” immediately getting a bad vibe from this guy who’s probably named Chad or Brad or whatever frat boys go by these days.

“Shame,” he hums, “sober girls are so much harder to pick up, especially the cute ones like you.”

It’s possibly the grossest thing you’ve ever heard, shamelessly fucking predatory, but when you narrow your eyes at Chad, he just chuckles.

“What’s your name?” he asks, either not recognizing your expression of distaste or ignoring it altogether.

Hackles rising, you respond, “none of your business,” and turn to walk away.

When Brad’s fingers wrap around your wrist, you round on him again, your free hand hot with the impulse to clock him right in the jaw.

“You’re not even gonna talk to me?” he grins, “you should at least give me a chance.”

About to reply with a lecture full of expletives, Brandon lifts an eyebrow, suddenly focused on something or someone behind you.

The way your neck prickles tells you exactly who’s just walked up, but that sixth sense does not prepare you for the strong arm that curls around your waist.

“You need to let go before I fucking make you,” Abbot says, tone casual, his body anything but. You can feel the tension radiating from him, a loaded gun with his own finger on the trigger.

Chadwick drops your wrist, and you flex your hand as if it’ll get rid of the residual sensation of his grip.

“We were just talkin’, man.”

“Yeah?” Abbot’s fingers curl into the material of your shirt, and your heart starts beating faster for reasons unrelated to the cocky fucker in front of you. “You grab every woman you talk to like some kind of fuckin’ caveman?”

“Bro, chill, I didn’t mean anyth—”

Abbot cuts him off with a glare, “I’m not your fucking bro.”

His volume doesn’t grow, voice still even, but there’s a certain strain to it, the same strain you see in the muscles of his neck, feel in the flex of his bicep.

This shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, and you are no fucking damsel, but having Abbot stand up for you—get mad for you…

“Old man lookin’ for a fight?” Brayden challenges, pushing his chest out in an over the top, alpha male way that would make you roll your eyes if it weren’t for the way Abbot’s hand twitches against your hip.

You glance up at him, that sly smile nowhere to be found as he works his jaw, tongue sliding behind closed lips like he’s counting his teeth in some grounding exercise.

You’re about to murmur to him that it’s okay. You’re okay. He can take a breath and calm down, but then you’re joined by yet another patron, this one much more level headed than the men staring each other down.

“Walk away, man,” Robby says, “this guy may be old, but I guaran-fuckin’-tee you, he’ll drop you. You really want that?” Brown eyes are narrowed from the way he scrunches his face up, almost cringing on the other man’s behalf. “You really wanna get your shit kicked in, in front of her?”

Chandler’s eyes flit between Abbot and Robby before he raises his hands in surrender, grumbles something about, “no bitch is worth this bullshit.”

You hear something between a grunt and a growl resonate from Abbot’s throat, his arm around you growing tighter, and at the same time, Robby takes a single step forward, hands still in his pockets, his shoulders pulling back as he bows up on the guy.

Abbot may be able to control his volume, but Robby sure can’t, basically barks at Broderick, “what the fuck did you just say?” and you look between all three men in complete disbelief.

What is happening? You’ve got one of your attendings doing everything he can to keep you plastered to his side while another looks like he’s about to knock this guy’s teeth into the back of his throat.

The sense of security is, admittedly, very nice and oddly endearing, but neither of these men can afford to, a) spend a night in jail, and b) fuck up their hands.

“Okay, boys,” you call out, slipping out of Abbot’s grip only to grasp him by the forearm (his thick, thick forearm), your other hand reaching out and curling into the back of Robby’s hoodie, “that’s enough, time to go.”

Looking at Chad/Brad/whatever the fuck his name is, you advise, “if I were you, I’d make myself really fucking scarce right about now.”

He looks between all three of you, eyebrows pinching together as he shakes his head. Thankfully, he walks away, likely swearing the whole time.

You drag both of your bosses out of the bar, claiming, “you two need some fresh air,” then nudging both of them to lean against the wall of the building.

“While I appreciate the whole white knight thing, you guys did not have to do that. Like at all,” said wide eyed and serious. “I know I’m probably just some baby resident to both of you, but I promise I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

Robby laughs through his teeth, turning his head to look over at Abbot then back at you.

