demoncrypt1066

[demoncrypt1066]

Breathe

Part 12

Pairing: Will "Ironhead" Miller x female reader

Words: 9.3k

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Swearing. Alcohol consumption. Unprotected intercourse. Masturbation (M).

Summary: You and Will elope to a northern getaway for an intimate wedding, where “wedded bliss” doesn’t even begin to describe your time together. Surrounded by the quiet promise of your new beginning, Will reconsiders his career path and imagines a future rooted in you.

A/N: It's hard to fathom summarizing my feelings about finishing this story. This series was my introduction to writing for Charlie and brought me into a world I can't imagine stepping away from. It challenged me as a writer, brought me so much joy (and the odd headache and heartache), and ultimately introduced me to many people who I have become so blessed to know and now call friends. I know to some 12 chapters isn't much, and that two years is a long time to complete a work so small compared to what other authors do, but just know that my whole heart went into this story, no matter how minimal it may seem, and I'm extremely proud of it. Thank you to anyone who has read this and supported me in all the different ways. This is dedicated to all of you 💗

Series Masterlist

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It was worth every second of the long day of traveling to get to this view.

The lake was completely still and made a perfect reflection of the full treeline and coloured sky as the sun sunk down behind the tops of the trees, and Will took a deep inhale of the fresh, northern air as he leaned against the railing of the balcony looking out at it all.

It was completely private, the whole lake and surrounding area so remote and essentially all yours to enjoy together, and he knew that a week and a half here wouldn’t ever feel like enough.

Will already expected he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, and not because of the reasons that normally kept him awake, his excitement for tomorrow bigger than anything he’d ever waited for in his entire life.

Good changes were coming, and they were all starting off with marrying you. A rare sense of hope was gracing him as the consideration of leaving active duty as a Delta Force Captain was quickly becoming a reality, having been approached by his previous Colonel requesting he give talks to other soldiers and captains about rethinking their pursuit of a career in the Special Forces and to stay serving in the Army instead. The thought of never going on an op again felt like he had won the lottery even though he hadn’t officially retired yet, but never having to deploy or leave you for the dangers of his job felt like a dream that he was actually close to living. You were obviously in favour of the idea when he told you, and he smiled thinking back to watching you attempt to contain your excitement about it and remain neutral, telling him you would support him in whatever he chose to do despite looking like you were about to burst with joy at the prospect of him never deploying again.

He wasn’t sure if he was cut out for something like that, feeling inadequate at being able to coerce strong-willed men and women into turning down higher pay and progressing their careers, but if he was honest about his own experiences with it and the negative effects of performing at such an elite level of combat, maybe he would find success in it.

Will sighed as he straightened himself, rubbing his hand roughly through his hair before stretching out his arms, feeling the hours spent traveling settling in his muscles.

He walked back into the cabin, feeling the warmth from the fire contrasting to the cooling temperature outside, and he left the huge sliding door open to let in the fresh, crisp air.

“There you are,” he beamed, seeing you come out of the spare room where you closed the door behind you.

“I was steaming my dress,” you explained, biting your lip to try to stifle your grin.

Will shook his head, his own smile spreading on his face. “I can’t wait to see you in it.”

You stepped toward each other, meeting in the middle, his hands landing on your waist while yours smoothed up his biceps, and you found it impossible to believe that you were going to be married in just a matter of hours.

Will continued to smirk even as he leaned down to meet you, capturing your lips in a slow kiss that gradually grew deeper where you lost yourselves for a few moments.

You hummed when you unhurriedly broke apart just enough that your lips were still hovering against each other, your heart beating furiously in your chest that had your blood pumping heat all throughout you.

“We should get some sleep, big day tomorrow,” you whispered, meeting his loving gaze.

Will tilted his head curiously, “What’s tomorrow?”

You laughed and smacked his chest playfully, making him burst out as well as he grabbed your bum and attacked you in a fury of more kisses across your neck until you were squirming helplessly in his arms.

“I'm ready for bed but I'm not tired yet, sweetheart,” he admitted, his nose skimming up along your neck to your hair where he inhaled deeply.

“That’s fine with me, Mr. Miller,” you whispered, your eyes closing while your head tipped back, feeling goosebumps crawl up your arms where they spread out everywhere else on your body.

“After you, Mrs. Miller.”

The look he gave you as he extended his hand toward the master bedroom was loaded with everything from love to lust to a possessiveness that made you tingle from head to toe, and you knew that even though you weren’t officially Mrs. Captain William Miller until tomorrow, you were already more his than you ever could be.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky was beginning to shed its dark blanket and wake up with each minute that passed, the burnt orange gradually streaking through to break apart the deepest shades of blue.

Will’s lungs burned a bit with each inhale of the cold air, his exhales visible in plumes of white, and as he ran down the road surrounded by the quiet forest, he appreciated the drastic change in scenery and climate he had become accustomed to in Florida.

A brighter sky was quickly revealed with every second, the sun determined to break through what darkness was left, allowing Will to see his surroundings better as he continued on his early morning run that doubled as another errand to check off his list.

He slowed as he approached another area just off the road that was littered with wild flowers, plucking a couple of blue cornflowers and something yellow he wasn’t familiar with to add to the others he already held carefully in his hand, the bouquet he was making looking fuller and more beautiful each time he came across something different. It would never turn out to be anything like those professional bouquets that cost hundreds of dollars from a florist that most brides carried down the aisle, but he knew you would love it even more than those ones and never cared to waste money on something so frivolous.

His shoes crunched on the gravel as he started to make his way toward the cabin again, a smile tugging at his lips as he picked up his pace so he could get back to you while you were still wrapped up in the sheets. The thought of crawling into bed to hold your warm body and smell your sleepy skin was all the drive he needed to push himself to make it there even faster, feeling desperate to prolong every moment of today.

The morning passed slowly into the afternoon, and Will was more than okay with that, basking in doing nothing with you that truly meant everything to him, his muscles feeling wonderfully tired from both his run and making love to you so much.

The strong scent of coffee wafted into the room from the kitchen where he had made a pot of it before collapsing back into bed, and he pressed a kiss to your hair, smiling when you hummed in response.

“Do you want some coffee?”

“Hmm, yes please,” you spoke sleepily, turning over slightly so you could see him and smiling as he peppered your bare shoulder with light kisses.

“I guess we should shower and start getting ready, huh?”

“Only if you join me in there,” you grinned, reaching your hand up to stroke his bearded cheek.

“I like that you think you were going to be given a choice,” Will drawled, winking at you as he propped his torso up to start pulling himself out of bed.

“How long do we have before the officiant is set to arrive?” you asked, shifting into his spot that you couldn’t help but rub your naked body on, the sheets impossibly warm from him.

Will grabbed his watch off the bedside table after he stood, his nude form strong and proud in all its glory.

“About three hours.”

“About?” you teased, knowing he rounded the number to keep it simple despite knowing the exact amount of time you had.

He smirked and tilted his head slightly, nodding as he spoke, pretending to be offended in his tone.

“Three hours and seventeen minutes.”

You smiled fondly at him. “Well, that gives us plenty of time, doesn’t it?”

“Depends what you have in mind, sweetheart,” he purred, his eyes heavy with lust as he looked you up and down after you joined him beside the bed.

You hooked your eyebrow as you wrapped your hands around his waist, pulling him close to feel the smoothness of his skin against yours, and peered up at him with a wanton look that matched his.

“I think we should wait until we’re married.”

His stomach pressed into yours as he let out a laugh, his grin making his cheeks press up toward his eyes where every crinkle that you loved to see appeared.

“I think we've already messed that up, haven't we?”

You began walking toward the bathroom, turning to step backwards in order to keep looking at him, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth.

“What happened this morning doesn't count,” you shrugged, trying to hide your excitement as he started to slowly stalk you.

“No?” he questioned, his eyebrows rising on his forehead.

You shook your head exaggeratedly as you reached the bathroom, your arm finding the tap to turn the shower on, and you saw Will leaning against the doorway out of the corner of your eye.

He was behind you now, unable to resist after trying to for a mere few seconds, his large hand splaying over your stomach where he slowly carded it up to your chest, his long fingers teasing your nipples while his mouth grazed against your neck that you angled to the side to expose to him.

“And what about now?”

“Mmm,” you whined, squirming against him as you indulged in his touch, feeling his cock beginning to swell against your bum. “Doesn't count either.”

Will growled against your skin and walked forward to force you both into the shower, shutting the glass door behind him before spinning you around, his lips crashing against yours as the water began to rain down on both your heads.

He grabbed your face, his fingers digging into your jawline slightly to angle your head closer to his while his thumb smoothed your cheek gently, the contrast making you as dizzy as his tongue delving deep into your mouth to twist with yours was.

You moaned in a mix of pleasure and pain when he wedged his thigh between your legs, pressing his firm quad up against your sore sex, but despite having been thoroughly fucked multiple times already, you couldn’t resist grinding yourself on him.

It was uncertain if you would even be able to handle another round, the thought of his thick cock stretching you out seeming impossible right now but also something you wouldn’t say no to.

Your hands roamed his wet features, sliding up and down his muscular back and his toned arms until you explored lower, feeling his lower abs twitch to your light touch as you skimmed down through his golden trail of hairs and landed on his cock.

You massaged him slowly and carefully, working his half-hard erection mindfully to coax it to its full potential, the intensity of his kiss growing as you did.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, parting from your lips slightly to look down at you pumping his semi-firm shaft while you humped his leg in languid rolls of your hips.

You looked so good, your eyes closed and features relaxed as you relished in the pleasure you were providing yourself, the water cascading over your breasts and all down your perfect body. Will wanted more than anything than to bury himself deep inside you again, and he growled almost frustratedly that he wasn’t and dove back to your parted, swollen lips as he bucked his hips against your hand.

Everything you were doing felt so good yet was doing nothing to help his cause, his body clearly spent from all the energy he’d output earlier, and after a couple more minutes of indulging in the attempt, Will pulled away from you with a crooked smile.

“Looks like we’ll be waiting until we're married after all,” he huffed, chuckling softly, his head tilting to the side along with a shrug of his shoulder in nonchalance.

You hummed, not disappointed or remotely unsatisfied, admiring his acceptance of his body’s slight betrayal, the way he stood there proud as ever and owning his mortal faults equally as sexy to you as his usual godly prowess.

“That’s more than okay, Will,” you reassured him. “I could use a rest too.”

“It’s not a lack of wanting to,” he laughed again, leaning toward you to rub his nose back and forth on yours.

You smiled against his lips and felt him do the same, his hands sliding up your back to hold you close to him, kissing you softly and tenderly before breaking apart again.

“I love you,” he spoke seriously, looking at you with the same conviction, his hair dark and flat on his head while water poured off his nose.

“I love you, too, Will.”

The crinkles around his eyes made another appearance as he smiled again, his long, blond lashes looking even more so from being saturated with water, and he reached for the bottle of shampoo and squeezed some out in his palm before rubbing it roughly through his hair until it stuck up wildly in the suds.

You grabbed the body wash and worked it between your hands for a few seconds before spreading the lather out over his broad chest, watching his sated smile appear and his eyelids close as he relaxed to your touch, and you knew you could easily let every minute you needed to get ready tick away in favour of this.

In true military fashion, Will had finished getting clean after another minute, and with one last passionate kiss to your lips, opened the shower door and stepped one foot out.

“I’ll leave you to get ready, gorgeous,” he smiled, watching you beam at him. “I’ll meet you at the altar.”

With a wink that made your heart pound furiously in addition to his words making butterflies explode in your stomach, he exited the shower, leaving you to finish your routine and watch as he dried himself off with a towel, your disbelief that you were marrying him in a matter of hours setting in more than it ever had before.

Will exhaled slowly as he looked in the mirror at himself, finishing fastening the buttons on his blue, flannel shirt, and made one last second-guess about his choice in attire for the ceremony only to have your previous reassurances echo in his mind.

“You can wear whatever you want. I love you all the same, whatever you’re in.”

He smiled and swallowed hard, his reflection appearing slightly blurry as he was reminded once again that you loved him so thoroughly and whole-heartedly it was surreal, and puffed out his cheeks in another forced exhale as he steadied himself to go do the one thing he wanted more than anything.

Abandoning his watch and any other accessories in exchange for wanting the ring you would slide on his finger to be the only piece he wore, he glanced one last time at the hands slowly ticking around the face of it and set it back on the dresser.

Eighteen minutes.

Another deep breath, and he picked up the delicate, gold band he couldn’t wait to see shine beside your engagement ring, placing it in the pocket of his shirt and securing it by resting his hand on his chest where it sat over his heart. He let his hand linger there, liking the heaviness of it pressing on his palm and knowing his heart was beating against it, and he hoped every ounce of love he had for you would be transferred into the token for you to always feel.

You were still tucked away in the second bedroom getting ready, and with nothing else left to do but wait, Will walked outside to retrieve the hand-picked bouquet he had set in a glass of water on the deck to keep as a surprise, and placed it on the floor outside your door.

He did another once-over of the display he’d made up in front of the fireplace; a cozy, makeshift bed compiled of multiple blankets and pillows set atop the mattress he pulled off the frame in the bedroom. Candles were set out in what seemed like every available space from the hearth to the tables and all around, and a full stack of freshly chopped wood sat nearby that was ready to burn for the rest of the night.

Satisfied that everything was perfect, he made his way out the door again and began his walk down the flagstone path toward the lake, the crisp air feeling welcome on his heated face.

The officiant was already there waiting, much to Will’s appreciation, and he gave the man a smile and wave as he approached, and shook his hand gratefully when he met him on the shoreline.

“It’s nice to meet you, Will,” he offered. “Are you all set?”

“Yeah, yeah I am,” Will smiled as he nodded enthusiastically.

“And you’ll still be exchanging your own vows in private?”

“That’s right.”

“Wonderful. Short and sweet then?” he confirmed, looking at Will over the rim of his glasses as he opened his book of notes.

“Yes, please, Sir.”

Will stood straight with his hands clasped behind his back, then moved them forward where he rested one on his belt and let the other hang idly at his side, only to start fidgeting again in his impatience and lifted his right hand up to double check the ring was still in his breast pocket.

He knew the officiant could sense his nerves, but kept quiet which Will was grateful for, and after another minute and right on time, he could see you making your way down the stairs from the deck through the trees.

Breathe, Will told himself, seeing you come into full view in a simple, yet stunning white gown with the flowers he’d picked for you clasped in your hand, your smile capturing his attention more than anything else.

Unable to wait or stop himself, Will’s feet seemed to move on their own, walking in confident strides until they brought him to meet you halfway.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with a gleam in your eyes.

“Hey,” he returned, feeling his cheeks hurting from how big he was smiling. “You look…” he paused, exhaling in awe, “so incredibly stunning.”

“Thank you. And thank you for these,” you said softly, your eyes full of gratitude for his sweet gesture as you held your bouquet up a bit higher. “They’re so beautiful, Will. This was the best surprise.”

If it was even possible, he smiled even bigger and nodded. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Before Will could say anything else, he caught the slight shiver you made, his joy switching quickly to concern, reaching up to smooth his hand over your bare upper arm that was littered in goosebumps.

“You’re going to freeze,” he warned, registering that if he was feeling the nip in the air now that the sun was beginning to set, you would be feeling it tenfold.

You shook your head, still beaming at him. “I’ll be fine, I swear. I can’t feel much right now, I’m too excited.”

He chuckled when you let out a small laugh and took your hand in his, tilting his head in the direction of where the officiant stood waiting for you.

“Well, let’s go get married then.”

“And Will, do you take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and cherish from this day forward?”

Will smiled, the wet settling in the corners of his eyes seeping out when he did.

“I do.”

You slid the black, tungsten ring onto his finger, thankful that you had said those two words first now that you were doing your best to choke back a sob, a couple of rogue tears falling down your cheeks in streams.

Now that both of your rings were fixed on your left hands, Will gripped your hands securely in his, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles as he held your gaze, listening to the final words that officially deemed you husband and wife.

“Is there anything either of you would like to add before you go off to share your vows privately?”

Will cocked his head slightly, his smile tugging up the corners of his lips.

“All-in, sweetheart!” he spoke through his grin.

Your laugh puffed out with your breath, and you squeezed his hand as you nodded in agreement.

“All-in!”

The officiant smiled warmly and continued on, “In respect of keeping this short and to the point, it is my honour to formally announce you as husband and wife! Will, you may now kiss your bride.”

Both of your smiles grew even larger as you met for your kiss, breathing each other in as you melted into the moment you didn't realize you had waited your whole life for.

You were now on your own as the officiant left you where you stood, savouring your first moments of being a wedded couple, the only other person witness to your union the photographer who was discreetly off to the side capturing the moment; a gift insisted upon by Benny and Jess who knew as much as you wanted an intimate wedding, you would be grateful for photos of it to look back on.

“Can you believe this?” you beamed, smiling up at Will and awestruck for yet another time since knowing him at how the blue of his shirt and the sky could never match that of his eyes.

He shook his head slowly, his smile growing more with his movement. “No,” he laughed, leaning toward you to rest his forehead on yours.

“This has to be a dream,” he whispered.

You hummed, “I promise you it’s real, Will.”

A soft chuckle came off his breath, and you took a slow, deep breath of your own as you lingered there, eventually parting to make your way back to the cabin as the sun had now dropped behind the trees that belted the lake.

With your dress shed and left on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, you carefully walked over into the living room, wanting to be as stealthy as possible in order to not disturb the scene before you.

Will was kneeling before the hearth, expertly adding logs to the existing fire, stoking it meticulously with the same laser-sharp focus he had whenever he did anything.

His shirt was unbuttoned and hung open, giving you glimpses of his bare chest and toned stomach whenever his arm moved, and your heart swelled at how the firelight danced on his features and highlighted all the parts of him you could never tire of staring at. Long, blond eyelashes blinked like they were strung with lights of their own, the perfect profile of his nose casting a shadow onto his cheeks where a permanent line sat beside his mouth, the light emphasizing the plush of his lips and making the fairest hairs on his goatee and beard appear almost white.

Never missing a thing, you saw the corner of his mouth turn up, giving you a sideways glance to acknowledge your presence as he sensed you watching.

He stood and turned to you, his flaming-blue eyes looking your naked form up and down with so much love you couldn’t dare feel shy or exposed.

A knowing smile dressed his lips as he began to undress himself, ridding his open shirt and then jeans quickly until he stood in only his boxers which he slowly peeled down his long legs, the sight making your mouth water and heart swell.

His left hand extended out to call you over, and you didn’t miss the significance of it being the hand that held his ring, the black contrasting boldly on his pale skin.

You took his hand and let him pull you into him, his other landing on the small of your back so your body automatically arched toward him more, and the closeness of him and the heat from the fire on your bare skin made your eyes close.

His lips pressed against your forehead and then rested there, the gentle sound of his heart thrumming in his chest reverberating in your ear that lay beside it, and knowing you had the rest of your lives to enjoy small moments like this made you smile, feeling purely happy and content.

After another moment of standing still with each other aside from Will’s hand soothingly running up and down your back, he spoke softly into your hair.

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, peeling your cheek off of his warm chest to meet his eyes.

He made his way to the floor, sitting amongst the blankets and pillows that would be your bed for the night, looking up at you as you followed, his eyes locked with yours as he helped guide you onto his lap.

Will met your cheek with his lips, moving over to the other, then landed a kiss onto the tip of your nose before brushing them over your lips, rubbing his nose back and forth against yours.

Your kisses started off slow and careful, warming up to each other as if there was such a thing, indulging in each second that felt like a blissful eternity to build up to the moment you had both been waiting for.

You sighed into his mouth, feeling his cock grow rigid beneath you, pressing up against your bare sex that ached to have him penetrate and fill you.

Will increased the pressure of his mouth on yours when you ground on his length, breathing into you as his hands traveled down from their place on your back to your bum, helping to lift you up so you were able to take him inside you.

Sinking down on his thick girth, your body molding to fit him, you accepted every inch of him gratefully, your brows knitting together as his mouth swallowed your small cry, your fingers gripping into his shoulders until you were fully seated on him.

Parting your lips from each other, you let your foreheads rest together, breathing deeply as one as your fingers relaxed on his flesh and you felt his tenderly ghost over your hips and up your back again.

“Do you want to go first?” he asked, his voice quiet, but sturdy.

You nodded, swallowing the lump that was growing in your throat, praying you could get through all of what you had practiced in your head over and over again without breaking.

You breathed out slowly and opened your eyes, seeing him smiling sweetly at you, his hand coming up to sweep a stray piece of hair away from your face.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he urged, his comfort instantly spreading through you and giving you strength.

You did, drawing in a deep inhale and blowing it out slowly, and with your next breath, you started your vows.

“It was a dream to think I could ever be loved like this. Every day with you feels like one, and I pray I never wake up to find it isn’t real.”

You took another deep breath, your fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck, returning the soft smile he was giving you.

“I didn’t know love until I knew you. You make me whole. My missing piece.”

You blinked quickly, trying to fight the tears that were quickly accumulating.

“You have my whole heart forever, Will, and whatever you have to face, I will always be here to face it with you. I love you.”

You traced the line around his mouth as he smiled, matching it with your own, feeling so full of love and hope, your connection stronger than ever.

Will kissed you, stealing your next breath, and you felt the tears you had been holding back run down your cheeks. You moaned into him when he flexed inside you, the grip you had on the side of his face tightening as you pulled yourself even closer to him, but forced yourself to break your kiss out of fear you soon wouldn’t be able to stop.

Will smiled at you, his thumb brushing a streak of wet away from your flushed skin, and his eyes reflected all the love and kindness in his heart as they danced over your features.

He inhaled slowly, his chest filling up before letting it go, his expression turning serious as he looked down between your joined bodies and back up to you.

“I was drowning, suffocating,” he began, his tone strong, but reticent. “You taught me how to breathe again, helped me find who I am after being lost for so long.”

He grabbed your hand and held it in his, his thumb moving back and forth over the ring he’d slid on your finger earlier as if it was reminding him to be brave as he spoke.

“You are my home,” he continued, his voice starting to betray him, but he maintained eye contact even through the tears that started to well up in them. “The light in my darkness, the air that fills my lungs when I can't find it on my own. I have more love for you in my heart than I know what to do with, and I will love you as fiercely as I can for the rest of our lives.”

He paused for a moment, taking the opportunity to kiss you again, desperate and haste, his hand clutching the side of your face with as much conviction as his words.

Breaking the seal of your lips, he searched your eyes with his, his honesty and truth showing in the bright blue of them as he continued.

“You’re someone I knew I needed but never thought I would find, and I will spend my entire life trying to deserve you. I love you completely and with everything that I am, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, Will.”

A small laugh blew out of his mouth when he smiled, a mix of relief and utter joy contrasting with the tears that made his eyes sparkle, all of the emotions he was experiencing exposed to you without shame.

His hands smoothed up your back as he buried his face in your neck, kissing you and breathing you in, every caress and touch full of intent to display how much he loved you and an attempt to get even closer to you.

Your fingers raked through his hair, your chin resting on his head, closing your eyes to focus on the feel of him against you as your bodies slowly began to move.

The heat from the fire berated the side of you that faced it, your hands able to easily glide across Will’s form already, his warm muscles flexing under your palms as he thrusted slowly up into you.

His lips seemed to write poems on your skin, smearing kisses that ranged from gentle to firm, careful to sloppy, all in a way of saying ‘I love you’ without speaking the words.

His hands followed the sway of your body, gripping your flesh and mimicking each ebb and flow as you rolled against him, losing yourselves in pleasure with every second that passed all while finding yourselves falling even more in love.

The more you rocked against him the more you found yourself desperate for him, needing him in a way you never had before, your hands moving to hold either side of his face to turn his head out of your neck, kissing him with fervor.

Your fingers gripped the scruffy hairs that covered his cheeks, breathing him in so forcefully as your tongues wove together, feeling as if you could never get enough of him or air or anything else vital to your existence.

A broken moan exchanged from your mouth to his as the coarse hairs on his lower belly struck the perfect spot on your clit, making you clench around him tightly, prompting him to drive up into you a little harder to help you find your climax.

It felt like your soul was leaving your body, your orgasm blissful and intense and drawn out perfectly by your husband working with you to have you experience it for as long as possible, your lips still locked together where he swallowed your cries, his hands holding you down against him so not to have you shy away from any of it.

When Will felt you relax and slow your actions, he immediately laid you down, one arm wrapped around your back to gently bring you back into the blankets, his other braced on the floor to support himself overtop of you, only slipping from you briefly. You gasped when he pushed back in, your folds tingly and your walls squeezing around his girth again, your body jolting when his body ground against your sensitive clit.

He smoothed his hand over your forehead, looking down at you to check that you were okay, you angling your head up to kiss him the only answer he needed to continue.

His thrusts were long and deep, powerful and deliberate, driving into you again and again until he felt himself growing closer to his end with each one.

Your bodies slid against each other blissfully, your sweat-coated skin warm and melding into each other even more, your moans growing as Will’s began to echo louder and reverberate through you.

His hand slipped under your thigh and lifted it higher on his hip, reaching a different angle where he was able to fuck you deeper while still keeping his slow, meticulous pace, a low growl coming off his tongue as he relished in the new sensation.

You met his movements naturally, the languid roll of your hips taking him as far inside you as you could, the tempo of your motion one with his, your hand skimming up and down his back until he began to ram harder into you, your fingers grabbing a handful of the thick flesh on his ass in response.

You let go of all control, knowing he would be following you as you succumbed for a second time, your head digging back into the pillows under your head while his mouth trailed lazily from yours and across your jawline until he found your neck, sucking and grazing his teeth along your pulse as he allowed your body to drag him with you to a point of no return.

He growled against your damp skin as he stuttered into you, his rhythm breaking and faltering, but his power only increased, pumping his leaking cock in and out of you until your cries filled the air and he swelled and emptied his load deep in your walls.

Will never stopped even after he had finished, continuing to thrust into you until his cum was spilling from your stretched hole, his lips finding yours again where he kissed you tenderly and carefully.

He eventually stilled, each movement slower than the one before, his only focus now on kissing you and winding down as you both regulated your breathing and relished in the afterglow of your love.

Your eyes opened when you felt his lips leave yours, hovering just over them, and you smiled in seeing an almost inebriated one dressing his plump, kiss-bruised lips.

Will nudged his nose against yours, rubbing it back and forth a couple of times before capturing you in another kiss, his hands slipping under your body to hold you closer to him as he let his weight relax onto you.

The bed beside the fireplace had become your preferred space to occupy since you first rested there to exchange your vows, not having left it for hours and happy to be completely ignorant to the time that was passing, the knowledge of seconds and minutes that grew into more significant numbers no longer a construct you were abiding to.

You assumed it was sometime in the afternoon now, the rainstorm that had blown in overnight blocking the sun from giving any light, the gloomy, grey skies feeling almost welcoming and like they were supporting your decision to hide away together without guilt and excusing you from paying attention to anything outside the cabin.

The view of the wide windows that faced the lake was perfect from your spot on Will’s chest, but a thick blanket of fog disguised the water and rain was streaking down the glass in heavy streams that was becoming mesmerizing to look at, and despite the picturesque scenery being hidden from you, it was still something you wanted to commit to memory.

It was quiet aside from the intermittent crackle of the fire, able to hear the haunting call of the loons that waded in the cool water even through the tapping of the rain on the roof, and Will’s steady breathing and constant heartbeat filled the silent moments between.

Continuing to choose sex and sleep over little else, you had left your bed only briefly to make breakfast together that you ate for dinner, your growling bellies and need for energy forcing you to finally eat, knowing it would only allow you to return to your activities with more hunger than ever.

You sauntered out from the bathroom, the steam from the shower trailing behind you as the heat clung to your skin, smiling at Will as you watched him in the kitchen searching through different cupboards until he found the glasses he was looking for.

His towel hung low on his hips, showcasing the dimples that decorated his lower back, the way his muscles flexed so marvelling even while making the simplest movements.

He glanced over his shoulder at you with a grin of his own, having sensed your stare, and opened the fridge where he retrieved a bottle of champagne.

