punksnotdeadbutiam

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Toy Dinosaurs (Hurt Comfort!Abbot and Robby)

Summary: Robby talks you off the roof and into joining him and Jack on the Park Bench.

(mention of gun violence, mention of bad cases, mention of grief and loss, hurt comfort, Robby being a silly guy, Jack comforting you in the only way he knows to. mention of Jack having a crush on you.)

Losing a kid as a healthcare worker is horrible. they’re so young, full of life and the next minute they’re coding. so many years ahead of them gone. no more birthday. no more being on Santa’s naughty or nice list. no more believing in the easter bunny.

Tonight an absolute father of the year came into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical after deciding to shoot himself and his 5 year old son. Despite everything you did, that little boy didn’t make it. Neither did the father.

You needed to get away from everything, especially after telling the mother of the boy. who had been separated from the dad and shared custody of their only son. Which made things only so much worse on you and her. Not only did you have to tell her that her ex is dead but that her only son is also dead.

So there you stood against the anti-suicide railing on the ledge of the hospital roof, trying to take in the fresh air and the lights of the city. When Robby noticed you weren’t on the ED floor. in the breakroom or on-call room. He had a suspicion he knew exactly where he’d find you. “getting some air” as their mutual friend would call it.

“You’re in Jack’s spot, Kid.” Robby’s voice has his usual softness despite the weight of the day shift having taken a toll on him as well.

He steps closer, leaning against the railing next to you while staring out at the city lights, his voice rough with exhaustion but deliberately calm.

"Jack always comes up here when we lose one. Says the height makes him feel like he can breathe again." he exhales sharply through his nose, not looking at you yet "Tried telling him it’s a shit coping mechanism. Roof access is technically restricted for a reason—but he never listens. Neither do I."

he pauses, then finally turns his head just slightly toward you, keeping his tone deceptively casual despite the quiet intensity in his eyes.

"You gonna tell me what happened? Or am I supposed to pretend I didn’t see my best resident crying on a ledge like some dramatic medical drama reject?" Robby’s way of handling it is with sarcasm and humor. If you laugh, you can’t cry.

she laughs softly and all watery, “that little boy.. and his dad…”

Robby doesn’t react to the laugh, just keeps his gaze steady on you, voice lowering.

"Yeah. Heard about that." There's a beat of silence before he shifts, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s bracing himself against the cold—or maybe the weight of it all, "Kid never stood a chance. And that piece of shit father? I would've punched him myself if he wasn’t already dead."

Suddenly turns fully toward you, sharp but not unkind, "But listen—you did everything right. Saw the chart. Hell, I wouldn’t have done anything different." His jaw tenses briefly before he adds, quieter, "That mother? She needed someone to tell her straight. Not some admin drone mumbling through ‘protocol.’ You gave her that."

she gives a soft smile that barely stays for a second before her lip quivers, “I cried in front of her- you’re never supposed to do that…”

Robby scoffs, but it lacks any real bite—more tired than anything, "Bullshit. You think I haven’t?" he leans in just slightly, voice dropping to a gruff whisper, "The first time I cried in front of a family, it was a fourteen-year-old girl. Hit by a drunk driver. Her mom held me up after coding her for forty minutes."

he takes a hard swallow, then he straightens again, shrugging like it’s nothing when his eyes say otherwise "Point is—you care. That’s why you’re good at this. And if some pencil-pusher gives you shit for ‘unprofessionalism,’ send ’em to me."

she nods leaning against the railing still on the ledge, “He just turned 5.. I held his hand while you tried to help him.. He told me he loved dinosaurs…” she sniffles and tears up, “I don’t even know when but he put his dinosaur in my scrub shirt pocket-” her breath catches like she’s gonna sob.

his breath hitches almost imperceptibly before he reaches out, fingers brushing your elbow—not pulling, just anchoring. His voice cracks a little when he speaks.

"the kid gave you a dinosaur?" a rough chuckle escapes him, but his eyes are glassy in the city lights. "That’s—fuck." He scrubs a hand over his face, buying time to steady himself. "Look... you keep that. You hear me? And next time Gloria tries to tell you this job’s about ‘detachment,’ you shove that damn dinosaur in her face and walk away"

Robby suddenly nudges your shoulder with his own, forcing lightness into his tone, "Also? Jack owes me twenty bucks now. Bet him you wouldn’t last six months without crying over a patient.."

“never understood treat em and street em.”

Robby snorts, shaking his head, "Because you don’t see patients as cases and most docs burn out trying to avoid thinking about them like that." he leans his weight against the rail, staring into the distance as he speaks more to himself than you, "But we’re all just human, in the end." he lapses into silence, the sounds of the city below filling the space between you for a few long moments.

Finally, he nudges you again, this time almost gentle. "Look, you gonna stand up there brooding all night or do you want a drink?”

“Jack is already sitting on the park bench isn’t he?” They do this sometimes, after tough shifts the pitt crew sits across the street from the hospital on the park bench and drinks a beer. It started as a tradition for the full shift crew, but sometimes Jack does it just for himself and Robby and now it’s become the three of them.

Robby grins, the first real one all night, and jerks his thumb toward the stairwell "Yep. Stole my usual spot too—bastard’s got my beer and the armrest." he starts walking backward a few steps, raising an eyebrow at you, "You coming? Or do I gotta tell Jack his favorite resident’s sulking solo like some tragic indie film protagonist?"

he pauses halfway to the door, voice dropping into something softer but still teasing, "He brought those shitty pretzels you like. And before you ask—no, he didn’t ‘forget’ to bring those spicy chips this time."

she laughs, ducking under the railing and grabbing her stethoscope that she hung there. “alright alright twist my arm why don’t you.”

he laughs as he holds the rooftop door open for you, shaking his head "You leave that thing out here one more time and I’m tossing it in the biohazard bin. Seen enough kids panic over ‘lost’ equipment to last a lifetime." His grin sharpens as he adds, "Besides, Jack’ll never let you live it down if security fishes it off some poor pedestrian’s head one day."

he nudges you ahead of him into the stairwell, voice echoing slightly in the concrete space—lighter now, almost warm, "Move your ass. Those pretzels aren’t gonna eat themselves.

she laughs and rapidly rushes down the stairs, “you know for an old man-” she starts and Robby cuts her with a laugh.

Robby easily matching your pace despite the insult, "I’m forty-two, and you can take that ‘old’ crap to Jack. He’s the one getting gray hairs, not me." he slows as you round the corner, his tone shifting from light-hearted ribbing to something more sincere.

Robby pauses at the exit, voice lowering into something rough and honest "But if you ever wanna talk about it—the bad days, the shitty decisions, how to not let this job eat you alive—you know where my office is."

she shoulders her backpack and nods, pushing through the waiting room looking around at how it’s already full again.

Robby follows you out, eyeing the busy waiting room with a grimace but trying to keep the mood light. "See? I’m telling you—one of these days I’m gonna smuggle some whiskey in a hip flask, just to keep from going insane." he pauses to let you step through the doors first, grumbling good-naturedly, "But if you tell anyone I said that, I will deny deny deny."

As the two of you emerge into the evening air, he slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a brief but firm side-hug before releasing you to stride.

They check both ways before walking across to the park where Jack is sitting with a small soft cover cooler and the pretzels.

Robby slips his hands into his pockets to keep from stealing any pretzels yet, nodding toward Jack as the two of you approach.

"Told you he’d steal my spot. And open the chips before I got here." he jabs a thumb at you playfully, "Had to fish this one off the roof before she started reciting Shakespeare up there."

Robby stands next to Jack, grabbing a pretzel and popping it into his mouth with a low groan of relief* "Longest. Shift. Ever."

she rolls her eyes, “to be or not to be that is tonight’s question.” she moves to sit by Jack, it's natural and casual now. almost expected.

Jack lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head as he shoves the bag of pretzels toward you. "Oh great, now we’ve got two dramatic idiots on our hands." He smirks and takes a swig of beer before adding, "Between Robby’s ‘I don’t do feelings’ act and your rooftop soliloquies, I don’t know how the ER hasn’t collapsed under the weight of all this melodrama yet."

Robby flips him off but can't hide his grin as he grabs another pretzel. "Hey, at least she didn't quote Grey's Anatomy. That's where I draw the line."

She laughs and grabs a pretzel. “fair point.” she looks at jack, “do i have to beg for a beer or something?” She may be 24, but Jack and Robby still treat her like a kid.

Jack narrows his eyes, pretending to consider it while slowly sliding a beer your way. "I dunno… you do call me middle-aged." He flicks the cap off with his thumb and hands it over anyway, grinning. "Consider this a pity drink—for surviving Robby’s ‘inspirational’ rooftop pep talks."

Robby scoffs and snatches the beer from Jack before passing it properly to you, muttering, "Don't listen to him. You earned this one today." His tone softens just for a second, "...Kid gave you his dinosaur. That's worth more than some lousy hospital policy speech."

she nods, raising her beer, “to toy dinosaurs, Jack’s go bag and hating Gloria.”

Jack lifts his beer with a sharp grin— "And to Gloria’s inevitable, slow bureaucratic downfall." He clinks his bottle against yours before taking a swig.

Robby follows suit, shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, "That woman’s gonna give me an aneurysm one of these days." But there’s no real heat in it—just the usual tired camaraderie of shared grievances.

After a beat, he nudges your knee with his boot, voice dropping into something quieter, "Seriously though… you held that kid’s hand. That matters more than any of this other bullshit."

she pulls the dinosaur from her scrub pocket, “this matters the most..”

Robby exhales sharply through his nose, like the weight of that little plastic dinosaur just hit him all over again. He doesn’t reach for it—just stares for a second before tipping his beer toward it in a silent toast.

Jack, ever the pragmatist, leans forward with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Better hide that before Gloria confiscates it as ‘unprofessional contraband.’"

But Robby cuts in before he can lighten the mood further, voice rough, "Nah. You keep it right where they can see it." There's a beat of silence before Robby continues, "Remind ‘em what we’re actually here for."

she tucks it back into her pocket and takes a sip of her beer, “thank you for this… both of you.”

Jack waves a hand, brushing aside the gratitude with a shrug, "You're the one who had to hold a dying kid's hand while our idiot over here tried to save him."

Robby's mouth drops into a shocked ‘o’ before he shoves Jack, hard, nearly toppling him off the bench. "I don't recall you leaping in to help, jackass!"

Jack shoves back without missing a beat, laughing as they tussle like two overgrown children. "Not my fault they don't teach you not to fight amputees in med school!"

she laughs, “enough both of you.”

They break apart immediately, both looking faintly sheepish but still grinning. Robby straightens his scrubs with exaggerated dignity while Jack wipes beer foam off his chin.

"You’re right, you’re right," Jack concedes, raising his hands in surrender. "We’ll save the wrestling for after we finish these beers."

Robby rolls his eyes but bumps your shoulder lightly with his own—his version of an apology for nearly starting a brawl on a park bench. "Fine. But next time Gloria gives you shit about ‘emotional detachment,’ I’m telling her you ugly-cried during The Lion King."

she laughs, “Jack, you cried during Lion King?”

Jack sputters, glancing between you and Robby with mock indignation. "Hey, hey, hey—let’s stick to the facts here. I did not cry, I just… had some dust in my eyes."

Robby grins, taking a swig of beer as he leans in, voice dropping to a stage-whisper, "He sobbed. Like, full-on ugly snotty sobs."

Jack elbows him in the ribs, trying and failing to scowl seriously, "I’m revoking your beer privileges."

she smiles and her head rests on Jack’s shoulder, “who knew you had it in you to cry over Mufasa.”

Jack's smile softens as he shifts to make room, his arm settling comfortably around your shoulders without thinking, "Eh, what can I say? Even hardasses like me have a few soft spots."

He pauses to take a sip of beer before admitting, more quietly, "Besides, Simba’s little meltdown over his dad always gets to me too. Maybe 'cause I had to watch my old man die on a hospital bed like that." He clears his throat, shrugging off the sudden heaviness with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

She nods and stays curled to Jack on the bench. the three of you were close but something about her and Jack, you couldn’t put a finger on.

Robby catches the quiet shift between you two, his sharp eyes flickering from your curled-up form to Jack’s uncharacteristic softness. He doesn’t say anything—just smirks into his beer like he’s filing the moment away for future blackmail material.

But then Jack abruptly nudges you upright with a gruff chuckle, breaking whatever spell had settled over him, "Alright, kid. Don’t get too comfy—I still gotta walk my old man bones home tonight." His voice is light, but there’s something deliberate in the way he puts space between you again.

Robby finally interjects with an exaggerated eye roll, "God, you two are worse than Grey's Anatomy. Drink your beer before I start quoting malpractice statistics to kill the mood."

She laughs and gets up, “you two be safe okay?” she smiles at Jack, “and thanks for bringing the stupid pretzels i like.” She looks at robby, “and thanks for not leaving me on the roof alone.”

Jack grins and drains the last of his beer, tossing the empty bottle into the nearest trash can with a wink. "No promises on the ‘safe’ front—but we'll try to avoid mortal peril tonight. And don't let Robby fool you; he's secretly a big softie under the grumpy surface."

Robby just scoffs but doesn't deny it, finishing his own beer and rising to join the two of you. "Yeah, yeah. Keep telling people that, and I'm putting a 'Kick Me' sign on your ass next shift."

She laughs and shakes her head as she picks her backpack back up, “Goodnight Jack, Goodnight Robby.” she calls as she walks away down the pathway towards her shitty apartment that’s a couple blocks from PTMC.

Jack watches you go with a rare, unguarded smile before calling after you, "Text us when you get in—or I’m sending Robby to hunt you down!"

Robby flips him off but yells after you anyway, his voice cutting through the night, "And don’t let your neighbor steal your mail again! I’m not stitching up another one of your ‘I fought a package thief and lost ’ injuries!"

As soon as he can't see you anymore, he turns on Jack with a smirk. "So. You two gonna keep doing this weird tension thing forever? Because frankly, it's exhausting to watch."

Jack shrugs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Robby sees it, the cuddling in disguise as comfort, the mumbling in her ear praise after yelling at her about a bad call, the eye contact. the tension.

Robby just rolls his eyes, his tone casual but still digging for info, "Yeah, yeah—keep telling yourself that. You realize the whole hospital’s betting pool is basically just ‘Ways Jack and Y/n will admit they’re into each other?’”

He pauses, eyeing Jack like he’s reading something that nobody else can see. Then, deliberately, "And you realize that if you keep running scared from this... she might not wait around forever?”

That thought alone makes Jack freeze, it's almost imperceptible but Robby knows him well enough. The thought of missing out and you ending up with someone that isn’t him... hurts.

But Robby leans in, pressing the advantage like a hunter closing in on wounded prey—even if the wounds are all self-inflicted.

"Look, I'm not saying you've gotta jump her in the supply closet. Just... maybe start with asking her out like a normal person. I hear ‘dinner’s nice— even better on a day you guys didn't have to pronounce someone dead on the table."

Jack nods gruffly, “okay okay i get it- but she’s just a kid. I feel like a dirty old man liking her.” Jack is 43 and has a full head of gray hair. His biggest concern is If they went on a date people might think she’s his daughter not his date.

Robby rolls his eyes but relents, letting the subject drop with a smirk—for now. "Whatever you say, old man. Just saying... the dinosaur in her pocket says you might not be the only idiot with a crush."

He gives Jack a playful slap on the back before starting toward the hospital parking lot, "Now come on—I'm starving, and the pretzels aren't nearly enough to drown out the memory of that kid's face."

so Jack goes with him to the nearest 24/7 diner. It's shitty food but it’ll kill some sort of ache in them with something comforting. It's a way to end the night before they go on and do another shift.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Aurafarming

So this came from a convo me and Ryan (@nerdofeverythingforthecenturies ) were talking about this, so.. enjoy

wc: 0.981 k

Warnings: Our boy is on the roof, so a lil of suicidal tendencies??, a little piece of angst, a little fluff, no smut. The reader is like Javadi; they started very young in medicine.

pairing: Jack Abbot x Resident!reader

You always admire Dr. Jack Abbot. 

The way he cares for his patients and the people around him.

His quiet strength that he uses to make everyone around feel secure and comfortable with the uncomfortable, especially you, a person who is way younger than the other Senior Residents.  

Today, you saw another side of Dr. Jack Abbott, the side of a man haunted by something from his past. You see him storm out of the room when it was confirmed that his patient was stable.

When you go to the central area and ask the charge nurse for him.

“Where is Dr. Abbot ?”. You ask her 

She tells you plainly with a sigh, “ Taking some air.” She bites her lip a little, trying to hide the nerves. 

The last patient came in black and blue with all sorts of fractures, and you saw that Jack recognized the man in tattered clothes, his cheekbones sharper than usual, a man who lives a rough life in the streets of Pittsburgh, who used the last of his strength to walk into the Pitt and passed out. 

Jack knows who the man is. He would recognize every face that served with him. He goes to the V.A., volunteer, helps veterans, but there was always one person missing. Today he sees one of his, beaten to a pulp, now stable, but was fighting for his life just a few minutes ago. He focuses on bringing him to a stable condition, but Jack can’t breathe, his mind running so fast, and a weight so heavy in his heart and bones. He needed air fast. He all but climbed the two steps at the time just to go to the roof. 

He goes over the barricade, and he stays there at the edge, breathing in and out. He could recover a few pieces of who he was and put himself together. He has a good life, why can’t his fellow brother-in-arms have the same? He tried not to think and breathe, focus on your breathing, Jack, focus, he tells himself. 

You don’t know where he went, you want to ask him if he is O.K 

Sarah, one of the nurses, sees you looking for him, and she hopes that you can support Abbot.

“Hey”, she calls you. 

“You didn’t hear this from me”, she whispers.

“The roof”, she continues while pointing up to the ceiling with her finger. 

“Thank you”, you nodded and went up the stairs. 

When you finally get upstairs to the roof. You see him standing straight on the other side of the barricade. 

Instead of a man, clearly at the edge of the roof, debating whether to take the final step. He looks like that one painting of the man at the top of the highest mountain. Like the city is his. His straight posture, hand in his pockets.

“ Really? You have to aura farm all the fucking time even when you are dangling off the  fucking roof”, you say it with a little faux disgust. 

Jack knew someone was behind; he had lost track of time and thought it was Robby, but when he heard your voice, he was thrown out of the loop. 

“What the hell, did you just say to me, aura-what ?”, Jack quizzes with confusion and frankly a little pissed that his brooding was thrown off. He could never understand the younger people and their sayings.

You cringe, scrunching your face and slapping your forehead. But if cringe helps to save a man from the roof, so be it. 

“Aurafarming,  you state, regretting every word. 

“ Please forget everything I said, we need you back there”, your voice wavering. 

“What the hell does that mean, aurafarm?” he chuckles, the last word sounding so alien to his ear. He turns to you.  