“I wasn’t saving you, sweetheart. I was saving him from stepping into some deep shit.”

“That fucker deserved to get his shit handed to him, and you know it,” Abbot spits back. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this, genuinely upset, and with that anger comes a different vocal inflection—his words are rough and colored with what you think might be a California drawl.

Strange. You’ll have to ask him about that some time.

“Not arguing that,” Robby sucks his teeth, “be really fucking inconvenient if you got hauled into the police station, though.”

Abbot releases a humorless laugh, “ever the pragmatist.”

“Someone’s gotta be.”

You watch their back and forth, caught off guard by how weird it is. You’ve only seen them interact during shift changes, and whenever they do you’re certainly not around—what, with your whole avoiding Abbot mission.

That seems sort of impossible now. In fact, after that whole display, you don’t think you even want to avoid him anymore, and that poses an entirely new problem.

•

Jack’s little game has backfired horribly.

He really should’ve had the foresight to anticipate it happening, but he didn’t. Caught up in his own amusement as well as your flourishing in the EC.

It’s all been harmless, and if you ever told him to back the fuck off, he would have. He still will.

It’s just… it’s a lot harder to leave you alone now.

And, he doesn’t have some savior complex, no unjustified possessiveness. The problem lies with the fact that Jack can’t fucking get your body out of his head, or really, the way it felt against his. What it felt like to hold you. What it felt like to have you let him.

Sure, he’s had fun riling you up here and there. Watching you get all cute and flustered has brought him a little too much satisfaction, but the dynamic has changed. The rug has been pulled out from beneath him.

The events that transpired at Robby’s birthday get-together (Jack almost strangling another human) caused a shift in you. You’re more comfortable around him, willing to engage and even banter with him, which is great except Jack experienced a shift within himself as well.

The game has changed. The goalpost has been moved. He doesn’t care about working you up as much as he cares about making you laugh, seeing your smile, made even better if he’s the cause of it.

He still stares, and you still catch him, but when you do his characteristic smirk is missing, replaced with a clenched jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows thickly.

He still stands too close to you, and you still roll your eyes, but you also bite your lip. You don’t move away. Not even when Jack’s fingers brush your arm in a way that could be accidental if he didn’t do it so often.

He does not come up behind you in the exam rooms, though. Despite having never been bothered by it before, the forced proximity that comes with most traumas lights his every nerve ending on fire—painful zaps that travel from his fingertips and spread through the rest of his body.

He’d made the mistake only once, and it was during the shift that immediately followed that night at the bar. Jack moved close enough to look over your shoulder, ready to give feedback and praise for really any reason he could find, but an ultrasound machine getting rolled into the room and into his space had him leaning forward even more until his chest was flush with your back.

Up until this point, you would’ve gone still, maybe curse him under your breath. Not anymore, though. No, this time, with Jack more or less on top of you, all you’d done was glance back at him, lip caught between your canines, then focus your attention back on the patient.

He had to stay in that position for a solid five minutes, if not longer, and by the time he was able to move away from you, he’d gone through almost all of the breathing techniques his therapist had taught him.

So, it goes without saying that this newfound desire is pretty inconvenient.

Also, he’s fucking delusional to call it that—newfound. It’s not new at all, it just wasn’t so obvious, even to him.

Jack has been kinda sorta really fixated on you for a while now. He’d been bothered enough to confront you about what he had thought was an issue of intimidation, then interested enough to play with you, for lack of a better term.

Plus, he’s always found you attractive, cute when stuttering around him, beautiful when you intubate, crouched and squinting as you visualize vocal cords. Downright mouth watering when you scoff at Jack after he says or does something ridiculous (to get your attention), arms crossed with a hip cocked out.

Enamored doe eyes can narrow into a glare in the flash of a second. Shaking hands can cut through flesh with both strength and precision. A frown can brighten into something that glows so brightly, Jack could swear he feels it in his chest.

Long story short, he’s fucked, even more so when you ask him about it.

“You’ve been weird the last couple weeks,” as you sidle up next to him at the central hub.

Jack looks from the forms in his hands. “How so?”