“I almost forgot about this,” he explained, setting it on the counter where he began to peel off the foil and twist open the cage that encased the cork. “It’s a gift from Pope.”

“Well that’s awfully generous of him,” you chirped, knowing it would be one of the most expensive bottles available and taste divine, but your mouth was watering more at the sight of the towel lingering at the connection of Will’s legs to his torso, the deeply accentuated cuts on his hips drawing your eye where it tapered to the part of him you seemed unable to get enough of.

The pop of the cork releasing from the bottle brought you out of your thoughts, and you walked around the island to meet your husband where he handed you a glass after filling them, and clinked his own against it.

“Cheers, Mrs. Miller,” he purred, choosing to lean in and kiss you rather than take a drink.

Promising to keep your hands off each other long enough to put some clothes on, make and eat a proper meal, and clean up after was proving more difficult than you thought.

Music was playing softly as you both worked at your respective tasks, feeling completely content with the silence that filled the kitchen between random comments and small conversations, Will taking occasional sips of a beer while you enjoyed a glass of wine.

You wondered if this ‘newlywed’ stage of being insatiable would last for years through your marriage, and smiled to yourself that there was no doubt it would as that excited feeling that had been there since the start burst and fluttered in your stomach every time Will stepped near you.

“What?” he smirked, having caught the expression on your face when he passed you.

“Nothing,” you lied, giggling as you did your best to keep chopping the mushrooms for the pasta you were making.

His eyebrow raised as he silently called your bullshit and stirred the garlic and onions that were simmering in the pan, and you loved and cursed all at the same time that he was always able to read you like a book.

“You can toss those in any time,” he muttered, his voice low as he stood behind you, close enough you could feel the heat of his body but far enough that he remained untouching, his self-control always outshining yours.

You let your hands pause in their duty, resting the knife on the cutting board as you closed your eyes when Will’s fingers lightly skimmed up your arm, his mouth landing on your shoulder.

“Okay,” you answered in a whisper, finding your voice and reopening your eyes when you felt him retreat from you.

Finishing slicing the last of the mushrooms, you turned and swept them off the wood board with your hand into the frying pan, watching them meld into the other ingredients as Will stirred it around with a spoon.

“Are you willing to sacrifice some of your wine to go in this?” he asked, a crooked smirk on his lips when you glanced at him.

You let out an exaggerated sigh. “If I have to!”

He chuckled and reached for the bottle that sat on the island, the loud sizzle of it hitting the hot pan alluring before simmering out after a couple seconds.

“God, it smells so good already,” you complimented, your stomach rumbling when you leaned closer to the pan and breathed it in.

Will smiled in response, continuing to stir before he tapped the spoon on the side of the pan and moved to the fridge.

“What else needs to be done?” you asked.

He returned to you, setting down a bunch of fresh parsley and a carton of cream, tilting his head as he looked you up and down.

“Parsley needs to be chopped, the cheese needs to be grated, cream needs to be added…” he listed off slowly, stepping closer to you with each word until he loomed over you.

Instead of touching him, you let your fingers dance along your own skin, knowing not to trust them otherwise, your hand rubbing the side of your neck and then falling to your chest.

Your breath hitched in your throat when Will’s fingers landed on you, tracing the same path down your neck that yours had, and finally meeting your hand where he rubbed his index finger back and forth along the back of it.

“You’re breaking the rules,” you uttered, your voice lusty.

“Yeah, well, they’re my rules to break.”

You laughed through a weak smile. “We’re gonna starve at this rate.”

Will let out a low growl as he exhaled deeply, his jaw clenching as he mustered more restraint.

“I’ll be good, I promise.”

By some miracle you both stayed true to your word and made it through dinner and the clean-up with little distraction and were finally back beside the fire.

You sat with your back against the sofa with Will between your legs, your hands idly playing in his hair, his muscles relaxed but his breathing starting to grow ragged.

He was still wearing his track pants that he had put on earlier, but nothing else, and his pale skin was starting to blush from the heat of the fire and your touch, and even though he was facing away from you, you knew the pleasured expression that dressed his features.

You let your fingers dig a little harder into his scalp, bringing out a low groan from him, the noise going straight to your core and making a wave of heat flush through you despite only wearing one of his t-shirts and your panties.

“Does that feel good, baby?” you cooed, continuing to massage his head with the same pressure.

“Fuck…yeah…” he moaned, his chest rising and falling with deeper breaths, shifting slightly against you where you noticed his cock flinch between his legs through the thin material.

You kissed his hair, your hands travelling down onto his chest where you slowly carded them over his flesh, alternating between gentle squeezes and drawing feather-light patterns with your fingertips, writing invisible love notes on him.

He captured your left hand in his as it lingered over his heart, his fingers toying with your rings that glimmered in the orange light from the flames, the sight of them on your hand still something that made your heart flip in your chest.

Your hand slipped from his as your other continued to scratch through his hair, the sensation making him give up any control and simply submit to feeling this relaxed, and his moans started up again when both of your hands returned to his head to work their magic.

A satisfied smile tugged at your lips when you saw how hard he was from this alone, and although you had no intentions to stop anytime soon, this gave you every reason to keep going and send your husband into bliss.

Arousal shot through you like electricity when you watched Will paw at his cock through his pants before lifting his hips enough to pull the waist down his thighs, his dick springing out before he took it in his hand and languidly stroked it.

You didn’t stop touching him, continuously weaving your fingers through his hair, tugging at it and lightly scratching at his scalp, listening to his heaving breaths while your eyes were fixed on him steadily jerking himself off.

He lazily pumped up and down, the head of his cock engorged and starting to leak, and you wanted nothing more than to take him in your mouth or sink down onto it, feeling him inside you in some way, but this wasn’t about you.

“That’s it, Will, keep going,” you encouraged, your words breathy and full of arousal.

The opposing look of his black ring against his ivory skin made your belly swoop, and you wondered if the feel of it moving up and down against his veiny flesh added to the addicting sensation. It was almost possessive, the sight of your token adorning his long finger that was wrapped around his cock that filled you up every day making your cunt ache unbearably, and you found you couldn't stop praising him.

“You look so good, Will,” you uttered, so much blood rushing in your head you barely heard yourself. “I love watching you like this...”

You heard him blow air out of his mouth with the puff of his cheeks, giving a simple and quick nod while he continued to jerk himself off, and the longer you watched the scene in front of you unfold, the more enthralled you became.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, your curiosity spiking.

A curt laugh huffed out as an answer, quickly followed by a moan as you raked your nails a little harder through his hair.

“Hmm?” you nudged. “Are you thinking about being buried in my wet pussy? Fucking me hard and deep until I'm screaming?”

“Fuck,” he hissed, his head leaning back against your shoulder while the motion of his hand worked faster.

You leaned closer to him, capturing the lobe of his ear in your teeth, your breath teasing his sweaty skin to make him groan.

“You're close aren't you, baby? Gonna make a mess all over yourself thinking about my tight cunt…”

His head shook up and down once, unable to form anything that resembled a spoken ‘yes’, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he squirmed against you.

Having you talk him through it seemed to put him further into the grips of euphoria, his moans interchanging with whimpers and whiny curses, his movements erratic as he grew closer to falling apart completely.

“Fuck…come here, sweetheart,” he panted. “I need inside you–Fuck! I need to fill you up.”

He sat up slightly to allow you to move out from behind him, still touching himself as vigorously as possible without any lube, his free hand landing on your hip to guide you onto his lap while his other stilled on his cock and steadied it for you to sit on.

“Come on. Hurry,” he warned.

You pulled your panties to the side as much as you could, the desperation of knowing he was seconds away from blowing his load making you shiver, not wanting to waste any time in being used.

Your hands automatically returned to his hair as you lined up to him, encasing him fully as he forced you down on his length, not giving you any time to adjust before he rutted up into you and immediately started to cum.

His open mouth smeared against your shoulder, wetting the cotton of his shirt that covered you, his hands desperately clawing at your back as he spasmed and stuttered until you were full of his hot, thick release.

Unbridled grunts rumbled against you, the muscles in his back and shoulders tight as you let your hands fall from his hair, your hips still moving on him to help him live out every second of his climax.

“Jesus Christ,” he said through a smile, looking at you in utter amazement, a soft chuckle stumbling off his lips.

His eyes were bright, full of a rare sort of levity that made the blue of his irises even more striking, the sight of him like this making your heart do somersaults in your chest.

“That good, huh?” you giggled, cupping his scruffy cheeks as you continued to admire him.

He nodded and hummed before planting his lips on yours, kissing you with enough gratitude that a voiced ‘thank you’ could never convey.

His hands were all over you, rubbing up your sides and around to your back, the friction from his palms making your shirt shift upward until he was actively lifting it over your head.

You instinctively moved closer into him once you were bare, the feel of his skin against yours warmer and more welcoming than the heat from the fire beside you, both of you smiling at each other for a moment before he kissed you again.

Having more of you exposed to him, his lips trailed down your neck to your collarbone, taking advantage of being able to taste more parts of you, his fingers dancing all over your skin gently and lovingly.

“I love you so damn much,” he murmured, his mouth barely leaving you. His head shook slightly when he spoke, the stress in the tone of his words indicating just how badly he needed you to believe it, and you found it funny to think you knew exactly how much he did without him even having to say it.

You kissed his forehead, letting your lips linger there, smiling against it as you inhaled deeply and let your fingers play with the hair at the base of his neck.

“I love you too, Will.”

A low groan resounded against your chest as his cock slipped out of you, but Will wasted no time in grabbing your hips to adjust your position on him, sitting you slightly higher so you were pressed against his lower abs.

You whined, the sensation of his cum spilling out of you to soak your panties making you squirm, testing to see if it felt just as good as you thought it would.

Grinding your hips, Will continued to guide you with his hands, holding you firmly on him until you found a rhythm that already was making you see stars.

Your thong was still shifted to the side, the friction on your clit coming from rubbing against his pubes and your underwear being wedged between your lips, his cum the best lubricant you could imagine and allowing you to glide easily against him as it pooled and leaked from your cunt.

Your eyes closed as you continued to ride him, your head falling back in ecstasy when you felt his mouth cover your breast, wetting your stiff nipple and rolling it with his tongue.

He released it and took hold of it with his fingers instead, glaring at you with equal ardor and hunger.

“Your turn, sweetheart,” he encouraged roughly, the amusement in his words making you tingle from head to toe.

All sense of time was lost since being at the cabin, the freedom and carelessness so foreign but so welcome to Will.

No restraints or agenda to follow, free from the prison of his own mind that constantly kept count of all the things he refused to let go of, his burdens set to the side where he was allowed to simply be.

He ran his hand over his hair to try to get some of the water out of it, then wiped his palm down his face to do the same, and reached for a towel hanging on the back of the door that he wrapped around his waist.

The bathroom window faced the lake, the fresh breeze mixing in with the steam from the shower, and Will swore every time he looked at this view that it was one he would never tire of.

It wasn’t the first time he considered extending your stay here, the possibility growing more and more probable as each day went on, neither of you wanting to give up on this honeymoon bliss just yet, and right now the urge to never go back home was stronger than ever.

A bit of anxiety bubbled in his stomach, thinking of making the choice between retiring or continuing on as a Captain, the uncertainty and unsteadiness and thought of dealing with it all when he got home making him want to avoid it and hide away here even more.

But facing these things felt different now.

In all the times he tried to ground himself, find something good to focus on while in the throes of hell and always came up short, he now had you.

You were his person. His reason. His purpose. Everything good to hold onto when the things he did came back to haunt him.

Will took a deep breath, pausing in his racing thoughts, feeling such an overwhelming sense of joy that he had to focus and count each one in, and each one out.

He walked through the cabin, eyeing the mess of blankets you had just crawled out of not long ago and the glow of coals still burning hot in the hearth, his hand resting on the fold of material that kept the towel hanging low on his hips.

A smile tugged at his lips, still unable to believe this was his life and you were his to love forever.

Another breath in.

One, two, three.

His eyes immediately found you, seeing you standing on the deck in nothing but his blue, flannel shirt looking out on the lake, lost in your own world.

You were his peace. His calm. Every intake of air that filled his lungs and kept him going.

Because of you he could breathe.

Leaning against the open patio door, Will crossed his arms over his bare chest, taking a minute to admire you as you stood undisturbed.

You were the view he needed every day, these beautiful surroundings pale in comparison, his smile growing so big it hurt his cheeks while the swell of his heart felt like it would burst through the cage that kept it in his chest.

Having sensed him, you turned to face him, your beaming smile a greeting he needed to witness every day of his life.

He tilted his chin upward in a nod, pushing off the doorframe with his shoulder as you walked toward him, the happiness and serenity that filled him clear in his voice.

“There's my beautiful wife.”

---

Taglist:

@dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls

@littlenosoul @glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie @rmwarn90

@paintlavillered @casa-boiardi @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989 @justreblogginfics

@spaghettificationandpretzels @whatever-lmaoo @steviebbboi @charethcutestory02 @daryldixonpls

@christinhunnam @hp-hogwartsexpress @enretrogue @staley83

[demoncrypt1066]

Blurred

Pairing: Will "Ironhead" Miller x female reader

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Swearing. Rough oral sex/face fucking. Fingering. Mention of gunshot wound. *reader is described as having enough hair to hold

Summary: Trauma from the events in South America start to catch up to Will and cause him to snap, blurring the line between him staying in control and taking it out on you.

A/N: Uhhhhh so I guess I kind of made a loophole for myself in that I said I would stop posting once Breathe was finished and it's not...I don't know why I'm sharing this, if I'm honest.

---

One more sleepless night fueled by night terrors led to one more short fuse blown, his patience and control abolished by stress brought on by a steadily accumulated guilt which all amalgamated into where he found himself now.

Will’s teeth clenched tightly together, his unhinged grunts and curses filling the air, his foot propped up on the ledge of the mattress so his leg provided him more momentum and force.

Your presence on the floor between his legs was barely on his radar, though the reason he was so lost in pleasure was on account of your mouth wrapped around his cock, sloppily sucking and sputtering on his size that he continued to slam down your throat with each barbaric thrust.

The silkiness of your hair slipping through his fingers would occasionally register, most of it twisted up around his large hand in a tight grip where he unknowingly pulled and tugged at it until your scalp stung, only to push you further down his length without any regard for your airway.

You didn’t mind it one bit, letting him use you exactly how he needed to, the tears streaming down your cheeks simply an automatic response to you gagging on his cock and not in any way emotional.

Will had been quiet all week, and short whenever he did speak, so finally watching him snap and give into some form of release from his torment was something you were more than fine being a participant in.

Your jaw was tired, but it didn’t matter, letting it hang as slack as your instincts would allow so he could fuck your mouth, the head of his cock ramming into the back of your throat repeatedly while you focused on trying to get air to your lungs.

The blond fuzz on his thighs was a soft contrast to how your nails clawed at his flesh that covered hard muscle, his toned quads flexing as he thrusted back and forth wildly against your face, and no matter how many red scratches would be left in his skin, he never relented.

You tried hard to get a glimpse of him, desperate to see the expression on his face as he sought what he needed to feel better, but it was useless, your face being shoved back against his groin in a pace too fast to look up with your nose buried in his wheat-coloured pubes, and even if he had granted you a more languid tempo, your sight was completely blurred by the tears that welled again as soon as some fell.

In this moment you were nothing more to him than a hole to fill.

Not his wife or his partner, the person who had his trust, his love and respect for you gone with the rest of his inhibitions, and it fucking thrilled you.

It wasn't rare that you would fuck each other roughly, and no matter how primal things became the undertone of love was always present, but something darker loomed in his treatment of you now and it seemed to awaken something in you.

It was no surprise to feel how wet you were when you adjusted your position on the floor, shifting your legs slightly where the combination of the sting of your knees and trigger of your gag reflex made goosebumps litter your skin, moaning as loud as you were able to before it was muffled even more.

You knew it was a risk, slowly reaching down between your spread legs to swipe your fingertips through your soaked pussy as if you thought you wouldn't be caught, and you smiled despite having your mouth full when Will’s barking demand filled the room as soon as you did it.

“Don't you fucking dare!”

That attempt of a smile quickly vanished when he pulled on your hair more to angle your head back, rutting deeper and faster into you as a punishment for your selfish endeavour.

It always amazed you how attentive he was, never missing a thing even when he was in this state, his honed skills as a Delta Force Captain shining through and making you swell with pride at his ability to still be so sharp even during moments where he was blinded by both pleasure and rage.

Choking and gurgling sounded distant in your ears, your eyes closing again to spill more mascara-stained tears down your face, doing everything in your power to relax to his barrage.

Needing something to help steady you on your task and prevent yourself from acting on relieving the ache between your legs, you allowed your hands to land against his thighs again, smoothing them up slowly to his hips and around to his plump ass that flexed with his aggressive tempo, careful not to get near the gunshot wound on his left side that was still healing.

“Fuck!” he growled, somehow able to form the single word through his grunts that kept increasing in volume and intensity, a sharp hiss sucking in through his teeth as he grew closer to his goal of completion.

It became even harder to breathe for a few seconds until your instincts kicked in and your body automatically worked to swallow what was given to you, his hot, thick cum pumping down your throat, a sense of relief and gratitude coursing through you as your fingers started to ease their grip on his thighs.

You eagerly gulped it down, simultaneously wanting air and more of him, the taste and smell of him making you dizzy, and finally your whiny moans and laboured breaths exhaling through your nose became more audible.

He used you until every last shot of his load was spurt inside your mouth, his hips still thrusting to move his cock in and out, watching with satisfaction as some of it that you weren't able to get down spilled from one corner of your lips.

The way your hand loosely splayed over his lower stomach, carding through the trail of hair leading down to where your face was still buried seemed to alert him, his hand loosening its grasp on your hair as he came down, making him realize just how brutally he was treating you.

You were being picked up off the floor before you could open your bleary eyes again, feeling his large hands moving from your shoulders to cup your face, his touch gentle and caring compared to before.

“You okay?” Will asked, his thumbs wiping the black streaks off your cheeks.

You opened your eyes to see his expression scrunched with concern, his blue ones still wild as they searched your features for an answer to his question, and all you could do was manage a nod while a deranged, groggy smile dressed your lips that were still covered in spit and cum.

“I'm fine, Will,” you spoke in a weak voice, your hand clasping his wrist, giving it a rub to further let him know that what you said was true.

He sighed heavily and pulled you into his chest, his sweaty skin like fire against your cheek, his heartbeat furious in your ear.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

You pulled your head away from his body, a blissful delirium still gracing you, looking up at him where you brought the tips of your fingers to his face and traced one of the lines beside his mouth.

“Don't be.”

A look of guilt and shame dressed his features, blinking away only to have you guide his face back to yours, your fingers moving to graze his bottom lip.

“Just touch me, Will. Please…”

He exhaled deeply through his nose while he nodded, his eyes still reflecting remorse and concern, but granted your wish and placed his hand between your legs.

His long fingers stroked your cunt, spreading your slick to your clit while he guided you to sit on the bed, crawling over you as you laid back into the sheets and spread yourself for him.

It was such a contrast; seeing the evidence of your struggle as your tears still stained your cheeks compared to the euphoric, content grin that decorated your lips he knew would be numb from him, and his heart clenched in his chest at knowing how much you loved him despite everything he put you through.

Inserting one, and then a second finger inside you, he worked you with expertise, massaging your g-spot while the heel of his hand hit your clit, eliciting moans and pleas from you already.

“Fuck– Will…God that feels so good–”

A sharp cry broke off whatever else you were trying to say, and Will felt your body relax before it tensed again, your hips driving down to push his fingers deeper inside you, the sheets surrounding you pulled taught as you clawed at them.

Your body was writhing beneath him with everything he did, making him a master and you his subject, his attentive nature to everything in general extending to learning every part of you.

Will hovered closer over you, his breathing turning laboured again the more he watched you succumb to his touch, and he took your nipple in his mouth, sucking and rolling his tongue around it until it turned rigid and your own breath shook as you released it from your lungs.

He pulled away, letting go of your nipple after one last hard suck, leaving a string of spit connecting your breast to his mouth that watered profusely from knowing what he was doing to you.

His focus was now completely on you, zeroing in on every sound you made, each way your body twitched and reacted to his fingers working you, how wet you were before he even laid a finger on you and how much wetter you were getting still.

You whined his name on repeat, your voice hitching whenever he hit just the right spot that edged you closer and closer, the tone you called him in growing more desperate as your praises turned to begging.

When he caught your thighs trembling, Will locked in on maintaining the exact motion that got you to this point, careful not to change pace or even the position of his fingers even slightly, watching your face contort and your mouth gape open as loud cries escaped it and you came hard on his hand. Your body arched off the bed, grinding against him as you rode out every second of your orgasm before finally collapsing back into the sheets, your heavy breaths mixed with an unhinged laugh as you brought your hand up to cover your face in disbelief.

Will smiled as he crawled up to be level with you, taking your hand in his to uncover your face, kissing the back of it multiple times before he brought his lips to yours.

His eyes were serious when he broke your kiss, his voice somewhat strained when he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered again, moving to lay more on his side where he winced, his wound still fresh enough to cause him a bit of pain. “I don’t mean to lose control like that…”

“I know you don’t. But it’s fine, I promise,” you soothed, stroking the side of his face up to his hairline that was saturated with sweat.

He set his lips together in a line, the way he was trying to believe your words clear on his face, and averted your gaze as his eyebrows rose on his forehead.

“Hey,” you called, propping yourself up on your elbow to get closer to him. “I love you, Will.”

He nodded and smiled softly, his eyes a little brighter and no longer holding evidence that he was battling with the line that blurred seeing himself as the man he wanted to be and the one he wanted to forget.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

---

Taglist:

@dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls @littlenosoul

@glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie @rmwarn90 @paintlavillered

@casa-boiardi @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989 @justreblogginfics @spaghettificationandpretzels

@whatever-lmaoo @steviebbboi @charethcutestory02 @daryldixonpls

[demoncrypt1066]

Power nap, 18+

PAIRING: Tommy Miller x f!Reader | LENGTH: 2100 words NOTES: inspired by this gif by @iamasaddie and this post by @millers-girl555 Tommy is single and thicc. You're neighbors. WARNINGS: 18+ unsafe sex, dirty talk, tummy grinding, daddy kink. Tommy Miller Masterlist | Main Masterlist

After splitting wood, Tommy calls it a day. He gets home out of breath, chest heaving, wiping his forehead with the back of his forearm.  He opens the fridge and bends down with a grunt to reach for a tall can of beer and sighs as he stands back up.

He dwells in the cool air for a moment before closing the fridge door.  Still sweating buckets, he rests back against the counter and rolls the cool can against his neck for a moment before cracking it open and taking a sip. Before he knows it, he's chugged nearly the whole can. Might as well finish it off and grab a fresh one before he leaves the kitchen. 

He settles in on the couch, cracks open the fresh beer, and puts his feet up. Takes two big gulps before setting it down. He partly catches a belch in his mouth and after letting the air escape his cheeks, mumbles "scuse me," to no one. Once he's settled in, he doesn't wanna get up. He bridges his hips to empty his pockets, reaching into the ever tightening denim to take out his wallet and work keys. 

That's better. 

He unbuckles his belt while he's at it and scratches where it was digging into the under curve of his lower belly.  He unbuttons his jeans. Much better. 

He's real comfy now, and he's dead tired. So tired he falls asleep. 

It's the kind of nap where you slip into a deep sleep right away and sleep like a baby. He doesn't even hear his neighbor knock on the door forty minutes later.

When he doesn't answer, you assume he isn't home. That's okay, you know where his spare key is, and you're supposed to leave the power drill he lent you on the table inside if he isn't there. You come in and shut the door behind you and hear something mumbled from the next room, and the click of metal.

Shit.

"It's me," you announce, and round the corner to see the barrel of Tommy's gun pointed at you. He's leaned forward, alert, legs spread wide. "I come in peace," you add.

"God damn," he sighs in relief and lowers the gun. "Shit, reckon i must'a dozed off..."

He puts the gun down, rubs his eyes, and relaxes back into the couch. His undershirt has ridden up, exposing a mouth-watering slice of his belly, garnished with his light happy trail and framed by his unbuckled belt and unzipped pants.

It isn't until he follows your eyes that he realizes the state he's in and tugs down his undershirt. The room is dim, it's just after sunset, but you can practically feel him blush as he mumbles something like, "Gimme a sec, darlin'," turning slightly away from you and  leaning back to suck in and button his jeans.  

Fuck, he's hot.

Something possesses you to say, "Don't."

He chuckles, still tugging at his jeans, and glances nervously at you. He has to do a double take at your face when he sees the look in your eye. He drops the denim

"It's a good look for you," you tease him, enjoying a surge of confidence from finding him in a vulnerable position.

You've had a crush on him for a while, and got the feeling he might be into you too, but he never made a move. You never had the courage to, either. Never felt like it was your place, until now.

You step forward and repeat, "Stop."

He abandons the chore of buttoning his jeans, instead leaving them unzipped as he slowly sinks back into the couch, watching you approach. His stomach rises and falls with his breath, heart racing from the scare of being woken up.

Your own heart is pounding with adrenaline as he watches you set the tool on his table. You're just gonna go for it. You reach for your own jeans and flick the button open.

His lips part, and his eyes are captivated as your pants drop to his living room floor.

He wonders if he's dreaming. He mutters your name, and it comes out as a question.

You pause with your thumbs hooked into your panties. “Tommy?” You respond.

“Careful now,” he warns.

“Why’s that?” You ask.

A clock on the wall seems to tick slower as you wait for his response.

He wets his bottom lip and says, “One more step, I’ll have you flat on that table.”

“Is that a promise?” You ask.

He chuckles and adjusts himself, easing into the dynamic. “Sounds like you wanna find out,” he says.

“Well, I’m in no hurry to,” you muse, and turn around, giving him a 360 view.  You press your hands below your butt cheeks, giving him a lifted view, then let them drop.

He lets out a low whistle. “God damn, sugar.” He rubs himself over his jeans. “Look at all that ass…C’mere.”

You make him wait for it, treating him to a little strip tease. Heart racing despite your cool demeanor. Your hands run over your curves and you watch his eyes devour every inch of you.  You rub yourself over your panties, and he moans out loud.

“Yeah, come to papa.”

Each tick of the clock, each pump of his heart, has more blood rushing to his loins, stiffening his cock with an aching need to be in you.

By the time you drop your panties, they’re soaked.

His gaze settles between your legs, where your hand glides down your mound, down, and your fingers slide through your slippery slit, bringing slick forward to your clit.

Without taking his eyes off your cunt, he pulls his boxers down, and his cock springs free, smacking heavily against his belly.

At a low volume, you tease, "Just like that, huh?"

And his eyes meet yours to answer, "what'd I tell ya?"

He squeezes his cock, then puts both hands on the couch to scoot forward and his belly swells forward, forcing his cock down and toward you, but no less stiff or aching with the change in position. He lifts his ass to pull down his jeans and boxers and kicks them aside.  "C'mere," he commands.

You haven't even given him the titty show yet, but you obey and close the distance. Once you're in reach, he grabs the backs of your thighs, hurrying you into straddling him.

He takes off your shirt as soon as you're in his space and tosses it over to your pants on the floor. The tip of his cock nudges your mound as he takes your tit in his mouth and sucks your nipple. He pulls you closer against him and your hips seek pressure against his belly.

He moans into your tit and you grind against him, struck by an aching need when his weeping cock-head grazes your clit. You gasp and repeat the motion, with his fat tip peeking out between his lap and belly, rubbing against your throbbing clit with each rock of your hips. 

He unlatches from your tit with a wet smack and breathes, “oh, fuck, i gotta have ya right here.”  He flattens his back against the back of the sofa, stretching his middle out, making room for you. The apex of your folds, wet with slick, presses into his soft stomach as he holds his cock for you. The dripping mouth of your cunt finds his swollen, leaky tip. You sink down on his thick shaft, and he pulls you down with a moan, back still flattened against the sofa-back as though exhausted by sheer arousal. 

His spine arches and he thrusts upward, fully seating himself in your warmth. 