“It means that you are effortlessly cool all the time, so much that it stacks up like points in a video game.. You do that all the time, and it is..wow.. You administering care while donating blood.. You take a deep breath.. Yep, Aurafarming.., putting in practice that experimental procedure from the annals of Emergency Medicine.. While teaching Mohan and me about it.. Aurafarming.., you ramble, trying to think of more examples and get him off of this roof.  

He cracks his neck, takes a deep breath, and his smirk bubbles up into a laugh.. A good laugh. You have to laugh, too, seeing those crinkles around his eyes reappear. Those laugh lines. It is the first time you see him in a different light. He looks at you. He has to laugh. You think he would jump off this roof, and you are distracting him. It is cute to be reminded of the naivety one has when they are your age. 

Maybe it is the light of the city nightlife that shines on him. The way those laugh, lines, crows feet come forward with how hard he laughs. His greying hair, it's the first time you see him as a handsome man and not just your attending.

You don’t know if he is laughing with you or at you, so your laugh comes off as insecure, but you are happy that you can lighten his sour mood. His laugh is a little higher-pitched than you would imagine from his usual raspy voice.

He climbs the barricade and comes to you. He puts a hand on your shoulder and he squeezes it. His laugh calmed down. “ Thank you, kid, I needed that laugh.. aurafarming .. huh”, he smiled. You just nod, still cringing on the inside. 

“Come on, the circus doesn’t stop, we have to continue”, he encourages you to walk to the exit and down the stairs to come to the Pitt ready to confront another night, morning full of patients. 

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

someone else- j.abbot

summary: you come back from a shitty weekend to an even shittier monday with rumours of your kind-of-boyfriend being into someone else. it only gets worse when an aggravated patient gets his hands on you, and jack doesn't even know.

pairing: jack abbot x fem! doctor! reader (probs late twenties/ early thrities)

warnings: reader gets hurt, jack is an oblivious arsehole, general hospital things, general Pitt themes, robby and dana are saints, no mohan slander :)

a/n: hey yall...! back from the dead (aka writer's block). I'm in love with the pitt so please send in some requests or just lmk what yall think of this :) banners from my good friend @no-144444 ! gif from ho-ii

Imagine how you felt, walking into that fucking breakroom, exhaustion pulling at your eyelids as you somehow pushed past the tiredness and pain that shot through you with every step, and everyone was talking about Jack and someone else. 

The lounge was a cacophony of “They were totally hitting it off-”  and “Abbot’s sooooo into her-”. For a split second, you thought it was about you, that maybe, just maybe he’d finally had the balls to tell someone other than Robby or Dana or Makay, finally made you feel like something other than a dirty little secret. Then the name Mohan popped up, and your jaw dropped, despite the way you wanted to seem unphased. Of fucking course he moved onto someone else, moved onto another fucking resident. You just rolled your eyes and continued on your way, sugary coffee in your hand that tasted closer to cardboard than vanilla, but you drank it anyway. You needed it, after the weekend you’d had. You’d missed the mass casualty, only because of a funeral of your own. Your sister. 23. Dead. You hadn’t told Jack yet, it still sounded weird in your ears. She was only 5 years younger than you. It made something like bile rise in your throat, but you were already at the nurses station, so you swallowed it back and smiled at Dana, a black eye and a tired expression hanging off her own features. 

“Long weekend?” you asked, setting your coffee down on your desk. Some people forgot emergency medicine was like all other forms of medicine, admin-heavy. She leaned against your shoulder, relieved to see you. 

“The longest,” she admitted, clinging to you like she wasn’t sure you wouldn’t bolt if she let go. Maybe you would if you saw him. “Talked to Jack yet?” She asked, seemingly sensing it. You rolled your eyes and massaged your temples, a migraine already building. She chuckled. “What’d he do this time?” She teased, and you didn’t even know what to say. You didn’t even know what he did, but you already knew you felt like a second choice, and you fucking hated that. You felt unwanted. For fuck’s sake, neither of you had actually admitted you two were dating, just labelling it as ‘fooling around’ like you were carefree teenagers. You knew you should’ve pushed him to admit it, pushed him towards being real with you. But you saw how it disinterested him. So you didn’t. You just walked beside him was you both decompressed from your days of torture in the Pitt, then followed him up ot his apartment, and helped him make dinner or hold him as he sobbed. Or he’d hold you. 

“Just tired,” you shook your head. “Migraine coming in already.” You chuckled like it was funny at all, but you both knew it wasn’t. She patted your shoulder and nodded. 

“Well, people need you,” she sighed. “Even if I need you more,” she whispered that last part, a bright smile on her lips as she took delight in making you smile. You rose up from your desk, gave her a quick but tired smile, and walked into your first patient, a 14 year old boy with abdominal pain, a simple case of appendicitis, you let Whittaker take the lead with the case. God, he looked tired. You’d only met the boy that day, but he looked like he’d already been through the wars. He probably had. Everyone had that week of panic, that week of wondering if any of this is worth it, if the stress and pain is worth the sacrifice of your sanity and wellbeing. Some people, like you, decide it is. Others don’t. You don’t judge either. You could see that Whittaker was a stayer though, and that made you smile, you needed more sensitive people here, people who still have it in them to care. You felt the exam room as an alarm sounded, ready and willing to help, when you saw them. Walking in together. 

Mohan had been around for a while, she was sweet, you really liked her. It had taken some coaxing, but you'd convinced her to go out to drinks with you, and you’d become fast friends, bonding over shared trauma of the Pitt and dead fathers. She was sweet, and she cared. Jack had his bag slung over his shoulder, an easy smile on his lips as he listened to her talk. Dana stared too. Robby’s hand on your back rerouted you to the coding patient, and suddenly the thoughts of Jack and Samira fell away as your shift got more and more hectic, new patients coming in, more complicated cases requiring you specifically. Robby kept his eye on you as you went about your day, and you noticed. Those tiny looks of concern he sent to everyone when he knew they were past their breaking point. 

A case came in. Aggravated man. Some sort of stabbing. He was on something. You didn’t listen, just rushed to help. You had hands around your throat before you knew what was happening. The tarmac hit the back of your head so hard you thought you might’ve vomited, but soon adrenaline rushed through your body as his body pushed against yours, hands around your neck as he cleanly cut off your air supply. The paramedics tried to pull him off, only able to do so when Robby ran out, more fear in his eyes than you’d ever want to see, and you reminded yourself that you’d never want to be one of Robby’s patients. The guy was taken away and sedated. It was Cassie who pulled you off the ground, Robby already busy trying to get back inside to help with something else going wrong, you were sure. You spluttered out a few coughs as the pain bloomed in your throat and neck, and your migraine somehow got worse. 

She offered you a sad smile. “Can I examine you?” she asked tentatively. 

“No beds,” you answered, your voice hoarse and painful. She shook her head. 

“There’s always one for one of us,” she draped one of your shoulders over hers and helped you inside. Everyone started, patients and doctors and nurses alike, everyone was looking. Dana shook her head, and you knew there was rage running through her veins, but neither of you could do anything now. You just wanted to sit, to be in a room that didn’t have bright white lighting, to be alone. Cassie pulled you into an exam room and sat you down, checking everything. She ordered a CT, just to check your head and neck, but everything else was fine. She bandaged up the cut on your elbow, and sent you up to CT. 

You sat there, eyes watering as you just endured. Endured the day, endured the pain, endured everything. You didn’t think he’d be up here, you thought he’d be downstairs, working with patients. Your heart stopped when you heard his voice. 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed out. It was followed with a chuckle. “Mohan, you scared the shit out of me.” He smiled, that stupidly attractive smile that made you want to run over there and hit him, or maybe kiss him. There they were, outside CT, probably waiting on patients. Their conversation flowed easily, chemistry oozing, flirty comments dropping from Mohan’s mouth like water from a tap. He didn’t shut it down. He just smiled and blushed. He fucking blushed. 

“Dr. Y/n Y/l/n?” One of the nurses called your name out, and you stood, holding your waiver as you readied yourself for your CT. You didn’t look back to see his reaction, hell, you doubted he heard it. She took one look at you, Maria was her name, one of your first colleagues when you worked upstairs in the Paediatrics ward for your first round all those years ago, before you chose the insanity of the Pitt. She frowned. “What happened?” 

You chuckled but it wasn’t funny, and it didn’t sound right. “Patient got upset,” you shrugged. She nodded, understanding exactly what you meant. Everyone had been assaulted, you were sure of it. It was appalling the treatment you all got, like you weren’t risking your own lives and well-being to make others alright. She set you up in the machine and left you to your thoughts for a moment. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” The venom in Robby's voice pulled Jack from his conversation with Yolanda. He turned and stared, confused. 

“You needed me? Why didn’t you call-?” Jack questioned, but Robby cut him off, pulling him into an empty on-call room.

“Y/n needed you. She got fucking choked half to death and you were nowhere to be found,” Robby let out one of those awful, disappointed laughs before continuing. “I mean, fuck’s sake Jack. You talk to me about marrying the girl, and you’re too swept up in Mohan to realise she hit her head off the ground so hard we sent her straight up to CT. Her neck is black and blue.” 

Everything had stopped in Jack’s world. His breathing, his brain, his body, it all just stopped. You were hurt and you’d needed him, he’d missed you in CT somehow, and he hadn’t known. He cursed himself. His eyes watered despite himself, and he swallowed hard. “W-what happened?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“She got attacked by a patient. Out in the ambulance bay. He jumped off the gurney and on top of her and just started squeezing her throat,” the recount was violent and harsh, but he needed to hear it like that, realise how scary it was, and how terrible it was that he wasn’t there. He nodded, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. God, he wanted to sob. He wanted to scream. He hated this fucking place. He hated it. Robby shook his head. “She’s in CT. Go.”

Jack’s feet moved before he registered they were. Dana sent him a scowl as he rushed towards the elevators, his heart beat  much higher than it should’ve been. The doors opened, and there you were. Hand prints on your throat. Papers in your hand. A tired and slightly unreadable expression on your face. Your eyes widened when you saw him. A tear slipped through his lashes when he saw you. One of his hands reached out… but you just walked on. No acknowledgement. No smile. No teasing comment or whispered dirty talk in his ear. Just blank. Just tried. He blinked. He turned, his eyes searching the room for you again. You were at the nurse’s station with Robby and Dana, probably showing them your scan, trying to prove you were well enough to work. Robby shook his head, and you dropped your head to the counter, Dana’s hand slipping between your forehead and the wooden surface just in time to stop yourself from injuring yourself further. He walked over, his eyes glued to the document. 

“I’m fine,” you argued. “I just want to work to keep my mind off it.” You showed them your totally clear CT scan, well, clear other than the tiny skull fracture you’d received from your attacker. 

Robby looked at you, his eyes caring and soft. They hardened when he saw Jack. He cleared his throat. “Good of you to finally join us, Dr. Abbot,” he bit out, that venom from earlier glaringly apparent. He didn’t miss the way you stiffened and he gulped. “Dr. Y/l/n here wants to continue working.” 

“Baby,” he let it out before he knew what he was even saying, and covered it with a cough. “Come on, just let me drive you home and you can come back in tomorrow,” he said it low, and you felt that pang of pain in your chest again, as that voice in your head screamed at you. He’s ashamed, the voice spoke. You pursed your lips. 

“Dana, can you drive me home?” you asked, pleadingly. Jack took in a sharp breath. Dana looked between the two of you. 

“I think you two need to talk.” She said definitively. She and Robby offered you hugs and pitying smiles, and Robby death-glared Jack as he helped you pack up your stuff. 

The car was cold, but that was to be expected in the dead of the Pittsburgh winter. You stared at your own breath as Jack got the car running, your car, but he’d insisted on driving. The slice wasn’t awkward, it was charged, tense. Like you both things you had to say, and not all of it was nice. He chucked your bags in the backseat with a huff, and turned the keys in the ignition. But he didn’t pull away, didn’t pull out of the staff car park, didn’t move, really. He had so much he wanted to say, so many things he had to be sorry for. He didn’t know where to start, but all those sessions with his therapist ran through his mind about conflict resolution, about caring for people, about accountability. He took in a deep breath and blew it back out, then he turned to you. 

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” he breathed out, taking your hand in the low-light of the parking lot. “I should’ve been, God, I should’ve been. I just, I don’t know-”

“You were with Mohan,” you nodded, staring straight ahead. Your eyes were wide as he raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been with Mohan all fucking ay,’ you shook your head, a sick looking smile creeping onto your lips. “I guess it was a matter of time, right?” you asked, turning to him. You met his eyes, full of confusion, but you pressed on anyway. “We always had an expiration date, I suppose. Some new resident was always going to be more interesting than me.” You shrugged like you didn’t care, but you did. You hated this, hated not feeling wanted or cared about, or even fucking noticed. 

He stared at you like you’d slapped him with his scarlet letter, his heart stinging as he tried to control the bile in his throat. Him and Mohan? No way. He admired her as a doctor, and yes, he heard the flirty comments, but he didn’t like her, not like that at least. Not in the way he bled and died for you, but he’d always been too scared to admit it, so he didn’t. He nodded when you said you two were casual, just fooling around, like some fucking careless teenagers. He pretended it didn’t bother him when he watched Mateo wink at you, or see the way you looked up to Robby like something more than a mentor, but he trusted you. Fuck, he loved you. His mouth dropped open as his heart stung. “What the fuck does that mean?” His voice was lower than usual, deep and dangerous. Like it was when you’d been teasing him all day and then decided to play a game of cat and mouse for him to find you though the hospital. 

“I mean, I get it, I’m not the shiny new toy anymore,” you crossed your arms. You knew you were lashing out, but you couldn’t do it. He spent all fucking day with her. He was in CT while your name was called. He just didn’t hear, or he didn’t care. “Maybe you’ll actually tell someone other than your most trusted friends about you and her, and she won’t have to feel like such a fucking secret.” You added out of pure spite. You hated sneaking around. You hated feeling like you had to hide the fact that your heart beat for him. 

His face changed. He stiffened. “You’re not a secret,” he shook his head and you laughed, so he cupped your chin and turned you towards him. He had that hardened look in his eyes. You gulped back some tears and listened, so sure he was about to break up with you. Hand you some bullshit about workplace relationships or his trauma that excused him perfectly. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, damn it. I love you, Y/n Y/l/n. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there today, and I’m sorry I’ve made you feel like this, but don’t ever think I want anyone else. You’re it for me. You’re everything,” his voice was harsh and coated in emotion. You searched his eyes for any sense of dishonesty and found none. He meant it. Your breath hitched. He brushed a hand through your hair, moving the hair out of the way. “Love you so much it hurts sometimes,” he admitted, his voice low as the first few tears slipped past his water line. “Can’t believe you're hurt and I wasn’t there.” he shook his head and sniffled, trying to push the emotions back down as he’d trained himself to do.

You reached a hand out and cupped his cheek. “I love you too.” You pushed forward, gently lacing your lips with his, as the energy in the car dissipated. You didn’t give him a second to react, just kissed him as softly as you could. His hand cradled your face like it was the most precious thing in the world. He still had things to make up for, and many more conversations were to be had, but he loved you. You could get through whatever bullshit anyone throws at you once you knew he loved you.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

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! ♡

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

The Great Honey Heist

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: in which flicker (you) teams up with raccoon!barty for a midnight honey heist in the kitchens, only for things to spiral when barty becomes a walking sticky dessert tray, the great escape turns into honey-covered chaos, and both of you are caught red-pawed by the marauders—and a furious regulus with no patience.

warnings: racoon animagi barty, chaos, magical mischief, animagus shenanigans, food theft, excessive food, sticky situations (literally), bickering boys, lots of fluff, mild language, a very dramatic regulus black who did not sign up for this

w/c: 3k

part of my mini blurb series flicker & the marauders masterlist

"Shhh, Barty, they’ll hear us," you whisper, barely containing a laugh as the raccoon at your feet lets out an ecstatic little yippee and spins in a joyful circle, his striped tail flicking like a banner.

He’s practically vibrating with glee, his little raccoon body lit by the silver wash of moonlight pouring through the high castle windows. You crouch beside him, lips pressed tight to stifle a grin, and extend a hand toward the shimmer of fur twitching with excitement.

Barty nuzzles your fingers for half a second before bouncing back with an eager chirp that clearly means Hurry up! The biscuits won’t steal themselves.

With one last glance toward the Gryffindor portrait hole to ensure the coast is clear, you draw in a slow, steady breath. Magic pulses through your veins like a warm ripple—bones compress, limbs twist, your vision shifts and sharpens.

In a heartbeat, you fold into the form you know best: thick red fur wrapping you in warmth, rounded ears flicking toward every sound, paws soft and nimble against the stone, and that ever-rebellious russet tail that’s more trouble than it’s worth.

You are Flicker now.

Barty, already halfway down the corridor in a gleeful scuttle, pauses dramatically at the top of the moving staircase. His tiny paws tap against the stone with the impatience of someone who believes time is being gravely wasted. He glances back, eyes wide and expectant, waiting for you to catch up.

You dart after him, nimble and nearly silent, tail swaying with practiced precision—until, inevitably, it betrays you.

Your tail snags on the edge of a suit of armor.

Clang.

You both freeze. The armor groans under its own weight, metal trembling ominously. You yank your tail free and hurl yourself beneath a nearby tapestry, heart thudding like a war drum. Barty follows with a startled bleep, flinging himself in after you and landing in a graceless heap that tangles both your limbs in a furry mess of panic and poor decisions.

Smooth, you huff, flicking his ear with a paw, tail twitching in irritation.

He chirps back, entirely unfazed, and bolts off again—racing toward the staircases like a raccoon on a mission, tail high and limbs flying.

You sigh and follow, paws thudding softly as you weave between floating candles and shadowy corners, nearly colliding with a wall and skidding past a dozing portrait whose stack of books teeters dangerously.

Barty, of course, is in his element—letting out bursts of delighted chirps and squeaks, tail swishing behind him like the baton of a sugar-crazed conductor orchestrating pure mischief.

At last, you reach the portrait of the fruit bowl, breathless despite not needing lungs in this form. Barty rises on his hind legs and eagerly jabs the pear with both paws. It giggles, squirms, and swings open, revealing the warm, golden heart of the Hogwarts kitchens.

Light spills into the corridor, and with it drifts the heavenly scent of honey, melted butter, and fresh bread. You and Barty exchange one gleeful glance.

Then you’re inside.

The kitchen is quiet, save for the soft clink of cooling cookware and the gentle snore of a house-elf nestled in a bread basket. The hearth casts everything in a haze of honeyed gold, and for a fleeting second, it feels like you’ve stepped into a dream made of sugar and steam.

The plan is simple: quick, clean, quiet. Two jars of honey—three if the coast stays clear. Grab, vanish, leave no crumbs.

That’s the plan.

You head straight for the tall shelves at the back, where the honey sits tucked away like treasure. With a light leap onto the counter, you nose open the pantry door. Rows of golden jars gleam in the dim light. You choose two with swift, practiced precision and turn, tail flicking with quiet pride.