“You haven’t been nearly as annoying lately,” you tell him with a snort.

Feeling his mouth twitch into a smile, Jack looks back down at the papers.

“Don’t tell me you miss it,” he teases, and there’s something oddly comforting about the way you shift on your feet beside him, a habit of yours from back when he could still give you butterflies (or so he assumes).

“I am definitely not saying that,” you click your tongue, and Jack chuckles.

“What are you saying then?”

He signs the last of the paperwork, lines every sheet up then taps them on the counter, straightening them out to near perfection before turning to face you fully.

“Does someone miss having my undivided attention?”

Your jaw falls open in offense, but a short laugh still bubbles out of you, so Jack isn’t too worried.

“You, sir,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he burns at the tiny point of contact, “are just a little too bold, you know that?”

His mouth twists from one side to the other, and Jack can literally feel his eyes light up with mischief.

He tries to keep it inside. Tries to stamp it down, but oh, he needs to see the look on your face when he tells you—

“You really think callin’ me sir is the best idea?”

And, it’s so fucking worth it when that stare grows into something wide, and your shoulders drop to open up your posture and your little hands fidget where they hang by your sides.

You take a deep breath, then, without even meaning to, flip the script on him when you mumble his name—his first name— “Jack…” so, so quiet he almost misses it.

But, he’s watching your mouth so he sees the way your lips form that single familiar syllable, and something is trying to escape his throat, a groan or a shout, he doesn’t know what.

He can barely believe his fucking ears when you deliver the next line, just as quiet, timid as you used to be, “you have to stop teasing me if you’re not gonna follow through.”

You may sound like your former, mousy self, but you still manage to hold his gaze, meaning you see the way his mouth opens in surprise for just a moment before he quickly clamps it shut again.

“At this point you’re just being kinda mean,” you continue.

Jack has to exercise every ounce of his self control to keep from surging forward and catching your pouty lips with his. His hand flexes at his thigh, all five fingers stretched out then curled into a tight fist.

“I didn’t know you were ready for me to start being nice,” he breathes.

You’re speaking in innuendo, right? He isn’t reading this wrong?

You make a self-deprecating sound and shake your head. “I’ve been ready for so long it’s humiliating.”

Jack doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but it is not an option right now, and because of that, because he can’t move to touch you, all the potential energy stored in his hands gets released through his mouth instead.

“Sleep with me after work,” he blurts, and what the fuck—what is wrong with him? “I mean, shit,” Jack laughs at himself ‘cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna take the stairs two at a time to get up to the roof. “Come to my house and sleep in my bed,” he tries again.

It’s still not graceful, and definitely worthy of a good, long cringe, but it’s out there, and damn, when’s the last time he felt genuinely nervous? He’s survived fucking war zones, but right now, those pale in comparison to the threat of you laughing in his face.

“I…”

“You can tell me to fuck off,” he quickly adds. “I probably deserve it after being such a pain in your ass.”

Your eyebrows are still high, but a smile smug enough to rival his own spreads across your face, “oh my god, wait… That’s what it is.”

“What?” He’s breathing too hard.

“All that, everything you’ve been—” you fucking giggle, and the sound of it makes Jack dumb. “Was that just you, like, pullin’ on my pigtails?”

Jesus, that… yeah, that’s exactly what it was. A schoolboy with a crush, craving the attention of the prettiest girl in the class.

He has to shut his eyes, clenches his teeth so hard, his molars might splinter under the pressure.

“That’s one way to put it,” words coming out clipped, as if his jaw is wired shut.

“And, how would you put it, Jack?”

“Me being a stupid son-of-bitch, something along those lines.”

You hum, hand by your face with your index finger curled against your bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree.”

A few beats of silence pass, and Jack spends every one of them trying not to shake.

Then, his whole body relaxes when you add, “I guess I could go for a nap after work.”

Oh, Jesus Christ, thank God, praise him or her or whatever might be up there. This is truly a blessing.

“Yeah?” he asks, just to make sure.

Your smile remains mirthful, but there’s also a softness to it as you nod, “yeah.”