You throb and pant and whisper, "fuck," as your insides swell and sweat around his rock-hard girth. “Fuck, you're big,” you gush, full of his cock, mound pressed against his belly. 

“Yeah, you like big Tommy?” He asks, Watching you darkly, hands on your hips as you ride him. His hips move under you, rocking his cock in your cunt. “Fuck, you can take it, too.”

You ride him slow, grinding against his middle.

“Yeah, take that cock,” he murmurs. “Take that big cock. Mmm…. Just like ya always wanted.” He bites his lip and his hands guide your rhythm. “Mm yeah,” he breathes, swollen shaft fully buried in your pussy. “Yeah, good girl.” 

He begins to sit up a little, groaning “ohhh,” and holding your body against his for leverage. “Ugh,” his middle swells against yours as he pulls himself up, tensing his core, making his cock move inside you. “Yeah, good girl.”

With one massive arm wrapped around you,  his other hand lifts your breast, feeding himself your nipple. “Mmm,” he moans into your breast and your walls flutter. You slot your fingers into his hair. He releases your breast and sighs, “Fuck, sugar…hang on for me. Hang on tight”

He rocks forward, nudging a special spot inside you as the power of his meaty quads forces him to his feet with a grunt. You wrap your legs around him and he carries you a few steps to the table before setting you down on the edge. 

“Down,” his hand gently pushes your chest and you lean back on your elbows, admiring his solid form, glistening and heaving. His neck vein bulges. His eyes pan over your body. “Look at you, buck naked, legs spread… yeah,” he pants, and with his hands on your thighs, he pushes his hips forward, bottoming out deeper, making your head tilt back with a muttered, “Fuck.” 

“That’s my girl,” he nods, staying seated fully inside, rocking his hips. 

The rub of his paunch against your clit has your neck all tense, your brows knitting together, tension pulling in your gut, begging for release. 

Thrust by thrust, he’s rougher, faster, his hair is damp. “Yeah,” he pants, “oh, yeah, c’mon baby, come on big Tommy’s cock.” 

He leans forward and his gold chain swings as he fucks you. The table creaks with the rhythm. 

Closer and closer, you whine with the tension pulling tight, tighter, so tight. 

“Yeah, that’s right, c’mon,” he encourages, “oh fuck,” he breaths, “c’mon baby, milk daddy’s cock, take it baby, take it.” 

Your spine arches and the tension snaps, “Fuck, daddy,” you whimper, “oh god,” clenching on his cock, relief tearing through you in waves, stinging your eyes with tears.  

“There it is,” he pants, fucking you through it, then slams his hips forward and groans, “Ugghhh” as his cock throbs in your cunt. Each twitch of him is fully felt as your own climax wanes. He drains himself in you, then his eyes pan down your body, admiring the scene. 

“How long we been neighbors?” he asks. 

You let out a weak laugh and rest flat on your back, look up at the ceiling, catching your breath. “Long enough,” you answer. 

“Yeah, I’ll say.” His cock slides out and he mutters, ”Oops,” to himself, then uses the tip of his cock to catch what’s trickling out of your cunt and push it back in.

“I was gonna spread those pretty legs one of these days,” he says as he pulls out again. “All the better you spread’em yourself though.”  He chuckles with a slight smile. He sighs and looks at you with kind eyes, making sure you know he’s just being nasty. 

You bite your lip and tilt your head, checking him out, then you close your legs as you sit up. 

He puts on his boxers and picks up your clothes. 

“Just like that,” you observe. 

“Oh, you’re stayin’ over, by the way,” he clarifies. “But we gotta go see Joel first.” He looks at his watch. “While it’s still visting hours.” 

“How’s he doing?” you ask. 

“In good spirits,” Tommy says. “He’ll get a kick outta this.” 

“Out of what?” you laugh. 

“Me bringin’ ya by all fucked out,” he smiles to himself. “Said he’d fuck you himself if I didn’t get to it.” 

Your breath hitches and your eyes widen. 

“He’d prolly do it too,” Tommy says, and pulls his shirt over his head, and tugs it down over his stomach. “Don’t need him bustin’ any stitches though.” 

When you’ve put your shirt on, he steps toward you and brushes your temple with his thumb as he admires your face. “Starvin’,” he mutters. “You eat yet?” 

“No,” you answer. 

“Alright, that’s stop number 2.”  He helps you off the table. 

“Just gonna take me all around jackson, all fucked out?” you ask. 

“Yeah, pretend you don’t like it,” he says with a wink. "c'mon." 

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Bonus imagine 100 words

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Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please let me know <3333

[demoncrypt1066]

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[demoncrypt1066]

because they all love and hate each other to varying degrees like patrick loves tennis and tashi and art but art the most and art loves tennis and patrick but he loves tashi the most and tashi loves tennis the most but none of them can have the thing they want most so they use one another to get closer to it and in the aftermath end up resenting each other for what could have been

[demoncrypt1066]

obsessed with this letterboxd review for CHALLENGERS (2024) by rocky/WAYSTIAR

[demoncrypt1066]

boy toys 🎾

[demoncrypt1066]

the hat rule. (e.m. x fem!reader)

the hat rule (n.): you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.

summary: when eddie dresses up as a cowboy to a night out with friends, you decide to steal his hat.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: reader is described to be wearing a dress. reader is also dressed up as a black cat. premise is everyone is wearing 'slutty' costumes. overuse of pet names. public teasing, unprotected sex, choking kink, oral (f receiving), ass slapping. 18+.

wc: 13.3k+

happy early valentine's day, babes. shout out to @hellfire--cult for beta reading, as well as @andvys for giving me this idea to begin with.

If someone had told you last week that you’d be attending a slutty costume themed night at a club tonight, you would have laughed in their face.

And yet here you were, at Steve Harrington’s apartment, donned in a black cat costume that shows more skin than you have in years.

The elaborate plan had sparked on a random day after Steve encountered a flyer for the event. It was a nightclub your group had attended before, and one look at the line free drinks for participants had Steve running down your entire group to insist that you all needed to dress up, to participate in this, for the luxury of free Tito’s. 

He’d never considered that the ad might not be targeted towards the male population. And now, you were all gathering at his apartment to pregame, ‘slutted out’ as Robin had so kindly put it �� men included.

Nancy pulled out some sort of angel costume she claims she had bought but certainly not worn a few years back, Robin had conglomerated an alluring pirate attire from items you hadn’t even been aware were in her closet. Jonathan arrived in his erotic yet pensive writer’s costume (you’d hardly understood it, but he seemed confident, so you all went with it), Argyle in tow donning some sort of seductive surfer costume, in which you certainly recognized the unbuttoned shirt and cargo shorts that had had a pocket knife taken to them to disregard a few inches. Steve even stuck to his own demands, going all out – a sensual bunny costume.

And then, there was Eddie.

Eddie fuckin’ Munson. 

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart,” he teases as he shuffles around you in the kitchen to grab a drink, “Gonna start catching flies otherwise.” 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about how sweet I am, right?” you blandly reply, keeping your eyes on your room temp cocktail that Steve had so graciously mixed for you upon your arrival, “Something where you call me honey or sugar, yeah?” 

Eddie pauses, bottle of vodka in hand, looking at you with big eyes lined in coal, “Oh, baby, you know me so well.” 

“Cut the pet names, Munson.”

You try to scowl. You really do. But you don’t mean a damn word you say. 

Sweetheart. Baby. Hell, even honey would have done it for you when he was wearing that costume. 

Tight leather pants, flared at the ankle. Worn leather boots that certainly had to have been thrifted, clicking with each of his steps. A cow print vest, and just a vest, over what looked to be an oiled chest. 

And that fucking hat smashing down his curls, adding a shadow across his face that only built into the illusion. 

You hate him. You hate this stupid party. You hate Steve for ever suggesting this. 

“You don’t mean that,” he sing-songs as he pours his own drink into a red solo cup. The vodka mixes with cranberry juice, you think, before he’s dropping a few ice cubes out of the freezer. “Or maybe you do, and I should try saying them with a southern drawl,” Fuck, he does a good southern accent. Slow and syrupy sweet, molasses down the throat as he flutters his lashes at you, “That better, darlin’?” 

You pluck the thin black straw that had been added to your cup for flare, probably stolen from a hotel at some point by Steve and positively meant for drinks of the coffee variety, and flick it in his direction without hesitation. 

“Terrible,” you flatly lie, “Cowboys aren’t even from the south, idiot. They’re from the West.” 

You have no desire to hear Eddie’s Western accent. No desire to hear Texan twang on those lips, putting on his best John Wayne impression. In fact, the faster you can get away from him, the quicker you can get yourself under control. 

It had always been this way between you and Eddie. Push and pull. Will they, won’t they. A game of cosmic shores as the two of you toed at each other’s orbits and bantered effortlessly. Flirtatious threats, inappropriate compliments, lewd innuendos – you had done it all, specifically with Eddie.

That’s just how the friendship worked. 

The friendship. 

Friend. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Eddie won’t leave you alone, though, choosing to lean up against the counter beside you, forcing his way into your peripherals, “Damn. You’re right. Wayne would kill me if he knew I mixed that up.” 

“Oh, I think he has plenty of reasons to knock some sense into you.” 

“Yeah?” he leans forward, tauntingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “Why don’t you do it for him? I think I’d like a slap more coming from you, honestly.”

He’s acting like he always does. This is normal. The fact that his entire torso is on show and you can’t stop staring at the way his tattoo on his peck is shimmering doesn’t change that. 

You play the role, knowing your part well as you lean in as well, forcing a smile right back at him, “Wanna kiss my knuckles before I do it, or am I gonna have to do all the hard work here?” 

“Oh, trust me, you’d never have to do all the work with me, ba-”

“Can you two get a fucking room?” Robin interrupts as she enters the room, clearly coming in for a refill but getting more than she bargained for. 

You’re aflame with the shame and embarrassment, feeling it lick from your ankles up to your throat, as Eddie only chuckles lowly. 

“Sorry, Robs,” Eddie chirps, not sounding apologetic at all, “I promise I’ll behave myself the rest of the night.” 

And yet, despite the words you’re hearing him say out loud, he does the exact opposite. 

There’s no real need for him to do it. There’s plenty of space amongst the kitchen for him to maneuver his way out without laying a single hand on you – and yet he still fucking does. 

His palm is shockingly warm when it curls around your hip, his other hand occupied with a drink, encouraging you to move a step forward so that he can brush behind you far too close for comfort. You nearly stumble over himself as he does it. The feeling of his barren chest barely bumping your bare shoulder blades sends your mind reeling, and his staple rings that have incorporated into his costume press right through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your breathing stops entirely as he pauses, the slightest bit of skin still brushing against yours, and leans in with a boyish grin, “We’ll both be on our best behavior tonight – right, kitty?” 

Something clicks in your mind. The way the nickname rolls off his tongue as he’s looking at you with eyes flaming with mischief, hand lingering on your hip for far too long. 

Your eyes flicker up to the hat on his head, and you smile slowly, meeting his toying gaze, “Right, cowboy.”

Best behavior, your ass. Tonight, you have decided, ends the will they, won’t they of it all. 

It’s about to either be the best night of your life, or the worst. 

—

Another shot with Nancy. Another smoke with Argyle. Another adjusting of Steve’s corset when he complains he can’t breathe (he certainly can, but you’re starting to think he just likes the attention). The pregaming continues on as more of Steve’s friends from work show up, the apartment slowly beginning to buzz with the chatter of more strangers than you can count on one hand.

You’re not even at the club yet and you’re already regretting your revealing attire.

Eddie stays mostly preoccupied with his own devices, and only gets scolded a handful of times by Nancy. You can hear every lewd joke he makes, of course. At some point, you make a private drinking game out of it; a sip for every time he makes the stereotypical joke of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’. 

Well, it was a sip the first time. A slightly larger gulp the second time. A chugging of half your drink the third time. 

“There’s no fucking way,” Steve laments at the table the boys as well as a few guests you don’t recognize have taken over for a game of strip poker, “Jonathan is cheating. Or counting cards.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, scowling at his losing hand. 

“You’re also cheating, asshole. This is the first round you’ve lost the entire game.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at cards, Harrington.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m really good at-”

“He’s not cheating,” Nancy interrupts with a sigh from the couch, lounging as she’s served as a referee of sorts for the group. Her entire body weight is draped against Robin, and you’re certainly not going to comment on Robin’s hands toying with her permed locks, “Stop being a sore loser and just strip.” 

You get why Steve was the most upset. He was down to his underwear and socks, corset tossed somewhere far behind him and bunny ears placed on Robin’s head in place of her pirate hat that she had claimed became too warm. 

“I think Steve should trade both socks and put back on the bunny ears,” she quips as she reaches up for the headband, flicking at one of the floppy ears, “He’d look cuter that way.” 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, throwing up a middle finger as Argyle finally loses his shirt. 

When your attention has drifted, you know he did exactly that, though. 

The game had been boring you half to death, honestly. Watching Steve strip without fail every round, hearing the loud cheers from Argyle when he managed to win a few rounds in a row and exclaimed it was a turkey (it had taken a ten minute intermission to explain to him that was bowling, not poker), watching a few of the girls that Steve had invited fawn over him as they carefully removed boots and gloves when they lost – none of it sparked your interest. The only saving grace had been every smug look Eddie offered as he’d win, time and time again. So far, he’d only lost his boots. 

He was hot when he was cocky. There was no way around it.

And now, as he carefully pondered as to which part of his precious costume to part with, you were on the edge of your seat. He was lovely and enticing when he was excited, when he was jubilant with victory, but as a sore loser? 

Dear God, Eddie Munson was a gorgeous specimen with a pout on his lips. 

“Trying to decide what to take off, Munson?” Jonathan notices the way Eddie is hesitating, even through the offset of conversations that had sparked up in the brief pause amongst the growing group.

You lean forward on the couch, almost subconsciously. 

You don’t care what Stacy from Steve’s job thinks of their manager or the latest drama ongoing there, and Steve would probably agree with you if it weren’t for Stacy’s all-red, latex Devil costume.

Eddie scoffs, waving a hand over his attire, “Obviously. You know, it’s not easy to choose when you have a costume as damn good as mine.” 

“What? Don’t think you’ll be as pretty without your hat?” you decide to contribute to the teasing, shocking yourself in the process. 

The last thing you should do when you’re staring him down in this way, is bring attention to yourself. And yet you were, like some fucking idiot with a death wish. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

It’s the fluttering of his lashes as he says it that gives you the courage. They match all that fluttering in your stomach, all that buzzing across your nerves. Because – yeah, you thought he was real fucking pretty. You’d spent the last half hour imagining how pretty he’d look in all sorts of places, too, especially between your sheets and between your thighs. 

You’re up off the couch, taking confident steps towards where he’s seated at the ground on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a little inconvenient now, but it had been a blessing in disguise for most of the game as you’d had a front row seat to the sight of him. 

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, entirely ignoring that lightheaded feeling you get anytime Eddie looks up at you this way. Half-lidded eyes, crooked grin. He’s dangerous and he doesn’t even know it, “I only meant you were pretty with the hat.” 

“You wound me,” he gasps, dropping back on his hands dramatically, his pout now for dramatics rather than genuine, “Gonna stand there and tell me I’m not pretty when I dressed up just for you?”

You have to take a deep breath to compose yourself, cross your arms to steady your guard, “Just for me?” 

He was playing that same old, tired game of yours. The same dance the two of you had memorized the steps to – and something inside of you has grown restless of it. You don’t want to keep skirting around each other with double-meaning jokes, you don’t want to keep painting humor over your flirtatious remarks. You want a damn answer to the age old question of will they, won’t they?

And you want that answer to be will they – terribly, terribly so.

His eyes trail along the room slowly, not avoiding you but trying to draw out the anticipation in you as he sucks in a breath, “Okay, and maybe for Steve. And Nancy. And Argyle. And Jonathan. And- Well, I’d say Robin, but I don’t think she’s looked twice in my direction all night.” 

“I haven’t,” the brunette chirps happily from the couch, still letting the weight of Nancy comfortably dig into her. 

You have no idea how she’s tuned into the conversation, given the way most of everyone else around the room was entirely ignoring the two of you. 

“So,” you all but purr, leaning down to be more level with Eddie. You already know where his focus wanders when his eyes don’t meet yours, “Not just for me, cowboy.” 

He’s distracted, staring at your chest as you notice him slip up in his brave facade for a second. Almost as though you’ve gone too far, pushed the limits a bit too hard. Good. You want to break this. You want to shatter whatever cage the two of you have built.

In one smooth movement, your hand reaches out and snatches the hat right off his head. 

He lets out a yelp and tries to grab it away from you, but you have the advantage as you stand up straight once more. Your free hand reaches up and tears off the cat ears you had donned, and in their place, the hat is deposited. 

It fits you a little big, and you nearly make a joke about the size of Eddie’s head. 

“Hey!” he argues, moving as though he might stand up and put up more of a fight, “I didn’t say the hat is what I wanted to take off.” 

“Took too long,” you shrug innocently. 

“Yeah, well, just carefully add it to the pile,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, towards his boots, as he relaxes back into his recline.

You should probably behave yourself. 

“No.”

But this is more fun. 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in shot, disappearing behind the bangs that are flattened far more than usual. The entire crown of his head is absolutely crushed. No sign of his usual frizzy roots and unruly volume, “No?”

“No,” you confirm a second time. 

And you’re done with this game of back and forth. 

The hat’s staying on your head. It smells ever so faintly of his shampoo, the slightest whiff of his cologne even, and it’s staying on your head for the exact reason he believes is about to be a gotcha! moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he’s just tipsy enough that he’s not putting on any specific accent. Instead, his natural Appalachian accent inherited from his uncle begins to break the surface, “Surely you know about the hat rule.” 

Damn right, you know about the hat rule.

You cross your arms, huff a little, tilt the hat for effect, “The hat rule? Please, enlighten me.” 

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” 

Perfect. 

You don’t even attempt any sort of surprised act. No exaggerated gasps, no fumbling to remove the hat. You knew all about this rule, and it had been one of the first things to come to mind when you’d seen him enter this damn party with the hat on. 

“Yeah?” you question, mocking raising your eyebrows at best, “Hm. What a shame.”

And then you turn on your heel, not awaiting a single response from Eddie as you escape to the kitchen.

You almost wish you would have stayed an extra second to properly witness his reaction. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s gone pretty and pink, a flustered mess for at least a second as low laughter sounds from the rest of your friends. A tell-tale snort from Robin, and a silent cackle from Nancy. You swear you even pick up on one of the extra guests muttering a confused what just happened? that goes entirely unanswered.

Strip poker doesn’t continue on for long after that.

You refill your drink, this time sans the alcohol, and return to find Steve has officially begun to call for cabs to the club. He busies away on his phone as everyone debates who’s riding with who, the entire party slowly coming to life as everyone stands to prepare to leave for the main attraction. 

When you meet Eddie’s gaze from across the room, the shadow of the brim of his hat cutting into your vision a little, his cheeks match the cranberry juice in your cup. 

Good. 

—

The ride to the club is a blur, and all that really stands out to you is that Eddie makes sure he does not ride in the same cab as you.

Which is fine. Really. It doesn’t cause a single spark of panic in your chest. Not one. 

You’re definitely not working yourself up over the thought that your plan is crumbling right before your eyes, that you’ve gone too far and entirely misinterpreted everything Eddie has ever done during your entire friendship. You’re not mulling over every dirty joke, not dissecting every single line that felt like he was flirting with you and attempting to look at it with fresh eyes. No, the entire ride to the club, you are definitely not beating a dead horse dead. 

Maybe you should have set off to ride the dead horse and not the cowboy. Maybe, then, Eddie would have gotten into the fucking cab with you. 

Your anxieties only worsen once you get inside the club. Pulsing beneath your skin, right in rhythm with the music. Your entire group had each been handed a drink ticket on your way in, and you had noted the fact that the girls of the group were slipped extra tickets. 

Nancy had given all her tickets to Robin, and Steve had given his singular ticket to Stacy. 

“So,” Robin runs up to your side, Nancy not far behind, “Do we waste our drink tickets on shots or real drinks?” 

“Real drinks,” you immediately reply, eyes scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain head of curly hair, “Shots are… well, they can be cheap. We can just avoid the top-shelf shit.”

Was Eddie really going to ignore you the entire night? 

He needed his hat. He couldn’t ignore you the entire night. 

“You’re right,” Robin shuffles the drink tickets in her hands, turning to Nancy, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be me to ask you to flirt with men to get me-”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have us a round.” 

Nancy’s smile is sweet, courteous, as she gives Robin’s shoulder a squeeze on her way past her. 

Where the fuck is Eddie? 

“Did you see where the guys ran off to?” you blurt out. Most of the guys, aside from Steve, took the same cab. 

Robin also joins you in a quick survey of the club, lifting onto her tippy toes to squint over the current light show, “Honestly? I have no idea.” 

Fuck. 

As she drops back down onto her heels, Robin looks at you knowingly, eyes flicking up between your twisted expression and the hat on your head. 

“Trying to find a certain cowboy?” 

“What?” you look at her, already defensive, even if it was stupid at this point. Who cares if everyone knows you have a crush on Eddie? Who cares if everyone finds out the very foundations of your friendship with him were built upon quite a bit of truth? “I mean- yeah, he kind of needs his hat to complete his outfit.” 

“Should have just given him your ears for an even trade,” Robin shrugs, clinging to your elbow to avoid getting separated as a few bodies push past the two of you, “I’m sure he’ll pop up soon enough, though. Besides, I don’t think anyone’s too focused on what everyone’s costumes are as long as they’re… well…”

“Slutted out,” you finish for her flatly, trying to not get jealous as your eyes look across the sweaty crowd, stomach churning as you wonder how many other sexy black cats in the crowd would be approaching your cowboy. 

You fucked up. You shouldn’t have taken his hat. 

“Exactly!” she’s excited, unaware of your crisis, already moving along from the topic as she spots Nancy somewhere near the bar top, “Look, free shots!” 

The free shots don’t do much to quell your unease, but free alcohol is always nice.

You take the liquid down, burn and all, more than willingly. And then again, not even five minutes later when Nancy has caught the attention of another random man at the end of the bar. You almost partake in a third, but you finally hear a familiar voice saying a far too familiar joke. 

“You know what they say,” he’s flirting – he’s using a tone of voice that he has never used with you, and it’s clear he’s fucking flirting, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.” 

Instead of continuing your drinking game from Steve’s apartment, you slam the shot back down and mutter some sorry excuse of being right back to Robin and Nancy before taking off in the direction of Eddie.

He’s stood a few stools down at the bar, hands leaning against the worn wood as his arms bracket a pretty blonde. It almost looks as if the line might be working on her. 

“If you’re a cowboy,” she giggles, and you almost stop dead in your tracks, “Then where’s your hat?” 

Well, that’s as good of a queue for your arrival if any. 

“Good question,” you pipe up as you take a few brave steps towards him, “Where is your hat, cowboy?” 

You’d expected him to be angry, or startled, or possibly even immediately take off running in the opposite direction of you. He doesn’t. 

He slowly turns, and his flirtatious smile has turned into more of a salacious grin as he faces you, “Well, well, well. Nice of you to join us, Kitty.” 

The blonde looks between you two a few times before shimmying down off her stool, “I think…. I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, cowboy.”

You expect Eddie to react, but he hardly does. A quick glance in her direction, a pathetic wave. 

You’ve just trampled over one of his chances of getting properly lucky tonight, and he isn’t even phased. 

“Been lookin’ for you,” you mumble, looking over him. His hair seems to have been unstuck from his scalp a little, at least. As though he may have been running his hands through it repeatedly, “Thought you might have gone home without your hat.” 

“Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten about the rule, you know.” 

Something twists in you, deep in your gut, between your hips. 

“No?” you hold your breath as he leans in a bit closer to you to be able to hear over the music, “Good thing I haven’t either.” 

He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the multi-colored lights, “You haven’t? Then that means you’ll be giving it back, right?” 

Over my dead body. 

You’re on a mission tonight. You’ll either be ending this night in sore disappointment, drinking away your sorrows of rejection, or you’ll be ending up in a bed with Eddie. It’s up to him. 

You lift a hand to the worn rim, tugging it a bit more securely onto your head, “Not a chance, Munson. You know where to find me once you’re done playing around.”

As soon as your fingers leave the rim, holding tense eye contact with him, his own hand is coming up. You tense, worried he’s about to steal the hat back now, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers pinch the same spot yours just had, slow tracing over the rim as his tongue darts out to carefully wet his bottom lip. 

From the front point, around to the side. When he reaches the bit above your ear, his touch drops to your cheek and tucks back some of the baby hairs sticking to your skin with sweat. 

“I do, don’t I?” he hums, voice dropping a bit lower, focused entirely on you. “I don’t think I’m the one playing around right now, though, Kitty.” 

Does he think you’re joking? Does he actually, genuinely think this is all a game to you? 

You nearly make the decision to grab him right there, right at this moment, and shatter all the tension. Get his lips on yours and drag him into the darkest corner just to prove to him how serious you truly were. 

Suddenly, his hand drops away from you entirely, and you almost want to whine. You miss that warmth, that feathery caress, until it aches. “It’s okay, though. Always knew cats were playful things.” 

Is there a dark corner somewhere near you two? Is there a dark hallway to drag him into? Just enough shadow to cover all the sins you’re desperate to commit, just enough light to see that blush rise across his cheeks again. 

“I’m not playing,” you whisper, eyes drifting down to his hand cradling a glass. Something deep and russet, just like his eyes. Likely whiskey. You wonder if you’d be able to taste it all over his tongue before you had him putting it to work where you need him most right now. “Whenever you get that through your big head, come find me.” 

“Big head?” he throws his head back in a laugh, and the tension mists away in seconds. “Who says I have a big head?” 

“I do, as the one wearing your hat,” you readjust it for emphasis. 

You thought the tension had misted away until he’s smirking, tsking a little, “Oh, thought you meant the other one.” 

It’s a replay of the scene in Steve’s apartment, but this time, the roles are reversed. You’re the one left in shock, mouth agape, as Eddie spins around and walks away, leaving you to sit with what he’s just said. 

“Bastard,” you breathe out as you watch him disappear in the crowd, eyes locked on his broad shoulders until one too many bodies separate the two of you. 

A bastard you want awfully, terribly, bad. 

—

You wish you could say you threw back drink, after drink, after drink. You wish you could say you danced with a hundred different beautiful strangers, and each one strayed your mind farther from Eddie. 

You wish you could say you did anything but what the reality of your night had been.

A few men had approached you, only to be turned down repeatedly. Most of your night was spent all but moping at the bar, eyes diligently scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain curly haired figure that seemed to escape you. One moment, you’d catch him pressed against a flirty stranger, hands holding onto whatever bare skin was available to him. And then, his eyes would find yours, and there would be a spark; a wink, a smile, a whisper across a bustling room daring you to come out and play with him. 

You never did. You’d look away, take a sip of your plain coke, and wait a few seconds until it was safe to look back and find him seemingly vanished. 

That in itself had started to become a game. Just like the hat, weighing heavy on your head. 

You’re starting to accept that maybe you had just been a bit too brave. You’d jumped the gun, flown feet first into cold and ragged waters you weren’t prepared to navigate. You knew you wanted a change with Eddie, but were you ready? If you had been, you would have accepted one of his various invites. Would have strode across the room, shoved away whatever man or woman he was dancing with, and slotted yourself into their place. You would have been swaying your hips in rhythm with his rather than allowing him to cycle through strangers, and you’d be reminding him that you wore his hat. 

You’d be the one bringing up the hat rule to him consistently, not him to you. 

When the night begins to wane, you’ve already talked yourself out of it all. 

“I’m heading out,” you announce to Robin when she finally returns back to where you’ve sat at the bar to babysit their drinks, hopping down from the stool before she could argue, “I’m getting way too tired.” 