Only to see that Barty is absolutely not following the plan.

He’s across the kitchen, a raccoon-shaped embodiment of chaos. Perched on a top shelf, wobbling dangerously on the rim of a copper pot, he’s clutching at least four buttered biscuits, a wheel of cheese, and—somehow—a treacle tart balanced on his head. And still, impossibly, he’s reaching for more: a jar of something suspiciously syrupy and poorly secured.

You chirp sharply, whiskers twitching with alarm. Barty, you're going to fall.

He glances at you mid-stretch with a look that can only be described as smug, idiotic bravado—like a raccoon who believes, against all odds and evidence, that he was born to defy gravity.

And then he falls—spectacularly, catastrophically, like a raccoon-shaped meteor plummeting toward inevitable, sticky doom.

It is not a graceful tumble. It’s a full-bodied, limbs-splayed catastrophe of a plunge, right into the massive pot just below the shelf—filled, unfortunately, with something dark, viscous, and profoundly sticky. 

The squelch of impact is so loud and so utterly grotesque that you physically recoil, ears flattening in secondhand embarrassment.

Barty surfaces a moment later, drenched in molasses and looking like someone tried to deep-fry a stuffed animal.

You scamper across the tiles and peer into the pot. You absolute menace, you squeak, swatting him on the head as he attempts—and fails—to scale the slick metal wall. He slips again with a pathetic slop, paws scrabbling helplessly like a greased-up goblin in a bucket.

With a resigned sigh, you grip the rim and lean in, latching your teeth onto the scruff of his neck. It takes all your strength to haul him upward.

He flops over the edge with all the grace of a dropped pudding, molasses oozing off him in slow, syrupy defeat. His biscuit collection is gone. His pride, probably too.

You open your mouth, ready to scold—because, frankly, he looks like a half-melted tart someone forgot in the sun—when your ears twitch at the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Someone’s coming.

Footsteps, loud and deliberate, echo through the corridor, nothing like the soft, scuffling tread of a house-elf. These are heavier, sharper.

Human.

You both freeze. From the other side of the kitchen, the door creaks open.

A voice, sharp and curious, cuts through the warmth like a knife. “Who's in here?”

The honey jars in your paws tremble. Barty lets out a betrayed little bleep. You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Only stare at the tall shadow spilling across the floor.

You are very much caught.

Barty doesn’t hesitate. The moment the voice echoes through the kitchen, he lunges upright with all the ungainly speed of a raccoon dipped in syrup and grabs your paw with a wild look in his eyes.

You both bolt, paws skidding on the tiles, jars sloshing wildly as you scramble for an escape—but in the chaos, Barty misjudges the corner of a low shelving rack. He crashes into it shoulder-first, sending the entire unit swaying ominously. You try to veer out of the way, but it's too late.

With a tremendous clatter, three heavy containers on the top shelf tip forward and crash down over your heads.

You are immediately and thoroughly buried—one with a collapsing stack of chocolate cake, another spilling a full basin of raspberry jam, and the third dumping a shocking amount of cold ham in wet, smacking slices.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. Jam oozes down your ears. A slice of ham slaps over your eyes like a greasy eye mask.

Barty doesn’t hesitate. The moment the voice echoes through the kitchen again, he lunges upright with all the ungainly speed of a raccoon dipped in syrup and grabs your paw with a wild look in his eyes.

He takes off like a shot, dragging you behind him.

You stumble after him, jars of honey clutched to your chest, paws thudding against the tiles as you scramble to keep up. The jars slosh dangerously with every step, threatening to slip from your grasp, but Barty doesn’t care. 

As you both sprint through the kitchen, weaving around tables and swinging past spice racks, Barty begins his descent into further madness. Whatever it is, it sends him grabbing wildly at anything remotely edible within reach.

A baguette? He rolls against it and it sticks to his back.

A fistful of dried cranberries? He belly-flops into the bowl and comes out looking like a fruitcake. A slice of chocolate cake? He rams his shoulder into it like a battering ram, frosting now smeared across his cheek and clinging to his side like a battle wound.

Stop collecting food! you squeak in a desperate whisper, jars still clutched as you leap over a dropped spoon.

By the time you reach the kitchen exit, Barty is twice his normal size, lumpy with ill-gotten goods. Biscuits trail behind him like breadcrumbs. A sausage dangles from his tail. He looks less like a raccoon and more like a rejected dessert trolley on legs.

And that’s exactly the moment the door to the kitchen bursts open.

There’s a shriek. Not from you or Barty—yours is more of a strangled yelp, his is more of a delighted whee!—but from the figure now staring in horrified disbelief at the scene before them.

You don’t stop. You both dart past the intruder, who yells something vaguely accusatory and disgusted, and then you’re back in the corridors, paws pounding, the jars still somehow intact in your grip.

You bolt down one hallway, then another, dodging moving staircases, leaping over stairs, slipping around corners. Barty lags slightly behind now, not because he’s less determined, but because he’s carrying roughly the caloric content of a Christmas feast on his body. He pants heavily, legs wobbling, one eye squinting beneath a dollop of marmalade.

You’re almost at the portrait hole. Almost—

And then a hand shoots out of the shadows and snatches you mid-leap, plucking you clean out of the air like a misbehaving child.

You scream, high-pitched and startled, the jars of honey clutched like precious treasure against your furred chest. Barty slams into your side a second later, a sticky explosion of jam and cheese. He squeaks in protest and flails his sausage-covered tail.

“What the fuck, Flicker?” growls a voice that could only belong to one person on Earth.

You slowly turn your head, heart hammering.

Sirius Black looks murderous.

He’s got you by the scruff, eyes ablaze, one brow twitching dangerously. His hair’s a mess, his dressing gown is half-off one shoulder, and he’s barefoot, which somehow makes the fury worse. 

His hand is sticky now from grabbing you, and he looks personally offended by it.

From the far end of the corridor, a voice yells, “BARTEMIUS CROUCH JUNIOR WHAT THE BLOODY HELL—”

You all turn just in time to see Regulus Black, storming toward the kitchen corridor from the dungeons, robes flapping dramatically behind him, wand half-raised. He freezes mid-step as he takes in the scene: his brother holding a honey-covered red panda by the collar, a raccoon with an abnormal amount of food fused to his side like armor, and what appears to be a pie slowly sliding off Barty’s head.

For one perfect, silent moment, he takes it all in.

And Barty—mid-gallop, absolutely covered in what looks like the full dessert table from dinner, a pie slowly sliding sideways off his head like an ill-fated hat.

Without a word, he steps forward, grabs the raccoon cleanly by the tail, lifts him up like he’s an old sock, and takes a long, horrified look at the molasses-glazed disaster in his hand. Jam, frosting, cheese, breadcrumbs, possibly ham—it's really hard to tell. 

He drops Barty with absolute disgust immediately like a cursed object. Barty hits the stone floor with a grotesque squelch and lets out a high-pitched, deeply wounded raccoon yelp.

You blink from Sirius’s grip, where you’re dangling like a shameful sugar gremlin. Barty blinks up at you from his sticky puddle of defeat. You both flinch in unison, instinct kicking in.

You bolt left. Barty bolts right.

But Regulus moves like lightning.

His wand is pointed before your paws even leave the ground, voice sharp and cold as steel.

“If either of you,” he says, quiet and dangerous, “even thinks about running for a single bloody second—”

You both freeze.

He takes a step forward, slow, precise, the way predators move when they already know you won’t escape. His eyes, dark as ink and twice as cutting, pin you in place.

“—I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth. And I don’t care if you’re a raccoon, a red panda, or a flaming hippogriff!”

Regulus lunges forward and grabs both of you—one sticky raccoon by the scruff, one red panda by the tail—with the sheer fury of a man who’s done cleaning up other people’s messes and has reached the end of his perfectly pressed rope.

He lifts you both a few inches off the ground, arms locked, nostrils flaring.

“Shift. Back,” he growls, voice low and venom-laced.

Barty whimpers. You glance at him. He glances at you.

And with matching expressions of deep, tragic guilt—you both shift back.

A shimmer of fur becomes limbs, paws become fingers, ears fade, tails retract—and suddenly you’re just two sugar-coated disasters sitting on the cold stone floor, one of you clutching honey jars with sticky fingers, the other hunched under the weight of his biscuit-crusted shame.

Barty, panting, wheezes, “Hii, Reg!”

Sirius drops his head into one hand and sighs. 

Before anyone can process that visual assault, two more figures appear from behind the nearest corridor, both out of breath, both armed with wands and worry.

James skids to a stop. “You found her?”

 Remus slows behind him, eyeing the honey jars, your guilty face, and Barty’s war-ravaged state. “Is that… is that honey in his ear?”

Sirius sighs even louder. “Where else would she be except the bloody kitchen,” he snaps, voice thick with exasperation and something far too close to fondness.

You blink up at him, still holding the honey, and whisper, “Worth it?”

“If you think for one moment that you’re sleeping anywhere near me tonight,” Regulus hisses, voice razor-sharp, “you’re gravely mistaken.”

Barty, ever unbothered and absurdly pleased with himself, straightens up and winks. “You’ll miss me.”

“I’ll exorcise you,” Regulus deadpans, backing away as if Barty might fling jam in his direction.

You finally climb to your feet, still clutching your honey jars like cherished offspring. Barty dusts himself off, then slinks an arm around your shoulders like this has been a roaring success. The squelch is immediate.

You recoil. “Ewww, Barty, you’ve got jam on me!”

He grins, the picture of innocence beneath a frosting-smeared forehead. “Relax, Trouble. It’s raspberry. You love raspberries!”

You glare up at him, unimpressed, and swipe at your now-sticky arm. “I also love not smelling like an exploded dessert cart.”

Behind you, Remus steps closer, giving both you and Barty a long, exhausted once-over. His jumper is askew, his hair rumpled, and his face reads exactly what everyone else is too tired to say aloud: Why am I always cleaning up your messes?

“You need a shower,” he says flatly.

James, who’s just catching his breath, nods in agreement. “More like three.”

Sirius, still holding his sticky hand out like it personally offended him, chimes in with a grimace, “I’m going to bleach my skin.”

You step away from Barty, only for his jam-coated tail of crumbs to swish against your leg as he tries to look suave again. “You know, for two sneaky animagi, I think we did pretty well.”

“Pretty well?” you echo.

“You only got caught once.”

You scoff. “Barty, we almost got murdered by Regulus and disowned by Sirius.”

“Almost, Trouble.” He wiggles his brows. “It’s the almost that counts.”

Remus sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Come on, both of you. Showers. Now.”

You groan, trying to twist out of James’s grip, but he has you firmly by the wrist and is dragging you down the corridor like a grumpy older brother. “No arguments,” he says, eyes ahead. 

“You’re going straight to the showers before you start attracting ants.”

Behind you, Barty is putting up a very different kind of fight.

Regulus has him by the back of his robes, hauling him like an unruly toddler while cursing furiously in French under his breath

Barty, unfazed and still somehow cheerful despite the fact that half a treacle tart is sliding down his back, twists around to wave at you with a jam-coated hand. 

“Best honey heist ever!” he calls, grinning like he’s just won an award.

You grin back and wave with your free hand, the other still wrapped protectively around your precious jar of honey. “See you later, Junior!”

Regulus lets out a hiss of disgust and mutters, “Non, tu ne la reverras plus, elle mérite mieux—”

James snorts. “I think he just proposed murder,” he says to Sirius, who nods solemnly.

“Romantic,” Sirius deadpans. “In a Slytherin kind of way.”

At the end of the corridor, Remus waits, arms crossed, tired but patient. As James steers you in his direction, you slow, holding out one of the jars of honey. “Here,” you say, cheeks still warm from laughter. “For you.”

He blinks. “Me?”

You nod. “Yeah. I heard you saying last night that you ran out of honey for your tea. So… I got you some.”

Remus stares down at the jar in surprise, like it’s something precious. His lips part, clearly touched—but before he can form a response, Sirius howls with laughter behind you.

“You know,” he gasps, leaning against the wall for support, “there are easier ways to get Moony honey!”

James practically chokes.

You whip your head around. “Sirius!”

“What?” he grins. “I’m just saying, less trouble.”

You shake your head, cheeks flushed, and mumble, “I was trying to be sweet.”

Sirius wiggles his eyebrows. “Oh, love, you’re sweet. The method, though…”

You finally laugh, breathless and bright, as James pushes open the bathroom door and steers you inside.

Barty’s probably still arguing with Regulus in the Slytherin dorms, leaving sticky footprints for Regulus to clean up.

You try to dig your heels in at the threshold, making a noise of protest. “Do I have to shower? I’m already, like, seventy percent dessert. What’s the point?”

Sirius pokes his head in behind James, eyeing the jam in your hair with a smirk. “Because if we let you go to bed like this, you’ll wake up glued to the sheets.”

“You smell like a fruit basket, dovey,” Remus says gently, already turning the tap with a resigned smile. “And I say that with love.”

You pout, dramatically, arms still wrapped around your jar of honey like a child clutching a toy. “I risked my life for this.”

“And we adore you for it,” James says, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he tries to peel off a glob of frosting from your shoulder. “But we’re not sleeping next to this.”

Sirius grins, arms folded. “Speak for yourself. Personally, I think it’s kind of hot.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “You thought it was hot when she transfigured a spoon into a squirrel last week.”

Sirius shrugs. “What can I say? I have a type.”

You roll your eyes, heart warm despite the sugar-crusted state of your limbs.

Because even though you're stickier than you’ve ever been, molasses in your hair and your dignity somewhere between the chocolate cake and the raspberry jam, they’re all still looking at you like you hung the stars.

And they’ve never loved you more.

Laughter bubbles in the tiny bathroom, warm and alive and sweet as the sugar clinging to your skin.

And as you finally give in and step under the spray, their voices tangled in affection and teasing behind you, you can’t help but smile—because no matter what Regulus says, this will go down in Hogwarts history as The Great Honey Heist.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Idc about lore, they birthed him themself

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

hey I cried cause of how good this is 😔🫶

A Minute Too Late

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Smallville Clark Kent x reader

synopsis: She ignored his warning, and he let his anger push her away. But love doesn’t disappear that easily, especially not when he’s ready to make it right.

wordcount: 3, 061

note: angst to fluff. clark was kinda mean here :<< based on this request.

You and Clark came from different worlds. Sure, his rise in popularity after joining the football team had gained him attention, especially from girls. But your circles never overlapped. Not really. His friends were known for being in everyone's business, especially Chloe, who had earned a nickname "nose sticker" for her relentless digging into Smallville's strange happenings.

Your own friends didn't hate them. There wasn't some vendetta against them. But to put it, their interests just didn't align. Investigating meteor freaks and tracking some unexplained phenomena didn't exactly fit into weekend spontaneous trips or late-night parties. So no one expected you and Clark to become... anything.

But one fateful physics project threw you together. And slowly, bit by bit, you and Clark started to understand each other.

To Clark, you were intimidating. He'd talked to girls before— hell, he'd even dated a few. But something about you has made his throat go dry and his words stumble out half-formed. You weren't loud or cruel as the stereotypes had painted you to be. You just... carried yourself like you didn't need anyone. And your smile? Oh, it went straight to your heart. You presence was magnetic— he hated how drawn he was to you.

But you weren't dating. Not officially... yet. You two were just figuring things out together. Letting the moments between you speak louder than any labels ever could.

So when you invited him to your friend's party, he hesitated. Not because he didn't want to go out with you, but because something didn't sit right. Chloe and Pete were surprisingly eager, ready to mingle and blend into your world for once. You were thrilled, too. But Clark was reluctant.

The next day, you were glowing with excitement. You picked out your dress, chose what hairstyle you'd do, and what type of makeup you'd wear.

Until Clark texted you.

Don't go to the party. It's dangerous. Something bad is going to happen.

You stared at the messages. Confused. Alarmed. But mostly hurt.

He wouldn't answer your calls. Wouldn't explain anything. And part of you thought— maybe that was his way of bailing. After all, he seemed adamant about going. Maybe this was his way of saying no without saying it. You tried to shrug it off, tried not to let the disappointment wash over you. So you went anyway. You told yourself he was just being overprotective. Or paranoid.

But he was right.

Not even thirty minutes in, chaos ensued. A creature— something inhuman— crashed the place. Screams filled the air. People ran in different directions. Smoke, fire, glass shattering— a havoc unfolding before your eyes.

You were nearly trampled on the way out. But then, strong, unrelenting arms scooped you from the crowd and carried you out.

Clark.

His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were burning.

"Clark—"

"Save it." His voice was low, sharp, and cold. He opened the passenger door and gently placed you inside. Despite everything, his touch was still careful. Still him. "I asked you for one thing. One damn thing. Stay home."

"Without telling me why?" You shot back, breathless and shaking. "What did you expect me to do, Clark? Blindly obey?"

He turned, grabbing the first aid kit from the back of his truck. "I was busy. Trying to prevent the incident. I didn't have time to spell it out for you."

Ouch.

You softened. "Clark... how was I supposed to know? I just..." You swallowed hard. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

He didn't answer right away. He placed a bandage on the scrape on your cheek, his touch gentle despite the fury in his bones.

"Won't it?" He asked, voice low. "You were so eager to go with your friends. To fit into that world. How do I know you won't do it again next time I told you to?"

You parted your lips to say something. But nothing came out.

He closed the kit and placed it on the back again. His words were quieter as he started the engine. "Just say it. Say that you trust your friends more than me."

"I don't..." You whispered, eyes stinging, but he didn't meet your gaze. Not even once in the whole ride back home. You turned your face towards the window, letting the tears fall silently. Not that it mattered. He won't even look at you.

When you reached your house, Clark got out and opened your door. Still not saying a word.

You stepped out, eyes red, and looked at him one last time. His expression hadn't changed— still serious, unreadable. Though a small flicker of worry passed through his eyes as he saw your face through the dim light. Still, he didn't say anything.

"Goodnight, Clark," You said softly. "I'm sorry."

You tiptoed and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek— barely there, trembling— and he didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Didn't stop you from walking away.

The next morning, you went to the Kent farm. To be honest, you didn't even know what to expect. An apology? A hug? Some kind of warm smile that gently said, 'It's okay now.'

Maybe.

All you knew was that the ache in your chest hadn't gone away since he dropped you off last night. So you went, because it hurt too much to sit and do nothing. You need to see him. Talk to him. And fix whatever's going on with you two now— if there's even anything left to fix.

When you knocked on their door, it was Martha who opened it.

"Oh, sweetheart. Clark's in the barn right now." She said, offering you a kind smile.

You made your way across the yard, trying to rehearse the words in your head. 'I'm sorry again. I should've trusted you. Can we talk now?' You tried to stay optimistic. Maybe he'd cooled off. Maybe last night's anger dissipated today, and he might understand you now.

But when you reached the barn and found him there, standing with his back to you— working on something, you hesitated.