•

Jack’s house is a small, one story not too far from the hospital. It’s about what you’d imagine for a single man in his forties. His military background can be seen in the tightly ordered bookshelves, the sponge and scrub brush by the sink being perfectly aligned, the containers of flour, sugar, and whatever else pressed against the wall from tallest to shortest.

You thought you would be terrified if ever given the chance to see this very personal part of him. Hell, you’d been terrified of him in general not long ago.

Now, though… Now you scan your surroundings with a tilt of your head, taking it all in and learning new things about the man you’ve been pining over for too long.

“You’re making me nervous just staring like that,” he says with a quiet snort.

When you look back to him, you raise an eyebrow, “nervous, you say? Welcome to my life for the last couple months.”

Jack curls his lip over the bottom row of his teeth, looks sheepish, which is not something you’re used to. On one hand, you feel oddly validated that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine, but you’re not entirely sure you like seeing him… ‘insecure’ isn’t the right word. At a loss, maybe.

You sigh and step toward him, extend a timid hand to take his, and he lets you, watching as you play with his fingers.

You’re ready to explode and ready to melt. Want to scream and want to cry in relief. Confused at how you got here but so relieved that you did.

All mixed up over him, like you’ve always been.

“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” you admit, eyes flicking to his face before returning to calloused, freckled hands. “All I’ve seen is the Jack at the hospital. Dr. Abbot.”

He hums. “That guy’s alright, I guess.”

You grin, and he can probably hear it in your voice when you reply, “yeah, but he’s kind of a badass in the trauma room, which is super fucking annoying.”

“What a dick.”

Giggling in a way you’ve never actually allowed him to see, you find him looking a little dazed. Hazel clouding over, the side of his mouth keeps twitching, smile not quite forming almost like Jack can’t feel the muscles activating, like he’s no longer tethered to himself.

“Can I shower before we lay down?”

He doesn’t answer at first but eventually blinks a few times. “Huh? Oh, right. Shower. Yes.”

His fingers curl around yours and as he leads you further into his home, you’re wrapped in a certain comfort. This is good. You are safe. He is right.

Those are inside thoughts, though. No reason to let him know how far gone you are. He has enough of an idea as it is.

“Let me grab you something to wear. Is—are you alright with one of my T-shirts? And, I have… basketball shorts that should—”

“If you just have a pair of boxers, those’ll work. I don’t like that athletic material.”

Jack stares at you with an intensity you haven’t seen in a couple weeks now. You watch his throat work over a gulp, and he takes a deep breath before croaking, “yeah. Boxers. Got it.”

It’s hard not to shoot him a mocking grin, able to recognize the struggle he’s going through, but you are much more merciful than he is, choose to simply squeeze the hand you’re still holding.

You enjoy the shower alone, inhaling the familiar scent of Jack’s body wash, his shampoo, the conditioner that keeps those curls looking so soft, and you’re hit with the idea, the excitement, that you might actually be able to feel them, run your hands through his hair, feel his stubble against your palm.

You didn’t necessarily come here to have sex. If that’s what ends up happening, then you definitely won’t be disappointed, but you mostly followed him home to spend time with him. To learn more. And, maybe you’d get to cuddle with him. Maybe.

Friends, lovers—whatever this may turn into will be fine with you. Jack has always been attractive to you, even with his incessant teasing, but more than that, he’s always been admirable.

The most capable person you’ve ever met, cool in a crisis, sturdy and sure. He is a pillar, a titan, a leader, but he’s also witty and goofy and mischievous.

There’s a reason you fell for him and a reason you keep falling for him.

The white t-shirt he left smells like him, soft and baggy, and the boxers fit okay once you roll the waistband a couple times. Your hair is wet, and your eyes are dark from fatigue. You don’t feel particularly pretty, but the open domesticity of this whole encounter encourages you to step out into the hallway.

You’re not here to be pretty. You’re here to sleep. And stare a lot.

Jack’s room is right across from the bathroom, and you walk into it you find him sitting on his bed wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He’s in the process of doffing his prosthesis, and you watch what seems like a ritual. His fingers move and massage scar tissue, and there is a voice at the back of your head, a want—to one day be the one to do this for him. To get the blood flowing again, to soothe any aches or chafed skin.

Probably not quite there yet. You aren’t even sure he wants you to witness this, don’t know if he’s self-conscious about his leg or not.