“What?” your friend gasps, face pink from the heat of being in the crowd, a shimmering sheen of sweat across her forehead, “No! Stay! We can take turns watching the drinks, or just-”

“Robs,” you smile as sweetly as possible, patting yourself down to make sure you have all your belongings. A whistle sounds from a group down the way at the bar, and you ignore them, “It’s seriously okay. You’re having fun! I’m just a senior citizen who needs some sleep. My bedtime was like…. An hour ago.” 

You highly doubt you’ll be getting any rest when you return to your apartment. Maybe some confidence can be built out of fantasies, letting your hands wander and sheets catch fire with all that could have been if you hadn’t talked yourself out of your perfect plan. 

Maybe, imagining Eddie’s hot hands on you rather than getting to properly feel them will light a damn fire under your ass for the next opportunity that arises. 

“I…” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of Nancy, “Okay, fine. But do we want to do brunch or something tomorrow?” 

Not a chance, you think rather quickly, eyes scanning once more for the metal-head-turned-cowboy. Not if Eddie’s going to be there.

“Sure,” you lie, already knowing he will be there, “Just text me.” 

With that, you make your grand escape. 

Borrowed hat on head, phone in hand, you push your way out of the club with a newfound determination. You want to get home and take off this uncomfortable dress, finally do away with the thigh highs that have been rolling down at the most inconvenient of times, driving you insane the entire night. Trade the sexy attire for something comfy – stay true to the cat essence as you curl up beneath your blankets for the night. Hang that damn cowboy hat on your door as a cursed reminder-

“Where do you think you’re going, Kitty?” 

You stop a few feet short of the curb, a cab ordered as you turn to find that bastard leaning against the wall. Cigarette smoke is still clinging to the air around him as he looks at you curiously. 

“Home,” you shrug, trying to ignore your pounding heart. You’d figured you wouldn’t see him again tonight, that your fate had been sealed. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Smoke break,” he lifts his hand with the cigarette pinched between two fingers casually, pushing off the wall to come closer, “It’s hard work, keeping you entertained all night.” 

You scoff, falling back into what’s almost a normal rhythm for you two, “You were not the one keeping me entertained all night.” 

“I hardly saw you dance with anyone at all.” 

“I did!” you try to defend yourself, deciding this could be fine. Some casual conversation as you wait for your ride, a way to pass the time. This is fine. “Robin dragged me out into the crowd at least twice.” 

“I watched you swat a guy’s hands away not once, but three times.” 

“Unsolicited touching isn’t a compliment. He should have taken the hint the first time.” 

Eddie nods in eager agreement, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Damn right. If he had gone in for a fourth try, I was considering dragging him out here for an early smoke break.” 

“Why do I highly doubt it would just be a smoke break?” you question, glancing at him with a smile. Scandalous plans aside for the night, embarrassment swallowed down whole, it’s nice to remember that Eddie is a friend. Albeit a bit flirty, and capable of driving you fucking insane, but he’s a friend.

And maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world. 

“Oh, no, yeah. You’d be posting my bail.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve got my hat, ” he reaches out and flicks the brim with his free hand, and you freeze up a little. You had hoped he wouldn’t mention it again, “Kind of makes me your problem until the end of the night. Speaking of….” 

You already know what he’s about to request as he trails off. This is it. You either give up the bit, hand the hat back over, and go home for the night – or you make one final attempt to get what you had wanted.

Eddie. You wanted Eddie, as more than a friend. 

“I’m gonna need that back, sweetheart.”

At least he’s asking politely, you consider, before it hits you why he’s asking rather than taking. 

The looks across the room. The way he’d been unbothered by the girl he’d been flirting with running off at your appearance. The way he never just took back that fucking hat when he’d been provided ample opportunity. 

He thinks it’s a game for you, and keeps bringing it up, because it isn’t for him. He’s giving you one last chance to back out, or to stand your ground. To say you really want this. 

And fuck, you really want this. 

“Nope,” you lean into his space, pressing closer, fully committed. Your phone dings with the notification of your ride approaching, and you fully ignore it. “My hat now, cowboy.” 

He quirks an eyebrow, and you hear the crunch of gravel behind you. Your ride. “Is that so?” 

“Yep.”

Another ding, another buzz of your phone.

Go ahead. Bring up the hat rule. 

“That your ride?” he asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the car. 

You glance over your shoulder, “Pretty sure it is, yeah.” 

“And you remember the hat rule?” 

Your stomach twists with excitement. Your previous pity party is long forgotten – you’re still hoping to get out of this dress, but you highly doubt you’ll be slipping anything on after it. “I do.”

“Great,” those hot hands you’d been fantasizing about the entire night suddenly reach out to you, gripping your hips tightly as he tugs you into his body. You collide with his chest as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “In that case, that’s my pussy now.” 

His lips linger against the shell of your ear an extra second, warm breath sending chills up your spine before he’s keeping an arm around your shoulders as he guides you to the car. His cologne and the scent of tobacco is suffocating, and you crave to drown in it. You want him to consume you; you want him to take over every breath you breathe, every move you make, to finally get those hot hands and lips everywhere you’ve only dreamt of. 

You barely hear him confirm with the driver that it is in fact your ride – you can only focus on that hand on your lower back, palm heavy on you as his thumb traces arcs that nearly spend you spiraling. 

“After you, kitty,” he murmurs, motioning for you to slide into the backseat first. 

In that case, that’s my pussy now.

You hope he ruins you. 

In the backseat of the ride, it’s all polite distance and hands to yourself. You can’t even make eye contact with the driver, terrified he might be able to mindread and see all the filthy thoughts racing through your head. 

Eddie between your thighs, mouthing at your hips. 

Eddie hovering over you, pulling your knees to your chest as he stretches you out. 

Eddie, proving that your pussy is in fact his for the night. That it was made for him, sculpted out to fit the curvature and every single vein of him. 

Eddie simply fucking your brains out. 

Some polite conversation is exchanged, mostly between Eddie and the driver. The classic questioning of how the night has gone, small talk that buzzes in your ears mindlessly. 

The entire time, you can see Eddie’s hand in the space between you two, fingers tapping away at dark leather incessantly. His rings shimmer like a siren calling to you. 

It’s a small movement, when your own hand drops near his. You keep your eyes trained forward once you begin your mission, inching your pinky closer and closer until it finally collides with his. You swear, you feel him fully jump out of his seat. 

Slowly warming the water, you start off simple – playing with his fingers. Gentle caresses over his knuckles, little pricks to the pads of his fingers. He tries to capture your hand in his, but you have bigger plans at play here. 

You’ve spent the entire fucking night waiting for this. You’re going to have fun with it. 

He huffs after you deter his second attempt at properly holding hands, his knees falling apart a little further. You twist at the ring on his middle finger, a clunky skull you’ve always admired. It has minimal signs of wear, probably pure silver if you had to guess, and you can only imagine how cold it’s going to feel against your skin. 

You can only imagine the imprints it’ll leave if he grabs your hips just right. 

“You know,” the driver hums mindlessly over the low volume of the radio, “You guys are my first ride of the night, surprisingly. Thought it might be busier with all the parties and clubs, but I think it’s just barely picking up now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks politely, nodding as he looks out his window. Perfect, “I think you’re right. It is getting pretty late-”

He’s entirely distracted, your hand out of his line of sight as it moves in on its target. 

His thigh. 

Just a few inches above his knee, your hand grips at what is clearly sensitive flesh. You watch his entire body turn to stone when you do it, and he moves his head quickly to look in your direction. 

You’re looking straight ahead. 

There had been a time, a few weeks ago, where you’d learned Eddie had… sensitive knees. You’d been joking around about one thing or another, and when your palms had gripped at them through the torn fabric of ripped jeans, he’d nearly launched himself across the room. He just kept insisting they were ticklish, that that skin was just delicate.

You’d seen the tent in his jeans then. You’d just been a bit more polite, a bit better behaved that day. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses in a whisper, reaching for your hand, but you’re quick to slide it even higher. 

His hips jump a little, and the driver is none the wiser. 

“Nothing,” you innocently say, still looking ahead, watching the passing streetlights with intense interest. “Absolutely nothing at all.” 

The entire ride, at every red light, your hand inches higher. 

And every time, you relish the way he squirms in your peripherals.

By the time you’re five minutes out from your place, you’ve riled him up to impossible heights. Every little noise has him on edge, constant twitching and shifting in his seat as he tries to get you to just look at him. You know he’s catching every sly smile that attempts to creep up on your lips – you’re pathetically failing at every turn to cover them up. 

You think you have him like putty in your palms as you give yet another squeeze to his thigh, fingers starting to dance up even higher. When your eyes flicker to his crotch for just a second, you see him straining against that tight leather. 

And then he flips the script. 

You’re so focused on your own goals, you never see that ringed hand creep to your own thigh. It’s not until cool metal nips at you, briefly, before you feel the warmth of his hand overtake, that you realize the predicament you’ve gotten into. 

Just as your hand was beginning to skim over his crotch, Eddie’s hand found solace between the meat of your thighs. Even as you try to clench them together, deny him the access he was seeking out, he finds his way in. Scandalous fingers dipping under the hem of your dress, fighting fire with fire when he lets his middle finger brush across the fabric of your underwear. 

Your touch from him nearly retracts entirely. 

“What?” he leans in closer to you, the driver still focused on the road, “Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?”

As he says it, his fingers dip lower. Hovering right over your protected clit, making your entire abdomen clench. 

You swallow hard, a bit of your jagged pride somewhere amongst the spit as you turn your head to look at him, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Still playing games I see.” 

In sync, the two of you lock eyes as you continue to test waters. You apply pressure with your palm and note the way his breathing hitches, and he draws a feather-light circle around the wet patch forming in your underwear. You can feel your bottom lip quiver as you try to refuse to give him any satisfaction, but when he’s this close, it’s a hopeless battle.

When had he gotten so near you? What happened to all that static distance from when you’d first crawled into the backseat?

You’re trying to only focus on your own hand. Eyes darting to guarantee the driver is still oblivious as you roll the heel of your hand harder against the seam of his pants, and biting your lip to hold back a successful grin when he has to cover a gasp with a cough. It’s all fun and games until the action is rewarded with his payback; his knuckle curling up against your cunt through your panties, pressing in hard before slowly sliding his way up, up, up. 

He deliberately stops when he catches on your clit, and you’re the one coughing now. 

“Had enough?” he mutters under his breath, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. He looks good in this lighting, flashes of the streetlights bathing him in soft yellow, headlights of other cars fluttering in through the windshield as they hit his brown eyes just right to bronze them. 

“Never.”

You almost think you’ve won when his knuckle pulls back. 

But suddenly, his entire hand is cupping your cunt, two fingers pressing against your fluttering hole as another drags up your slit slowly once more. This time, when he reaches your clit, he continues moving in small circles. 

You have to bite your lip to hold back any noises, eyes closing for just a second as you hear him huff out a laugh. 

The final damnation is when he brings his lips to your bare shoulder, merely grazing your skin with them as he mumbles, “You sure about that, Kitty?” 

You clench around nothing, and you know when he feels it from where his fingers remain pressed against you. His own hand twitches as the finger circling your clit stutters for a moment. 

“I-”

“We’re here!” the driver says, not having looked into the backseat yet as he finds a safe place to pull the car into. In an instant, you and Eddie remove your hands from each other. You’re both visibly flustered – you can feel how warm your cheeks have gotten, and you can see clouds of pink splattering over Eddie’s chest and neck. 

“Thanks,” Eddie is the one to speak up as the car comes to a halt, not even waiting for the driver to put the vehicle in park as he throws the door open. 

A bit rushed, but still polite as ever before he’s grabbing you by your bicep to pull you out of the cramped space right along with him. 

You can hardly muster a weak wave to the man as Eddie is dragging you towards your apartment building, knees still a bit weak and mind still blank after getting a taste of your own medicine, as Eddie had put it. 

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re at your front door, those cursed shaking hands of yours fumbling with your key ring. 

“Here, let me-” he starts to offer, reaching for the keys that continue to clank together, just as you find the one you’re looking for. 

“I’ve got it-” you try to cut him off, just as you drop the fucking keys in your haste. “Shit.” 

You quickly drop to the ground to grab them, pausing once you have the metal digging into your palms once more. There’s no real reason for you to do it, but you do – you take a second to look up at Eddie from this position, and nearly drool at the sight of it.

Him, standing over you, still a bit flushed and still visibly uncomfortable in his pants. Pretty curls a mess and lips darkening from how much he’s been biting them. 

You want him to ruin you. You want him to absolutely, entirely and utterly destroy you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, chest heaving a bit as he watches you carefully, pupils slowly growing in the dim light of your building’s hallway. 

You can see his bare torso clenching, the twitch of his hands at his sides – the same fingers that had just been caressing you over your underwear in the backseat of a stranger’s car. 

“Like what?” you’re dragging out the moment, taking time to appreciate the sight of him. 

“Like you want me to just press you up against the wall and fuck you out here, for everyone to see.” 

That’s a new one. That’s a vision that hadn’t come to you in all your dirtiest dreams of the night. 

It sends your clit throbbing. 

You rise slowly, pushing the hat back a bit to see him better, keeping your voice quiet so your neighbors won’t hear as you ask, “Would you? If I asked nicely?” 

He doesn’t let out a laugh, but a breath of air, like you’ve just sucked all of the oxygen out of his lungs. 

No need to say it – you know he would. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask nicely. 

You’re staring at him when he finally moves, one hand snatching your keys out of your hand and the other gripping you around the waist. Back to pulling you, man-handling you to get you right where he wants you – where he needs you. 

One second, you’re pressed against his body in the hallway. The next, he’s managed to unlock your front door and throw you both into the safety of your apartment. 

Hidden from the world, and you’re still reeling as you wonder what it’d be like for the entire building to witness you calling out his name. Or him calling out your name. 

Here within these four walls, Eddie has put some space between the two of you, staring with blown out eyes and a shaking chest as he breathes out, “Sweetheart.”

A few seconds pass, the two of you just standing there, the click of the front door’s lock being the only thing echoing in the silence. If you focused over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears, you might catch every single gasp of his as he stares in awe – but your focus is elsewhere. Far away and out of grasp for the time being. You can only think of one thing, and one thing only. 

Your body isn’t your own as you move to get exactly what you want; you drop to your knees hard enough that you should cringe at the thought of the pain that will linger, possibly for days, but it doesn’t even cross your mind as your hands begin to fumble with Eddie’s pants. The oversized, gaudy belt buckle is in your way, glinting at you as if mocking the way your shaking hands can’t undo it fast enough. You’re about to give up and just start unzipping the leather pants, desperate to get your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes on him properly, when he stops you. 

“Hey,” he sounds breathless - he is breathless - as his own hands quiver a bit and grab onto yours, “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.”

Those hands let go of your wrists and reach for the hat, and you’re quick to try and swat them away only for him to grab at you, surprisingly gentle, as he drags you back up to your feet. 

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy – right?” you insist, chin held high, your gaze refusing to waver from his. 

His slow and buttery grin makes you lightheaded, his low chuckle sends shakes through every nerve and bone. “That’s right, but maybe the cowboy wants to take his time. Ever think of that, hm?” 

Were you moving too fast? Were you going to scare him off? 

Small, baby steps are taken by Eddie, the click of his heels shattering against your wooden floors until his hips are flush with yours. 

And - oh.

Oh. 

That surely didn’t feel like you were scaring him off. 

You could feel the outline of his cock, hard against your hip, as he gives a little roll. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring with a hard breath, and the fear leaves as quickly as it had arrived. 

He wants this. You want him. 

“I’m not a very patient person,” you murmur, eyes glued to his lips now as his head leans in closer, and his hands begin to explore your body. Taking their time as they travel down your arms from where he’d held onto your biceps, slowing as they reach your wrists. Even the press of his thumb against the sensitive inner skin there sends jolts up your spine, little gasps attempting to escape your mouth. 

His fingers tangle loosely with your own for a few moments before his palms find your hips, and he continues his journey. 

“That’s okay,” he whispers back, close enough now that his lips have begun to brush against your own. His nose bumps yours as his hands skate up over your ribcage, thumb sweeping out over the hill of your breast and intentionally avoiding your nipple, “I can teach you, baby.”

Your mouth finally collides with him at the words, nearly going limp in his arms at the words. 

You’ve thought about kissing Eddie for a while now. Every time a snarky remark fell from his lips, you’d wonder how his tongue might taste afterwards. Every time he’d pout his lips at one of your comebacks, or blow a kiss teasingly in your direction from across a room, you’d wonder how hard you might have to bite down to make him bleed. Every drag of a cigarette you’d witnessed, every hard gasp in faux offense, every breathless chuckle at a joke he didn’t want to find funny but did – you had spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like to steal all the air from his lungs, to kiss him until the two of you were both blue in the face. 

“Can’t the lesson wait until tomorrow?” you mumble against him as his mouth, your own fists now gripping onto the lapels of his vest. His hands have reached your shoulders, memorizing the outlines of the curve of your neck where it meets your collarbones, the slope of your chest as you take hot and heavy breaths. 

“Nope,” he insists, pulling back from the kiss, a little bit of spit on his pink lips, “But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about tomorrow.” 

A hand finally finds your chin and pinches it carefully between his thumb and fingers, a careful grip on you to angle you just right so he can all but devour you. Lips, tongues, teeth – it’s a messy ordeal, and you almost make a smart-ass remark that this kiss doesn’t feel very patient. 

But you can’t. Eddie’s taken away all your breaths, all your words, as he starts to guide you backwards. 

Your knees hit the cushions of your sofa, making you jump back from him with a gasp, palms going flat against his chest. 

He feels good. Tender skin soft to the touch beneath your hand, tattoos tempting to trace the outline of. Later. 

“Figured you might want a more comfortable ride,” he laughs against you, breath smelling ever so faintly of mint and whiskey washing over you, before he dips to mouth away at your neck.

You drop back onto the sofa, bite your tongue on a comment about how this cheap piece of furniture most definitely wasn’t the most comfortable option, simply eager at the fact he was letting this move along. 

You want him, you need him, and you have no time for patience. 

His exploration of touches have lit you aflame, and you’re growing a bit desperate at this point. It might be pathetic, it should be embarrassing, but you really don’t care. 

“By all means,” you break out of his hold entirely, catching the way his hand holding your chin lingers a few extra seconds, reluctant to let you go, “Take your seat, Cowboy.” 

He joins you on the couch, eyes never leaving yours even as he throws himself down. Knees spread wide, inviting lap on show, cock still straining against his pants. 

The best seat in the house, as far as you’re concerned. 

“You just gonna keep starin’,” he mocks lightly, looking you over slowly. Taking his time, you suppose, “Or you gonna get over here?” 

His words are all you need. You’re quick to climb onto his lap, swinging your legs so that each thigh brackets his hips, your cunt pressing down on crotch carelessly. You love the way it feels – the outline of him hard against you, the cooling effect of the leather, the sharp edges of the zipper catching just right. 

“There,” he huffs out, grabbing onto you when you give the slightest roll of your hips, “Now we’re both in our seats.” 

When you go to press down harder, guiding yourself over his lap, hands steadying you by gripping his shoulders, he surprises you by his hips jumping up to meet your slow rhythm.

“What happened to being patient?” you try to tease him right back as your forehead meets his, hat comically struggling to stay on between the two of you, “Thought you were gonna take your time with me-”

“Between you and me, I’m not gonna last,” he pants out, hands finding your hips. Those rings you’d been fantasizing of leaving an imprint on you are doing just that as he guides you, “Been dreaming of you too long, sweetheart. Wanted this for so long.” 

Your heart nearly stops. Your hips stutter, pausing as his words rush over you. 

“What?” 

Your head lifts away from his completely, grip on his shoulders tightening. 

He’s wanted this, too? This entire time? 

Eddie takes your pause as a bad thing, a terrible omen as his face pales, “I mean- I just-”

“Munson,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at him, “You’re telling me, this entire time, you’ve been flirting with me?” 

Had that tone he used with the girl at the bar been flirting as you’d thought, or simple for show? You’d so cluelessly assumed he’d never used that tone with you because he’d never genuinely flirted with you – and yet, it seems, he’d never used that tone because he’d been genuinely flirting with you. 

“I-” his cheeks are brilliant red, and the wide eyes are from something different than lust now, “Maybe?” 

“Maybe?” you almost laugh, throwing your head back. The hat falls off, but Eddie is quick to retrieve it, “My God, we’re fucking idiots.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one who stole my hat-”

“I like you, dumb ass,” you state plainly, “I wanted this for a while, too.” 

He pauses, one arm outstretched as his hand grips onto the hat, “What?” 

“Been thinking about this, too,” your voice drops a little, almost a whisper, even though you two are the only ones in the room. For all you know, you two might be the only two people left in the world with the way he’s looking at you, “Thinking about you and your lips. Thinking ‘bout your hands and the places they’d go,” as you point out every detail, his body seemingly reacts. A lick of his lips, a squeeze of his hand still on your hip, “Thought about your fingers and tongue a lot, too. How good they’d feel inside me.” 

His hips thrust up at that, and suddenly, he’s placing his hat back atop your head. 

That, it seems, was all the encouragement Eddie needed. 

He deals with that belt buckle that had given you hell, bouncing you a bit on his lap as he fumbles with yanking the entire belt off and tossing it to the side. One hand busies with undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, as the other starts to bunch your dress. 

“Nice and slow,” he insists, looking up at you, absolutely vibrant. Somewhere between the tightness between your hips, all the throbbing between your thighs and in your chest, you feel a sort of bubbly delight creeping up along your spine. “Got it, kitty?” 

You nod once. Twice. On the third nod, he cuts you off with a kiss. 

Your dress is up to your waist, and you don’t know how, but he manages to shimmy off his pants without throwing you off his lap entirely. It’s impressive, really. Probably a symptom of him having thought about this, dreamt about this. He’d probably thought up every scenario possible, and was prepared. 

“Oh, and these?” his fingers find the waistband of your panties, tsking a little as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back against your skin, “Those definitely have to come off.” 

“Whatever you say, cowboy.” 

You take your time sliding off his lap, making sure to grind against him before you properly lift away. He throws his head back in a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing as you stand up straight. You take that moment to just admire him, capturing the clench of his jaw to memory, the way his eyes screw shut in pleasure at your influence. 

He’s fucking perfect. You’re sure there’s others who disagree, but you’d pay them no mind. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours. 

You make a show of taking off your panties only once he’s properly looking at you once more, craving his eyes on you as you keep all your movements fluid and steady. No rush, exuding all that patience he’d prattled on about. 

You want to see his face when you gently toss the black lacey piece in his direction, watch him fumble with his own desperation to catch them. 

“Seems a bit unfair that I’m the only one undressing,” you hum as you go a step further and begin to shimmy out of the dress.

“Yeah, well,” he grins cheekily at you, fisting your panties, a hand trailing down to the waistband of his boxers as he eyes you, “One of us was showing a bit more skin than the other.”

“Take off the vest, Eddie.” 

Your command is velvet, and he’s quick to obey. His hand stubbornly refuses to let go of your panties as he rushes to shrug out of the thin fabric over his shoulders, tossing the vest to join his pants and your dress on the floor. 

“And the boxers.” 

You stand there, in nothing but his cowboy hat, as you wait pretty and patient for him to listen. And listen he does. 

The moment his boxers are discarded, his cock is standing at attention, leaking from the tip and deep shade of pink that matches his kiss-bitten lips. You think it might be the prettiest color you’ve ever laid eyes on as you watch a drop of  precum slip down his shaft. 

He’s pretty, even in the fucking pants. 

Girthy, thick enough you almost arch your back before you’ve even sunk down on him. All veins and soft skin, a sensitive tip that you’d trace your tongue over for hours if he let you. 

“Gonna just stand there, or are you going to ride your cowboy?” 

He surely meant to sound more cocky, but the words come out as more of a whine as you watch him twitch under your stare. 

He’s right though, and you’d rather get him inside you than spend another second gawking. There will be time to pay more attention to him and his pretty cock tomorrow. Right now, you need to finish this god-forsaken mission. 

Your thighs find his hips just as his hands find yours, choosing to grip the couch rather than his shoulders as you steady yourself. 

Nice and slow, his words echo in your mind. 

You could have prepared yourself more, but you’d already made it clear to Eddie that you are not a patient person. The fact that you even take your time as you sink down on him, going as far as to grab him by his base and guide his tip to smear precum across your clit, is impressive. 

The stretch is a bit painful. A bit much. A bit dizzying. But you refuse to stop as your jaw drops, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out softly as you feel him fill you, “Fuck, Eddie.” 

“Feel good, baby?” he questions, reaching up to grab your chin just as he had before. Forcing you closer to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes just as he bottoms out. 

You don’t answer him as you both moan out. 

You stay there for a second, unmoving as you swim in the feeling. Feeling him press into the depths of you, the overwhelming warmth and the coil in your abdomen tightening ever so slightly. 

It’s better than you had imagined it. No daydreams could compare to the feeling of Eddie’s cock finally, finally filling you. Stretching you out, making you his. 

“Go ahead,” he grits out, entire body tense, clearly holding out on you, “Ride your cowboy, kitty. Don’t make me ask twice.” 

Nice. And. Slow.

Three little words that ricochet through your mind as you start to slowly bounce on him. Lifting ever so slightly, dropping back down, aching to feel him even deeper inside of you. Feeling the quiver of his thighs to match yours as you repeat the action, gasps and whimpers falling from both your lips. You’re about to try and kiss him, try and swallow all those delicate noises from him, when he stops you. 

“No, no, no,” he’s chuckling, giving your hips a few squeezes before his palms rub down your thighs, the friction sending you on edge, “C’mon, now. We both know that’s not how you ride.” 

His hands rake over your skin, down to your knees, lighting scratching and squeezing along their entire pathway until they make their way back up to your waist and hips. 

“Do it like this, sweetheart.”

He guides you, no longer allowing you to lift up. You sink all the way down on his cock, whining out at the fullness, before he starts the pattern. 

Back and forth. Gentle circles amidst the rocking. Your clit grazes his pubes, and the coil in between your hips has never tightened more quickly. 

The motion feels familiar - like riding a bull. 

This feels right. You still press down, still clench down on him hard enough to make you both slip out obscenities, but it’s getting you there. 

At some point, Eddie’s grip on your hips slips, but it’s fine – you’ve got the rhythm down perfectly. Slow, intermittent figure eights between the rolls of your hips, his occasionally slamming upward to reward you with that deepness you need. You can feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat. 

You get a bit daring, and take one hand to his shoulders, as the other reaches up for the top of the hat on your head. 

Just like a cowboy. 

“Like this?” you pant out between harsher rolls, eliciting curses that continue to grow louder from Eddie. 

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans out, head thrown back, mouth open in gratification, “Just like that. Keep- keep going just,” he thrusts up, “Like,” another thrust, “That.” 

You nearly lose balance, falling forward a bit, too stubborn to let go of the hat. There’s a grin glimmering at the corners of your mouth, and it fully blooms when Eddie throws up a hand to catch you .

A hand on your throat. 

He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t cut off blood flow or breathing. He keeps that warm palm there at the base of your neck, cradling you, holding you. A reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted, that he held you in the palm of his hands currently, but he won’t. 

“You like that?” his eyes shine as he looks up at you, the sight of his rings decorating your neck. 

You nod.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands.

“I like it,” you whimper, looking up further, stretching more of your neck to be vulnerable to Eddie. “I like it so much, baby.” 

When the pet name falls from your lips, you can feel him twitch inside of you. The sudden jut of his hips, the sharp intake of breath. 

“You like that,” you laugh breathlessly, your hand atop the hat the only thing keeping it from falling as you lean your head fully back, eyes beginning to roll back into your head. “Wanna be my baby, Munson?” 

“Always have,” he grunts, the hand on your throat slipping up to cup your face to drag you towards him, “Since the fucking moment I met you, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like the closest to Heaven you might ever get. Soft, plump lips, and an eager tongue. All the wasted time hiding behind jokes and teasing, playing pretend like the flirting was never serious.

It was serious. And if you’d just come clean sooner, you would have had this long ago. 