"C—Clark," You said gently.

He didn't turn. Didn't even pause on what he was doing.

"I'm busy," He muttered and then walked away.

Just like that.

You stood there, stunned. The air felt heavier at this moment than it did during the chaos of the house party. Because, at least then, he held you. Now? Now, he wouldn't even look at you.

Still, you didn't give up. You tried the next day— approaching him after your shared class. But he walked too fast the moment the instructor had dismissed it. Like he was in a hurry. Like he couldn't even stand being near you within a minute.

The day after that, you waited by the bleachers during football practice. You sat there the whole time, under the scorching sun, hoping he'd glance your way. It's impossible that Clark didn't see you. Of course, he did. But he didn't glance at your way, at least, not without you knowing. He kept throwing the ball with more force than usual, almost enough to make his teammate stumble whilst catching it. And when you stood up and waved at him, he turned his back. Again.

You approached him in the hallway when he was with Chloe and Pete. He didn't even acknowledge you— just kept walking. It was Chloe who answered when you asked him how his leg was after practice. Pete gave a sympathetic smile and a gentle tap on your shoulder. But Clark said nothing.

It went on for days.

A week.

A week of chasing. A week of trying. Of questioning your worth. Wondering if you'd been stupid enough to think he'd ever cared. For ever believing you could mean something to someone like him.

And then, one afternoon, you saw him at the library.

It was at the same corner table where you two worked on the physics project that had started it all. The table where he first called you brilliant without flinching. The place where you two brushed hands and laughed at the same dorky pun.

For a moment, you thought about walking over. You even took a step. But when he turned his head, you panicked— ducking behind some shelf like some child playing hide and seek. You peeked, quietly, heart hammering in your chest as you watched him gather his things and quickly joined Chloe and Pete.

There was a voice in your head urging you to try again. To say something, anything. Maybe this time, he'd listen. But another part of you— the bruised, part— told you to just... stop. To let go.

Maybe it wasn't just meant to work. Maybe whatever's going on between you and Clark has burned out. You wanted it to be him— God, you wanted it to be him. To feel his arms around you again. To laugh and be the best version of yourself that existed around him. But maybe... wanting him isn't enough.

So, you stopped sitting beside him in class, found a new seat between your friends, and started showing up to your hangouts, more movie nights, just to keep yourself busy. Just to distract yourself from the fact that your eyes always drifted to where he was. That you still waited to hear the sound of his voice.

But you didn't chase him anymore. And in a strange, bittersweet way, it was freeing. To stop obsessing. To stop waiting for his presence.

But the what-ifs kept haunting you.

What if he had turned just in time to see you at the library?

What if you just waited a little more?

What if he had just... tried too?

Meanwhile, Clark noticed. He always noticed.

He saw how you stopped walking towards him after class. How your seat stayed empty beside his. How your laughter echoed from across the room, distant now. Like a sound haunting his mind and dreams.

He told himself that it was what he wanted. Maybe it wasn't just meant to work between you two. But the hollow in his chest had said otherwise.

"So, what's up with you and Y/n?" Chloe asked casually, as the three of them were seated in the bleachers.

Clark opened his mouth to say something smart, but the glare Chloe had sent him had shut him up.

He sighed, "I got mad at her for going to the house party. After I told her not to."

"That was last week, Clark." Chloe snapped. "You still haven't talked to her since?"

He shrugged, trying to look unfazed. "I mean... yeah."

But even he could hear the sadness in his voice.

"You're dumb as hell," Chloe said bluntly.

"Wow, thanks." He muttered.

"May I remind you that Y/n doesn't know about your..." She gestured vaguely at him. "Superpower alien situation? She's not psychic. And I bet you didn't even explain anything. You just shut her out."

"But still, shouldn't she be trusting me and not be so hard-headed on insisting on going to that house party?" Clark threw his hands helplessly,

Pete, who had been watching, stretched his legs and stood up. "Man, I get that you're scared people will find out. But seriously? Y/n was clueless. It's not fair for you to get so mad when you never told her the real reason you didn't want her at that party."

Clark exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "I was just trying to protect her."

“And you hurt her instead,” Chloe said quietly. “And now? You’re the one walking around like you lost something important.”

Because he had.

Maybe you weren’t just pulling away.

Maybe he had pushed you out.

And maybe— just maybe— he wasn’t sure how to get you back.

Once Chloe's and Pete's words had hit him like a truck, he realized what he'd done— what he'd lost— if he didn't try to fix this immediately. He thought his powers could solve most of his problems: with his super speed, strength, and even flying when necessary. But somehow, he couldn't get to you.

He would walk around the halls, searching for you after class, but you were already gone. A blur of motion, always just out of earshot, your laughter fading behind a closing door or around the hallways. He would show up to your next class, waiting, only for your friends to steer you towards another room, another place far away from him.

He watched you from a distance, every part of him aching. You still smiled— just not at him. You still spoke— but never to him. And he hated himself for the relief that flooded his chest every time you looked at him, even if briefly, like it was a muscle memory. Like a small piece in your heart still remembers him.

One afternoon, he thought he finally had his chance. You were sitting on the grass outside the campus cafe, and Clark had approached you slowly, heart thudding like a human's for once. But just as he neared, you stood up— and your friends were already calling you over.

"Y/n! Come on, let's go shopping!" One of them laughed, waving the keys in the air.

You hesitated, looking over to where Clark was. "I— I-uh..." You gulped, you didn't even know why you were stopping.

"Come on, you promised!" Another friend teased, pulling at your arm.

He tried to call your name weakly. But it caught in his throat.

You looked back at him— really looked—and he could feel the war going on in your head. He could see the part of you that still wanted to stay. But you didn't.

He even tried going to your house one night. Showing up on your porch like a teenager in a romcom movie, holding a bouquet of flowers— sunflowers— because you said it reminds you of summer.

But your mom answered with an apologetic smile.

"She's not here, honey. Sorry."

He left the flowers anyway, hoping you'd take them. But they withered before you ever saw them.

Pete had also been giving him side eyes, full of sympathy but also that quiet judgment.

"Maybe just give her time, man." He said. "You broke her heart."

"I didn't mean to." Clark quipped back.

"Doesn't mean it didn't happen."

"Karma," Chloe said. "You avoided her for a week, and now you're acting like she was the one who owes you the time of the day?"

Clark sighed. "I just... I need her to know that I'm sorry."

"Then stop waiting for the perfect moment. Just talk to her. Tell her what she means to you."

And he did. He tried.

One day, he got lucky.

You were alone near the field. The late afternoon sun was hitting the trees just right, golden and soft, and there you were, leaning against the wooden fence, watching the breeze move through the grass.

Clark walked towards you immediately.

And when you turned around— and when your eyes met his— he nearly broke.

Because there you were. The girl he hurt. The girl he likes. The girl he missed the most.

"Y/n," He breathed, voice cracking.

You tensed. You watched him with careful eyes, but you didn't move one bit.

"I've been trying to find the right time," He said, stepping closer. "But I guess... there isn't one. So I'm just gonna say it."

You opened your mouth to say something— but then a loud honk stopped you.

Your friends pulled up in a small car, grinning, waving at you.

"Y/n! Let's gooo!" One of them yelled. "Golden hour photoshoot by the lake!"

You looked back and forth— at the car, then Clark, who was standing now in front of you, desperate.

"Please," He said softly, reaching out to take your hand. His touch was gentle, like he was afraid you'd pull away. "Just a minute. Please, I need to talk to you."

You look at your friends, biting your lip. "You girls should go."

"Alright. Go on, lovebirds!" They yelled, grinning like idiots as they waved off and pulled away.

You turned back to Clark, and he didn’t waste a second.

“I was stupid,” He said. “I was scared, and I shut you out. I told myself I was protecting you by not explaining everything, but that’s not fair. You deserved honesty. You deserved more than silence.”

You blinked, but your throat was too tight to speak.

“I was angry at you for going to that party, but the truth is, I was mad at myself for not telling you why it scared me so much. Because I’m not just some guy who’s overprotective— I’m someone with… secrets. Big ones.”

You looked up, eyes searching his. “Secrets?”

He nodded, eyes filled with guilt.

“I’m not normal, Y/N. Not in the ‘I have baggage’ way— more like, I’m not even from here. Not really. I have powers. I can run faster than sound, lift tractors, and hear conversations from miles away. I’m different. And the idea of something happening to you when I wasn’t there— when I couldn’t protect you…”

He exhaled, voice trembling.

“It terrified me.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Processing.

“I wish you had just said that,” You whispered.

“I know. I should have. And I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me now. I messed everything up. I ignored you. I hurt you. And I regret it more than anything.” He stepped closer. “But I miss you. Every day. And I’d do anything— anything— for a chance to make it right.”

You looked at his face. Red-rimmed eyes. That clenched jaw. The way he was holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“I still like you,” You finally whispered.

Clark’s breath hitched.

“Really?”

You nodded, a small tear slipping down your cheek.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” You admitted. “I’m tired. I don’t want to keep getting hurt.”

“You won’t,” He promised, stepping closer, hands now cradling yours. “You won’t. I’ll prove it every day if I have to. Just— please, let me try again.”

You looked at him for a moment longer.

And then you threw your arms around his neck, hugging him tight.

He hugged back immediately, like his entire soul exhaled the moment he held you again.

“I missed you, too,” You murmured against his shoulder.

©kjhbsies

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Office Siren

summary: managing The Daily Planet was a lot of work, thankfully your boyfriend was always there to help you relax when things got especially hectic. content: fem!reader, oral fem receiving, fingering, cursing, overstimulation, dacryphilia, grumpy reader, stressed out reader, golden retriever clark kent, david corenswets clark kent. a/n: was feeling freaky, so I made this. plus I thought the title was silly #needthat (1.7k words)

The clacking of your long acrylic french tips against the mechanical keyboard is usually a sound that soothes you. It means work is getting done, and you wouldn’t have to yell at anyone to finish whatever beat they were working on. 

But right now, you couldn’t think of a more aggravating sound bludgeoning your ears. It’s only 9:30 am, but you’ve been at The Daily Planet since 7:00 am, installing some new ink cartridges into the letterpress – which ultimately ended up exploding all over your new blouse.

To make matters worse, when you finally washed off the lingering ink and decided to grab yourself an iced coffee before the other employees showed up, you were denied by the “closed due to personal circumstances” sign plastered on the cafe door. Great.

As you turned around and made your way back to The Planet, you somehow managed to step on a piece of chewed gum, the gunk clinging to your brand new Mary Janes, causing your eye to twitch as you bit the inside of your cheek.

Being the managing editor of The Daily Planet was… interesting to say the least. 

Unfortunately, as much as you wanted to take the day off and go home, journalism waits for no one, so you continued the trek back in silence.

Thankfully, you made it back in just enough time to unlock the front door – Perry hated when you opened it late, and you hated when he chewed you out for shit you didn’t get paid enough to do.

Which brings you to now, sitting in your office, which was so conveniently located right outside the news room – giving you the perfect view of those who came in late – finalizing the outline for the next print.

Maybe you were lost in your work, in your own head, but you still swore you’d have notice the 6’4 man standing in front of you with an iced coffee in hand and a small smile on his face.

You really needed to get more than 4 hours of sleep.

“Clark, to what do I owe this surprise?” you muse, looking up at him curiously, a small smirk on your face. You and Clark had an interesting relationship, to say the least – you were bossy and stoic, and he did what he was told with a smile.

It doesn’t take long for you to recognize the logo on the cup, it was a cinnamon sweet cream iced latte from your second favorite cafe nearby. How did he know?

“Just figured you could use this,” he smiles, that signature puppy dog expression plastered on his face as he gently sets the cup down onto one of your coasters.

“Well, thank you, I appreciate it” you murmur earnestly, turning back to examine the contents of your computer stoically.

Clark can’t help but frown at your expression. Anyone could tell that you were stressed out, but he knew you better than anyone. Sordid nights together spent tangled up in the sheets of your bed will do that.

“Yknow, I’m sure you could afford to take a break.” The concern is evident in his tone, and you almost smile at the sentiment – until you remember the outline you were working on that needed to be sent in by 3:00.

“Yes, well, I have a lot of work to do” you mutter, brows furrowed as you type away, “as a matter of fact, can you get Jimmy in here, I need him to-” you’re cut off by Clarks huff, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“You need a break, you’ve been here since 7,” he points out, his tone leaving no room for discussion as he uses his foot to slide the door of your office shut with a soft click.

“You’re sweet, Clark, but I really need to get this done,” you murmur with a tired frown, eyes following him as he makes his way over to where you sit behind your desk.

You’re about to give him another spiel about how much you need to do when you feel his hands grasp the sides of your face gently, a soft smile gracing his lips as he looks at you knowingly.

“You’re working too hard, you need a break.” he murmurs, leaving no room to argue as his forehead presses against yours softly, grounding you. He hated seeing you stressed out, and he was willing to do anything to get you to relax.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you don't even notice Clark leaning in until his lips brush yours, prompting a small moan to escape you as you kiss him slowly.

You relax in your chair as his hands trail down your face, one of them holding the back of your head gently as you melt into him.

“Clark- clark, we can't do this here someone will hear us” you murmur as you break apart, face flush and breath unsteady as you look up at him with swollen, bitten lips. He stifles a smile as he runs his hand across your cheek “Then you’ll just have to be quiet” he murmur's softly.

Before you can process his words, his lips are pressing wet kisses along your neck, dipping lower and lower until he’s met with the neckline of your blouse, unbuttoning it swiftly.

He lets out an audible groan when he catches sight of your lacey navy blue bra, fingers swiping across the thin fabric and over your nipples gently, causing you to whine out.

And as much as Clark would love to hear your pretty sounds, the office walls are thin, and he knows you’d murder him if he were the reason the people in the news room heard you.

“shh, baby you know how much I love to hear you, but I need you to be quiet for me” he pleads softly, gently coming down to rest on his knees.

He pulls your pair of sheer stockings down your legs slowly, kissing up your bare thighs as he folds them delicately – he was a gentleman after all.

Your head is thrown back in pleasure when you feel his large fingers dig into the plush of your thighs, moving them apart gently, your black skirt riding up to expose your matching lace panties in the process.

He lets out a large gulp as his fingers brush across your panties, his eyes locked onto the wet spot that's visible and growing as his thumb swipes over your clit, causing you to mewl out. “I know, baby, I know” he murmurs sympathetically.

Your thighs are trembling when he decides to finally stop teasing you, his head ducking between your legs once again as his teeth bite the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs gently as he looks up at you, your blissed out expression causing him to harden in his pants.

When they're finally off, he can’t help but grab your thighs again, spreading them apart to admire your pussy, which may as well have been dripping all over your chair. “This is a real pretty sight, baby,” he croons softly; he was addicted to you.

He looks up at you quickly, making sure that you still want this, before his head delves in-between your thighs, his tongue brushing across your clit as your hand grasps his curls tightly. 

“God- Clark” you whine out, eyes screwed tight in pleasure as you feel your thighs crush his head – not that you could actually hurt him.

He doesn't tear himself away, savoring the tase of you and the sounds of your sweet cries, until he feels you getting close, wanting to watch you come apart.

You’re a mess of whines and twitches when his fingers replace his mouth, his head coming up to stare at you writhing in pleasure.

“I know, baby, just let it happen” he murmurs, sympathy edged in his voice as he talks you down, his finger rubbing soft circles on your clit.

All you can muster are quiet whines, words having left your brain a long time ago, which he doesn’t seem to mind. Clark, though never cocky, can’t help but feel prideful at how good he’s made you feel.

He slips two of his thick fingers inside you, causing you to lurch out of the chair in pleasure, his other hand coming down to hold you steadily in place. 

What he doesn’t realize is how the added pressure from his hand enhances the feeling of his fingers, which are reaching places you didn’t even know possible, as he pushes down on your lower stomach. 

“Shh, I know, baby. You’ve been working so hard, huh? Just needed a little somethin” he murmurs, the comforting tone making you clamp down on his fingers involuntarily.

“Please, please, please” is all you manage to whine, sweat beading at your temple as he admires how pretty and absolutely wrecked you look like this.

You truly were a sight for sore eyes – mouth parted softly, breasts spilling out of your bra, legs twitching slightly whenever his fingers reach that one specific spot that makes you see stars. 

Lucky for you, Clark’s never been the type to tease – especially not when you’ve had such a bad day – finally deciding to give you what you want.

“Well, because you’ve been so good” he croons, fingers curling just the right amount to make you tip over the edge, your legs wrapping themselves around his head instinctively.

You’re borderline crying by the time he pulls his fingers out, sucking on them gently as he revels in the taste of you before wrapping his arms around you soothingly.

When he’s finally sure that you’re cognizant and stable, he brushes your hair out of your face, a soft smile on his lips as he leans down to kiss you.

“Feeling better, yeah?” he murmurs softly, a small smirk on his face as you nod your head blissfully, your bleary eyes looking up at him like he hung the moon.

He presses a few gentle kisses to your temple, looking over your now drowsy frame, a satisfied smile on his face. There's nothing like an orgasm to make a girl relax, right?

Now he just had to figure out how to get you home.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

the mother hen complex

summary: clark has a habit of spoiling you, even more so when you have a rough day wc: 1.7k + a/n: this is based on a request, which can be found here! I have a few more fics in the queue that should be coming out throughout the week, so keep an eye out! I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to send any requests my way! warnings: slightly suggestive situation (very slightly), clark is a love bug who worries incessantly, you are so sweet to each other it's sickening

The first item on the Jimmy Olsen best friends agreement is free relationship advice. Clark has a habit of not taking him up on, well, any of it. “Wait at least a few hours to respond.” He’s replied to your questions about takeout in the middle of fighting a giant robot deadset on trampling half of Metropolis. “Let her come to you, man.” Clark frequently broke into your apartment to make sure that dinner was waiting for you as soon as you walked through the door. “Don’t limit yourself, play the field.” Clark had decided he was going to marry you after your first date, and there’d been a ring shoved in the back of his closet ever since your three month anniversary. Jimmy had changed Clark’s name in his phone to mother hen for a time, and worst of all? Clark couldn’t really argue against it. 

He hovered, literally and figuratively. When he was worried, he felt like he was buzzing, and the only way that he’d found to keep himself from instantly scanning the entire city was to fly in circles around your apartment. If it’d been longer than ten minutes without you getting back to him, he gave himself a pass and used his super hearing to check in. You’d never actually been in danger, usually just busy or with a friend, but he couldn’t bring himself to chance you needing him and not be there for you. 

When you were having a rough day, he hovered in the more traditionally human sense of the word. Soup made from scratch, warm baths with your favorite scented bubbles. Which is how you’d ended up in your current predicament, head burrowed into Clark’s chest while his hands traced soothing lines up and down your spine. His cheek was squished against the crown of your head and you’d unconsciously timed your breathing with the gentle thuds of his heart. 