With this in mind, you step a little louder to announce your presence, and Jack looks up quickly, doesn’t say anything for a moment as his hands falter in their movements.

“Uh… probably should have told you…”

You frown at him. “Did you—did you think I didn’t know?”

Mouth pulled downward in consideration, Jack shrugs, “it’s never come up in conversation, and it’s not like I’m using my crutches at the hospital.” He briefly changes the subject, nodding to the clothes in your hands, “you can toss those in the basket if you want.”

You do just that before approaching him, careful not to knock into what is likely very expensive hardware.

“It didn’t have to come up in conversation. And, you didn’t have to use crutches for me to notice.” He regards you curiously, so you continue slowly, trying to choose all the right words. “You don’t have a limp. You don’t move awkwardly. But, there’s a certain… rhythm… to the way you walk. A kick, I guess, that one leg has that the other doesn’t. It’s really, um… it’s really subtle.”

Jack blushes, but he also smirks. You roll your eyes before he can open his mouth to poke fun. “Yes, I’ve stared a lot. Yes, I’ve watched you like a freak. Fucking sue me.”

“Do I need to file an HR complaint?”

With narrowed eyes and extreme caution, you slowly slide into his lap, draping your arms over his shoulders, making sure not to put all your weight on him.

He’s obviously taken aback, stifles a little cough, but his hands still settle on your waist without hesitation.

“Do you want to file an HR complaint?”

He’s comically quick to answer, “fuck no,” the words rough as they fall from lips you’re zeroed in on. When his tongue darts out to wet the corner of them, you shiver.

Jack moves first, but you’re right behind him, meeting him halfway in a kiss that starts with a deep inhale. Your fingers rake through the hair at the back of his head, travel to finally, finally feel those curls, and when they’re just as soft as you imagined, you hum happily—a sound that turns desperate when Jack cups the back of your neck and somehow pulls you even closer than you already are.

His stubble, though scratchy against your skin, is just long enough to keep from hurting, pleasurably stimulating rather than rubbing like sandpaper.

You tilt your head, open your mouth, and Jack swiftly slides his tongue against yours, a deep grunt sounding from his chest and reverberating in yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Want to touch him everywhere, want to feel everything. He, however, knows exactly what he wants, keeps holding your nape while his other hand curls around your hip and guides you to fully sit in his lap, traps you there as he grinds against your core, and fuck, oh fuck—he’s hard. He’s hard and he’s big and he wants you.

Jack swallows your little mewl, groans when you roll your hips, but breaks away from you before either of you can get carried away.

“This isn’t,” he’s already so out of breath, and the fact that you’re the cause of it makes your body flush hot, makes your pussy ache. “It’s not why I asked you to come home with me… contrary to popular belief.”

You refuse to stop playing with his hair even as you speak, “well, I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it wasn’t my plan either.”

His thumb is stroking over your hip bone, very distracting as you try to keep yourself from shoving him back on his own bed. The hand that was previously on your neck is caressing your cheek, smoothing over the bone, moving to your jaw, the space right below the curve of your lip.

“You are,” Jack swallows, huffs through his nose, “you’re incredible, you know that?”

It takes you by surprise. Praise like that from someone like Jack Abbot is something people crave, whether they’re attracted to him or not. He’s never been one to hold back from encouraging younger doctors, one of the reasons everyone enjoys working under him, but… incredible?

“And, beautiful, obviously. Brilliant. Patient—”

“You don’t have to butter me up, you already have me in your bed,” you play, rolling your eyes as if you’re not eating this up.

“I’m not buttering you up—I’m telling you everything I should’ve when I was too busy pullin’ on those pigtails.”

And, then, for whatever reason, he beams at you, a grin so wide and crooked that it spreads to every one of his features, changes the very shape of him. You see dazzling white teeth all the way back to his molars, and you sort of want to cry into his shoulder.

He’s—he’s so fucking handsome, it hurts, and you can’t look at him any longer, holding his face in both hands as you kiss him again.

And, again.

And, Jack refuses to drop that damn smile, still wearing it even as he twists and turns to maneuver you onto your back.