Your hips are still rolling as your hands begin to roam. You’ve found your balance again, lips pressed to Eddie, and it’s your turn to explore all he has to give you. Your nails graze his stomach when your clit catches once more on that rough thatch of hair against the base of his cock. Your fingers dig into flesh wherever they can find it – his chest, his arms, his hips. At some point, you throw a hand out behind you, grasping for his knee. Learning every curve and every point of his body as he had done for you. 

You wanna memorize the roadmap of him. Take a snapshot in your mind so that next time, none of it is unfamiliar territory. 

Your touch is driving him insane; it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the way his hips falter to meet your movements, or how he keeps breaking the kiss to gasp, letting his jaw fall slack when he hits a particular deep spot within you. 

It’s when your lips finally trail down the stubble sprouting across his jawline, mouth sucking on the soft skin below his ear, that he’s finally a goner. 

“‘M close,” he gasps out, almost sounding drunk as he slurs through his pants, “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me, Eddie.” 

Maybe it’s the way you had been touching him, or the way your cunt had been fluttering around him, or the persistent rolling of your hips that had become so focused on his pleasure. Maybe it was the sight of you in his hat, looking at him like that. Maybe it was the way his name sounded on your tongue. 

Either way, when Eddie Munson comes undone, he’s beautiful. 

Your own movements slow involuntarily as you gaze starry eyed, watching the way his face scrunches and feeling his grip on you tighten impossibly. Leaving their mark, making you his in yet another way. Warmth fills your cunt and every curse word under the summer sun is falling from his lips. 

Your name, curses, prayers, gratitude – a jumbled mess, and it sounds fucking fantastic when it’s said in Eddie’s desperate tone. 

“Shit,” he gasps out, finally coming back down to Earth, “Shit.”

You sit still on his lap, skin sticky with sweat, lips spread thin in a cheeky grin, “Sounds like I get to keep your hat, cowboy.” 

His eyes shoot open, and for a second, you’re terrified.

Those aren’t the eyes of someone satisfied. 

“You didn’t cum.”

“What?”

“You,” he says, stressing the word as he shifts you off his lap. You don’t miss the way he winces, clearly a bit sensitive, “Did not cum.” 

You hadn’t really noticed, too wrapped up in him to notice your high slipping away from you. You’d been too focused on Eddie: on feeling him cum inside you, on watching him break apart, on tracing the outline of the blood rushing to his cheeks with your eyes and that fresh burst of violet on his neck in the shape of your lips. 

“It’s fine,” you start to argue, feeling the warmth of him leaking down your thighs. You should be a lot more worried about making a mess all over your sofa. You should be, but you aren’t. “I can-”

“You’re not keeping that fucking hat until you cum for me, sweetheart.” 

And, oh, maybe your own orgasm wasn’t racing as far away from you as you’d believed, because those words nearly push you over the edge for him. 

“Get on all fours for me, baby.” 

Yeah. You definitely could still be close. For him.

When you don’t move to follow his command immediately, he’s using those gentle hands to guide you. Encouraging a twist of your hips from how you’re reclining back across the couch, letting you press your cheek down against the cushion.

You open your mouth to argue, to insist it was fine, to say anything, but you’re cut silent when a sudden slap lands on your ass. 

A silent command this time, and you’re finally listening. 

You lift your ass up for him on shaky knees, elbows digging into the cushion now instead of your face. The hat on your head is lopsided, and you almost reach up to fix it when- 

“I’ll be taking that,” For the first time since you’d stolen his hat, Eddie takes it back. Right off your head, too fast for you to protest. When you dig your chin into your shoulder to look back at him, he’s smiling, hat back in its rightful place atop his curls, “You can have it back after you cum for me, at least once.”

“At least once?” you mean to laugh, to sound cocky, but it comes out as more of a squeak. 

He shrugs, leaning forward, his bare chest pressing against the skin of your bare ass – right where an imprint of his hand still sings, “At least. By all means, if you feel the need, don’t hesitate to give me a few. God knows you’ve earned it.” 

You don’t have time to banter back; he retracts before bring his mouth down to your cunt, and your elbows quickly give out at the first long stride of his tongue. 

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, a bit muffled, against your cunt. 

Another stride, and this time, his tongue spends an extra second at your clit, circling it salaciously. 

“Oh, God,” you moan out into a mouthful of couch cushion, tempted to bite down to hide all the noises creeping up your throat when his tongue draws yet another circle, tip of his nose pressed to your sensitive hole.

He brings his tongue back to that space, that hole that feels gaping without him filling you now, and you try to bury your cheek only to earn another slap on the ass.

“Don’t be shy now, kitty. Let me hear you.” 

And let him hear you, you do. 

Each lick, short and timid or long and confident, is dredging up obscene mewls from you. When he enters you with it, curling it and pressing as deep as he can, truly cleaning you up as he had said, you’re chanting his name. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you cry softly, rocking your body back against his mouth, “Your fingers. P-Please, use your fingers.” 

Your wish is his command as he brings his hand up between your legs, breaking from having his tongue buried inside of you and using a calloused pad of his finger to trace over your clit before he begs, “Say my name again.” 

You do. Over, and over, and over as his mouth and his fingers begin to work against you. Careful focus is placed on your clit, and his mouth runs amok between your cunt and thighs. You feel what will no doubt be hickies along the curve of your ass, nips of teeth against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he presses two fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your hips are rocking back to match his rhythm, wanting more. 

More, more, more. 

There’s nothing nice and slow about this. You’re chasing after a high, and Eddie is listening to you every step of the way. 

Your thighs begin to shake terribly right around the time your vision blurs, unable to contain the whines that have grown to echoing volumes. Surely, your neighbors can hear. Probably confused as to who Eddie is, probably considering how embarrassing it would be to knock down your door and complain about the noises. 

You really, really don’t give a fuck when white speckles flood your vision, even with your eyes screwed shut, and that tension between your hips threatens to snap. 

Right before your knees give out, your entire body trembling, Eddie pulls back and grabs your hips. You cry out, so close yet so far, until he’s flipping you back over. 

You get one glimpse of him before he goes to work to bring you over that edge – lips and chin slick with you, hair frizzing beneath his hat, a determined glint in his eyes that have your thighs clenching around his ears. 

You were right. Eddie Munson looks damn good between your thighs. 

He quickly returns to his mitigations, and this time, it’s all a bit more strategic. Lips suctioned around your clit and three fingers curling deep within you, a beckoning motion as he urges you to let go for him. 

The white returns behind your eyelids. Your back arches up off the sofa. Your ankles lock as they cross behind Eddie’s back, almost effectively trapping him in place.

You cum hard for him. 

You’re entirely unaware if you scream his name in the process, but you hope you do. As that relief, that ecstasy, floods your system, you hope you make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows who’s responsible. Your entire body continues to shake for far longer than you believe it ever has before. Your hips had lifted, begging for Eddie to keep going even as it all grew painful.

He does. He keeps going, sucking you dry for every drop you have to give him, until you’re physically having to shove him away. 

Your hands are weak as you sink down into the cushion, eyes still closed as you hear him chuckle before you feel him crawl his way back up your body. 

“There,” you don’t even need to see his face to see that smug satisfaction – his voice is dripping in it. “Now you can keep the hat.” 

One of your hands blindly throws itself through the air to smack him, missing entirely as you drift through the afterglow of it all. 

“I’m not sure I’ve earned it,” you mumble as he catches your wrist, limp in the air, “Pretty sure I didn’t break you when I made you cum.”

“Oh, you did,” he notes, hand curling around your wrist. You watch as he slowly brings it to his lips, peppering a few chaste kisses on the soft skin, “Just in a different way.” 

You raise your eyebrows, smiling at the tingling feeling left behind on your skin in the wake of his mouth, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He tugs you to sit up despite your groan of protest, somehow smoothly maneuvering the two of you so that he’s now the one beneath you, letting the full weight of you bear down on his chest as you lay on top of him. The hand wrapped around your wrist brings it back up for more kisses, more repetitive gentle pecks of affection, as his other arm is quick to wrap around you. Holding you in place, as though he’s scared you might disappear. 

“Well,” you whisper against the bare skin of his chest, nearly shivering when his free hand starts to trail slowly up and down your spine, “Good.” 

Your cheek feels the vibrations of his chuckle, “That’s all you have to say?” 

“Give me a few minutes to recover,” you insist, all but nuzzling into him, “I’m sure I’ll have a smartass comeback for you once I’m…” you trail off, heavy eyes looking up at him, the words lost on your tongue and in the air. 

The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow. The roundness at the end of his nose, still a fading hue of pink. The freckle beneath his right eye. The way the phantom of the dimple of his left cheek never quite leaves his face.

All the things you’ve dreamt of seeing so up close, never knowing it could have been a reality. 

He lets go of your wrist, smiling softly with a shake of his head, “Can’t believe you’re gonna fall asleep on me.”

“Am not,” you nearly say under your breath, sighing in content. 

“Am too,” he mocks, a certain docility to all his teasing before he sighs as well, “It’s okay. You can. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as you hear some rustling, “Promise, cowboy?” 

“Absolutely, kitty. You said something about tomorrow, remember?” 

You both laugh in sync as your couch suddenly becomes the most comfortable place in the world. 

Just before losing consciousness, right as you feel Eddie’s breathing even out along with your own, you decide to open your eyes one last time to catch sight of the cowboy hat perched carefully on your coffee table. 

Tomorrow. You hope for a thousand tomorrows as you decide that that hat is definitely yours now.

[demoncrypt1066]

[demoncrypt1066]

INITIAL CHARACTER INTRODUCTIONS S01E01 - HOUR 1 // 7:00 A.M. (writer’s draft)

[demoncrypt1066]

[demoncrypt1066]

the pitt + wolfpupy tweets

[demoncrypt1066]

it's me against the man he's always been

[demoncrypt1066]

WANT YOU IF YOU SAY IT FIRST TO ME ; jack abbot / f!reader

summary; A story told in 4AM cups of coffee, the unsteady beat that is the emergency department, and how it feels to fall for a man wired for crisis; slowly, deliberately, in the quiet moments between chaos, where respect becomes gravity and love finds room to breathe.

word count; 9.5k

warnings/tags; 18+ mdni. trauma surgeon resident!reader. slow build, falling in love, misunderstandings, jealousy, emotionally constipated jack, bars and alcohol, depictions of blood and surgeries, coworker meddling, one (1) scene inspired by grey's anatomy, queer coded reader (though never explicitly mentioned, just know that this isn't a straight woman), explicit sexual content: choking, semi-public (in a car), vaginal and protected sex. let me know if i missed any.

A/N; worms in my brain. worms. i don’t know where this came from, nor how it got to nine thousand words. i think i hauve covid. uh, give me your thoughts? your prayers? the things stirring in your brain about this man that'd set women back at least a century? (but seriously, comments & reblogs nurture me in the enclosure. askbox is always open. feed your local writer <3). jack abbot… you have bewitched me… body and soul…

⭒ ݁ . read on ao3. gif from this set by emziess. special thanks to my love @imagines-r-s for feeding the brainworms for this with me.

“Oh, this is painful. Like, genuinely, physically, ripping-my-hair-out painful—”

“Alright,” you groan into the salted rim of your glass. The lime in the Margarita singes your taste buds, numbing them in a tequila-dipped haze that slowly but surely slithers its way into your head, thumping in your throat and behind your eyes. 

Yinzers’ is as busy as it can possibly get. Cramped booths and stools fully occupied, makeshift dance floor nearly packed. Sticky floors and cheap drinks, the underlying thrum of drunken conversation that beats in tandem with the music: some club classics playlist from the late 2000’s, familiar and dizzying and exactly what you need right now. Something to drown out your swirling thoughts, to reduce your brain down to a pleasantly useless mush.

Yeah, you think, taking another sour sip. You’ve done enough critical thinking for the day.

Samira is at your side, sipping her strawberry Daiquiri, half-choking on her chuckles as Usher’s DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love echoes from the speakers. Heather sits across from Mohan, cheekily sipping her Sex On The Beach and stealing glances behind her back. Squinting her eyes, as if in thought, she says: “Actually, I think ripping hair out would be less painfu—”

“Either kill me,” you cut her off over the music, “or shut the fuck up about it.”

She has the gall to laugh. As does Samira, as does Yolanda. Fuck, you do make for a painful sight, you’ll give them that. Still, your eyes lock into Yolanda’s, sharp and clouded. “Oh,” you laugh, but it gets lost under the beat, “I know you’re not laughing right now, Romeo.”

She almost chokes. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, smirking into your glass, eyes catching onto a certain intern a few tables away whose eyes are locked into your friend’s back for what feels like hours now. You must’ve caught Santos’ eye over Garcia’s back, like, three times in the past fifteen minutes. If Yolanda noticed, she hardly made it known.

Still, as cheap a shot as that was, it worked. Now Yolanda’s silent, staring into the half-melted ice cubes of her Rum & Coke, and the looks exchanged over the table are not about you. You fight dirty when you’re cornered, but you’ll take any win you can get.

This is rare; day and night shift merging after work like this. Shoulders tense and weighed down by code-blue’s and lives lost and the metallic stench of blood, soldiering through it only for the ones you manage to save. It feels almost cosmic. You damn-near begged on your knees for Mohan to tag along, and naturally, she could never say no to you. Even Javadi is here, staring at Mateo with stars in her eyes, sat in the booth with Santos and Whittaker.

Even though it’s your night off, the antiseptic still lingers in your nostrils from yesterday, the ice-cold chill of the OR, your hands raw from scrubbing in. Technically, that all happened today, but you’ve found the days and hours get blurry on the night shift. 

Lines get hazy, too; everything does. Boundaries rewritten, reservations forgotten, walls knocked down with nothing but a quirk of the lips and lukewarm coffees under the blaring fluorescence.

You shake your head, tongue curling in your mouth. Fuck.

Well, however you call it, today was a fucking shit show. There’d been a car pile-up just a little after 6AM. “So close. So, so close,” Shen had sighed in the ambulance bay. Two or three or four fucking cars with college boys drunk off their asses behind the wheel, determined to be goddamn gentlemen and drive some girls home from their frat. If only chivalry was dead.

Only two out of the six girls made it. One bled out right in your hands, her shredded abdominal aorta gushing red-hot rivers faster than you could’ve ever stitched her back together. Her name was Sydney, and she had her whole life ahead of her. Besides the smell of her blood, that’s all you can remember about her.

If you focused really hard right now, even over the deafening bass, you could still hear her flatlining on your table. Still taste the bile in your throat from when you called it, breathless, ripping off your surgical mask and moving on. Because you had to. The boy you operated on next, blond and baby faced and crushed behind his friend’s wheel, made it. He nearly hadn’t, but he pulled through.

Jack was… he was there when you entered the trauma room, gait planted and hands methodical as ever. They don’t call him an ER cowboy for nothing. 

Sharp eyes and even sharper tongue, he’s precise like the ten-blade that’s as much an instrument as it’s an extension of your palm. “I need to open him up,” you said over the beeping monitor. Jack had already placed a chest tube, but the boy’s vitals were tanking, and his lungs were a ticking time bomb. You didn’t have to say as much, he knew, but you did anyway. It’s terrifying to think you would’ve said anything to make him look at you.

Jack hardly spared you a glance. You like to think you didn’t care, that you didn’t notice he spoke with his eyes pinned ahead, anywhere but on yours. It almost felt more disorienting than the chaos itself. More destabilizing than the wails and moans and heaps of blood on the linoleum, than the nurses and residents all whirring around the department like scattered animals.

Because, that’s the thing with Jack Abbot; his eyes are anchors. Heavyweight, like snares. They catch on yours and keep you there. Steadying, lingering until he’s satisfied, head tilted until he can see the message has registered behind your eyelids.

So, when that lighthouse in the storm suddenly shut you out, you felt stranded. Hurt. Maybe even angry. But you pushed through, because you’re a damn good surgeon, and that boy needed you.

You performed a thoracotomy in OR 3; paged Dr. Walsh for the green light and wheeled the patient past Jack and his bloodstained gown, eyes searching for his in the storm. Only then did he meet your gaze, just as the elevator doors closed, hands curling up to his neck as he ripped the gown off. You were left breathless, staring at cold, humming silver instead of two warm pools of hazel.

The change was sudden. No more than a few days ago, it was all so… 

Fuck. It wasn’t like this. It was… good. Dizzying in all the right ways. You were walking on uncertain ground, uncharted waters, but you like to think you were treading them together. Like two sailors in a storm, trudging through disaster side by side; like a log that’s keeping each other from getting swallowed by the waves.

That’s how it started, anyway. You craved it; that comfort, the blanket of warmth only he could’ve given. It was a few months ago—maybe four or maybe more—that you switched to the night shift.

“Giving up one of our best here, brother,” Robby had said during the daily hand-off; your first time working after 7PM.

“Night shift wins again,” he’d quipped beneath his breath, iPad already in hand. The smile he’d shot you was small, tight-lipped, genuine. “Welcome. We love ourselves a scalpel jockey ‘round here.”

You’d quirked your brows. “Scalpel jockey?”

But he’d already turned away from you as he walked off. He’d shot you a look behind his back, smirking, pointing with his thumb. “Wear it proudly.”

In your second week, you went through a brutal shift together. Two kids had died on your watch, and you’d been exhausted. Drained physically, mentally, in every way that mattered, in every way it didn’t.

After talking to the parents, after providing them with a social worker, after showing them their babies’ bodies, you damn near fucking collapsed. 

You still don’t know why it hit you so hard. During your residency, you’ve lost more patients than you can count. Kids, teens, parents and friends and strangers. You’ve felt their temperature drop, you’ve heard the echo of a flatline beside the overhead lamp, smelt the staleness of the OR after calling time of death.

Perhaps it’d been because one of the little boys looked so much like your baby brother when he was that age. Perhaps it was their mother’s hopeful eyes as you’d shuffled your feet to the family room, scrub cap clutched between your hands like a cross, a rosary, a lifeline.

The woman’s eyes were beautiful, red-rimmed as they were; they crumpled up like paper when you forced the words out of your throat. “We… I did everything in my power.” “The injuries were far too severe.” “I’m sorry.” 

Perhaps it was none of these things at all.

His brother never even left the ER; he’d been DOA. Nothing more to be done other than work on him longer than necessary, just so they could tell the parents they’d done everything they could’ve. Jack stood over him as you’d wheeled on by, eyes catching on his as the flatline echoed.

Backed up against the door of an empty viewing room, heaps and piles of x-rays glaring down at you, you’d heaved and gasped and clasped your mouth shut to muffle the sounds. They sputtered and clawed their way out of your throat regardless, white-hot tears clogging your vision.

He’d knocked on the door. Three precise taps, no room for argument. Still, though, your back had remained glued to the door, even as he’d pushed his way inside. There, bathed in the dim blue light of the imaging, it was as if you truly saw him for the first time.

Wrinkled eyes, kind and steady, anchoring you in their hold. Tilted head, arms tight as he’d laid a tentative palm on your shoulder. You don’t even remember what he’d said at first. Does it even matter? He was there. Warmth seeping from his palm, eyes holding your gaze in their death-grip. He’d made you breathe with him, letting the air sit deeply in his lungs, nodding and muttering an encouraging, “Yeah?” when he felt your stuttering ribs even out.

And, suddenly, you could breathe again.

“Crying is good. Feeling. Means you’re still human,” he’d told you, whispers of a breath. “Means you still got fight left in you. Don’t ever let the job take that away from you. You’re good, jockey. Trust me.”

It was a week after that when the coffees started. 

Bleary-eyed under the hospital lights, the stillness of the hallways echoed in a way that’s only possible during the night. You’d been leaning on the nurse’s station down at the ED, staring into nothingness as the iPad screen in your grip shut itself off.

It’d been a particularly quiet shift, not that any of you had dared to say so out loud. When Shen attempted a few hours prior, you’d launched a half-eaten protein bar at his head. You’d missed by an inch. Ellis had nearly pulled a muscle laughing, and you swear you’d seen Jack huff out a chuckle as he passed. A win, in your book.

It was like the coffee had materialized out of thin air. But, no. He was there. Staring at his watch, unassuming and quiet and there. You’d eyed the coffee cup he slid between you with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. When he’d met your eyes, his lips had quirked up. Just slightly, just enough. The sight of that almost-smile was slowly becoming as familiar as the well-trodden hallways to the ORs. 

“What’s that about?” you’d asked.

“Can’t have you falling asleep over someone’s cracked chest, can we? Too much paperwork.” He’d lifted his shoulder in a shrug. As if bringing you coffee was something he’d done a million times before and would do a million times again.

“You… got me coffee,” you’d said dumbly, eyes shifting between the brown cup and the hazel of his gaze like a pendulum. Not a question—just a statement, the same way the sky is blue and grass is green—but he’d answered anyway.

He’d softly tapped his fist on the counter. Once, twice. Nodded. “I got you coffee.”

And, that had been it. No more acknowledgement, no further comment; just the piping-hot paper cup next to your hand. Just the look he snuck from further down the ED when he’d seen you bring it to your lips, that’d felt more intimate than having someone’s tongue down your throat.

You’d pretended not to notice, but you think he saw right through you. Of course he had.

It became a ritual, of sorts. A routine. Every night on call together, right around the 4AM slump, a brown paper cup would somehow find its way to you. Always hot, always sugary; you don’t know if he somehow guessed or overheard it, but that’s exactly how you drink it.

“Sugar with a side of coffee, for the lunatic in OR 3,” he said once, monotone and dry in a way that made him funny. That was half his charm, some days.

The cup had felt heavy in your palm. Biting the inside of your cheek, you’d asked: “Why do you keep doing that?”

He’d looked at you, long and hard. The overhead fluorescence made every edge of his face sharper. Your eyes had caught on the grey in his temple, the way it blended with the brown of his curls. He’d shrugged, looked down at the iPad in his hands. 

“Told you. Can’t have Walsh’s best triage tourist falling face-first into an open cavity. Don’t need that kinda headache.”

You’d raised a brow, laughed into the cup as you brought it to your lips. The coffee scaled its way down your throat, hot and sweet. You’d felt it settle down your chest. Or, maybe, it was the way he’d looked at you out of the corner of his eye, pursing his lips in that half-smile that made his dimples show.

“Triage tourist, scalpel jockey… I left Langdon and his ‘Edwina Scissorhands’ bullshit for Garcia to put up with. Can’t catch a fucking break with you people.”

He’d huffed a breath, a chuckle. “Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes, jockey.”

You’d felt brave. “Alright, big guy. Careful not to pull a muscle next time I wring a patient from you.”

That was the first time you’d seen him laugh the way he had. Surprised, eyebrows raised and mouth open, nodding in a way that invited challenge. “Wow, okay,” he’d rasped, “give somebody an inch, they’ll take a fucking mile.”

“Patients is what I take, old man.” You’d clicked your teeth.

“Fuckin’ sawbones,” he’d huffed, shaking his head.

“You know it.”

You never questioned the coffee again. You even missed it on the occasional odd day when your schedules did not line up. Kept looking at your watch around 4AM, unconsciously waiting for a cup of coffee that wouldn’t come unless you dragged your ass to the break room yourself. You’d been fucking Pavlov’ed. Jesus.

One time, though, he had a rough night. Kept limping his way through the ED, brows tight and lips curled. It’d been busy, busier than usual. Broken ankles, lacerations, burns, a bike crash victim. Even a head trauma that’d been sent up to neuro immediately. Fucking gnarly. 

The guy didn’t make it; vet, homeless, victim of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Much of that these days. Every muscle in Jack’s body had been tense, you’d seen it. Felt it, even. You’d kept wincing everytime you saw him grabbing onto the counter of the nurses’ station, letting his weight fall on his good leg.

He’d found you in the break room by 4AM, coffee cup in his hand.

Maybe he’d Pavlov’ed himself, too. 

You’d nodded at the empty chair across from you, silent. Shaking his head, he’d dropped the cup on the table and slid it towards you.

“C’mon, humor me,” you’d said, grabbing the cup. “I just… just want your company. So.”

The look in his eyes had called your bullshit. Still, he’d sat down. You’d seen the way his shoulders drooped, the way he craned his neck, clenched his eyes. His palm had trailed down to his knee, massaging the skin above the prosthetic.

The lights had kept humming above you, white sterile noise filling the deafening silence. It’s always quiet around that time of night; a small window where everything pauses before surging again.

“I’m fine,” he’d rasped.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” you’d quipped, head tilting in a way that parroted his own habit.

“You’re a shit liar.”

“And you still believe me. What does that make you?”

He’d hummed. Touché. You’d sat like that for a while. Mutual quiet, a shelter in the storm, blanketed by headache-inducing fluorescence and the smell of teeth-achingly sweet coffee. Until one of the nurses, Bridget, poked her head into the break room and said: “Incoming. GSW to the chest, head trauma, the works.”

You’d locked eyes with him, more awake than you’d been all night. Cup forgotten, you’d smirked. He didn’t need your pity (not that you had any to give); he needed the rush. The knowledge that you could offer him respite and keep him on his toes as easy as you could breathe. You’d huffed, ready to bolt: “Catch me if you can, cowboy.”

You’d found him on the roof that morning; it’d been Robby who told you. (“Yeah, he does that, sometimes. You wanna…?”) Jack had been leaning his back against the outside of the railing, soaking in the early light spilling from behind the clouds. The sunrise is always beautiful on the roof; blooming pink and orange aflush by the white yolk of the sun. It’d been chilly, and you’d felt a shiver run through you as you moved to him, the wind licking at his sleeves.

You knew he’d heard you; heard the click of the door shutting, heard the shuffling of your soles on the ground. Maybe he’d even known it was you. You like to think he had. If not, he never let it show. Only looked at you from the corner of his eye as you stopped at the railing, leaning your elbows on the cold metal.

You hadn’t spoken, not at first. Had simply let your eyes fall on the skyline, tracing the city with your lashes.

A beat passed. Two, three. Suddenly, your voice rang out. “You jump, and I’m not putting you back together.” He’d turned his head. Latching onto his gaze, your lips had quirked; not too much, just enough. “Conflict of interest, y’know.”

He’d shaken his head, lids falling, smile persistent. A scoff had punched its way from his throat, but it was light. Relieved, maybe. Soft around the edges in all the right ways. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” he’d rasped. “Fuckin’ addict, you are. You’d pounce at the chance.”

You’d looked away from him, setting your eyes ahead, letting the silence hang. As seriously as you could’ve mustered, you said: “Yeah. Bet your ass I would.”

He’d chuckled, and you’d bottled it right up. Sobering up, you’d continued. Not looking at him, letting your words spill out like morning dew instead; his call to acknowledge them, or let them dissipate. “You don’t need anybody to put you back together, though. That’s a you job. But, jockey as I am, I’m still here. With my 4AM coffees and all. Just… just so you know, or, whatever.”

Fuck, the way he’d looked at you then? You’d felt every muscle in your body somehow tense and melt all at once. Two hazel whirlpools pulling you right the fuck under. You just let it happen.

“Yeah. ‘Or, whatever.’”

And, there it was. That quiet acknowledgement. The hand pulling each other from the ledge. The person you looked for first when the elevator doors to the ER opened and you were thrust into action. The man who was a rock amidst a hurricane, unmoving because he has to be; the one pulling everyone down to their feet beside him.

But, who was there to drag him down to steady ground, except himself?

The first time he kissed you, it was nearly bone-shattering. Sinews splitting apart in his hands, skull crushed in two, heart ready to spill from your throat and into his. He would’ve swallowed it, you really believe he would’ve.

It’d been another circus show at the PTMC Emergency Department, barely past 1AM on a Friday night. Or, was that technically Saturday? Fuck, you don’t even care. Mass casualty: a shooting at a club downtown, with half a dozen victims and twice as many cops flooding the hallways. It’d been all hands on deck. Blood, lidocaine, the moans and yells and calls for attendings who already had their hands full to the brim.

The shooter had landed on your table, shot straight in the chest by the club owner. You had to perform a pericardial repair to address the gunshot wound near his heart, to stop the hematoma from draining the life right out of him.

Instructed to salvage any bullet fragments for evidence, you’d let the world around you fall apart; until all you could see was the red gushing from his heart, and all you could smell was its metallic tang between your fingers. In the end, seven bullet fragments lay on a surgical basin to your right, and the man lay lifeless before you.