“How ya doin’?” his voice was soft, as if he was afraid to disturb the peace that had settled around the both of you. 

Your arms tightened around his waist, and you scootched even closer to him. “Much better now. Thank you, Clark.” 

His chest shook with silent laughter, one hand moving to hold you where your head meets your neck. “Haven’t even done anything yet.” 

You pulled back, eyes wide and confused. “What are you talking about?” 

He smiled, your noses nearly touching. Your hand unconsciously rose to touch the crinkles at the side of his eyes, his dimples. You can’t help but marvel at him, this kind, soft man you’d managed to swindle into loving you by some otherworldly miracle. “You had a hard day, honey. Gotta let me take care of you.” 

Your foreheads met gently. “You’re already taking care of me.” And that was the truth. You’d come home, tears in your eyes. It had been a horrible, no good, absolutely awful day. You were running late for work, and then splashed by a cab hitting a huge puddle on your way there. Your lunch salad had gone wilty and on top of all that, you’d forgotten that it was date night until you’d seen him waiting in your living room, a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table and his button up’s sleeves rolled up on his forearms. 

And Clark hadn’t missed a beat. He changed into comfy clothes in the literal blink of an eye, and he’d put your favorite pajamas in the dryer to warm up. Then, he’d led you into the bathroom, turning on the shower and sprinkling a few drops of essential oil on the floor for you. A kiss to one temple, and then the other one for good measure before he told you to take your time and stepped out. A shower was the last thing on your mind, despite the previous puddle incident, but as the steam enveloped you, you could feel the tension draining from your muscles. When you were all done and squeaky clean, he wrapped you in a warm towel and helped you slather yourself in lotion. He’d gently guided your arms through your pajama top and helped you step into your shorts before pulling you onto the couch and settling you against him.  At this point, you were in a better mood than you’d managed all day. And somehow, Clark seemed to think he hadn’t even gotten started yet. 

He began to sway you gently side to side, his hands supporting your head. Your eyes fluttered shut with the soothing motion, a contented sigh escaping from your lips. “I have pizza on the way, and your heating pad is already on in the bed.”

All you could do was grin from where you were tucked into the hollow of his throat. “You’re spoiling me again.” 

He sighed, but didn’t dignify that with a response. “Are we thinking Singin’ in the Rain or Princess Diaries tonight?” 

“This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re ruining me for future partners.” 

“Oh, there are going to be future partners, are there?” he asked, laughter coloring the edges of his voice. He clearly wasn’t taking you seriously, not stopping his rocking motions and only pulling you closer. 

“Oh yeah, tons.” you grumbled. He could feel you smirking against him, you knew it. 

“I guess I’m going to start using my powers for evil, in that case.” He mumbled into your hair. 

“I believe that even less than I believe I’m ever going to let you go.” 

Clark’s arms tightened around you in response. The two of you sat like that for a few more moments, quietly tangled up in the other. There was a small knock at the door, but somehow neither of you startled. “I told them to leave it at the door. Let’s give it a few seconds.” 

You nodded, breathing in his cologne and playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. You weren’t sure how that didn’t tickle, but you weren’t going to complain. Eventually, Clark’s arm wrapped around you, gently picking you up and adjusting you so that your legs were on either side of his waist. He stood, hand slipping around the backs of your thighs and holding you close. 

“You’re ridiculous.” you murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder while your arms looped around his neck. 

“Mmhmm,” Clark agreed, but made no motion to put you down as he swung the front door open and grabbed the pizza box from the small side table beside your door. He gently placed you on the kitchen counter, and the box beside you. He opened it to reveal your favorite and you were unsurprised. He was nothing if not incredibly observant. 

You grabbed a slice and took a bite, leaning against Clark for support. The silence that settled around you both was comfortable and familiar as ever. You both worked your way through the pizza, and you only caught Clark checking you over for signs of discomfort twice, which felt like a lot of improvement for both of you. 

When you were done, Clark framed your face with his hands. His eyes searched yours for a moment before he nodded to himself, clearly pleased with his assessment. He offered you a hand, helping you down from the counter. You took it easy on him and held back from pointing out that you were definitely capable of doing that yourself. 

He led you into the bathroom, and only let go of your hand when you reached for your toothbrush. You and Clark fell into your normal routine, brushing your teeth with shoulders bumping, Clark using a soft cloth to wipe away the bubbles of your facewash. You smoothed moisturizer across his cheeks and he sealed in your skincare routine with a kiss on your hairline, careful to avoid disrupting your freshly applied products. 

He pulled down the covers for you, pillows already arranged in the pattern that you favored most nights. He made a show of pulling the covers up to your chin and tucking the blankets tight against your side. You broke into peals of giggles, the gesture ridiculous when both of you knew Clark would pull you against his chest as soon as he rounded the bed. The grin that spread across his face made your heart stutter. His eyes crinkled, and it was clear he’d heard. You didn’t even have it in you to feel bashful about it. 

Like clockwork, Clark slid into bed beside you and you were quickly arranged with your back flush against his chest, one arm thrown over your stomach while you played with his fingers. You snuggled back against him, a contended sigh escaping your mouth. After what could have been a few moments or an eternity, you placed a kiss gently on the back of his hand. He squeezed you impossibly tighter against him. 

You take a breath, a thank you already on the tip of your tongue. Clark beats you to it. “You don’t have to thank me.” You crane your neck to catch his eyes, quirking a disbelieving eyebrow at him. His arm around your waist only tightened, a contented smile turning the corners of his lips up. “This was more for me than you,” he sounded sleepy, eyes half closed. 

You couldn’t help the cackle that shook your whole body. Clark held tight through it all. When you managed to calm your laughter, you turned to see him still clinging to you like the world’s most overgrown koala. “You’re a saint but I somehow find that hard to believe.” 

“I sleep better when I know you're happy.” Your heart lurched at his sleepy confession. “Sleep best when I know that I’m the reason you’re happy.” 

You turn in his arms, your forehead finding his in the dark for a moment. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he was beaming in a way that rivaled the sun. You tucked your head under his chin, making yourself at home against him. Your eyelids were heavy, and the weight of his arms around you was the most grounding experience of your life. “Maybe Jimmy has a point.” you mumbled. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Clark whispered, mostly to himself. 

“You are whipped.” 

Clark’s only response was to place a kiss on the top of your head. “You love it.” 

He was right, you really really did. You drifted off to sleep feeling more relaxed than you had in days, and Clark soon followed, thinking about the ring he’d shoved deep inside his sweater collection.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗠𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗠𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗠𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗙𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗜𝗻 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲- 𝗖.𝗞.

Pairing- Clark Kent x bombshell!assistant!reader

WC- 3.4k

Summary- You’re the new assistant at the Daily Planet. Your job is to run errands, get coffees, and not fall in love with the handsome man in glasses.

Contains- girly!fem!reader, Clark being the best man on the planet, maneater!reader but is soft for Clark, brief mention of touching someone without consent, reader has bangs/hair that can be tucked behind her ears, reader deals w insecurity

A/N- divider from @thecutestgrotto ! This was supposed to be all fluff but somehow I always end up with a little angst. There’s only a lil

Your heels click down the hallway of the Daily Planet, a rapid pitter pat that mimics the beating of your heart. Your freshly blown out hair falls in your eye, and you attempt to blow it out of the way with your lips, to no avail. You roll your eyes, a hefty sigh escaping your glossy lips as you continue your journey down the expansive hallway.

You think you'd make a pretty good circus act, with the way you juggle multiple trays of coffee for the Daily Planet staff. You have an extra surprise for them today as well- your carry-on cupcake tray dangles from your manicured pinky, hanging on for dear life.

You reach the large glass doors, your heart sinking ever so slightly at the challenge of opening them. As you size them up, debating how you’re going to go about this, (you’re too stubborn to put everything down, so that’s out of the question) your own personal hero pulls through.

A large hand wraps around the door handle, swinging it open. You look over your shoulder to meet a broad, open chest, a large bicep holding the door open for you. You smile brightly.

“My savior!” You croon, batting your lashes at him. You relish in the pink tint of his cheeks, a warm fuzziness settling in your stomach, like it always does when you see Clark. He’s warm, golden, the sun filtering through the window an angelic halo around his nest of curls.

His eyes find the ground, a giddy smile curling his lips. Your heart picks up in speed, rattling against your ribcage as you study the small details in his face. The crinkle by his eyes, the slope of his nose, the lightest dusting of hair decorating his upper lip- this one shocks you, he’s always so clean shaven.

Your eyes meet his for a slow, tantalizing moment before you enter, eyes still on him as you saunter in the office. He’s otherworldly- the shy bespectacled reporter you’ve come to know in your first month at the Daily Planet. A kind, honest, and caring man with the most gorgeous curls you’ve ever seen, sometimes you question whether or not he’s human.

“Let me help you with that,” Clark says, grabbing all three coffee trays in his massive hands. You breathe a sigh of relief, your pinky finally finding some relief as you grip the cupcake case with your free hand, setting it down on your desk.

You pop a hand on your hip, playfully rolling your eyes as Clark makes quick work of dropping a coffee off on everyone’s desks. His movements are frantic, his oversized blazer swallowing his broad frame.

“I can do my job, y’know that, handsome?” The name flows off your tongue, just as it has everyday since you started at the Daily Planet.

He shrugs, avoiding eye contact as his blush deepens, running down his neck. “I just want to help,” he admits, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You let out a soft chuckle at his kindness, his sincerity. He shoots you back a small smile of his own, knowing you’re laughing with him, not at him.

His grin takes you back to your first day, when you stumbled in a solid half an hour early. You were determined to be the first one there, determined to make a good impression. Yet, there was Clark, hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously on a pad of paper.

He looked tired, you remember. Dark circles hanging low under his eyes, his free hand was wrapped in gauze.

“Rough night, handsome?” You had asked him, the first time he’d fallen victim to the nickname. He jumped at the sound of your voice, the spin of his chair almost cartoonish as he turned to face you.

“Who are you?” He asked breathily, his chest heaving up and down. You’d introduced yourself, and held your hand out for him to shake. You’ll never forget the touch of his hand, the callouses that sent sparks straight to your heart, the grip of his fingers around yours.

Most of all, you remember the way he looked up at you, eyes wide, plump, pink lips parted ever so slightly, like you were an angel sent directly to him. You remember your heart battering against your ribcage, your stomach a butterfly habitat.

You smile at the memory now, uncovering the cupcakes you made for the staff. You relish in the gratitude, the playful hoots and hollers as everyone crowds your desk. While you love the rest of your coworkers, you’re missing your favorite one. Clark, who normally takes six cupcakes at a time just to pass them out, is nowhere to be found. You have to stand up on your tip toes to find your favorite ringlets, swiveling left to right in his chair as he focuses on the newspaper on his desk.

You sneak through the crowd, sauntering over to his desk, like a lioness on the prowl. You press both of your manicured hands into his meaty biceps as you peer over his shoulder at the newspaper on his desk. He tenses slightly at the contact, still not quite used to your affection, but then settles into your touch, as always.

There goes your heart again- creating its own drumbeat in your chest at the proximity to this man. You take a shaky breath, a warm, sickly sweet feeling resting in the pit of your stomach, singeing it from the inside out.

“I know you want to help,” you say softly in his ear, “thank you.”

The soft hint of red is now a raging fire, rapidly blazing his cheeks. He nods, a silent acceptance of your gratitude.

Your eyes focus on the paper in front of him, titled “Superman Saves The Day, Again!.” You scan the contents quickly, yet another one of Clark’s articles raving about the hero. Your brow quirks at his ability to consistently score interviews with the elusive paragon. The story is moving all the same, clenching your heart at the acts of bravery shown daily by Superman.

“This is really well written,” you mutter, your voice soft and sweet, chin resting on his shoulder. You’re breathing in time with him, your chest rising against his back as he takes deep breaths of his own. He nods, curtly, uttering a quick, “thank you,” as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes flit towards him to watch the movement. It’s then that your closeness really sinks in. It always takes a moment with Clark, it comes so naturally to you at first, to feel him, be close to him.

There’s always something, though, a beep of the coffee machine, the ringing of the telephone, that takes you right out of it. Today, it’s Perry clearing his throat behind you.

You snap up, smiling sweetly at your boss who’s glaring at you with playful disapproval. He shoots you a telling raise of his brow, one that you know means get back to your desk. You scurry off, your heels clicking playfully now as you glance over your shoulder.

Clark’s looking. It’s brief, the quickest glance before his head snaps back to his desk, cheeks red once more.

You catch it, though, his eyes wide and mouth slightly parted like they were that first day. Your head is swirling as you reach your desk, your eyes focusing on the dark wood so you won’t have to look up at Clark. That’s when it hits you, the rise in heart rate, the warmth in your stomach when you’re around him. Oh. Oh.

The past month flashes through your mind in a blur, the soft smiles, the delicate touches, the lingering eye contact. Your heart thunders in your ears as you realize it’s been more than playful flirting this entire time, that there’s deeper feelings there.

Oh no.

Your heart rate is buzzing as you move through the rest of the day, your head a cacophony of worst-case-scenarios. You’re moving non-stop, desperate to work away the anxiety you feel at your revelation.

The day crawls along at a snail’s pace. As it turns out, dedicating most of your energy towards avoiding Clark at all costs just makes you think about him more. You’re in survival mode, completing any and all tasks and odd jobs just to avoid talking to him.

He notices, because of course he does, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him for long. Persistent gazes have now turned into millisecond glances, playful touches nonexistent.

You know it’s not fair to him, to play this game of cat and mouse, but you can’t help the feeling of dread boiling in your stomach. You can’t remember the last time a man made you feel this way, the last time a man was truly good to you. And that’s just what Clark is, good. Too good. Too good for you.

He catches up to you eventually, finding you by the water cooler. You curse yourself as you see him approach from your peripheral. You could run, and be incredibly obvious, or stay there and attempt a casual conversation with Clark. The latter will be strenuous at best, and you’re already on your last emotional leg as it is.

It’s too late to decide by the time you’ve weighed your options, (how does he move so fast) his inquisitive brow piercing right through you. He stands before you, his hands in his pockets, face laced with concern.

“Hey,” he starts, grabbing his own cup and filling it, even though he keeps a water bottle on his desk at all times. You try to ignore the rapid beat of your heart at realizing that fact.

“Clark-” you start, but he’s quicker. Somehow, he always is.

“Did I do something? Because when I first saw you this morning, you seemed to be in a good mood. I hope I didn’t do anything to change that.”

You close your eyes, a pathetic sigh leaving your lips. God. Why does he have to be so perfect?

You open your eyes, looking into his blue ones. They’re not icy, like most blue eyes. They’re warm and inviting, a pool you’re desperate to dive into. The worry laced in them breaks the last of your resolve, your heart cracking under the pressure of his gaze.

“Clark, it’s fine,” you grit, walking around him into the break room, your heels harshly puncturing the tile.

You feel him on your tail, his presence a force behind you. You walk to the counter opposite the entrance, gripping the edge.

“I said I’m fine,” you breathe, unsure how much longer you can spend being this close to him

You need time and space to process your feelings. Your chaotic office in the middle of Metropolis with imminent proximity to your problem is the worst place to do that.

“I just wanted to-“

“Not everything is about you, Clark, okay?” You snap, your voice harsher than intended.

Guilt pools in your stomach almost immediately, the hurt now glossing his eyes pounding on the remaining bits of your heart. Your heart is pounding, you’re running on pure adrenaline now as you regrettably continue.

“I don’t always have to be around you when we’re at work, y’know? I can want space without there being something wrong, God!” You spin around, your back leaning against the counter.

You plow your fingers through your hair, eyes on the floor, refusing to meet him. Your heart is waging a war your mind can’t win- the butterflies he gives you constantly in combat with the voices swirling in your head- the ones that tell you he deserves better. You let them win this time, and as you watch him walk away, you can’t regret your decision any more.

Your thoughts are a blizzard in your brain as you walk the city streets of Metropolis back to your apartment. Guilt boils in your stomach, bubbling like witch’s brew. The late July sun beats down on you, and you hope it’ll melt the storm raging in your head.

You’d move through your whole life taking what you want from men, never thinking twice and never saying sorry. Ever since you were young, you clocked the way boys would stare in the lunch room, the way they’d cop a feel at school dances. You’d become unapologetic. If they can, why can’t you?

You’re surprised it’s taken you this long to face your reality regarding Clark. You’ve never been impudent with him, always soft, careful, and kind, as he’d been to you. At least, until today. Tears well in your eyes when you recall that fateful moment at the water cooler- the way you spoke to him, the hurt in his eyes when your words pelted him like bullets.

As you reach your complex, you chuckle pitifully at yourself, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks as the tears finally spill. How pathetic must you be that a man showing you genuine kindness and respect garners such a reaction?

You immediately flop on your bed once you’re home, shoving your face deep in your pillow. A muffled shriek escapes your lips as the reality of your situation crushes you. It’s stark in the silence of your apartment, your earlier words hanging heavy in the stale air.

Tears fall at a rapid pace, one replacing the other effortlessly. You’ve officially blown it with Clark Kent.

Another day dawns on Metropolis, your now shaky hands once again balancing cardboard trays that scald your palms. You lift your knee, reminiscent of when you were in this exact spot 24 hours prior. This time, you’ve scorned your hero, scared him away.

You push the door open with your hip, entering yet another day of chaos at the Daily Planet. Yesterday, you’d reveled in it, today, you’re drowning, doggy paddling just to keep your head above water. You set the trays down on your desk, resting the heel of your hands on the dark wood as you take deep, shaky breaths.

You’re woefully unprepared to see Clark, your eyes training on the toes of your white heels. Your heart pounds in your ears, your blood thrumming with anxiety.

The soft click of a paper coffee cup pulls you out of your pity party, your eyes darting towards the sound. It’s that same large hand, only this time wrapped around a cup that was not taken from the tray. You furrow your brow, glancing up to find Clark, a knowing look lacing his features.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask him blankly, still leaning over your desk. It only exaggerates the height difference between you two, which does absolutely horrible things to your beaten and broken heart.

“Why am I doing what?” His tone mirrors yours, flat and lifeless, but there’s the tiniest glint in his eye that tells you he’s already forgiven you.

Before you can answer, he’s off with the coffee trays, skillfully snaking them out from under you. You shoot up, a disbelieving scoff flying from your lips. He finds you from over his shoulder, that same glint now brighter. It nearly blinds you.

He’s back at your desk in record speed, resting his hips against the edge across from you. He slides your untouched coffee towards you when he sees it idle, and you roll your eyes.

“Why are you doing this after what I said yesterday? A coffee is literally the last thing I deserve right now, Clark,” your voice shakes, and you're desperate to quell the burning behind your eyelids. “Unless you spit in it, then I do deserve that,” you mutter quietly.

He catches it, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He picks up the cup, going so far to place it in your hand, wrapping your fingers around it before he lets go. His hand dwarfing yours is electric, sending shockwaves through your veins, electrocuting your heart.