It’s finally happening, oh god, you’re finally getting—you finally have your hands on him, sliding under his shirt, lifting and pushing it off entirely.

His arms, what the fuck, his arms, and his chest, his stomach, his freckles… freckles everywhere, dusting his body like one huge constellation.

You’re so ready to worship him, only you can’t because Jack is too busy with you, mouthing down your neck to nip at your clavicle, fingers dancing at the hem of his shirt.

Looking at you through unfairly pretty eyelashes, he questions, “may I?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod, “knock yourself out.”Jack laughs, helping you sit up so that he can tug the t-shirt from your body, and once it’s off he bites his lip hard enough for the flesh to redden. “Talk about a knockout.”

Part of you wants to ‘boo’ the cheesy line, but it’s hard to criticize when he’s staring at you the way he is, even harder when he leans down to pepper kisses over your chest, sucking on one of your nipples until it hardens on his tongue, then caring for the other in the same way.

Your tits rise and fall with every breath you take, shiny with his spit by the time he begins his descent again.

Jack leaves marks on your rib cage, a bruise sucked into the soft skin right below your belly-button, one on each hip as he hooks fingers into your waistband and pulls the material down little by little.

The hickeys don’t stop, numerous dark spots littering your inner thighs, each one making your cunt pulse with arousal, and once the boxers are discarded and Jack is between your legs, he examines his handiwork—bruises first, then your dripping pussy.

Warm breath cascades over you, a few short puffs followed by a languid lick from your entrance to your clit.

“Haah—ah—Jack, oh…”

His resounding groan vibrates through you, and you immediately find purchase in those silver curls again.

His facial hair scrapes your thighs so deliciously, stubble on his chin and around his lips making you gasp and writhe, and you would love to hold him still and ride his face, but you want something else even more.

“Feels, fuck, feels so good, but—” your back arches when he nibbles on your clit, soothing it with his tongue afterward, “—I want, God, please, want you in-inside.”

And, with those words, Jack fucking whines for you, eyebrows pinched together as he works his jaw, stuck between a rock and a hard place (with a rock hard cock pressing into the mattress).

He wants to fuck you, good God, he wants to bury himself in you, but your cunt is so sweet and so wet, drenching his face and fluttering just for him. He could do this for fucking ever, quit his job and eat your pussy for the rest of his life.

But, your hands are urging him back up your body, and Jack really has no business or desire to deny you anything you want from him.

As soon as he gets to a certain position, one that gives you enough force and leverage, you shove him onto his back and straddle his hips, crushing your lips against his and no doubt tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Do we need… do we need a condom?” you question, follow with, “I’m clean, I had a—a physical a couple weeks ago—”

You’re asking if he can fuck you raw. Shit, Jack is not well enough equipped to deal with this, to deal with the increase in his heartrate and blood pressure as you start working his boxers off of him.

You slide down him quickly, but stop at his legs, and when he feels you press what can only be described as a loving kiss to the scar tissue of his residual limb, Jack sucks in a breath so sharp it might lance him right open.

It’s fleeting, not something you draw too much attention to, but the sensation and the care will stick with him until the day he dies.

“Healthy as a horse,” his voice cracks when he finally responds to you, and he clears his throat in the vain hope that it’ll heal his grated tone.

Both of you stripped of every garment and inhibition you slink back up his frame, another question glimmering in your eyes. Jack raises a hand to push hair out of your face and nods. Yes. Please. I’m entirely yours.

Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping him and making Jack press his head back into his pillows when you run your thumb over his tip to smear the precum drooling from it.

“Gonna kill me,” he whispers, gazing up at you in awe, his jaw dropping even further when you line him up with your entrance and begin sinking down.

Your pussy is hot and tight around him, taking Jack deeper and deeper, and the feeling of you squeezing his cock paired with the way you’re moaning for him has his eyes rolling in his head.

“Fuck, you’re too goddamn good for me,” he groans, and he means it. “Too fuckin’ good.”

But, you disagree with a laugh and a shake of your head right as you settle onto his pelvis.

He is fully inside of you. Sheathed. Surrounded. Buried just like he wanted to be.

The thought nearly does him in, and Jack bucks up into you, the action making you bounce, keen, then start your own rhythm.