Time of death, 2:37AM.

The bleeding had been too much. Too erratic, too tricky for a resident to handle alone. Not because you lacked the experience, but because you lacked the hands. By the time you were ripping the mask and gloves off alongside your gown and throwing them in the bin by the OR door, your fingers had been shaking like leaves.

You hadn’t been good enough to save him, or smart enough to request an attending, or strong enough to accept that this was the hand you were dealt and you did the best you could’ve.

You’d brushed past the OR floor, all the way down to the ER and through the waiting room. People looked at you; at your sweaty scrubs and disheveled surgical cap, at the way you bit your lip until it bled, breezing through the pedestrian entrance doors and into the night air.

Even through your tunnel vision, you saw the state the ER was in; lulled, the first and worst wave of the trauma washed away. The most emergent cases dealt with and admitted to surgery or the ICU, the less-gravely injured cared for and checked up on, families called and statements given. You hadn’t realized how much time had whizzed by while you were wrist-deep into the man’s chest.

Time passes differently in the OR. Slows and twists out of your control. Out there, though—past the cop cruisers and at the park outside—it stood still completely. The wood of the bench you’d fallen on felt cold, even through your scrubs.

Minutes could have passed, or hours, as you sat in the quiet chill. It tickled the goosebumps on your arms, the rawness of your bitten lips as you’d smoothed your tongue over the skin.

Jack had followed you out. Of course he had. There isn’t a world where he wouldn’t have.

“What happened?”

The scoff that spilled from your throat had been tired. Spent. You hadn’t looked at Jack once, not even as he took a seat beside you on the bench, thighs millimeters apart. His warmth spread through the meat of your thigh and right into your bloodstream. You’d sniffed, sharp, tongue curling on the roof of your mouth to stop the tears from gathering.

“I lost him. The shooter. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t… wasn’t good enough, I guess.”

A hand on your knee, big and strong and sure. So, so familiar, it nearly hurt. “If you couldn’t save him, then he couldn’t be saved.” Firm, unshakeable, as if he’d been stating a truth as universally accepted as the stars hanging above your heads. Is that what he truly saw in you? A trust in your abilities so strong, he believed his words like they were set in stone?

You’d shaken your head, eyes clenched shut, a single breath pushing its way out your ribs like a hydraulic press. “I couldn’t fucking do it. Isn’t that messed up? I’m sitting here, crying over a man who shot up a club.” You’d swallowed. “Maybe this was justice. Have him make it to help, only to end up with a surgeon useless enough to let him drain out. Like I’m a goddamn first-year, or something. Fuck—”

“Hey,” Jack had cut you off mid-spiral, grip tightening on your knee, the feeling punching through you all the way down to your belly. He’d tilted his head, searching for your gaze, finding it and keeping it in a headlock. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. You know it’s bullshit. Hey, hey, look at me.  You,” he’d paused, “are one of the best. I’ve seen you. I know it, and I’m telling you. So stop fucking saying that.”

He’d looked pained, severe. As if hearing you tear yourself down was like a punch to his gut. You hadn’t known what to make of that realization in the moment. Or, you had, and you just weren’t strong enough to admit to it. Not even to yourself.

You’d nodded, if not for anything else, just to see his brows soften. His shoulders laxing, lips curling softly and dimples showing, thumb softly stroking your skin over your scrubs.

Silence bathed you, louder than the clamor of a war torn emergency room.

“Didn’t know you liked me that much,” you’d quipped after a few moments trickled by, eyes locked on the hand that still rested on your knee. It’d felt deliberate now, the way he’d made no move to remove it. “You getting soft on me, Jack?”

Jack. Not cowboy, or big guy, or Dr. Abbot. Hell, not even old man.

Just… Jack.

It’d taken him a second to respond. Blinking, quiet, surprise melting into something much softer yet unnameable. “I’m not telling you shit again,” he’d chuckled. “Watch it.”

He hadn’t once let his eyes fall from yours, even when you had. Jack Abbot and his fucking staring problem. Pulling you in, making the world melt into nothingness as his hand had stilled. Fuck, why couldn’t he have just looked away?

You’d felt it before you saw it. His other hand—the one nearly touching yours—drifting up to your face, the other still scorching your knee. Curling around the edge of your scrub cap, unruly on your head and halfway down the side of your forehead. Like a deer in headlights, you’d frozen. He’d stared at the cloth intensely, fingers drifting across your face, pulling it back on your hairline, tracing the outline of your burning cheek with the back of his fingers.

Your breath had stuttered, swelled like a balloon about to pop. “What’re you doing?”

“Your cap,” he’d said, fingers hovering. “There. Fixed it.”

“Oh,” you’d exhaled. “Thanks.”

“I might call you jockey,” he’d breathed suddenly, eyes lifting from the curve of your mouth and catching yours again, “but you’re not one. Not really. You know that, right? You have to know it. Can’t even remember all the times you’ve let us mortals try and keep someone from gettin’ sliced up.”

He’d inched closer, and if you hadn’t felt his breath tickling yours as he spoke, you might not have even noticed. Lashes fluttering and eyes shifting from the hazel down to his mouth, to his hands—back and forth, back and forth—you’d breathed: “Jack?”

“Do you? Know?” he’d rasped out, barely a whisper, barely a breath. He hadn’t been looking in your eyes. His gaze had drifted under again, past the slope of your nose, to the angry flare of your bitten lip. But as he said it, he’d looked up. Just for a second. Hand sliding down towards your nape, nearly engulfing your neck whole.

He’d be looking for an answer to a different question. Still, you’d nodded in his hold, lids nearly shut and hands shaking against the wood of the bench. Why did you nod?

Idiot. Is there a world where you wouldn’t have?

A breath, a surprised yelp muffled by his lips, the feel of him pressing you closer. Earth-shattering, bone-splitting, all-consuming. Jack Abbot—the fierce attending, the hardened veteran, the shelter in every storm—kissed you with his entire body, explosive warmth seeping into your skin with every deep swipe of his lips. And when he’d broken away with a sigh, you’d felt the sound curling its way around your skin. Fuck.

“Now you do.”

And, that’s how it was from then. Tentative, unknown, undefined. Real. An, “I’ll walk you home,” at the end of the shift. More 4AM coffees, and rooftop gazing, and brushing past each other in a hallway only to stop for no reason at all other than to soak the other in. No further than heated kisses shared in empty on-call rooms and wandering hands that stopped respectfully just before the threshold was crossed.

(“Damn. You fucking like me, don’t you?” you’d teased a couple weeks back. Breakfast burrito in hand, walking side-by-side on a cracked sidewalk with his hand hovering over the small of your back.

He’d scoffed, smiling in that characteristic way of his. Lips pursed, dimples out, head swerving. “Tolerate, more like. Gotta get those patient satisfaction scores up, somehow. Can’t do that if our best tourist doesn’t get her nightly sugar-induced overdose.”

“Fucking comedian, over here. Poor man’s Carlin.”)

You didn’t mind it; the waiting, the tiptoeing. This… thing felt far too fragile and far too young to have a name yet. At least, out loud. You knew how you felt, you think you knew how he felt. No need to rush. No need to panic. You were content to let the waves carry you.

That brings you to three days ago. You were leaning back against the nurse’s station, almost 4AM, head pounding from the artificial stillness. Bridget was standing beside Ellis, both shaking from laughter. They made you burst into a fit, too. 

“Fuuuck,” you moaned, “can’t believe I told you this. Ancient history. Next time I open my mouth, slap me fucking dead—”

Hand clutching her stomach, Ellis wheezed: “And then what’d he fucking do?”

“Ugh,” you clenched your eyes, cheeks flushed from embarrassment. “He was such a pussy, I swear to God. Tried to smooth-talk his way out of it. Can you believe that shit? Anesthesiologist who doesn’t know how to choke a girl right?”

“Sounds like the opening to a bad joke,” said Bridget.

“Right?!”

“What’s that about you getting choked?” piped Shen as he strutted over, slurping on a coffee cup.

“You eavesdropping on us, now?” you asked, leaning to the side to look at him.

He shrugged, smirking as he leaned an elbow on the counter. “It’s not eavesdropping when you’re in the middle of the ER, sawbones.”

Turning to the girls, you pointed a finger at him, jokingly exasperated. “This fucking guy…”

“No manners,” tutted Ellis, shaking her head. Bridget clicked her lips, looking at him as if disappointed.

“Hey,” Shen voiced with his lips around the yellow straw. “Not my fault you go on and on about Stan from Anesthesia and how he almost broke your larynx tryin’ to go all Fifty Shades on you. Quit blamin’ a guy for getting curious.” He winced, grimacing: “But, like, dude… really?”

“Mhm. Worst lay of my fucking life. Scratched the itch, though—”

“—Oh, hello, Dr. Abbot,” sang Bridget from your side. “Right on time,” she glanced at her watch. 4:02AM.

Your blood damn near clotted in place. Oh, fuck. How much did he hear?

The coffee cup—brown, hot, familiar—landed on the nursing station counter with a thud. Two hazel whirlpools found yours, then vanished with a nod. Curt, stern, the attending on call, the veteran medic who barked orders from the back of a helicopter and onto a sand-baked tarmac. Dr. Abbot, not Jack.

Shit, did he think that was…? That you…?

“Get back to work, this ain’t a tea party. Guy in 12 needs an IV change, kept whining when I walked past.”

“Fuck me, that guy’s been on my ass about the food since 10PM. Jesus,” groaned Ellis.

“I got it,” chirped Bridget with a nudge on Ellis’ shoulder. She left to change the IV, Shen made a beeline for the break room, Ellis grabbed an iPad and moved to sit behind one of the monitors. And just like that, you were left staring at Jack’s retreating figure, the steady gait you’d come to think of as familiar. The only warmth was from the coffee, but that was getting cold, too.

You hardly saw him for the rest of the night. Stupid, stubborn, emotionally constipated old man with walls higher than Mount Everest. Even as you waited by the pedestrian entrance for fifteen minutes at the end of the shift—the early morning chill slithering over your exposed arms, the steady beat of people just waking up thrumming all around—he was nowhere to be found.

Fine.

You walked home alone that day, probably for the first time in weeks. You had the next two days off, but you could’ve called him instead. You didn’t. Couldn’t quite muster up the courage to press the button, even as his name glared back at you from the screen in bland sans serif.

Fuck. You hate confrontation; always have, probably always will. It’s kind of ruining your life. You hate feeling shut out, yet something invisible still keeps you from taking that first step to resolution.

It’d have been so easy to just pick up the goddamn phone and say: “Hey, that thing you overheard? Old fucking news, back in my second year. I like you and didn’t go get dicked down by some other guy just because you haven’t had your way with me yet. Don’t shut me out. Dumbass.”

But, you didn’t. Because, like always, the fear of confrontation morphed into something more ugly—more jagged—as the hours and days passed with not one text received. Something like indignation, bullheaded pettiness that oozed from every pore.

He’s pushing fucking 50, and he acts like this? If I wanted to relive my high school boyfriend, I would’ve just texted him.

…Well. In hindsight, that wasn’t entirely fair. Not at all, even. Maybe he was hurt, betrayed, embarrassed. Maybe he needed a day or two to collect his head. Maybe he saw your inaction and perceived it as indifference. Maybe, if you’d just pulled your head out of your ass and called him, this would’ve been ancient history by now.

Fuck. This whole thing had spiralled into mutually assured destruction real fast, and the worst thing?

He’s here now.

Past the sweaty throng of bodies and sitting with Robby, who hasn’t once stopped looking your way. Jack’s in a black button-up, sleeves pulled to his elbows. Brown strands streaked with grey sweating at his temples, salty stubble on a tight jaw, lips curled. His forearms are bulging as if to fucking mock you; thick and corded as he snatches the dart from where it’d landed on the black-and-white target by the side of the bar, gripping it in his hands as he moves back again.

“He’s totally picturing your face,” giggles Mohan, letting her head fall on your shoulder as she hums around her straw.

Heather almost chokes on her drink, the liquid bursting from her lips as she laughs. “He so fucking is—”

“Shouldn’t have told you bitches anything,” you groan, eyes still locked on Jack. He’s watching you back. ‘Fuck you too, old man,’ you hope your eyes say. Shaking his head and taking a sip of the foamless beer that’s been sitting on the bar counter, he shoots another dart. Sharp, precise, sure; looking in your eyes the whole time.

Bullseye.

From the speakers, Ciara has just begun singing about riding (the beat) with Ludacris. The song is familiar, the bass settling down your body like water. Your shoulders sway with it unconsciously, and with a last sour gulp of your lukewarm Margarita, you stand and grab Yolanda by the hand. She gets up with a start, a confused furrow settling on her brows, an easy smile curling at her lips.

“C’mon, Romeo,” you tell her over the music. “Scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?” Your eyes point to Santos, and Yolanda’s fall on Jack by the bar. She smirks, eyes narrowing in understanding. Atta girl.

“I market it so good,

They can’t wait to try-y-y me-e-e,

I work it so good,

Man, they tryna buy-y-y me.

They love the way I ride it,

They love the way I ride the beat,

How I ride the beat,

I ride it…”

Her hands are on your sides, your back against her chest, ass moving in tandem with her hips. Side to side, again and again, a dizzying whirl of motion that has your head reeling.

You picture it’s Jack behind you instead; his strong frame bracketing yours, his fingers digging in the meat of your hips, his breath on your neck. It’s all too easy to imagine as a shiver wrecks your frame.

Jack is watching. Your entire body burns with it; the weight of his gaze, the clench of his jaw, the cording of his muscles as they strain against his pulled-up sleeves. Fuck, he looks so good. Even at fifteen feet away, even in the dark, even in the chaos.

Eyes hooded and lipgloss smudged, you let Yolanda guide your body as you feel her head swerving back. Santos must be gawking, too.

Quid pro quo.

Ciara hasn’t finished singing when you see Jack pushing his way past the small crowd and to the back-door. You pout, laying a hand on Yolanda’s at your hip, motioning with your head towards the door. With a knowing look and a nudge, she sends you off.

“Go get ‘em,” she laughs.

Outside, the chill of the night feels like an old friend. Biting as your body adjusts to the temperature change, humidity giving way to the smallest of breezes. The pavement is cracked, the bottoms of your short heels weaving in-between.

Jack is leaning his back against his car that’s parked by the curb, dark and sleek, just like him. Waiting, like he knew you’d follow; maybe even hoped. And—just because the alcohol made you brave—perhaps even flushed at the sight of you grinding against someone that wasn’t him.

If you squint your eyes, you can almost pretend you’re outside the ER again, and he’s kissed you for the first time.

Stubborn, stubborn old man.

“Piss break?” you breathe. You were going for teasing, but your voice is hoarse from the tequila and all the yelling-to-be-heard inside. You don’t think the tone quite struck the landing.

He scoffs—a dark sound that lands right between your legs—and shakes his head, eyes gliding across your frame. Black polished heels, burgundy sheer tights; mini skirt tight around your thighs, fitted black blouse to match; hands littered with bracelets and rings. The you outside the hardass trauma surgeon clad in scrubs, outside the death and antiseptic that lingers for days at a time.

“Something like that,” he rasps. “You?”

“Something like that,” you echo.

A stretch of silence, the muffled beat of a strong bass still nagging in the atmosphere. His eyes on you, unmoving, anchoring, burning. Fuck. He looks so good like that, brooding because he’s fucking jealous.

Shit.

“I missed you,” you breathe, heels clicking as you inch closer. You see him shift, posture tightening, eyes still locked on yours.

“I’m sure you managed just fine,” he says slowly, clicking his lips. “Stan from Anesthesia, was it? He treat you right?”

You can’t help it, you literally cannot help it: you giggle. Tipsy, flushed, elated; palm shooting up to cover your lips. This fucking idiot. Damn all these past three days of silence, this is amazing. He’s so fucking jealous it makes your heart run like a racehorse, threatening to burst.

“You jealous, tiger?”

Brows lifting, nostrils flaring. “Yes.”

Oh. Oh, there he is. The trauma attending, the seasoned physician, the man who jumps headfirst into calamity and makes sure everyone’s unscathed.

“You idiot,” you snort, smile so wide it’s splitting your face in half. You’ve drifted closer, now; right in front of him, barely ten inches apart, hands ghosting over his tight biceps. He makes no move other than clenching his jaw, huffing a breath.

“Watch it.”

“Or, what? What’re you gonna do, big guy—?”

The way he grabs you has your stomach doing somersaults. One hand on your waist, the other burning on your nape, swivelling your positions in place as your back collides with the cold metal of the passenger door.

He’d cushioned the impact on your skull with his palm, a bulging forearm now stretching past the side of your face. You can see the vein that’s there. Fuck. The breath that punches out of you is half a whine, half a gasp. Equally desperate, disproportionately charged. Like a live wire. 

“This what you want?” he asks, low in his throat, two hazel pools of warmth nearly black as tar.

You smile, victorious. No point in holding anything back now, right? In for a penny, in for a pound. “He was a one-nighter back when I was a PGY2. A fuckin’ limp-dick who didn’t know what to do with his own hands, much less with me.”

Silence.

“…What?” He blinks, stupefied.

“Yeah, genius,” you smirk.

Oh, he actually looks in pain. Clenches his eyes shut, drops his head on your shoulder with a sigh so visceral it must’ve come from his gut. “Fuck. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is right, you bitch,” you hum, lids fluttering and smirk widening. Shit, the Margarita must’ve done a number on you. But his head lifts, and those bottomless pits surrounded by hazel are burning you again. He looks so pretty up close like this; you can trace every dip and wrinkle on his face, map it in your mind. His hair is so nice, have you mentioned before? Frames his face just so, thick and curly and salty and hot. So hot.

“You let me not talk to you for days—?”

“Nu-uh. Did that all by your lonesome, cowboy. But don’t worry. I like my men older, riddled with workaholism, and with ‘bout as much emotional intelligence as a brick wall.”

That last part? Again, not fair or factually true, but the alcohol has loosened your tongue way past the point of return. In vino veritas, but not always. Still, he doesn’t protest. He’s secure enough not to.

“You’re in luck then, baby. Got emotional baggage in fucking spades,” he mutters, gaze falling on the exposed expanse of your neck, head falling as his lips seek it out.

It knocks the breath right out of you, shocks the ground from under your feet, liquifies all logic in your brain. “‘Baby’?” you echo, voice a static sort of noise, trembling and broken.

You feel him humming against your neck, nipping at the skin, both his hands tightening on you, reeling you in further, pulling you in closer. “Mhm. I’m fucking sorry. For all of it.”

“Yeah, w–well, you fucking should be…”

“Uh-huh,” against your neck. Dizzying and electrifying.

“Jack…”

“What is it?”

Your hand had somehow found its way into his hair, curling around it at his nape, the other thrown over his shoulder, body arching into him. “Kiss me?”

And, he does. He really fucking does. And, somehow, it feels better than any other time. Every sense wired to the maximum, every brush of his button-up against the exposed skin of your arms, his mouth on yours; gasping and aching and perfect. You feel him swallowing every last bit of your lipgloss, the faint aftertaste of berry-tinted glitter sliding over your tongue.

You moan into him, open-mouthed and desperate. The pulse between your legs has worsened, thumping in tandem with the muffled beat of a song you can’t recall right now.

He breaks away with a sharp breath, and it’s like you feel it as it settles in his lungs. Eyes hooded, looking at you in a way that has you clenching around nothing. “How much have you had to drink?” he rasps.

“Just a watered-down Margarita. Fuckers ripped me off.”

He chuckles, you grin. And then, the hand on your nape drifts forward, so, so slowly. Curls around your throat—feather-light in its touch—thumb and pointer on each carotid. Not applying pressure, just… there. You heave out a breath as your lashes flutter. “What are you doing, Jack?”

“Did he touch you like this?”

“What?”

A kiss on your cheek, down to your jaw, up to your ear. His breath is hot against it. “Did he?”

“No,” you manage, one of your palms tightening around the hair at his nape, the other trailing up and down his strong side. “T–told you, he couldn’t touch me for shit.”

“Figured,” he hums. Leaning his head back to look at you fully, capturing your gaze and not letting it go. He purses his lips, grins. It makes the burning in your cheeks deepen.

You can do nothing but smile back, staring at him from under your lashes. The hand you were trailing down his side comes up, curling around his palm on your throat, pushing and making his hold on you tighten.

It feels heavenly. Two fingers pushing on your carotid, warm and big and firm. Already you feel the telltale signs of reduced-blood-flow induced bliss, and he’s barely even started. You feel your eyes nearly roll back as you moan, mouth closed tight and from within your throat. There’s a fire licking at your insides, spreading from your center and into every neuron.

“Yeah?” he mutters, voice teasing, light and heavy all at once. He lets his hold slacken, and the world comes into focus again.

You grin. Instead of an answer, you seek his lips. He meets you halfway, swiping his tongue against yours, and it’s so hard to think right now; with the breeze making your hairs stand, the heat that scorches your blood, the sounds that keep bubbling out of you and into his mouth.

Your hand is still on top of his palm on your neck, anchoring. Jack leans more of his weight on you, blanketing you under the golden yolks of flickering street-lamps. You break apart with an inhale, spit clogging your throat.

When he pulls back, he looks pained. Brows caving in, a groan clawing its way out of his chest. You feel the suffocating tendrils of concern wrapping around your limbs, and suddenly, anything else is forgotten. “Are you okay? Is it your leg? D’you wanna—”

“My leg’s fine,” he rasps, meeting your eyes. The hand on your neck falls back, grabbing yours and guiding it down. Past his chest, making you cup him through his cargo. Fuck. “This ‘s all you, baby.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He’s hard, painfully so, straining against the tough fabric as you push against him. It makes him suck in a breath, forehead falling against yours, hand on your waist pulling you in, sandwiched between his frame and the car door.

“Open the fucking car,” you mutter against his lips.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Deftly swipes a hand down his pocket, clicks the lock button on the remote, grabs the handle of the back door and holds it open for you. With a giggle and a breath, you get in, knees gliding against the back seats as he follows. Sloppily, you drag your tights and underwear from under your skirt and down your legs, huffing at the lack of space.

“Come here,” he says, door thumping shut behind him as you bunch your tights and panties in your palm, flinging them away haphazardly. Throwing a leg over his lap, you take one of the best seats in the house. There’s a hand on your naked skin, digging in the meat of your thigh. His other softly ghosts over the small of your back, where your blouse has ridden up, toying with the seam.

Just as you let your full weight fall—grounding yourself against his hard-on, skirt completely bunched up—he pushes up. Adjusts his stance in that way men do, spreading his thighs and lighting you on fire. His head tilts, seeking your eyes. He knows what he’s fucking doing.

“You got a condom?” you ask, hands around his neck, fingers weaving in his hair. You think he’ll say no, and you’ll kiss him and say, ‘I’m on the pill. There’s no one else. I need you.’

But, he surprises you. Huffs bashfully, reaches in his side-pocket, retrieves a single shiny foil package. Bunching your brows, your smile is devious as you tilt your head back at him, cooing: “What the hell is that?”

Is he fucking blushing? You can hardly tell in the darkness, but it feels like he might be.

“Robby may or may not have bribed Heather for intel.”

You gasp, playfully, smacking him softly on the shoulder. “Fucking snakes, all of you! I’m surrounded by goddamn sellouts.” But then, quieter, mellower: “You knew I was here? That’s why you came?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Sorry for the abrupt shut-out, the fleeting jealousy that wrecked through him faster than a bullet, the way he had no idea what the fuck to do with it.

You tut your lips, shaking your head. “Talk to me next time, alright, big guy?”

“Done,” he breathed, capturing your lips.

You melt against him, grounding your hips with a sigh he swallows, rocking your clothed center against his. With a shaky hand you snatch the condom from him, breaking the kiss. Watching with a bitten lip as he unfastens the cargo, pushes his pants and briefs down, wraps a hand around himself and sighs. His frame vibrates with it.

You put the condom on with little fanfare and a shaky palm, giggling breathlessly when you catch his eye. He kisses you, hands tight around your hips, guiding you forward.

And when you finally sink down on him, having him this way for the first time, it’s tectonic. Cataclysmic in the best of ways, devastating as you feel him stretching you, feeling full and warm and yours.

The sigh that leaves you is a broken thing, hot against his lips, eyes rolling back as he bottoms out. You’re pulsing with it, this need, slick and aching as his palms start guiding you into a steady rhythm.

“Fuck, Jack…” you whine against his lips when he starts rocking up, holding you still instead. Your head falls on the junction between his neck and shoulder; nipping at his skin, mouth falling apart when you feel him sneak his palm between your bodies, thumb catching on your clit and toying with it.

You’re scorching. Sensitive, hips swerving, chasing after a climax that draws nearer with each snap of his hips. His breaths are ragged next to your ear, deep and searing as you clench around him.

“Yeah?” he croons breathlessly, turning his head against your neck. “You feeling good, baby? Tell me, tell—”

“Y–yes,” you gasp out, backing up and sitting straighter. With a shaking hand, you grab the one that’s on your hip, making him wrap his fingers around your neck again.

It’s tethering, blistering, right. It’s showing you trust him in a way you haven’t yet explored together. It’s narrowing down the world to just his eyes as his fingers apply calculated pressure on your arteries; nothing existing past the heat of his gaze, his open lips, his breathless groans, his cock that’s still rocking inside you.

It lasts for a moment, and then it’s gone. Fingers slackening around your neck, his thumb rubbing the skin of your throat, your head swirling and swimming on cloud nine. A little harder to think, to feel time passing. It’s so fucking good it’s bordering on senseless.

“I’m gonna come,” you cry out as his fingers find your clit again, finding a rhythm and holding it; much like he locks someone’s gaze, much like he fixes crises before Surgery even gets the page.

“Do it,” he moans against your lips, “I wanna feel you. Do it, sweetheart, I know you can…”

He doesn’t speed up, he doesn’t slow down; he keeps hitting every motion steadily, surely, like making you come around him is as easy to him as breathing.

It’s only when you feel his hold tightening beneath your jaw again—when the world narrows into a slit, when your head starts swimming in a cloying haze, when each touch is cranked up to eleven—that you melt.

Shaking, writhing in his steady hold, falling down like jelly against his arms, his name on your lips and your tongue in his mouth. It spreads from the bud of your clit like tendril up your muscles, weaving between nerves and arteries like syrup. It leaves you spent.

He’s not far behind. With your body like putty in his hands, with your husky voice in his ear—nipping at him, whispering filth you’re not half-sure you even remember—he comes apart the only way he knows how. Sharp, intense, real. Keeps pushing against you through it, riding it out. The stimulation is dizzying, viscous and nearly too much.

Holy shit.

The car is quiet in the aftermath.

Windows fogged up, keys and underwear and a pair of burgundy tights you got on sale forgotten on the floor, breaths mingling in post-orgasmic haze.

It’s perfect. Or, better yet, it’s right.

His hands are on your back, curling around you completely as you try lifting yourself up. The movement is shaky, and his eyes shine when he catches onto it. His palm comes around, cupping your flaming cheek, thumb rubbing the skin with such softness you think you might actually die. The look on his face is worse, though. Soft, brows furrowed, drinking you in like he’ll go blind and this is his last chance at picturing you. Your chest swells with it, this… fuck, what even is it? 

Love feels like too big of a word, too scary; staring you down like the maw of a gaping gorge ready to drag you in its depths. But, like feels too small; too insignificant and wrong for the way he makes your heart surge, the way you look for him first in every room you walk in.

You don’t know right now, or you’re too fucked-out to think, or you do know and it just feels more like being held at gunpoint rather than a self-actualization. Whatever the fuck it is, you’ll figure it out later.

Right now, you just let your lips melt with his own, giggling as his stubble tickles you, huffing a moan together as he pulls out. Back in his place, you’re looking at him from where you’re leaning on his kitchen counter, eyes softening as he places the prosthetic against the arm of the couch, as he sighs and lies back into the cushions with a hand rubbing his aching skin. But then his voice rings out: “I got a new sugar pack, 500 grams. Try not to use it all, yeah?”