“You’d never deserve that, honey,” he mutters, his eyes going wide at the accidental pet name.

It’s a balm on your aching heart, though, sweet and warm like sunshine on a perfect spring day. Your first genuine smile in 24 hours creeps on your face as you look up at Clark through your thick lashes.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, thick and anxious. His broad chest rises up and down with each deep breath. You could eat him for Thanksgiving dinner.

You chuckle to yourself at the thought, simultaneously breaking the tension between you and Clark. He smiles, his own soft laughter soon joining in. Pink tints his cheeks as his eyes find the ground, a shy smile on his pretty face.

“I just thought you needed a friend, is all,” he mutters meekly, “you never talk to me like that.”

Guilt mixes with the ache that clutches your heart, a bitter battle tearing it clean in two. You look up at him, eyes glistening at his untethered kindness, his desire to be good just because.

His eyes finally meet yours, and it feels like a ship meeting the shore, home. Blue crystalline irises reflect into yours, igniting a sparkling giddiness you haven’t felt in years.

The intensity soon becomes too much, your gaze flitting to your desk as you log in to your computer. Your nails click against the keys, puncturing through the awkward silence.

His eyes burn a hole through you as you send a few of Perry’s files to the printer, pushing away to retrieve them.

He follows you wordlessly, his hands now shoved in his pockets. You tuck your hair behind your ears, a bashful smile on your face as discomfort wiggles its way through you.

“Let me know if I’m bothering you,” he says lowly, “but I want to make sure you’re okay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your heart pounding against your chest with unspoken feelings. A strangled groan wrestles its way from your throat, your hands in fists in front of your face.

“Ugh! Clark!” You grate. “You’re way too nice. I can’t handle it!” Once you start, you can’t stop, word vomit spilling from your lips. “Especially not today, I really don’t deserve it. I’m so sorry for the way I spoke to you yesterday, I just got ahead of myself because I have this big stupid crush on you-“

You stop yourself, thick silence falling over you two like a wet blanket. Your hands fly to cover your lips, your eyes wide and panicked.

To your everlasting dismay, he smiles. The fucker smiles, a smug, nasty grin plasters his lips.

“You have a crush on me?” His voice rises as he speaks, dread pooling in your stomach at his teasing tone.

“Oh, Clark!” You throw your head back, hands flying to your face. “I didn’t mean to say that, I swear! I’m so sorry if you feel uncomfortable, it’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever had feelings like this for anyone else and-oh God I’m making this worse and I-“

You’re stopped by soft shushes, a gentle grip on your forearms. Clark pulls your hands away from your face, his thumb and forefinger tilting your chin to face him. He’s behind the printer now, standing with you cozily in the corner of the office.

“You’re not making it worse,” he says, voice rumbling against your chest. “I think you’re beautiful. I’d be honored to be given even one chance.”

Your heart melts, pooling in your stomach like warm syrup. Your brows furrow in desperation, you feel like you’re floundering, flailing underwater with no hope of breaking the surface.

So, you secede. Your shoulders slump, a sigh escaping your lips as you lean into him.

“I want to give you a chance,” you admit, soft and a bit petulant. “I just got really scared, and I took it out on you. It so wasn’t fair and I so want to go to dinner with you.”

To your surprise, he leans forward ever so slightly, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. You lose your breath in that moment, a gasp getting stuck in your throat at the feeling of his soft lips on your skin.

“I’ll pick you up at 7,” he whispers against your temple. A shiver unzips your spine as he walks back to his desk. You’re frozen at the printer, eyes wide as you watch his tall frame saunter off.

“See you then,” you whisper under your breath, butterflies resuming their symphony in your stomach.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Yall I need someone to write (or maybe this is actually me just word vomiting a draft to Tumblr,,,) a Jack Abbot x fbi!profiler!reader,,,,, I’ve been watching criminal minds lately and can’t stop imaging a Spencer Reid type reader— maybe she has two phds (maybe just one), probably psychology or maybe sociology? I always imagine this reader as kinda shy but fierce (in my head she’s plus sized because I am but you can disregard that fact if you want to) when it comes to loving the people around her and doing her best to do good at her job (since people’s lives depend on her and the bau). Maybe that’s how she’s in the hospital (puts herself in danger to save a team member or kid maybe)— but I kinda don’t want it to be a meet cute. Maybe Robby knows her (idk maybe their families are friends or something) so when she comes into the ER with a gunshot wound Robby’s freaked out and Jack obviously is curious as to why he’s so invested in this particular patient. Maybe while getting wheeled in reader if yelling for someone to call her unit chief (Hotch, if your doing the criminal minds crossover) cause she discovered somebody about the unsub (could do the classic trope of “he has a partner!!”) Robby goes to her immediately and Jack follows to work on her. I just imagine eventually when she’s in surgery or something Robby tells some stories of the insane situations readers been in and how many people her team help. Jack is kinda enthralled by her from the get go (I imagine her making inappropriate jokes after getting the info to Hotch, like “holy fuck if I did I’m totally gonna haunt Robby and the team and annoy the shit out of them”) I think this type of silly but shy/really competent and danger prone person would seriously catch Jacks attention.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Everyone needs to go read this now🕺💃

FIRECRACKER

Part 2 of REBEL COWBOY

18+ account - minors do not interact

GIF found on @patrick-stewart jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 11k (don’t look at me! grab a snack!) Rating: E

Summary: You are a lawyer representing Jack after a patient's mother files a lawsuit on claims of misrepresentation and ethical misconduct. Initially, your focus is solely on ensuring that your client’s reputation remains intact. However, over time, the lines start to blur between your objectivity—and personal attachment to your client. Part 2 Summary: After the fax is received, everything changes for you and Jack.

Warning: minor spoilers for 1x4-1x7 (Kristi—teen girl medical abortion storyline), mentions of abortion, workplace stress, angst (emotionally constipated jack), reader is friends with Frank (they have known each other since college), we meet Abby (fake backstory of course lol), implied age gap, yearning, sexual tension, language, alcohol use, mentions of breakdown of a previous relationship (infidelity), fluff, mutual pining, flirting, feelings, pet names, reader has brief insecurity (don’t worry our jack gets her out of her head), size kink? (jack has a big dick, I don’t know how else to put it) dirty talk (filthy jack—I need him your honor), praise, oral sex (f—receiving), unprotected p in v sex, I think that’s it?

A/N: I’m so fucking nervous, but here is part 2! I had so many people request to be tagged in this final part so I would love to hear what your thots are via comments & reblogs <3

Jack Abbot Masterlist

Gloria: Meet me in conference room 4492. Your lawyer is here. The hospital chair wants to see you.

Jack glanced at his phone, the ominous message lingering in his mind as he swiftly scrubbed his hands. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of unease crossing his face. The adrenaline from the surgery still coursed through him, but now a different tension settled in.

Gloria’s request felt weighty.

Serious.

His scrubs were slightly rumpled from a long shift.

He knew he probably looked exhausted, the kind that came from hours of intense surgery.

As he turned a corner, he bumped into Robby.

"Hey, Jack," Robby started. "Got a patient case I wanna run by you. Think you got a minute?"

Jack, already glancing at his watch, gave a quick shake of his head. "Can’t chat now, Robby. After," he said, his tone brisk but not unfriendly.

Robby's eyebrows raised in surprise. "After? Like, when?"

Jack glanced at his phone, then back at Robby with a hint of urgency. "I need to go meet with Gloria. Some stuff I gotta handle." His voice was clipped, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Without waiting for a reply, Jack pushed past Robby.

Robby watched Jack hurriedly walk away, then called out, "Hey, let's meet on the rooftop after?" His tone was casual but carried an undercurrent of concern, as if sensing the weight Jack was carrying.

Jack paused for a fraction of a second, then turned around and nodded subtly in acknowledgment.

Robby lifted a hand in a small, reassuring wave.

Jack quickened his pace toward the nearby elevator bank. He pressed the button, the metallic chime signaling the arrival of the elevator. As the doors slid open, he stepped inside, pressing the button for the 4th floor. When the doors opened again, he stepped out into the corridor, moving swiftly down the hall toward conference room 4492.

He paused just outside, his hand hesitating on the doorframe as he took in the serious expressions of those inside through the glass windows. The weight of Gloria’s message still lingered in his mind. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Inside, the hospital's main legal counsel sat stiffly at the table. Seated next to him was the hospital chair, whose expression was equally grave. Gloria stood silently in the corner, her arms crossed, but her eyes attentive.

Jack’s eyes locked onto yours, and for a fleeting moment, he was struck by a jarring realization—your face held an expression he'd never seen before, and so he studied your features, trying to find the usual signals he knew so well.

He focused on the small details—how the faint creases at the corners of your eyes, which he’d associated with concentration or irritation, weren’t present now. The way your nostrils flared slightly when you were annoyed, or the quick twitch of your brow when caught off guard, was missing. Instead, your face held an unyielding, almost mask-like calm that he couldn’t quite place.

He remembered the times you’d been visibly stressed—your eyes darting anxiously or your lips pressing into a thin line when frustrated.

But this moment was different.

You sat there.

Composed.

Yet undeniably distant.

Almost unnervingly so.

The more he looked, the more he realized—this was a new kind of quiet, one that demanded even closer attention to the smallest, most particular details of your perfect fucking face.

The hospital chair cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. "Dr. Abbot. We received a fax last night from Eloise Wheeler and her attorney. It appears both your legal counsel team and ours received it simultaneously. We believe you are aware of its contents."

Jack shook his head.

"I’m not."

He reached into a folder and pulled out a document, sliding it across the table to Jack.

The uncertainty prickled at him—an unfamiliar vulnerability that made him acutely aware that whatever he was about to read was about to change everything.

Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out, hesitating for a moment before carefully sliding into the chair next to yours. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, then accepted the document with a tentative nod.

Holding it loosely in his hands, Jack’s eyes scanned the crisp, typed words addressed to your boss, who was the partner on the case:

Date: May 28th, 2025 To: Jorge Castillo at Summit and Sterling— Case No.: 2025-CV-785431 Fax Number: 412-555-7890 Subject: Notice of Withdrawal of Claims – Kristi Wheeler Dear Jorge Castillo, This letter serves as formal notice that Eloise Wheeler, on behalf of her minor daughter Kristi Wheeler, hereby withdraws and drops any and all claims, lawsuits, and allegations previously filed against Dr. Jack Abbott and Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. We acknowledge receipt of the relevant documentation and information pertaining to the ultrasound and medical procedures conducted on Kristi Wheeler. After careful review and consideration, Ms. Wheeler has decided to cease all legal actions related to this matter. Please consider this letter as a full and final withdrawal of any claims. We appreciate the hospital’s cooperation in resolving this matter amicably. Sincerely, Robert Nguyen Attorney at Miller & Carter   1334 Justice Avenue Pittsburgh, PA 15213 Phone: (412) 659-7294 Email: r.nguyen@millerandcarter.com

Jack let out a slow, almost disbelief-laden breath, then blinked several times, as if trying to process what he'd just read.

All the claims were dropped.

Eloise wasn’t even trying to go after a settlement.

Gloria’s arms uncrossed, and her face softened, a faint, genuine smile breaking through her usual guarded expression. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod as if affirming the good news to herself.

Jack looked around at everyone. "I… I didn’t expect this," he murmured, shaking his head slowly.

The hospital chair, who had been tense earlier, leaned back in his seat. "It’s over, Dr. Abbot. It’s finally over."

Gloria reached up to wipe her forehead with a slight, relieved chuckle. "Well, I think we can all breathe easier now."

Everyone in the room nodded or murmured in agreement, a collective exhale of relief filling the space. Jack finally let out a long, steadying breath, his shoulders relaxing fully now as a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying for so long was lifted.

You finally glanced at Jack, grinning at him.

Something about the way you were looking at him made him forget how to breathe.

You always had that effect on him.

Without a word, under the table, you reached out and gently squeezed his knee. The gesture was simple, and entirely non-verbal—meant to convey congratulations.

Yet—he felt his cock twitch.

Jack’s eyes darted to you, pupils dilating slightly, his breath catching in his throat.

The hospital chair leaned forward, turning his attention to you, a rare smile flickering across his usually stern face. "We’re so grateful. It’s been a tough process, and your expertise made all the difference. You and your firm did a wonderful job representing Dr. Abbot."

You raised an eyebrow, a sassy smirk curling your lips. "And in a way, your hospital, too, since your legal counsel didn’t really do anything. It’s almost like I provided free services to the hospital."

Jack and Gloria exchanged a quick glance, and she mouthed softly, 'I like her,' to which Jack silently mouthed back, 'Me too.'

The hospital chair’s face flushed slightly, caught off guard by your boldness. "Yes, well," he stammered, trying to recover. "Is there anything we can do? We’d love to take you out to dinner to celebrate."

You gave a dismissive shake of your head. "I don’t need dinner. But, actually, there is something you can do."

The hospital chair’s jaw tightened as he nodded slowly, a forced politeness masking his discomfort. His eyes flicked nervously toward his legal counsel, who shifted uneasily in his seat.

"It’s been brought to my attention that there’s a ten-year-old girl—Aaliyah Owens. She needs heart surgery. The hospital… well, you’ve refused to pay for it. Said there just aren’t enough funds."

"There aren’t." the hospital chair replied.

"I’ve spent months and months doing discovery at this hospital. Don’t disrespect me by lying to my face. This hospital has the pro bono funds. I know it. You know it," you shot back, your eyes locking onto his.

Jack’s pulse quickened at your unwavering stance.

Your voice was steady.

Leaving no room for argument.

The legal counsel’s jaw twitched, and he opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him get a word in. Instead, you pressed on, tone firm and commanding. "While I can’t legally represent this family because of the conflict of interest—thanks to what I uncovered during this case—I’m still more than happy to recommend them to the best lawyers in Pittsburgh and suggest they sue this hospital for tort of deceit."

The hospital chair raised his eyebrows at you and gave Gloria a disbelieving look.  

Jack watched—completely captivated by you.

You shrugged. "Or, better yet, you could just pay for Aaliyah’s surgery and recovery. Think of the great PR you’d get. Saving a kid’s life? That’s a win for everyone."

The hospital chair’s face flushed with frustration. He clenched his jaw, then finally spat out, "Well, aren’t you a firecracker?"

You smirked.

"If this case had gone to trial, it would’ve cost your hospital millions. This surgery? A drop in the bucket. So, here’s my advice: you can do the right thing, or you can keep playing these games. Either way, I suggest you get this done."

His eyes darted between his legal counsel and you, weighing his options. After a tense moment, he heaved a sigh. "We’ll think about it."

You reached into your folder and pulled out a document, setting it on the table. Your voice turned icy with finality. "Well, don’t think about it too hard. You can sign this dotted line by 5 p.m. today. Or not. But I recommend you do."

The legal counsel reached out swiftly, grabbing the document from the table with a brisk nod. "Thank you, counselor."

The hospital chair slowly pushed himself to his feet, and extended his hand toward you. "Thank you," he said gruffly, his grip firm but brief. You reciprocated, clasping his hand briefly, and he gritted out, "Have a nice day," before turning to follow his legal counsel out of the room.

As they exited, Gloria approached, offering a genuine smile. She held out her hand, and you shook it, returning her gesture. "Thank you for everything," she said softly. "I’m not the biggest fan of lawyers, but I think you might’ve just converted me."

You chuckled.

Gloria stepped closer to Jack, reaching out and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm yet reassuring. With a soft, sincere smile, she nodded toward him and said, "I’ll let you two celebrate. Congratulations, Dr. Abbot."

She squeezed his shoulder gently once more before stepping out of the room.

As soon as the door closed, you stepped forward and reached out, your arms opening in a quiet invitation. Jack responded instinctively, his arms wrapping around you.

It was the first time you two had hugged—or ever held each other like this.

Jack’s arms tightened slightly around you, feeling the softness of your back, the warmth of your body pressed against his. He kept his eyes screwed shut, and he could feel your eyelashes tickling his neck.

He breathed you in, as if he could bottle you for later.

It was grounding.

Comforting.

The kind of smell that instantly anchored him.

A calm he wanted to cling to.

Maybe his scrubs would trap your scent. He really hoped they would.

You hesitated just a moment before stepping back. Your arms lowered slowly, and you looked up at him

"You know," you said, your voice impossibly small, "Gloria’s right. We should celebrate. Go out for dinner."

His heart squeezed in his chest at how sweet you sounded.

"And don’t worry—I’ll pay. Considering your retainer probably cost more than what most people earn in a year, I think I owe you a night off," you added with a wink.

Jack ran a hand through his hair.

"Look, I want to apologize about yesterday," he shifted uncomfortably, "it was wrong of me to—say what I said and—to uh insinuate—uh—well you know. I’m sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

Concern knit at your brows, and Jack wanted to gently smooth the creases with his fingers.  

"Because you're my lawyer."

Jack swallowed when you ran one of your hands slowly down his arm.

“Well… I’m not your lawyer anymore. I mean, technically, we still need to close out all the remaining items and sign off on everything, but I won’t be your lawyer anymore in a couple of days."

For some reason, panic seized his throat.

"Once the paperwork's finalized—the case is officially closed," you finished, your gaze flickering from his eyes to his lips, making your want crystal clear.

Without a word, you gently reached up, fingers brushing his jaw as you leaned in, your lips parting softly in anticipation. Your eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, leaning in to close the gap between you.

But just as your lips were about to meet his, Jack suddenly shifted, tilting his head aside. His body tensed as he gently dodged your kiss, turning his cheek to you.

Confused, you pulled back slightly, opening your eyes wide. "Oh, that's fine," you said softly, a small, uncertain smile forming. "We can go on our first date once everything's official and cleared." Your voice was gentle, trying to keep things light despite the sudden shift.

Jack started to shake his head slowly, his brow furrowing as he looked down, avoiding looking at you. "I don't think we should go on a date."

"What?" you said, your voice cracking a bit. “But yesterday, you said—"

"I know what I said," he cut you off. "I know what I've been saying. But we can’t."

You looked crushed and completely shattered.

He was handling everything all wrong.

And now you were confused and hurt.

And he hated himself for that.

"Why?"

He simply didn’t deserve you.

"I just can’t," he grumbled.

"That’s not a real response," you said, a tear sliding down your cheek.

His heart clenched painfully at the sight of your hurt, and he hated himself even more for being the cause of it.

You wiped another tear away with the back of your hand.

"Why are you pushing me away? I thought you wanted this. I thought you wanted—me."

Of course, he wanted you. Anyone in their right mind would want you.

He swallowed, the lump in his throat tightening painfully. "Trust me, it’s better this way."

"And you get to make a unilateral decision without talking to me about it?" You inhaled a shaky breath and dropped your chin to your chest

He cursed under his breath and tried not to yank his hair out. "I’m sorry."

You blinked and shook your head, stunned. "Jesus, who the hell am I even talking to right now?"