Lifting up over and over, you ride him like you were fucking born to, raising yourself and dropping on his cock, then falling to your forearms to work him at a different angle. Your ass bobs up and down, and if he cranes his neck just the right way Jack can see the jiggle of round cheeks. His fingers dig into your plush skin, groping and pulling and using his grip to move you up and down on his cock.

He’s lost to you, lost in you, and he’s fucking ecstatic about it. Uncontrolled grunts and growls leave him without his knowledge, creating a cacophony of lewdness when mixed with your melodic moans and squelching pussy.

You brace yourself on his chest and piston your hips, the pace growing into something frantic as his cock rubs against your g-spot.

Head thrown back, tits pushed out, nails digging into his skin, you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.

“That’s it, take what you need, baby, I’ve got you,” he tells you, though it’s really Jack who needs the reassurance. Needs to know you won’t disappear from his grasp, here one second then gone the next. He has you, he’s holding you, and just the idea of letting you go drives him insane.

No. No.

He coats his thumb in spit before pressing it to your clit, holds it there to apply a steady pressure for you to control more than him.

Mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, you cry while shifting on top of him, an endless dance that eventually has your muscles locking up, your pussy starting to spasm, and Jack can’t tear his eyes away as your orgasm builds, build, builds, his own right alongside it.

You teeter on that edge for so fucking long, face stuck in the same expression of utter desperation as your body moves almost robotically, your lower half snapping to keep his cockhead against your g-spot, his thumb against your clit, and then, with a beautifully broken moan, your orgasm plows into you, taking Jack along with it.

In hindsight, he should’ve asked if it was okay to finish inside of you, but he has no control as you milk it out of him, squeezing thick ropes of cum from his cock, his seed flooding your pussy until it starts leaking out around him, leaving a mess between your bodies.

You take several deep breaths, fuck-drunk eyes heavy and locked on one another until you fall forward onto Jack’s chest.

He wraps both of his arms around your back, fingers of one hand clasped around his opposite wrist. Your head hangs over his shoulder, face turned into his neck, and Jack angles to kiss your forehead before resting his cheek against it.

“Mmm, that was… yes,” you say, still mindless.

Jack chuckles, “yeah, it was.”

“Can we… is that something we can… hm,” you struggle to finish the thought, drowsiness sinking its claws into you. A 14 hour shift and earth-shattering orgasm will do that.

Lucky for you, Jack knows what you’re trying to ask and answers, “we can do that however and whenever you want.”

He feels you smile into his neck. “Not a one-time-thing, then?”

“Do I seem like a one-time type of man?”

You make that wordless ‘I don’t know’ sound, “how’m I supposed to know? You could just be teasing me again.”

His arms tighten enough to push some of the air from your lungs.

“I may be a tease, but I am also” his lips brush the corner of your eye, “a selfish prick—one of my many charming personality traits.”

Instead of being put off by his half-joking, mostly serious confession, you nuzzle into him and gently suckle at a place on the side of his neck long enough to leave a bruise and make Jack’s very tired dick try to twitch back to life.

“I really enjoy… hm, what am I trying to say? I like that—I like that you want me, I guess. And, I want you to be selfish. And, I wanna be selfish too.”

His chest rises with a short laugh. You could have anyone you set your sights on. Stunning, smart, funny, talented, Jack could go on and on. The fact that you have feelings for him, have had these feelings for longer than two seconds, is nothing short of a fucking miracle.

“I’m yours for the taking, babe—your loyal dog. I’ll even sit at your feet if you ask me.”

He unlocks his hands from your back to rub his aching eyes, the toll of last night and this morning weighing heavy on his limbs.

“Will you wear a collar too?” you tease, finger tracing over his Adam’s apple.

“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me shower and sleep for a couple hours.”

You do, joining Jack under the spray where he leans against you, your arm looped around his torso to keep him stable, and if he weren’t so damn exhausted, he’d probably insist on independence, but he feels like maybe it’s safe to let his guard down. Maybe he doesn’t have to surround himself with trauma or distract himself with little games. Maybe he can just be.

With you.

As the morning sun shines through his curtains, Jack falls asleep with your head on his chest and a content smile on his face.

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