And you know. You know.

You love him.

(It’s fifteen minutes before 7AM, and slowly, the day crew has begun trickling in. First it was Dana, then Robby, then Yolanda. You handed patients off, updated last-minute details on the charts, exchanged hello’s and quips. Jack is at the nurses’ station, smiling as Dana tells him about a recipe whose name you missed. Just that it is a ‘must.’ He turns and looks at you, eyes softening around the edges, mouth quirking, dimples showing. You shoot a wink, and maybe, if you were asked, you could pass it off as aimed at Dana instead.

Perlah and Princess are watching; goddamn walking security cameras. You don’t mind, though. Maybe you can even fuck with them about the bet. 

Oh, yeah, the bet. When will Dr. Abbot and his favorite jockey finally drop their pants? Find out on page four in the ever-growing PTMC hot-goss column.

Bridget and Shen started it, and then it trickled over to the day shift, and you kind of love Robby and Garcia and Collins and Mohan for being tight-lipped about it. You actually believe it’s because they want the money for themselves, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

“D’you see that wink? You think they did it already?”

“Are you kidding me?! I got money on another week, tops.”

“Walk you home?” asks Jack.

“Yeah,” you grin, shooting a look over your shoulder just to watch two of your three favorite day-shift nurses fumble and flail. “Let’s go.”)

3leni © 2025 — i do not consent to my work being republished on other platforms or put into ai. do not copy or plagiarize.

[demoncrypt1066]

WANT YOU IF YOU SAY IT FIRST TO ME ; jack abbot / f!reader

summary; A story told in 4AM cups of coffee, the unsteady beat that is the emergency department, and how it feels to fall for a man wired for crisis; slowly, deliberately, in the quiet moments between chaos, where respect becomes gravity and love finds room to breathe.

word count; 9.5k

warnings/tags; 18+ mdni. trauma surgeon resident!reader. slow build, falling in love, misunderstandings, jealousy, emotionally constipated jack, bars and alcohol, depictions of blood and surgeries, coworker meddling, one (1) scene inspired by grey's anatomy, queer coded reader (though never explicitly mentioned, just know that this isn't a straight woman), explicit sexual content: choking, semi-public (in a car), vaginal and protected sex. let me know if i missed any.

A/N; worms in my brain. worms. i don’t know where this came from, nor how it got to nine thousand words. i think i hauve covid. uh, give me your thoughts? your prayers? the things stirring in your brain about this man that'd set women back at least a century? (but seriously, comments & reblogs nurture me in the enclosure. askbox is always open. feed your local writer <3). jack abbot… you have bewitched me… body and soul…

⭒ ݁ . read on ao3. gif from this set by emziess. special thanks to my love @imagines-r-s for feeding the brainworms for this with me.

“Oh, this is painful. Like, genuinely, physically, ripping-my-hair-out painful—”

“Alright,” you groan into the salted rim of your glass. The lime in the Margarita singes your taste buds, numbing them in a tequila-dipped haze that slowly but surely slithers its way into your head, thumping in your throat and behind your eyes. 

Yinzers’ is as busy as it can possibly get. Cramped booths and stools fully occupied, makeshift dance floor nearly packed. Sticky floors and cheap drinks, the underlying thrum of drunken conversation that beats in tandem with the music: some club classics playlist from the late 2000’s, familiar and dizzying and exactly what you need right now. Something to drown out your swirling thoughts, to reduce your brain down to a pleasantly useless mush.

Yeah, you think, taking another sour sip. You’ve done enough critical thinking for the day.

Samira is at your side, sipping her strawberry Daiquiri, half-choking on her chuckles as Usher’s DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love echoes from the speakers. Heather sits across from Mohan, cheekily sipping her Sex On The Beach and stealing glances behind her back. Squinting her eyes, as if in thought, she says: “Actually, I think ripping hair out would be less painfu—”

“Either kill me,” you cut her off over the music, “or shut the fuck up about it.”

She has the gall to laugh. As does Samira, as does Yolanda. Fuck, you do make for a painful sight, you’ll give them that. Still, your eyes lock into Yolanda’s, sharp and clouded. “Oh,” you laugh, but it gets lost under the beat, “I know you’re not laughing right now, Romeo.”

She almost chokes. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, smirking into your glass, eyes catching onto a certain intern a few tables away whose eyes are locked into your friend’s back for what feels like hours now. You must’ve caught Santos’ eye over Garcia’s back, like, three times in the past fifteen minutes. If Yolanda noticed, she hardly made it known.

Still, as cheap a shot as that was, it worked. Now Yolanda’s silent, staring into the half-melted ice cubes of her Rum & Coke, and the looks exchanged over the table are not about you. You fight dirty when you’re cornered, but you’ll take any win you can get.

This is rare; day and night shift merging after work like this. Shoulders tense and weighed down by code-blue’s and lives lost and the metallic stench of blood, soldiering through it only for the ones you manage to save. It feels almost cosmic. You damn-near begged on your knees for Mohan to tag along, and naturally, she could never say no to you. Even Javadi is here, staring at Mateo with stars in her eyes, sat in the booth with Santos and Whittaker.

Even though it’s your night off, the antiseptic still lingers in your nostrils from yesterday, the ice-cold chill of the OR, your hands raw from scrubbing in. Technically, that all happened today, but you’ve found the days and hours get blurry on the night shift. 

Lines get hazy, too; everything does. Boundaries rewritten, reservations forgotten, walls knocked down with nothing but a quirk of the lips and lukewarm coffees under the blaring fluorescence.

You shake your head, tongue curling in your mouth. Fuck.

Well, however you call it, today was a fucking shit show. There’d been a car pile-up just a little after 6AM. “So close. So, so close,” Shen had sighed in the ambulance bay. Two or three or four fucking cars with college boys drunk off their asses behind the wheel, determined to be goddamn gentlemen and drive some girls home from their frat. If only chivalry was dead.

Only two out of the six girls made it. One bled out right in your hands, her shredded abdominal aorta gushing red-hot rivers faster than you could’ve ever stitched her back together. Her name was Sydney, and she had her whole life ahead of her. Besides the smell of her blood, that’s all you can remember about her.

If you focused really hard right now, even over the deafening bass, you could still hear her flatlining on your table. Still taste the bile in your throat from when you called it, breathless, ripping off your surgical mask and moving on. Because you had to. The boy you operated on next, blond and baby faced and crushed behind his friend’s wheel, made it. He nearly hadn’t, but he pulled through.

Jack was… he was there when you entered the trauma room, gait planted and hands methodical as ever. They don’t call him an ER cowboy for nothing. 

Sharp eyes and even sharper tongue, he’s precise like the ten-blade that’s as much an instrument as it’s an extension of your palm. “I need to open him up,” you said over the beeping monitor. Jack had already placed a chest tube, but the boy’s vitals were tanking, and his lungs were a ticking time bomb. You didn’t have to say as much, he knew, but you did anyway. It’s terrifying to think you would’ve said anything to make him look at you.

Jack hardly spared you a glance. You like to think you didn’t care, that you didn’t notice he spoke with his eyes pinned ahead, anywhere but on yours. It almost felt more disorienting than the chaos itself. More destabilizing than the wails and moans and heaps of blood on the linoleum, than the nurses and residents all whirring around the department like scattered animals.

Because, that’s the thing with Jack Abbot; his eyes are anchors. Heavyweight, like snares. They catch on yours and keep you there. Steadying, lingering until he’s satisfied, head tilted until he can see the message has registered behind your eyelids.

So, when that lighthouse in the storm suddenly shut you out, you felt stranded. Hurt. Maybe even angry. But you pushed through, because you’re a damn good surgeon, and that boy needed you.

You performed a thoracotomy in OR 3; paged Dr. Walsh for the green light and wheeled the patient past Jack and his bloodstained gown, eyes searching for his in the storm. Only then did he meet your gaze, just as the elevator doors closed, hands curling up to his neck as he ripped the gown off. You were left breathless, staring at cold, humming silver instead of two warm pools of hazel.

The change was sudden. No more than a few days ago, it was all so… 

Fuck. It wasn’t like this. It was… good. Dizzying in all the right ways. You were walking on uncertain ground, uncharted waters, but you like to think you were treading them together. Like two sailors in a storm, trudging through disaster side by side; like a log that’s keeping each other from getting swallowed by the waves.

That’s how it started, anyway. You craved it; that comfort, the blanket of warmth only he could’ve given. It was a few months ago—maybe four or maybe more—that you switched to the night shift.

“Giving up one of our best here, brother,” Robby had said during the daily hand-off; your first time working after 7PM.

“Night shift wins again,” he’d quipped beneath his breath, iPad already in hand. The smile he’d shot you was small, tight-lipped, genuine. “Welcome. We love ourselves a scalpel jockey ‘round here.”

You’d quirked your brows. “Scalpel jockey?”

But he’d already turned away from you as he walked off. He’d shot you a look behind his back, smirking, pointing with his thumb. “Wear it proudly.”

In your second week, you went through a brutal shift together. Two kids had died on your watch, and you’d been exhausted. Drained physically, mentally, in every way that mattered, in every way it didn’t.

After talking to the parents, after providing them with a social worker, after showing them their babies’ bodies, you damn near fucking collapsed. 

You still don’t know why it hit you so hard. During your residency, you’ve lost more patients than you can count. Kids, teens, parents and friends and strangers. You’ve felt their temperature drop, you’ve heard the echo of a flatline beside the overhead lamp, smelt the staleness of the OR after calling time of death.

Perhaps it’d been because one of the little boys looked so much like your baby brother when he was that age. Perhaps it was their mother’s hopeful eyes as you’d shuffled your feet to the family room, scrub cap clutched between your hands like a cross, a rosary, a lifeline.

The woman’s eyes were beautiful, red-rimmed as they were; they crumpled up like paper when you forced the words out of your throat. “We… I did everything in my power.” “The injuries were far too severe.” “I’m sorry.” 

Perhaps it was none of these things at all.

His brother never even left the ER; he’d been DOA. Nothing more to be done other than work on him longer than necessary, just so they could tell the parents they’d done everything they could’ve. Jack stood over him as you’d wheeled on by, eyes catching on his as the flatline echoed.

Backed up against the door of an empty viewing room, heaps and piles of x-rays glaring down at you, you’d heaved and gasped and clasped your mouth shut to muffle the sounds. They sputtered and clawed their way out of your throat regardless, white-hot tears clogging your vision.

He’d knocked on the door. Three precise taps, no room for argument. Still, though, your back had remained glued to the door, even as he’d pushed his way inside. There, bathed in the dim blue light of the imaging, it was as if you truly saw him for the first time.

Wrinkled eyes, kind and steady, anchoring you in their hold. Tilted head, arms tight as he’d laid a tentative palm on your shoulder. You don’t even remember what he’d said at first. Does it even matter? He was there. Warmth seeping from his palm, eyes holding your gaze in their death-grip. He’d made you breathe with him, letting the air sit deeply in his lungs, nodding and muttering an encouraging, “Yeah?” when he felt your stuttering ribs even out.

And, suddenly, you could breathe again.

“Crying is good. Feeling. Means you’re still human,” he’d told you, whispers of a breath. “Means you still got fight left in you. Don’t ever let the job take that away from you. You’re good, jockey. Trust me.”

It was a week after that when the coffees started. 

Bleary-eyed under the hospital lights, the stillness of the hallways echoed in a way that’s only possible during the night. You’d been leaning on the nurse’s station down at the ED, staring into nothingness as the iPad screen in your grip shut itself off.

It’d been a particularly quiet shift, not that any of you had dared to say so out loud. When Shen attempted a few hours prior, you’d launched a half-eaten protein bar at his head. You’d missed by an inch. Ellis had nearly pulled a muscle laughing, and you swear you’d seen Jack huff out a chuckle as he passed. A win, in your book.

It was like the coffee had materialized out of thin air. But, no. He was there. Staring at his watch, unassuming and quiet and there. You’d eyed the coffee cup he slid between you with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. When he’d met your eyes, his lips had quirked up. Just slightly, just enough. The sight of that almost-smile was slowly becoming as familiar as the well-trodden hallways to the ORs. 

“What’s that about?” you’d asked.

“Can’t have you falling asleep over someone’s cracked chest, can we? Too much paperwork.” He’d lifted his shoulder in a shrug. As if bringing you coffee was something he’d done a million times before and would do a million times again.

“You… got me coffee,” you’d said dumbly, eyes shifting between the brown cup and the hazel of his gaze like a pendulum. Not a question—just a statement, the same way the sky is blue and grass is green—but he’d answered anyway.

He’d softly tapped his fist on the counter. Once, twice. Nodded. “I got you coffee.”

And, that had been it. No more acknowledgement, no further comment; just the piping-hot paper cup next to your hand. Just the look he snuck from further down the ED when he’d seen you bring it to your lips, that’d felt more intimate than having someone’s tongue down your throat.

You’d pretended not to notice, but you think he saw right through you. Of course he had.

It became a ritual, of sorts. A routine. Every night on call together, right around the 4AM slump, a brown paper cup would somehow find its way to you. Always hot, always sugary; you don’t know if he somehow guessed or overheard it, but that’s exactly how you drink it.

“Sugar with a side of coffee, for the lunatic in OR 3,” he said once, monotone and dry in a way that made him funny. That was half his charm, some days.

The cup had felt heavy in your palm. Biting the inside of your cheek, you’d asked: “Why do you keep doing that?”

He’d looked at you, long and hard. The overhead fluorescence made every edge of his face sharper. Your eyes had caught on the grey in his temple, the way it blended with the brown of his curls. He’d shrugged, looked down at the iPad in his hands. 

“Told you. Can’t have Walsh’s best triage tourist falling face-first into an open cavity. Don’t need that kinda headache.”

You’d raised a brow, laughed into the cup as you brought it to your lips. The coffee scaled its way down your throat, hot and sweet. You’d felt it settle down your chest. Or, maybe, it was the way he’d looked at you out of the corner of his eye, pursing his lips in that half-smile that made his dimples show.

“Triage tourist, scalpel jockey… I left Langdon and his ‘Edwina Scissorhands’ bullshit for Garcia to put up with. Can’t catch a fucking break with you people.”

He’d huffed a breath, a chuckle. “Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes, jockey.”

You’d felt brave. “Alright, big guy. Careful not to pull a muscle next time I wring a patient from you.”

That was the first time you’d seen him laugh the way he had. Surprised, eyebrows raised and mouth open, nodding in a way that invited challenge. “Wow, okay,” he’d rasped, “give somebody an inch, they’ll take a fucking mile.”

“Patients is what I take, old man.” You’d clicked your teeth.

“Fuckin’ sawbones,” he’d huffed, shaking his head.

“You know it.”

You never questioned the coffee again. You even missed it on the occasional odd day when your schedules did not line up. Kept looking at your watch around 4AM, unconsciously waiting for a cup of coffee that wouldn’t come unless you dragged your ass to the break room yourself. You’d been fucking Pavlov’ed. Jesus.

One time, though, he had a rough night. Kept limping his way through the ED, brows tight and lips curled. It’d been busy, busier than usual. Broken ankles, lacerations, burns, a bike crash victim. Even a head trauma that’d been sent up to neuro immediately. Fucking gnarly. 

The guy didn’t make it; vet, homeless, victim of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Much of that these days. Every muscle in Jack’s body had been tense, you’d seen it. Felt it, even. You’d kept wincing everytime you saw him grabbing onto the counter of the nurses’ station, letting his weight fall on his good leg.

He’d found you in the break room by 4AM, coffee cup in his hand.

Maybe he’d Pavlov’ed himself, too. 

You’d nodded at the empty chair across from you, silent. Shaking his head, he’d dropped the cup on the table and slid it towards you.

“C’mon, humor me,” you’d said, grabbing the cup. “I just… just want your company. So.”

The look in his eyes had called your bullshit. Still, he’d sat down. You’d seen the way his shoulders drooped, the way he craned his neck, clenched his eyes. His palm had trailed down to his knee, massaging the skin above the prosthetic.

The lights had kept humming above you, white sterile noise filling the deafening silence. It’s always quiet around that time of night; a small window where everything pauses before surging again.

“I’m fine,” he’d rasped.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” you’d quipped, head tilting in a way that parroted his own habit.

“You’re a shit liar.”

“And you still believe me. What does that make you?”

He’d hummed. Touché. You’d sat like that for a while. Mutual quiet, a shelter in the storm, blanketed by headache-inducing fluorescence and the smell of teeth-achingly sweet coffee. Until one of the nurses, Bridget, poked her head into the break room and said: “Incoming. GSW to the chest, head trauma, the works.”

You’d locked eyes with him, more awake than you’d been all night. Cup forgotten, you’d smirked. He didn’t need your pity (not that you had any to give); he needed the rush. The knowledge that you could offer him respite and keep him on his toes as easy as you could breathe. You’d huffed, ready to bolt: “Catch me if you can, cowboy.”

You’d found him on the roof that morning; it’d been Robby who told you. (“Yeah, he does that, sometimes. You wanna…?”) Jack had been leaning his back against the outside of the railing, soaking in the early light spilling from behind the clouds. The sunrise is always beautiful on the roof; blooming pink and orange aflush by the white yolk of the sun. It’d been chilly, and you’d felt a shiver run through you as you moved to him, the wind licking at his sleeves.

You knew he’d heard you; heard the click of the door shutting, heard the shuffling of your soles on the ground. Maybe he’d even known it was you. You like to think he had. If not, he never let it show. Only looked at you from the corner of his eye as you stopped at the railing, leaning your elbows on the cold metal.

You hadn’t spoken, not at first. Had simply let your eyes fall on the skyline, tracing the city with your lashes.

A beat passed. Two, three. Suddenly, your voice rang out. “You jump, and I’m not putting you back together.” He’d turned his head. Latching onto his gaze, your lips had quirked; not too much, just enough. “Conflict of interest, y’know.”

He’d shaken his head, lids falling, smile persistent. A scoff had punched its way from his throat, but it was light. Relieved, maybe. Soft around the edges in all the right ways. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” he’d rasped. “Fuckin’ addict, you are. You’d pounce at the chance.”

You’d looked away from him, setting your eyes ahead, letting the silence hang. As seriously as you could’ve mustered, you said: “Yeah. Bet your ass I would.”

He’d chuckled, and you’d bottled it right up. Sobering up, you’d continued. Not looking at him, letting your words spill out like morning dew instead; his call to acknowledge them, or let them dissipate. “You don’t need anybody to put you back together, though. That’s a you job. But, jockey as I am, I’m still here. With my 4AM coffees and all. Just… just so you know, or, whatever.”

Fuck, the way he’d looked at you then? You’d felt every muscle in your body somehow tense and melt all at once. Two hazel whirlpools pulling you right the fuck under. You just let it happen.

“Yeah. ‘Or, whatever.’”

And, there it was. That quiet acknowledgement. The hand pulling each other from the ledge. The person you looked for first when the elevator doors to the ER opened and you were thrust into action. The man who was a rock amidst a hurricane, unmoving because he has to be; the one pulling everyone down to their feet beside him.

But, who was there to drag him down to steady ground, except himself?

The first time he kissed you, it was nearly bone-shattering. Sinews splitting apart in his hands, skull crushed in two, heart ready to spill from your throat and into his. He would’ve swallowed it, you really believe he would’ve.

It’d been another circus show at the PTMC Emergency Department, barely past 1AM on a Friday night. Or, was that technically Saturday? Fuck, you don’t even care. Mass casualty: a shooting at a club downtown, with half a dozen victims and twice as many cops flooding the hallways. It’d been all hands on deck. Blood, lidocaine, the moans and yells and calls for attendings who already had their hands full to the brim.

The shooter had landed on your table, shot straight in the chest by the club owner. You had to perform a pericardial repair to address the gunshot wound near his heart, to stop the hematoma from draining the life right out of him.

Instructed to salvage any bullet fragments for evidence, you’d let the world around you fall apart; until all you could see was the red gushing from his heart, and all you could smell was its metallic tang between your fingers. In the end, seven bullet fragments lay on a surgical basin to your right, and the man lay lifeless before you.

Time of death, 2:37AM.

The bleeding had been too much. Too erratic, too tricky for a resident to handle alone. Not because you lacked the experience, but because you lacked the hands. By the time you were ripping the mask and gloves off alongside your gown and throwing them in the bin by the OR door, your fingers had been shaking like leaves.

You hadn’t been good enough to save him, or smart enough to request an attending, or strong enough to accept that this was the hand you were dealt and you did the best you could’ve.

You’d brushed past the OR floor, all the way down to the ER and through the waiting room. People looked at you; at your sweaty scrubs and disheveled surgical cap, at the way you bit your lip until it bled, breezing through the pedestrian entrance doors and into the night air.

Even through your tunnel vision, you saw the state the ER was in; lulled, the first and worst wave of the trauma washed away. The most emergent cases dealt with and admitted to surgery or the ICU, the less-gravely injured cared for and checked up on, families called and statements given. You hadn’t realized how much time had whizzed by while you were wrist-deep into the man’s chest.

Time passes differently in the OR. Slows and twists out of your control. Out there, though—past the cop cruisers and at the park outside—it stood still completely. The wood of the bench you’d fallen on felt cold, even through your scrubs.

Minutes could have passed, or hours, as you sat in the quiet chill. It tickled the goosebumps on your arms, the rawness of your bitten lips as you’d smoothed your tongue over the skin.

Jack had followed you out. Of course he had. There isn’t a world where he wouldn’t have.

“What happened?”

The scoff that spilled from your throat had been tired. Spent. You hadn’t looked at Jack once, not even as he took a seat beside you on the bench, thighs millimeters apart. His warmth spread through the meat of your thigh and right into your bloodstream. You’d sniffed, sharp, tongue curling on the roof of your mouth to stop the tears from gathering.

“I lost him. The shooter. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t… wasn’t good enough, I guess.”

A hand on your knee, big and strong and sure. So, so familiar, it nearly hurt. “If you couldn’t save him, then he couldn’t be saved.” Firm, unshakeable, as if he’d been stating a truth as universally accepted as the stars hanging above your heads. Is that what he truly saw in you? A trust in your abilities so strong, he believed his words like they were set in stone?

You’d shaken your head, eyes clenched shut, a single breath pushing its way out your ribs like a hydraulic press. “I couldn’t fucking do it. Isn’t that messed up? I’m sitting here, crying over a man who shot up a club.” You’d swallowed. “Maybe this was justice. Have him make it to help, only to end up with a surgeon useless enough to let him drain out. Like I’m a goddamn first-year, or something. Fuck—”

“Hey,” Jack had cut you off mid-spiral, grip tightening on your knee, the feeling punching through you all the way down to your belly. He’d tilted his head, searching for your gaze, finding it and keeping it in a headlock. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. You know it’s bullshit. Hey, hey, look at me.  You,” he’d paused, “are one of the best. I’ve seen you. I know it, and I’m telling you. So stop fucking saying that.”

He’d looked pained, severe. As if hearing you tear yourself down was like a punch to his gut. You hadn’t known what to make of that realization in the moment. Or, you had, and you just weren’t strong enough to admit to it. Not even to yourself.

You’d nodded, if not for anything else, just to see his brows soften. His shoulders laxing, lips curling softly and dimples showing, thumb softly stroking your skin over your scrubs.

Silence bathed you, louder than the clamor of a war torn emergency room.

“Didn’t know you liked me that much,” you’d quipped after a few moments trickled by, eyes locked on the hand that still rested on your knee. It’d felt deliberate now, the way he’d made no move to remove it. “You getting soft on me, Jack?”

Jack. Not cowboy, or big guy, or Dr. Abbot. Hell, not even old man.

Just… Jack.

It’d taken him a second to respond. Blinking, quiet, surprise melting into something much softer yet unnameable. “I’m not telling you shit again,” he’d chuckled. “Watch it.”

He hadn’t once let his eyes fall from yours, even when you had. Jack Abbot and his fucking staring problem. Pulling you in, making the world melt into nothingness as his hand had stilled. Fuck, why couldn’t he have just looked away?

You’d felt it before you saw it. His other hand—the one nearly touching yours—drifting up to your face, the other still scorching your knee. Curling around the edge of your scrub cap, unruly on your head and halfway down the side of your forehead. Like a deer in headlights, you’d frozen. He’d stared at the cloth intensely, fingers drifting across your face, pulling it back on your hairline, tracing the outline of your burning cheek with the back of his fingers.

Your breath had stuttered, swelled like a balloon about to pop. “What’re you doing?”

“Your cap,” he’d said, fingers hovering. “There. Fixed it.”

“Oh,” you’d exhaled. “Thanks.”

“I might call you jockey,” he’d breathed suddenly, eyes lifting from the curve of your mouth and catching yours again, “but you’re not one. Not really. You know that, right? You have to know it. Can’t even remember all the times you’ve let us mortals try and keep someone from gettin’ sliced up.”

He’d inched closer, and if you hadn’t felt his breath tickling yours as he spoke, you might not have even noticed. Lashes fluttering and eyes shifting from the hazel down to his mouth, to his hands—back and forth, back and forth—you’d breathed: “Jack?”

“Do you? Know?” he’d rasped out, barely a whisper, barely a breath. He hadn’t been looking in your eyes. His gaze had drifted under again, past the slope of your nose, to the angry flare of your bitten lip. But as he said it, he’d looked up. Just for a second. Hand sliding down towards your nape, nearly engulfing your neck whole.

He’d be looking for an answer to a different question. Still, you’d nodded in his hold, lids nearly shut and hands shaking against the wood of the bench. Why did you nod?

Idiot. Is there a world where you wouldn’t have?

A breath, a surprised yelp muffled by his lips, the feel of him pressing you closer. Earth-shattering, bone-splitting, all-consuming. Jack Abbot—the fierce attending, the hardened veteran, the shelter in every storm—kissed you with his entire body, explosive warmth seeping into your skin with every deep swipe of his lips. And when he’d broken away with a sigh, you’d felt the sound curling its way around your skin. Fuck.

“Now you do.”

And, that’s how it was from then. Tentative, unknown, undefined. Real. An, “I’ll walk you home,” at the end of the shift. More 4AM coffees, and rooftop gazing, and brushing past each other in a hallway only to stop for no reason at all other than to soak the other in. No further than heated kisses shared in empty on-call rooms and wandering hands that stopped respectfully just before the threshold was crossed.

(“Damn. You fucking like me, don’t you?” you’d teased a couple weeks back. Breakfast burrito in hand, walking side-by-side on a cracked sidewalk with his hand hovering over the small of your back.

He’d scoffed, smiling in that characteristic way of his. Lips pursed, dimples out, head swerving. “Tolerate, more like. Gotta get those patient satisfaction scores up, somehow. Can’t do that if our best tourist doesn’t get her nightly sugar-induced overdose.”

“Fucking comedian, over here. Poor man’s Carlin.”)

You didn’t mind it; the waiting, the tiptoeing. This… thing felt far too fragile and far too young to have a name yet. At least, out loud. You knew how you felt, you think you knew how he felt. No need to rush. No need to panic. You were content to let the waves carry you.

That brings you to three days ago. You were leaning back against the nurse’s station, almost 4AM, head pounding from the artificial stillness. Bridget was standing beside Ellis, both shaking from laughter. They made you burst into a fit, too. 

“Fuuuck,” you moaned, “can’t believe I told you this. Ancient history. Next time I open my mouth, slap me fucking dead—”

Hand clutching her stomach, Ellis wheezed: “And then what’d he fucking do?”

“Ugh,” you clenched your eyes, cheeks flushed from embarrassment. “He was such a pussy, I swear to God. Tried to smooth-talk his way out of it. Can you believe that shit? Anesthesiologist who doesn’t know how to choke a girl right?”

“Sounds like the opening to a bad joke,” said Bridget.

“Right?!”

“What’s that about you getting choked?” piped Shen as he strutted over, slurping on a coffee cup.

“You eavesdropping on us, now?” you asked, leaning to the side to look at him.

He shrugged, smirking as he leaned an elbow on the counter. “It’s not eavesdropping when you’re in the middle of the ER, sawbones.”