You began gathering your papers, folder, and personal belongings. "Summit and Sterling will send you the final bill," you said evenly, zipping your laptop bag shut. "I’ll send you an email in a few days closing out everything."

Jack opened his mouth—but no words came.

You turned away, heading for the door, your posture upright and composed. As your hand reached the doorknob, Jack finally managed to utter your name.

But you interrupted before he could finish. Without turning back, you simply said, "Goodbye, Dr. Abbot."

ONE MONTH LATER

The backyard was a whirlwind of chaos and color, a far cry from your typical backyard party. Abby never just threw normal get-togethers.

She loved this shit—turning the mundane into a celebration of nothing and everything all at once. It was the start of summer, and she’d declared it a day to just be happy, to revel in the simple joy of good weather and good company.

As you stepped through the gate, the scene before you became immediately clear: waiters weaving between tables, expertly balancing trays of exquisite food—small plates of charcuterie, vibrant salads, and tiny desserts that looked almost too pretty to eat. Kids squealed with delight on bouncey playhouses, their laughter ringing through the yard, while others zipped around with carefree energy, some parents lounging nearby with drinks in hand. Off to the corner, you spotted Frank hunched over a grill, making hot dogs and burgers. He didn’t quite share the enthusiasm for this kind of scene—Abby had come from money, with fancy parties and elegant dinners—he grew up with backyard barbecues, paper plates, and cold beers.

Abby and Frank were like night and day—polar opposites in every way. Abby thrived on the chaos of a bustling scene, on the beauty of tiny details, and the art of making everything feel special. Frank, on the other hand, was rooted in simplicity and practicality.

They argued about everything from music to movies, but somehow—they just worked. Despite their differences, or maybe because of them, they just fucking fit together.

They were annoyingly perfect together.

You moved slowly, saying quick hellos to the handful of people you recognized—mutual friends, some from here, others from your undergraduate days at Johns Hopkins. A few of the Baltimore crew, including you and Frank, had moved to Philly or Pittsburgh over the last few years.

As you made your way through the crowd, you realized so many of the Pitt staff were there. It was unexpected to see so many people from the hospital. Frank didn’t usually mix his personal and professional life when he hosted events—you really hadn’t met his colleagues until the lawsuit.

Your heart started pounding a little faster.

You scanned the crowd.

Searching for someone.

Jack.

You wondered if he was here, but you didn’t see him. He was probably going to work the night shift, pulling the late hours as usual.

It hurt to think of him if you were being honest.

It was almost like a pattern you had come to expect—this feeling that once you started to relax with a man, to believe in something real, the universe had a way of pulling the rug out from under you. Maybe it was because you had been burned too many times before, or maybe because deep down, you were afraid that trusting someone again meant risking more pain.

Your last serious relationship ended two years ago, and it left a scar that was still tender.

He cheated on you.

Lied.

Betrayed your trust.

Shattered the fragile hope you had built around what you thought was real.

After that, you swore off the idea of genuine romance, settling instead for casual encounters, mediocre sex, and fleeting moments that didn’t demand much but also didn’t require you to be vulnerable.

And then Jack came along.

For the first time in a long while, you genuinely felt like you could open yourself up again. It was the way he looked at you, the way you could talk without filters, the way he seemed to understand parts of you that you had buried deep. For a moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, there was hope for something real.

You let your guard down with him.

And then—bam.

He somehow broke your fucking heart.

Your thoughts were interrupted when you spotted Dr. Robby approaching you through the crowd. His face lit up with a warm smile as he recognized you. He walked over, and before you could even say a word, he pulled you into a friendly hug. You instinctively called him "Dr. Robby," as you always did, but he chuckled softly and loosened his grip.

"Please," he said, with a grin, "just call me Michael."

His smile faded suddenly, the warmth in his eyes shifting into something more guarded, more serious. He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Listen, I know what you uncovered about me during this case." He paused. "And I want you to know, I appreciate what you did. I didn’t deserve your discretion, and I want to thank you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you said, playing dumb, a slight tilt to your head as if you genuinely didn’t understand.

He studied you for a moment.

The corner of his lips twitched, yet he nodded and took a small step up towards you.

"Jack was right about you," he said softly, and the words hung in the air, leaving you momentarily frozen.

What did that mean?

He could tell you were confused.

Michael took a slow, deliberate breath, then offered a small smile. "Jack said you’re an amazing lawyer because you actually care about your cases, not just the facts, but the people involved. It’s what makes you good at what you do," he paused for a moment, "you're compassionate, it’s why he—it’s why he—um—respects you."

Your eyebrows snapped together.

Before you could respond, Frank raised his voice, drawing the attention of everyone. "Can I have just a moment?" he called out, his deep voice cutting through the chatter and laughter. The crowd gradually quieted, turning their heads toward him. "I know some of you might have to head out soon—night shift waits for no one," he added with a small smile. "But I just want to say a few words."

He paused for a beat, scanning the group. "Abby and I would like to thank everyone for coming here tonight. As some of you know, the hospital was recently sued, and it was a tough time for all of us. But I want to take a moment to recognize someone very special today.” His gaze fixed on you, and he gestured broadly. "This lovely person right here—" he pointed at you—"was instrumental in making that lawsuit go away and in protecting our hospital staff. And I just want to remind everyone" he pointed at himself, "that I recommended her."

The Pitt staff erupted into applause, some hollering words of appreciation. Hands clapped loudly, a few even whistled, and others nodded in recognition of your effort.

The energy was warm and genuine.

But to you?

It felt overwhelming—like a spotlight suddenly shining on your chest.

"And on top of that," he added, a broad smile spreading across his face, "She’s just made partner at Summit and Sterling. That’s a fucking incredible achievement and something you should be so proud of. I’m so proud of you."

The crowd erupted into more applause.

Your cheeks heated, and you instinctively looked down, feeling embarrassed. You tried to open your mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead, you managed a small, exasperated gesture, mouthing the words 'I hate you' to Frank, and flipped him off. You knew he did it on purpose, knowing how much you despised being the center of attention.

He grinned.

The crowd chuckled along, but then Frank’s expression softened.

He cleared his throat. "But in all seriousness, you introduced me to my favorite person in the world." He gestured toward Abby, who was watching him with a gentle, loving smile. "You were the best man—well, my best woman—at our wedding. You stood by us, made everything feel right, even when it was fucking chaos. And you’re the godmother to my two favorite tiny humans. You’re my best friend, and I’m so lucky to have you in my life."

You felt your vision blur slightly, and a slow, steady ache settled in your chest.

The gentle "aww's" from the crowd echoed around you. Without thinking, you closed the distance between you and Frank.

You reached out, wrapping your arms around him in a tight, genuine hug. As you pulled back slightly, you saw his sons approaching. Without hesitation, you bent down and scooped Tanner onto your waist, feeling his tiny arms wrap around your shoulders.

Frank, reached out and gently took his other son into his arms, holding him close.

You made your way towards Abby, shoulders brushing past laughing, chatting, and the occasional high five. Tanner was on your hip, his bright eyes scanning the scene. As people offered their congratulations—some pats on your back, a few knowing smiles—you smiled politely. When you finally reached Abby, she was grinning from ear to ear, her arms open wide for a hug. You stepped into her embrace.

"Hey, Partner," she said, pulling back just enough to look at you with her bright eyes.

You smiled, a little overwhelmed by everything.

"Thanks," you muttered.

Suddenly, Tanner’s eyes locked onto a familiar face near the crowd—a tiny friend, waving eagerly with a wide grin. Tanner’s little face lit up with recognition, and he shifted slightly, squirming in your hold.

"Auntie, I wanna go!" Tanner chirped suddenly, his voice filled with excitement. He reached up to tug at your shoulder. "Can I please be down? I wanna see Joey!"

You gently eased him away, lowering him onto the ground, pressing a soft kiss to Tanner’s little forehead, "Have fun, sweetheart," you whispered. Tanner’s face lit up with a wide smile as he wrapped his arms around your leg. "Bye, I love you!"

Abby hooked her arm through yours, practically dragging you toward the drink station. The table was lined with bottles of spirits, mixers, and her signature margaritas.

Strong enough to knock you on your ass if you weren’t careful.

"Here," she said, handing you a margarita.

You accepted, taking a sip and savoring the flavor. Abby then grabbed her own drink, but instead of a margarita, she reached for a can of Coca-Cola from the cooler nearby, popping it open with a satisfying fizz. She held it up playfully with a grin.

You raised an eyebrow.

"You know how it is," she said, shrugging. "Hosting and all—I’m trying not to get too drunk."

"Last time you hosted a party, you were doing shots with everyone. What are you talking about?"

Her eyes darted away, avoiding you for a moment. Her smile faltered just slightly, and her cheeks flushed a little. You observed Abby closely, trying to pinpoint what might be causing her strange behavior. You caught the hesitation, the subtle shift in her expression, and suddenly it hit you.

"Oh… my fucking god," you said, voice dropping with realization. "Are you pregnant?"

Her eyes widened just a fraction, and she quickly looked away, pretending to check something behind you—anything to avoid your eyes. The silence stretched for a beat before she finally muttered, "Maybe…" her voice barely above a whisper, but her eyes gave her away.

Your jaw dropped.

"You have two kids under four!"

"I know, it’s not like this was planned!"

"Does Frank know?"

“Of course he knows! He knew before I did. One day, I came home, and he handed me a pregnancy test.” Abby’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and she looked a little sheepish as she finally admitted, "Remember when I told you I wanted a Birkin?"

 "Yeah?"

She hesitated for a moment, then chuckled nervously. "Well, I didn’t expect him to actually get it for me. A few weeks ago, I came home and there it was. I had been joking, really. Just kind of mentioning it in passing. I didn’t think he’d actually go out and buy one. I mean, it’s a ridiculous luxury, right? And I kind of just—jumped him. Or, he jumped me? I don’t know, all I know is suddenly, he had me spread out on the kitchen counter—"

Cringing, you cut her off. "Ew, please, just skip to the end."

Frank was like a brother to you, so even though you knew he was conventionally attractive, you could never talk to Abby about their sex life.

It was too weird.

Abby rolled her eyes and sighed. "Well, one thing led to another," she said with a shrug. "And that was pretty much the night I was wrapping up my antibiotics, so I think my birth control didn’t exactly do its job."

"So, wait, your future kid was conceived because Frank gifted you a Birkin?"

Abby couldn’t suppress her grin.

"The most expensive way to get pregnant, huh?" she said, barley containing her laughter.

You snorted. "Who knew that a designer bag could be such a powerful fertility aid?"

"We're not really telling anyone right now, okay? This stays between us." She wiggled her eyebrows, then made a quick zip-lip motion, finger across her lips, signaling secrecy.

"Lips are sealed," you said softly, mimicking the gesture. "Congratulations on getting knocked up. Again."

"I mean, have you seen my stud of a husband? Frank’s definitely got the looks to go with that big—"

You immediately groaned, raising your hand in protest. "Please, stop."

—heart.” She winked. "And now that you know I’m pregnant, I really need to pee—this kid’s been attacking my bladder all day. Be right back."

"Sure thing," you replied, and then scanned the bar as you continued to sip on your margarita.

You felt a hand on your shoulder.

"I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on," you heard a man say in a low voice in your ear.

Except it wasn’t any voice.

It was a voice you absolutely recognized.

You whipped your head around to find Jack scratching the back of his neck, and the corner of his lips tipping up.

The door to Abby’s office clicked softly behind Jack as he stepped inside, casting a tentative glance around the space. It was a small, cluttered room—papers stacked on the desk, a few framed photos of family and friends, and a cluttered bookshelf.

He had asked you if he could speak to you in private, and you had led him to this room.

You’d never seen Jack out of his scrubs—right now it was just him in plain clothes. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and sculpted chest perfectly, the fabric stretching just enough to hint at the strength beneath. His cargo pants sat comfortably on his hips, pockets bulging slightly with who knew what. The casual wear made him look even more real—impossibly attractive in a way that made your stomach flip.

It was the first time he was seeing you 'outside of the office' so to speak as well. You were wearing a tight green short-sleeved long knee-length shirt dress. It didn’t feel like a revealing outfit at all, but the way Jack was looking you up and down made you feel like you were on display.

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, shoulders hunched forward as if trying to shrink himself.

Several tense, quiet moments passed. You opened up your mouth to speak, but your thoughts were still too chaotic to put into words.

"Congratulations," he finally managed. "On making partner. That’s... that’s a huge deal. You deserve it."

You looked at him, frustration crossing your face.

Seriously? Congratulations?

You wanted to roll your eyes. Instead, you took a breath, steadying yourself. "Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you said curtly.

He flinched.

"How have you been?"

“Fine,” you said, all cavalier, like this conversation didn't even matter. 

He cocked his head to the side. "Oh, so it's going to be like that?"

You couldn’t help but snort.

"I haven't seen or spoken to you in a month. And now you think is the perfect time to make small talk?"

He held your gaze.

Unbothered.

"Look," he started, voice strained, "I’m not good at this."

"Not good at what?"

"At sharing my feelings without sounding like a damn mess. And last time… I got scared."

You crossed your arms, your tone colder now. "You got scared?"

"Of course, I got scared. You make me feel things that I didn’t know I could feel. No good comes from caring this much about someone."

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed nervously.

"I’m older than you. I’m missing a goddamn limb. I have PTSD. I listen to a police scanner on my days off because I’m probably fucking insane. So yeah, I’m not exactly a shining example of emotional stability."

He let out a short, dry laugh.

"Since the war… sometimes I feel like a puzzle. Some of the pieces are on fire. And some of the pieces are just fucking missing—" his voice cracked, "and so…in what world, does a person like you end up with a person like me?"

You could see the conflict in his face.

You were fighting the tears that were beginning to spring up.

Your heart hurt for him.

"Jack, I’m not going to pretend I know what you’ve been through, because I don’t. I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve carried with you. And I don’t want to pretend I understand the weight of all that. But what I do know is this—you don’t have to be perfect or 'fixed' before you’re allowed to be happy. You deserve good things."

His mouth was set in a hard line.

"I’m not worth your patience. You deserve better. You deserve someone else."

"How about you let me be the judge of that?"

Jack let out a harsh breath. "You’re stubborn."

You sighed, frustration flaring as you stepped back, creating distance between you. "You know what they say—you can't catch fish if you don’t cast your line. So, maybe you’re just not craving this."

His fingers wove into his hair, tugging at his curls.

He huffed out a breath.

Suddenly, he looked like the hungriest man in the world.

"You have no idea how much I crave it," he said, like he couldn’t believe you just said what you said.

Jack stepped closer, his hazel eyes piercing into yours. Without a word, he reached out, gently but firmly guiding you backward until your ass hit the edge of the desk. His hands settled on your hips, steadying you as he leaned in slightly.

He reached out to trace your lower lip with his index finger. "What do you want?"

He was so close now that you could smell his cologne, which was mingled with his natural musk.

It had created an intoxicating blend that was uniquely his own.

Fuck, he smelled good.

"You already know what I want," you replied, a little breathless. "So, tell me—what do you want, Jack?"

"I want you," he said simply, voice thick with emotion. "I want to be with you. I want the good, the bad, and everything in between." Jack gently placed his hands on either side of your face. "And…even though you’ve made the questionable decision of being a Baltimore Ravens fan—I want all of it, with you, and only you, in all your glorious, unpredictable, wonderful entirety."

A wave of emotion washed over you.

Unexpected and relentless.

You couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your laughter bubbled up first.

Bright.

Raw.

And entirely involuntary.

Salty tears followed, slipping down your cheeks.

You hiccupped a little, trying to catch your breath between the tears and the laughter. "Well," you managed to rasp out, “I want it all with you, too.”

Without hesitation, he reached up, gently brushing his thumb across your cheek to wipe away the wetness. His lips pressed softly against your temple, then your cheek, lingering there for a moment.

"You’re fucking gorgeous," he whispered, voice trembling with honesty. "I don’t know how I got so lucky, sweetheart."

He then bent down and brushed his lips against yours.  

The kiss was slow.

Cautious.

So soft and gentle.

Tender.

You melted into his touch.

His hand, still resting on your cheek, tightened slightly, grounding you as the warmth of his lips deepened.

The softness gave way to a quiet hunger, a silent invitation that made you want more.

You responded instinctively, leaning into him, your breath hitching as your lips parted just a little more, craving the connection. His lips moved with a tenderness that grew bolder, his tongue tentatively exploring your mouth.

The heat pooled low in your belly, and the kiss turned desperate, your fingers finding their way into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly as the kiss deepened. His lips were much more insistent than before as his hands explored your waist, your hips, your ass.

They were fucking everywhere.

His tongue kept crashing into yours, and it was messy and hurried, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t stop kissing him, and somehow your legs had fallen open. Instinctively, you pulled him closer, feeling his cock pressing against you, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.

Then his mouth started traveling down your throat, the scrape of his teeth pressing into your pulse.

One of his hands went underneath the fabric of your dress, and you knew what he was about to realize.

"Christ," he said in a voice that didn’t sound like anything like the way he usually did. "You don’t have any fucking panties on?" he muttered.

He looked like his brain was buffering.

"I didn’t want any visible panty lines," you gasped as you felt him slide his fingers between your legs, soaking up the wetness that had formed there.

He inhaled slowly, his chest rising and his lashes fluttering against his skin with his lips slightly parted. It was like all of a sudden, he realized what was happening.

That you two were basically dry-humping like teenagers in Abby’s office.

Where anybody could walk in.

"I can’t believe the first time I’m touching you is in fucking Langdon’s house."

You giggled. "Maybe we should relocate… literally anywhere else."

He tilted his head down, kissing your bottom lip.

"I might spontaneously combust if we don’t," he said, pulling his hand from underneath your dress. You watched him lift his hand to his lips, slipping his fingers into his mouth with his wet tongue, his eyes never leaving yours.

He hummed and grunted like it was the best damn thing he had ever tasted in his life.  

"All I want right now is to hear you screaming my name, so you better say your goodbyes to everyone before I fuck you right here." he growled.

Your answer was a breathless nod.

The drive to Jack’s townhouse had been a blur. His hand never left your thigh, fingers kneading into your flesh with deliberate pressure.

His thumb moving in slow, thoughtful strokes.

As if he needed to remind himself you were real. That this was happening.

His hand was impossibly large—how had you never really noticed that before?

It all made you feel small and cherished at the same time.

By the time you arrived, the door closed softly behind you, and the sensation of Jack’s hand swallowing your thigh was still tingling on your skin.

His place was a reflection of him.

Meticulous.

Clean.

Precise.

A sanctuary that suited his no-nonsense, guarded nature.

Every book, every object, had its place.

The living room was sleek but lived-in, with an air of calm efficiency. On the coffee table, a cluster of medical journals lay stacked with precision, their covers crisp and pages well-thumbed. The bamboo base of the table added a touch of unexpected warmth to the space.