Turning to the girls, you pointed a finger at him, jokingly exasperated. “This fucking guy…”

“No manners,” tutted Ellis, shaking her head. Bridget clicked her lips, looking at him as if disappointed.

“Hey,” Shen voiced with his lips around the yellow straw. “Not my fault you go on and on about Stan from Anesthesia and how he almost broke your larynx tryin’ to go all Fifty Shades on you. Quit blamin’ a guy for getting curious.” He winced, grimacing: “But, like, dude… really?”

“Mhm. Worst lay of my fucking life. Scratched the itch, though—”

“—Oh, hello, Dr. Abbot,” sang Bridget from your side. “Right on time,” she glanced at her watch. 4:02AM.

Your blood damn near clotted in place. Oh, fuck. How much did he hear?

The coffee cup—brown, hot, familiar—landed on the nursing station counter with a thud. Two hazel whirlpools found yours, then vanished with a nod. Curt, stern, the attending on call, the veteran medic who barked orders from the back of a helicopter and onto a sand-baked tarmac. Dr. Abbot, not Jack.

Shit, did he think that was…? That you…?

“Get back to work, this ain’t a tea party. Guy in 12 needs an IV change, kept whining when I walked past.”

“Fuck me, that guy’s been on my ass about the food since 10PM. Jesus,” groaned Ellis.

“I got it,” chirped Bridget with a nudge on Ellis’ shoulder. She left to change the IV, Shen made a beeline for the break room, Ellis grabbed an iPad and moved to sit behind one of the monitors. And just like that, you were left staring at Jack’s retreating figure, the steady gait you’d come to think of as familiar. The only warmth was from the coffee, but that was getting cold, too.

You hardly saw him for the rest of the night. Stupid, stubborn, emotionally constipated old man with walls higher than Mount Everest. Even as you waited by the pedestrian entrance for fifteen minutes at the end of the shift—the early morning chill slithering over your exposed arms, the steady beat of people just waking up thrumming all around—he was nowhere to be found.

Fine.

You walked home alone that day, probably for the first time in weeks. You had the next two days off, but you could’ve called him instead. You didn’t. Couldn’t quite muster up the courage to press the button, even as his name glared back at you from the screen in bland sans serif.

Fuck. You hate confrontation; always have, probably always will. It’s kind of ruining your life. You hate feeling shut out, yet something invisible still keeps you from taking that first step to resolution.

It’d have been so easy to just pick up the goddamn phone and say: “Hey, that thing you overheard? Old fucking news, back in my second year. I like you and didn’t go get dicked down by some other guy just because you haven’t had your way with me yet. Don’t shut me out. Dumbass.”

But, you didn’t. Because, like always, the fear of confrontation morphed into something more ugly—more jagged—as the hours and days passed with not one text received. Something like indignation, bullheaded pettiness that oozed from every pore.

He’s pushing fucking 50, and he acts like this? If I wanted to relive my high school boyfriend, I would’ve just texted him.

…Well. In hindsight, that wasn’t entirely fair. Not at all, even. Maybe he was hurt, betrayed, embarrassed. Maybe he needed a day or two to collect his head. Maybe he saw your inaction and perceived it as indifference. Maybe, if you’d just pulled your head out of your ass and called him, this would’ve been ancient history by now.

Fuck. This whole thing had spiralled into mutually assured destruction real fast, and the worst thing?

He’s here now.

Past the sweaty throng of bodies and sitting with Robby, who hasn’t once stopped looking your way. Jack’s in a black button-up, sleeves pulled to his elbows. Brown strands streaked with grey sweating at his temples, salty stubble on a tight jaw, lips curled. His forearms are bulging as if to fucking mock you; thick and corded as he snatches the dart from where it’d landed on the black-and-white target by the side of the bar, gripping it in his hands as he moves back again.

“He’s totally picturing your face,” giggles Mohan, letting her head fall on your shoulder as she hums around her straw.

Heather almost chokes on her drink, the liquid bursting from her lips as she laughs. “He so fucking is—”

“Shouldn’t have told you bitches anything,” you groan, eyes still locked on Jack. He’s watching you back. ‘Fuck you too, old man,’ you hope your eyes say. Shaking his head and taking a sip of the foamless beer that’s been sitting on the bar counter, he shoots another dart. Sharp, precise, sure; looking in your eyes the whole time.

Bullseye.

From the speakers, Ciara has just begun singing about riding (the beat) with Ludacris. The song is familiar, the bass settling down your body like water. Your shoulders sway with it unconsciously, and with a last sour gulp of your lukewarm Margarita, you stand and grab Yolanda by the hand. She gets up with a start, a confused furrow settling on her brows, an easy smile curling at her lips.

“C’mon, Romeo,” you tell her over the music. “Scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?” Your eyes point to Santos, and Yolanda’s fall on Jack by the bar. She smirks, eyes narrowing in understanding. Atta girl.

“I market it so good,

They can’t wait to try-y-y me-e-e,

I work it so good,

Man, they tryna buy-y-y me.

They love the way I ride it,

They love the way I ride the beat,

How I ride the beat,

I ride it…”

Her hands are on your sides, your back against her chest, ass moving in tandem with her hips. Side to side, again and again, a dizzying whirl of motion that has your head reeling.

You picture it’s Jack behind you instead; his strong frame bracketing yours, his fingers digging in the meat of your hips, his breath on your neck. It’s all too easy to imagine as a shiver wrecks your frame.

Jack is watching. Your entire body burns with it; the weight of his gaze, the clench of his jaw, the cording of his muscles as they strain against his pulled-up sleeves. Fuck, he looks so good. Even at fifteen feet away, even in the dark, even in the chaos.

Eyes hooded and lipgloss smudged, you let Yolanda guide your body as you feel her head swerving back. Santos must be gawking, too.

Quid pro quo.

Ciara hasn’t finished singing when you see Jack pushing his way past the small crowd and to the back-door. You pout, laying a hand on Yolanda’s at your hip, motioning with your head towards the door. With a knowing look and a nudge, she sends you off.

“Go get ‘em,” she laughs.

Outside, the chill of the night feels like an old friend. Biting as your body adjusts to the temperature change, humidity giving way to the smallest of breezes. The pavement is cracked, the bottoms of your short heels weaving in-between.

Jack is leaning his back against his car that’s parked by the curb, dark and sleek, just like him. Waiting, like he knew you’d follow; maybe even hoped. And—just because the alcohol made you brave—perhaps even flushed at the sight of you grinding against someone that wasn’t him.

If you squint your eyes, you can almost pretend you’re outside the ER again, and he’s kissed you for the first time.

Stubborn, stubborn old man.

“Piss break?” you breathe. You were going for teasing, but your voice is hoarse from the tequila and all the yelling-to-be-heard inside. You don’t think the tone quite struck the landing.

He scoffs—a dark sound that lands right between your legs—and shakes his head, eyes gliding across your frame. Black polished heels, burgundy sheer tights; mini skirt tight around your thighs, fitted black blouse to match; hands littered with bracelets and rings. The you outside the hardass trauma surgeon clad in scrubs, outside the death and antiseptic that lingers for days at a time.

“Something like that,” he rasps. “You?”

“Something like that,” you echo.

A stretch of silence, the muffled beat of a strong bass still nagging in the atmosphere. His eyes on you, unmoving, anchoring, burning. Fuck. He looks so good like that, brooding because he’s fucking jealous.

Shit.

“I missed you,” you breathe, heels clicking as you inch closer. You see him shift, posture tightening, eyes still locked on yours.

“I’m sure you managed just fine,” he says slowly, clicking his lips. “Stan from Anesthesia, was it? He treat you right?”

You can’t help it, you literally cannot help it: you giggle. Tipsy, flushed, elated; palm shooting up to cover your lips. This fucking idiot. Damn all these past three days of silence, this is amazing. He’s so fucking jealous it makes your heart run like a racehorse, threatening to burst.

“You jealous, tiger?”

Brows lifting, nostrils flaring. “Yes.”

Oh. Oh, there he is. The trauma attending, the seasoned physician, the man who jumps headfirst into calamity and makes sure everyone’s unscathed.

“You idiot,” you snort, smile so wide it’s splitting your face in half. You’ve drifted closer, now; right in front of him, barely ten inches apart, hands ghosting over his tight biceps. He makes no move other than clenching his jaw, huffing a breath.

“Watch it.”

“Or, what? What’re you gonna do, big guy—?”

The way he grabs you has your stomach doing somersaults. One hand on your waist, the other burning on your nape, swivelling your positions in place as your back collides with the cold metal of the passenger door.

He’d cushioned the impact on your skull with his palm, a bulging forearm now stretching past the side of your face. You can see the vein that’s there. Fuck. The breath that punches out of you is half a whine, half a gasp. Equally desperate, disproportionately charged. Like a live wire. 

“This what you want?” he asks, low in his throat, two hazel pools of warmth nearly black as tar.

You smile, victorious. No point in holding anything back now, right? In for a penny, in for a pound. “He was a one-nighter back when I was a PGY2. A fuckin’ limp-dick who didn’t know what to do with his own hands, much less with me.”

Silence.

“…What?” He blinks, stupefied.

“Yeah, genius,” you smirk.

Oh, he actually looks in pain. Clenches his eyes shut, drops his head on your shoulder with a sigh so visceral it must’ve come from his gut. “Fuck. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is right, you bitch,” you hum, lids fluttering and smirk widening. Shit, the Margarita must’ve done a number on you. But his head lifts, and those bottomless pits surrounded by hazel are burning you again. He looks so pretty up close like this; you can trace every dip and wrinkle on his face, map it in your mind. His hair is so nice, have you mentioned before? Frames his face just so, thick and curly and salty and hot. So hot.

“You let me not talk to you for days—?”

“Nu-uh. Did that all by your lonesome, cowboy. But don’t worry. I like my men older, riddled with workaholism, and with ‘bout as much emotional intelligence as a brick wall.”

That last part? Again, not fair or factually true, but the alcohol has loosened your tongue way past the point of return. In vino veritas, but not always. Still, he doesn’t protest. He’s secure enough not to.

“You’re in luck then, baby. Got emotional baggage in fucking spades,” he mutters, gaze falling on the exposed expanse of your neck, head falling as his lips seek it out.

It knocks the breath right out of you, shocks the ground from under your feet, liquifies all logic in your brain. “‘Baby’?” you echo, voice a static sort of noise, trembling and broken.

You feel him humming against your neck, nipping at the skin, both his hands tightening on you, reeling you in further, pulling you in closer. “Mhm. I’m fucking sorry. For all of it.”

“Yeah, w–well, you fucking should be…”

“Uh-huh,” against your neck. Dizzying and electrifying.

“Jack…”

“What is it?”

Your hand had somehow found its way into his hair, curling around it at his nape, the other thrown over his shoulder, body arching into him. “Kiss me?”

And, he does. He really fucking does. And, somehow, it feels better than any other time. Every sense wired to the maximum, every brush of his button-up against the exposed skin of your arms, his mouth on yours; gasping and aching and perfect. You feel him swallowing every last bit of your lipgloss, the faint aftertaste of berry-tinted glitter sliding over your tongue.

You moan into him, open-mouthed and desperate. The pulse between your legs has worsened, thumping in tandem with the muffled beat of a song you can’t recall right now.

He breaks away with a sharp breath, and it’s like you feel it as it settles in his lungs. Eyes hooded, looking at you in a way that has you clenching around nothing. “How much have you had to drink?” he rasps.

“Just a watered-down Margarita. Fuckers ripped me off.”

He chuckles, you grin. And then, the hand on your nape drifts forward, so, so slowly. Curls around your throat—feather-light in its touch—thumb and pointer on each carotid. Not applying pressure, just… there. You heave out a breath as your lashes flutter. “What are you doing, Jack?”

“Did he touch you like this?”

“What?”

A kiss on your cheek, down to your jaw, up to your ear. His breath is hot against it. “Did he?”

“No,” you manage, one of your palms tightening around the hair at his nape, the other trailing up and down his strong side. “T–told you, he couldn’t touch me for shit.”

“Figured,” he hums. Leaning his head back to look at you fully, capturing your gaze and not letting it go. He purses his lips, grins. It makes the burning in your cheeks deepen.

You can do nothing but smile back, staring at him from under your lashes. The hand you were trailing down his side comes up, curling around his palm on your throat, pushing and making his hold on you tighten.

It feels heavenly. Two fingers pushing on your carotid, warm and big and firm. Already you feel the telltale signs of reduced-blood-flow induced bliss, and he’s barely even started. You feel your eyes nearly roll back as you moan, mouth closed tight and from within your throat. There’s a fire licking at your insides, spreading from your center and into every neuron.

“Yeah?” he mutters, voice teasing, light and heavy all at once. He lets his hold slacken, and the world comes into focus again.

You grin. Instead of an answer, you seek his lips. He meets you halfway, swiping his tongue against yours, and it’s so hard to think right now; with the breeze making your hairs stand, the heat that scorches your blood, the sounds that keep bubbling out of you and into his mouth.

Your hand is still on top of his palm on your neck, anchoring. Jack leans more of his weight on you, blanketing you under the golden yolks of flickering street-lamps. You break apart with an inhale, spit clogging your throat.

When he pulls back, he looks pained. Brows caving in, a groan clawing its way out of his chest. You feel the suffocating tendrils of concern wrapping around your limbs, and suddenly, anything else is forgotten. “Are you okay? Is it your leg? D’you wanna—”

“My leg’s fine,” he rasps, meeting your eyes. The hand on your neck falls back, grabbing yours and guiding it down. Past his chest, making you cup him through his cargo. Fuck. “This ‘s all you, baby.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He’s hard, painfully so, straining against the tough fabric as you push against him. It makes him suck in a breath, forehead falling against yours, hand on your waist pulling you in, sandwiched between his frame and the car door.

“Open the fucking car,” you mutter against his lips.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Deftly swipes a hand down his pocket, clicks the lock button on the remote, grabs the handle of the back door and holds it open for you. With a giggle and a breath, you get in, knees gliding against the back seats as he follows. Sloppily, you drag your tights and underwear from under your skirt and down your legs, huffing at the lack of space.

“Come here,” he says, door thumping shut behind him as you bunch your tights and panties in your palm, flinging them away haphazardly. Throwing a leg over his lap, you take one of the best seats in the house. There’s a hand on your naked skin, digging in the meat of your thigh. His other softly ghosts over the small of your back, where your blouse has ridden up, toying with the seam.

Just as you let your full weight fall—grounding yourself against his hard-on, skirt completely bunched up—he pushes up. Adjusts his stance in that way men do, spreading his thighs and lighting you on fire. His head tilts, seeking your eyes. He knows what he’s fucking doing.

“You got a condom?” you ask, hands around his neck, fingers weaving in his hair. You think he’ll say no, and you’ll kiss him and say, ‘I’m on the pill. There’s no one else. I need you.’

But, he surprises you. Huffs bashfully, reaches in his side-pocket, retrieves a single shiny foil package. Bunching your brows, your smile is devious as you tilt your head back at him, cooing: “What the hell is that?”

Is he fucking blushing? You can hardly tell in the darkness, but it feels like he might be.

“Robby may or may not have bribed Heather for intel.”

You gasp, playfully, smacking him softly on the shoulder. “Fucking snakes, all of you! I’m surrounded by goddamn sellouts.” But then, quieter, mellower: “You knew I was here? That’s why you came?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Sorry for the abrupt shut-out, the fleeting jealousy that wrecked through him faster than a bullet, the way he had no idea what the fuck to do with it.

You tut your lips, shaking your head. “Talk to me next time, alright, big guy?”

“Done,” he breathed, capturing your lips.

You melt against him, grounding your hips with a sigh he swallows, rocking your clothed center against his. With a shaky hand you snatch the condom from him, breaking the kiss. Watching with a bitten lip as he unfastens the cargo, pushes his pants and briefs down, wraps a hand around himself and sighs. His frame vibrates with it.

You put the condom on with little fanfare and a shaky palm, giggling breathlessly when you catch his eye. He kisses you, hands tight around your hips, guiding you forward.

And when you finally sink down on him, having him this way for the first time, it’s tectonic. Cataclysmic in the best of ways, devastating as you feel him stretching you, feeling full and warm and yours.

The sigh that leaves you is a broken thing, hot against his lips, eyes rolling back as he bottoms out. You’re pulsing with it, this need, slick and aching as his palms start guiding you into a steady rhythm.

“Fuck, Jack…” you whine against his lips when he starts rocking up, holding you still instead. Your head falls on the junction between his neck and shoulder; nipping at his skin, mouth falling apart when you feel him sneak his palm between your bodies, thumb catching on your clit and toying with it.

You’re scorching. Sensitive, hips swerving, chasing after a climax that draws nearer with each snap of his hips. His breaths are ragged next to your ear, deep and searing as you clench around him.

“Yeah?” he croons breathlessly, turning his head against your neck. “You feeling good, baby? Tell me, tell—”

“Y–yes,” you gasp out, backing up and sitting straighter. With a shaking hand, you grab the one that’s on your hip, making him wrap his fingers around your neck again.

It’s tethering, blistering, right. It’s showing you trust him in a way you haven’t yet explored together. It’s narrowing down the world to just his eyes as his fingers apply calculated pressure on your arteries; nothing existing past the heat of his gaze, his open lips, his breathless groans, his cock that’s still rocking inside you.

It lasts for a moment, and then it’s gone. Fingers slackening around your neck, his thumb rubbing the skin of your throat, your head swirling and swimming on cloud nine. A little harder to think, to feel time passing. It’s so fucking good it’s bordering on senseless.

“I’m gonna come,” you cry out as his fingers find your clit again, finding a rhythm and holding it; much like he locks someone’s gaze, much like he fixes crises before Surgery even gets the page.

“Do it,” he moans against your lips, “I wanna feel you. Do it, sweetheart, I know you can…”

He doesn’t speed up, he doesn’t slow down; he keeps hitting every motion steadily, surely, like making you come around him is as easy to him as breathing.

It’s only when you feel his hold tightening beneath your jaw again—when the world narrows into a slit, when your head starts swimming in a cloying haze, when each touch is cranked up to eleven—that you melt.

Shaking, writhing in his steady hold, falling down like jelly against his arms, his name on your lips and your tongue in his mouth. It spreads from the bud of your clit like tendril up your muscles, weaving between nerves and arteries like syrup. It leaves you spent.

He’s not far behind. With your body like putty in his hands, with your husky voice in his ear—nipping at him, whispering filth you’re not half-sure you even remember—he comes apart the only way he knows how. Sharp, intense, real. Keeps pushing against you through it, riding it out. The stimulation is dizzying, viscous and nearly too much.

Holy shit.

The car is quiet in the aftermath.

Windows fogged up, keys and underwear and a pair of burgundy tights you got on sale forgotten on the floor, breaths mingling in post-orgasmic haze.

It’s perfect. Or, better yet, it’s right.

His hands are on your back, curling around you completely as you try lifting yourself up. The movement is shaky, and his eyes shine when he catches onto it. His palm comes around, cupping your flaming cheek, thumb rubbing the skin with such softness you think you might actually die. The look on his face is worse, though. Soft, brows furrowed, drinking you in like he’ll go blind and this is his last chance at picturing you. Your chest swells with it, this… fuck, what even is it? 

Love feels like too big of a word, too scary; staring you down like the maw of a gaping gorge ready to drag you in its depths. But, like feels too small; too insignificant and wrong for the way he makes your heart surge, the way you look for him first in every room you walk in.

You don’t know right now, or you’re too fucked-out to think, or you do know and it just feels more like being held at gunpoint rather than a self-actualization. Whatever the fuck it is, you’ll figure it out later.

Right now, you just let your lips melt with his own, giggling as his stubble tickles you, huffing a moan together as he pulls out. Back in his place, you’re looking at him from where you’re leaning on his kitchen counter, eyes softening as he places the prosthetic against the arm of the couch, as he sighs and lies back into the cushions with a hand rubbing his aching skin. But then his voice rings out: “I got a new sugar pack, 500 grams. Try not to use it all, yeah?”

And you know. You know.

You love him.

(It’s fifteen minutes before 7AM, and slowly, the day crew has begun trickling in. First it was Dana, then Robby, then Yolanda. You handed patients off, updated last-minute details on the charts, exchanged hello’s and quips. Jack is at the nurses’ station, smiling as Dana tells him about a recipe whose name you missed. Just that it is a ‘must.’ He turns and looks at you, eyes softening around the edges, mouth quirking, dimples showing. You shoot a wink, and maybe, if you were asked, you could pass it off as aimed at Dana instead.

Perlah and Princess are watching; goddamn walking security cameras. You don’t mind, though. Maybe you can even fuck with them about the bet. 

Oh, yeah, the bet. When will Dr. Abbot and his favorite jockey finally drop their pants? Find out on page four in the ever-growing PTMC hot-goss column.

Bridget and Shen started it, and then it trickled over to the day shift, and you kind of love Robby and Garcia and Collins and Mohan for being tight-lipped about it. You actually believe it’s because they want the money for themselves, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

“D’you see that wink? You think they did it already?”

“Are you kidding me?! I got money on another week, tops.”

“Walk you home?” asks Jack.

“Yeah,” you grin, shooting a look over your shoulder just to watch two of your three favorite day-shift nurses fumble and flail. “Let’s go.”)

3leni © 2025 — i do not consent to my work being republished on other platforms or put into ai. do not copy or plagiarize.

[demoncrypt1066]

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

jack abbot

☆ these walls have eyes | @asxgard

rumors always start somewhere - and the one about you and a certain attending started somewhere between a whispered confession and myrna overhearing you.

☆ no man's land | @butyoudidthis4what

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.

☆ edge of the dark | @thepencilnerd

what starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer - until the only place it makes sense is in the dark.

☆ this city doesn't forget | @abbotjack

you weren't supposed to see him again. not like this. not in this dress, not in this city, not with his last name still catching in your throat. but pittsburgh remembers what you tried to bury.

☆ you, me, and the empty space between us | @mercvry-glow

jack abbot talks the reader off of the ledge.

☆ just a walk-in | @abbotsanatomy

jack's worst nightmare is you ending up in his er.

☆ bar fight | @tedmustache

a rough night leads the reader to the er, and jack's only priority is making sure she's okay.

☆ coffee swap | @tedmustache

it starts with coffee. then it becomes something more.

☆ safe and sound | @science-hoes

a stormy night in pittsburgh causes jack abbot to fall into a ptsd-induced psychosis episode, and the reader does everything in her power to bring them back.

☆ you say that like you care | @frombookstoretobookstore

after reader takes a punch to the face, abbot's emotions flare as he realizes he might care a little too much.

☆ overactive empathy | @lol-im-done

will a traumatic event force jack and the reader to confront their true feelings for each other or pull them apart forever?

☆ first thing | @stellamarielu

lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations.

☆ who you let in | @eddiesfaerie

jack has a soft spot. he didn't expect you to be the one to find it.

☆ you shouldn't be (down here with me) | @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.

☆ love me hard love me soft | @mercvry-glow

jack abbot isn't a soft man, but he'll learn for you.

☆ stop making this hurt | @mercvry-glow

you knew jack didn't want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

☆ valkyries and betting pools | @nocapesdahling

one of the most popular and secret betting pools is focused on what's going on with you and dr. abbot. meanwhile, you just want to figure out if the man you've had a crush on for months likes you back.

☆ someone new | @quickestgold

after witnessing the fallout from jack's failed marriage, dana and robby have been skeptical of his new relationship. but when a freak accident forces them to see the depth of jack's feelings, their perspectives shift.

☆ don't make me someone you can't have | @abbotjack

the fallout didn't start the day of pitt fest - it started when you told jack abbot how you felt and he told you he didn't want you.

☆ say it first | @quickestgold

jack has grown used to the emptiness in his heart, a quiet companion that has kept him safe for too long. but when you finally speak your truth, he realizes the hardest battles aren't fought on the field or in the chaos of the er, but in the silence between two hearts longing for each other.

michael 'robby' robinavitch

☆ companionship | @asxgard

he’s not sure how he got here, perhaps it’s the aching loneliness or the overwhelming stress. you’re there because it seems like easy money and you have a pushy friend. all in all, it’s a good deal — he gets the companionship he’s after, no strings, and you get your utility bills paid on time. it’s pretty simple, easy, until your arrangement bleeds into something a bit more…complicated.

☆ lead the way | @traumaone

after over a year of pining over robby, reader gets into a relationship to try and get over him, and gets cheated on. robby comes to the rescue.

☆ booked for one | @abbotjack

a black tie charity gala in chicago. one bed. months of tension. and a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

☆ glasses be damned | @thepencilnerd

lazy sunday mornings. you in his shirt. him wearing - glasses? what could be better?

☆ drunk confessions | @thepencilnerd

you're out drinking with your colleagues. robby's not there - until he is.

☆ sticky-notes and leftovers | @thepencilnerd

a glimpse into your daily notions with robby after moving in.

☆ sweet nothings | @thebestandworstdayofjune

you own a bakery down the street from ptmh, and dr. robby is one of your favorite customers.

☆ peace | @xximperioxx

the reader comforts robby after a hard shift (she talks him off the ledge).

☆ work crush | @xximperioxx

the reader has a crush on robby. spoiler alert: it's reciprocated.

☆ doctor's orders | @tedmustache

when one rough day pushes things to a breaking point, unspoken feelings come dangerously close to the surface.

☆ the right moment is you | @cherriready

robby didn't mean to propose today. not during a long shift, not without a plan, and definitely not in front of the er. but when he saw her, he saw the rest of his life. no speeches. no perfect moment. just her. always her.

☆ stitched together | @hauntedhowlett-writes

after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.

[demoncrypt1066]

jack abbot

masterlist • the pitt • 05/13/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs two

one

𑣲 soft spoken!reader I @erwinsvow

𑣲 falling asleep in jacks arms I @/erwinsvow

𑣲 jealous!reader I @/erwinsvow

𑣲 drabble I @/erwinsvow

𑣲 i can see you I @thecherrypittttttt

𑣲 peachy I @/thecherrypittttttt

the 4 times they didn’t get caught and the 1 time they did

𑣲 wrong name I @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

𑣲 baby, no I @dulcebloodhnd

𑣲 soak I @inknopewetrust

Jack knows how to cure the remnants of a difficult day.

𑣲 didn’t see that coming I @aquaholicsanonymousworld

𑣲 thinking of you I @poisonofthepaint

jack broke up with you because he said you needed someone younger. yet, he's still offended when he hears you're going on a date with someone else. you show up to his apartment to set the record straight.

𑣲 put him on speaker I @abbotjack

Jack gets home from a long night shift, exhausted and unreadable as always. When Robby calls for a quick update, you decide to test his patience—climbing into his lap and pushing until he breaks.

𑣲 baby name drabble I @spaceyaemonds

𑣲 quiet I @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.

𑣲 roommates I @candlelitea

you answer a small newspaper ad, which leads to you living with the one and only, Dr. Jack Abbot.

𑣲 drabble I @bookofbonbon

𑣲 the newlyweds I @yxtkiwiyxt

You and Jack are enjoying married life.

𑣲 gravity I @youvebeenlivingfictional

Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

𑣲 you shouldn’t be (down here with me) pt2 I @/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.

𑣲 just in case I @kilojulietsierra

He had given Robby so much shit about Collins. "Really brother? One of your residents?" Then you had put in a request to move to the night shift and Robby had fucking signed off on it.

𑣲 young at age, old in heart I @ohtobeleah

Jack Abbots unlikely affinity for the younger PT down at the VA starts to really spiral out of control when she’s brought in during a mass casualty event.

𑣲 night shift!reader I @mercvry-glow

𑣲 really very bad day I @abbotsanatomy

𑣲 the favorite I @midnghtprentiss

all the times you were everyone's favorite person and one time you were jack’s person. 

𑣲 trauma surgeon!reader I @vanilleandclove

pittsburgh has a vibrant pub scene, being of true east coast fashion. when it’s playoff season for the steelers, that can only lead to bar brawls and broken tooths, most times. sometimes it’s bloody knuckles and misogynists. + as jack’s 49th birthday is around the corner, you book him a solo-vacation.