In the corner, a vintage Wurlitzer piano sat quietly.

It made you smile—of course he played.

A record player was softly spinning some Motown, the soulful melodies filling the room with a nostalgic hum. Above it, a striking Jimmy Hendrix art piece—a bold, colorful portrait of the guitar legend—added a splash of something to the otherwise controlled environment.

Jack’s hands were gentle but firm as he guided you into his bedroom, the softness of his touch contrasting with the raw hunger that flickered behind his eyes. Once inside, he pressed you backward, the backs of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. His lips were warm and relentless, pressing kisses along your jawline, then trailing down your neck.

His mouth barely left your skin, lingering as he left small bites along your pulse point and jaw, his breath hot against your neck. It was as if he was trying to memorize the way you tasted, to savor the moment before plunging into whatever came next. His hands came up to rest on your waist, fingers curling softly into the fabric of your dress.

But he was careful.

Deliberate in his restraint.

As if he were handling something fragile.

Instead of tearing your dress off or throwing you onto the mattress like you thought he would, he lowered you down carefully.

Like you were made of glass.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your mouth before guiding you down onto the bed, his body hovering protectively over yours. His hands cradled your face, thumb softly tracing your jawline as he looked into your eyes.

It was embarrassing how wet you already were.

Jack’s breathing grew ragged as he hesitated for just a moment, his eyes darting down your body.

His hands trembled slightly as they reached for the zipper at the back of your dress. With a low, almost strained groan, he slowly unzipped the dress, completely drunk on you.

As the zipper finally slid down, he let out a shaky breath, his lips parting as he carefully eased the dress down your shoulders. You were wearing a sexy satin black bra, and he paused for a moment, his eyes admiring before gently slipping the dress past your arms.

He studied you as if trying to memorize every inch of you, the way your body curved beneath him, how your chest rose and fell with each breath.

All your little noises.

It was driving him crazy.

Once the fabric was sliding past your arms, Jack’s grip tightened slightly—his desperation mounting.

He reached out to gently remove your bra, and your perfect fucking breasts were finally on display for him.

God, he couldn’t stop staring.

He almost ripped your dress the rest of the way off.

His lips pressed a desperate, feverish kiss to your shoulder and collarbone as he pushed the dress down your body, his hands now on your hips, guiding the material over your thighs, your legs, with a relentless, trembling need, throwing your dress on the ground.

He inhaled sharply when your legs fell open, admiring your glistening cunt.

Jack’s eyes were glued to it.

Your arousal was dripping down your thighs since you had spent the last 45 minutes clenching around nothing. It all started back in Abby’s office, and he somehow had reduced you to an incoherent, whimpering mess.

"So wet for me," he mumbled in awe.

He paused for a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes dark and clouded with longing and something more primal.

"God, you’re so perfect," he muttered, voice hoarse, before leaning in to dip his head and take one of your nipples in his mouth. His tongue caressed it softly, and as he released it, a strangled moan escaped your lips.

The sound you made had every ounce of his blood roaring to his cock.

He switched to the other, leaving a wet trail before he started to suck on your nipple and you gasped out in pleasure.

With a sudden boldness, you tugged at his shirt, your fingers struggling against the fabric as you wanted to see more of his body. "Off," you demanded, feigning authority even as your cheeks warmed with excitement.

He chuckled and pulled himself from your chest. "Yes, ma’am," he teased, pulling back just enough to rid himself of the shirt with a fluid motion.

"Pants too,"

He paused.

Jack’s fingers lingered briefly at the waistband of his cargo pants as he hesitated for just a moment, then slowly pushed them down past his hips. The fabric slid smoothly, pooling around his ankles as he shifted slightly on his bed to kick them off. He felt a flash of nervousness tighten in his chest as you finally saw his prosthetic below his knee.

He searched your face and expected you to be uncomfortable or at least see it flit across your face before you composed yourself—but you didn’t.

Instead, your gaze softened as your eyes traced the contours of his body, and your expression remained calm.

You traced a finger down his torso, marveling at the way the muscle tensed beneath your touch. "You’re so handsome," you breathed, mesmerized by the sight before you.

"You’re not too bad yourself," he said, moving down the bed, dragging soft kisses down your stomach, running his hands up your thighs.

"So, fucking pretty," his face was suddenly between your legs, his hands pushing your thighs apart, and exposing you fully to him.

His eyes were fixated on your pussy.

"You don’t have to do that," you mumbled, sounding shy.

"You don’t like that?" he asked softly, lifting his head slightly, eyes searching yours.

"No… um… I do. I just know a lot of men don’t like doing it, and some just offer to be polite," you admitted, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"I’m not those other fucking men," he growled, completely offended that you thought he wouldn’t want his face trapped between your thighs. "I’ve been thinking about your pussy for the last six fucking months," his eyes skated up and down your naked body, studying every inch of you. "Dreaming about it. Dreaming about smelling you on me for days."

His words made your mouth pop open. You felt the ache between your legs become stronger.

"Really?" you squeaked.

Jack’s eyes lingered on you, still heavy with desire, but a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

It was odd, seeing you lose the typical confidence that you had.

You were usually such a firecracker.

He felt the need to remind you of your worth beyond the courtroom.

He wanted you out of your head.

Now.

"You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about my mouth on you with my hand around my cock," he admitted.

"Yeah?" you breathed, your voice caught between arousal and disbelief.

"Yes. I need to taste you, baby. So, are you gonna put me out of my misery and let me make you feel good?"

You nodded weakly.

"Need to hear you say it," he encouraged. "Tell me."

"Please," you begged. "I want you to make me feel good,"

Jack pressed his lips against your inner thigh, and you felt the drag of his scruff along your skin as he sucked a mark into your inner thigh.

"Marking your territory?" you teased.

He smirked looking up at you, probably enjoying how desperate you were for him right now. "I don’t like to share."

You bit your lip thrilled at his comment as he focused his attention back to your pussy and continued his exploration, planting hot kisses along your skin before inching closer to your dripping core.

"I think she’s flirting with me."

You looked away trying to hide your embarrassment. No man had ever spoken to you like this before.

You realized…you liked it.

A lot.

"Hang tight, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice a deep rumble. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, and then he dove in and feasted on you, burying his face in your pussy.

Jack was fucking relentless.

Refusing to hold back.

His tongue drove you insane with every flick and suck, your fingers instinctively threading through his hair as you pressed yourself against him, urging him on. You moaned loudly as his tongue found your most delicate spot. He flicked his tongue against your puffy swollen clit, teasing and tormenting you, and you couldn't hold back the whimpers escaping your throat.

"Jack!" you mewled. His scruff burned the inside of your thighs, and you hoped you would feel it in the morning.

A reminder.

The sounds filling the room were obscene as he hungrily continued to lap and suck at your hole until you were a whimpering mess, his moans vibrating through your core. He then shoved two fingers inside of you to continue working your sweet spot as he continued to lap against you. You were already getting close, and your body was twisting and trembling, trying to get away from him and trying to get closer all at once.

"Please, don’t stop," you begged, your voice betraying the madness building within you. He was so good at this. He was too good at this. You had never had a man go down on you like this.

Not by a fucking mile.

Nobody had ever groaned against your cunt in pleasure as if getting you off was just as enjoyable for them.

As soon as Jack heard your request, he sucked your clit harder into his mouth while his fingers continued to curve inside of you in a way that felt impossibly right. Your breaths were coming out in short, ragged bursts as he held you firmly in place. Each flick of his tongue sent you spiraling closer, and you could feel the wave building, crashing over you in a way that had your body screaming for more.

"Jack, I’m—I’m so close," you breathed, shakily.

A cry escaped you as he intensified his pace, keeping his concentration solely focused on your pussy. He was a man on a mission, and he was so lost in your pussy.

"Come on, baby. Let go," he urged.

You moaned and brought your hands to your breasts, squeezing, and pinching at your nipples. Jack groaned at the sight and his tongue flicked faster at your clit, and in that moment, you couldn't hold back any longer. With one last cry of his name, you let the wave break over as your vision blurred and your ears started ringing in your head.

"That's it. That’s it, pretty girl," he encouraged, his voice punctuated by the delicious sounds of your release. "Let it all out for me."

You felt yourself tremble as the final waves of bliss coursed through you, Jack’s fingers and mouth still working you through your orgasm, drinking in every sound you made.

Finally, as the world slowly faded back into focus, you let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

"Taste so fucking good," you felt him lift your legs and settle between them, your core still pulsing and sensitive. "I could do this all night," Jack said smugly, licking his mouth as he rose up to meet your gaze.

Still catching your breath, you smiled at him, feeling tingles throughout your entire body. "You should definitely consider it," you replied, as you looked at his face that was covered in your wetness on his scruff, his chin, and his lips.

"Trust me, I intend to." he said with a grin, lowering himself against you, lips finding yours once more.

You kissed him deeply, relishing the taste of yourself still lingering on his lips, and wrapped your arms around him.

Then, just as you were getting lost in Jack again, he pulled back, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. Before you could fully process what was happening, he flipped you over, sliding his prosthetic away, placing you on top so that you were straddling him, with your knees pressing down on either side of his hips.

"Need to be inside of you," he breathed, his hands resting on your hips as he looked up at you.

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a long, tantalizing kiss. You slowly began to grind against him, feeling his hard cock beneath you, and a grin spread across your face at the look on his face. You leaned back slightly, relishing the way he looked beneath you—wild and eager.

With a fluid motion, he reached down to his waistband and slowly peeled off his boxers. Your eyes widened as he revealed himself, clarity cutting through your arousal when you saw his cock spring free.

He was… massive.

The reality of his size left you stunned.

"Are you still with me, sweetheart?" he asked, breaking through your thoughts.

Swallowing hard, you nodded, but you couldn’t shake the nervousness creeping up on you. "I—uh, you’re so… big," you stammered, heat flooding your cheeks as you tried to regain your composure.

Jack couldn’t help the twitch of a grin appearing on his face.

"Don’t worry, you can take it." The confidence in his voice made you blink rapidly.

You nodded, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as a mixture of anticipation and nervousness coursed through you. While the prospect of him inside you was exhilarating, you couldn’t shake the reminder of how long it had been.

A year. Give or take.

He must have sensed your hesitance because the look in his eyes softened slightly. "You just let me know if you need me to slow down, alright?" He stroked your thigh reassuringly.

With a deep inhale, you nodded again and positioned yourself above him, your heart thumping as you lined yourself up with his leaking cock, your nerves flaring once again.

He guided you gently, the tension in his body easily translating into patience. As you slowly sank onto his thick tip, you felt him stretching you, filling you inch by inch, and a moan escaped your lips as you watched him disappear into you. There was a slight tinge of discomfort that quickly morphed into something hotter. You bit your lip, your eyes fluttering shut as you focused on adjusting, relishing the way he filled you.

"You okay?" he checked in, his voice deep with concern, his hands caressing your thighs gently.

"Yeah," you panted, realizing you were slick enough to take more of him.

With a small, encouraging smile, you began to lift your hips, experimenting with the rhythm. It felt so fucking good, and as you rocked back and forth, Jack mirrored your movements, his hands gripping your waist guiding your motions.

"That’s it, baby," he encouraged softly. "You’re doing so good."

Bolstered by his words, you picked up the pace as you adjusted to the size of him and pressed your palms onto his chest, riding him harder, faster. You focused on the way he filled you and the burning stretch of him. You felt a tightness in your stomach, building and begging to be released. Each time you sank down onto him, his cock brushed against that sweet spot inside of you.

"So fucking tight," Jack grunted, as he watched you take him deeper, his hands moving to your back, gently urging you to arch into him.

"Fuck, Jack," you gasped, nails digging into his back. "More. Please,"

Jack’s hands tightened around your waist as he took control, and in one swift motion, he lifted his hips sharply, driving his cock deeper into you, nearly knocking the air out of your lungs.

"You’re taking me so well," he growled, his voice low and throaty. The sound of skin smacking against skin filled the room as he started fucking up into your used cunt so brutally.

As you closed your eyes, lost in the overwhelming pleasure, you heard Jack’s deep voice. "Keep your eyes open for me. I want you to look at me." His demand cut through the haze, and you could feel the intensity of his gaze on you even with your lids shut.

You slowly opened your eyes, locking onto his. He put his forehead against yours, and in that moment, the world around you melted away, and it was just the two of you.

Flesh.

Heat.

And—raw desire.

With each thrust, he drove deeper into you, and the intensity in his eyes was carnal.

"Fuck," he cursed. "You look so beautiful like this. Full of my cock," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. You were lost in the crazed, blown-out look in his eyes, and he stole a kiss from you that had you chasing his tongue.

You inhaled sharply, the heat of his body against yours igniting every nerve ending. "Jack," the breathless syllable escaped your lips. You felt your jaw go slack, and your eyebrows pinched together at the way he watched you, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered at that moment. His sounds and touches made you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

You dropped your chin to your chest, and he brought his hand to his mouth, licking the tips of his fingers to move it down to your clit, rubbing circles over it as he continued. Your moans were louder now, and Jack moved his other hand to your ass, pulling you harder against him.

"That feel good?" he hummed, snapping his hips into yours, and hitting a spot deep inside of you that you didn’t even know existed.

Your body responded immediately. "Yes, Jack! Right there," you gasped, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

He felt so thick.

So devastating inside of you.

Your legs were shaking now.

With each deep thrust, the coil in your stomach wound tighter and tighter, and you could feel your body responding to him. "I’m going to—oh fuck," you panted, fighting to find your voice.

You almost closed your eyes again.

"Don’t look away. I want to see how pretty you look when you come for me," he insisted, each word heavy.

"J-Jack," you sobbed. "Oh, my fucking god, I—"

"Come on, baby. Let me have it. I can feel you, you’re so fucking close," he coaxed, his hands gripping your waist, anchoring you to him as he thrust upward. "Give it to me. Give me what’s fucking mine."

His encouragement sent you over the edge. The tension snapped like a taut string, and you cried out, your body convulsing around him as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You could feel yourself gushing around his cock, screaming his name, and seeing stars as he continued fucking you through it.

You couldn’t look away.

It was so intimate.

And you were completely obsessed with the way Jack was looking at you as he kept pounding into you.

"Yes, just like that," Jack gasped, his own breaths growing ragged as he felt you tighten around him and watched your face with his mouth hanging wide open. He admired the way you fell apart for him while his eyes locked with yours. "Good girl," he praised. "So, fucking beautiful."

Your thoughts were incoherent as his pace was becoming fast and sloppy, and you realized he was trying to chase his own release.

"Where do you want me, baby?" he desperately asked you.

Then it hit you, you two weren’t even using protection. You had been so lost in the lust of it all that you didn’t even think about a condom. You were usually so religious about condoms, but you realized that you wanted to feel him, and for some reason, you weren’t scared because he made you feel safe.

"Inside."

"You sure?"

"I’m on the pill."

He groaned at your words, the sound deep and primal as he shifted beneath you. "Thank fucking god," he managed, his hands gripping your hips tighter. Jack surged up, driving himself deeper into you with a newfound urgency that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

With a final, deep thrust, Jack let out a throaty moan as he spilled into you, burying his face in your neck, his spend covering your walls, cock pulsing as he finished. The sensation of him painting your insides made you feel claimed somehow. You could feel the mix of both of you running down your thighs, soaking Jack’s lap, and probably ruining his sheets.

You collapsed against him, both of you panting heavily, the weight of what just happened settling in around you. The room was filled with a comfortable silence, aside from the sounds of your breath mingling together. Jack still held you tightly, his arms wrapped around your waist as if he were afraid to let go.

"Wow," you breathed, your heart still pounding from the intensity of your shared moment.

"Yeah," Jack murmured, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. His fingertips lingered on your cheek. "You okay?" he asked, breathing heavily through his nose.

You nodded slowly, trying to catch your breath. "More than okay," you whispered.

A smirk played on his lips, "Good. 'Cause I’m not done with you yet."

With that, he rolled you both over, shifting the weight until you were beneath him.

"Like I said," he murmured, brushing his fingers along your cheek as you leaned against him. "I could do this all night."

It was early, the light filtering through the blinds of Jack’s room. You stirred, feeling the warmth of Jack’s bed and the faint scent of last night’s shared intimacy lingering in the air. As your eyes fluttered open, you realized Jack wasn’t in bed beside you. A faint noise drifted in from outside his bedroom, piquing your curiosity.

Quickly, you reached for a casual t-shirt that was draped over a chair and slipped it over your head.

It was huge on you.

You tugged at the hem absentmindedly.

It hit you mid-thigh.

Stepping out of the room, the house was quiet except for the faint sounds of clinking dishes and muffled footsteps from the kitchen.

The daytime made you notice details you hadn’t before: framed pictures lining the walls, snapshots of family and friends that brought a smile to your face. You paused for a moment, your gaze falling on a picture of Jack holding a toddler, his face lit up with a gentle smile. You wondered if this was a picture of his niece—the one he had mentioned a couple of months ago.

As you moved toward the doorway, you saw Jack in the kitchen, dressed in workout clothes, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He looked up as you stepped out, catching your eye. Before you could say anything, he leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, but a faint frown creased his brow.

"I was trying to get back in bed before you woke up," he murmured.

“That’s okay. How long have you been up?”

"Went for a run at 6."

It was 8 AM.

Of course, Jack went on runs at 6 AM on his days off.

He reached for the pot of coffee he had brewed, pouring himself a black cup. Then, turning to you, he handed you your mug, adding creamer and some brown sugar—just the way he knew you liked it.

Jack set his mug down on the kitchen island, then smoothly eased himself onto a nearby stool. Without hesitation, he reached out and gently pulled you onto his lap, his hand instinctively settling on your thigh. As you settled into his embrace, a devilish grin tugged at his lips when he caught sight of your relaxed state—just his t-shirt draping over your frame.

Jack’s fingertips traced a slow, deliberate path beneath the hem of his shirt, skimming over your thighs— his fingers feeling the hot slick that was already pooling at your entrance before he crashed his mouth hungrily over yours, his tongue teasingly dipping into your mouth.

You tasted the faint bitterness of the coffee on his tongue, and felt him tug you closer so that you could feel his erection trapped within his workout pants. Your eyes slid shut, and a soft whine escaped from your lips when Jack began to drag his mouth down the column of your throat.

"You know, I should probably head home and find a pair of panties," you teased.

His expression softened into a pout.

"Hopefully not anytime soon?" he coaxed, voice hopeful.

The fact that Jack wasn’t pushing you away, that he actually wanted you to stay, made your heart race in the best way.

He wanted you in your space.

He was actively choosing it.

It was a rare kind of comfort, and it was making your thoughts whirl.

You leaned in to press a tender kiss to his lips. "Not anytime soon," you murmured. It was Saturday—perfect for lingering a little longer.

After finishing your coffee, Jack gently helped you off his lap. "Come on," he said softly, taking your hand. "Let’s go back to bed."

As you brought your mug to the sink, your eyes caught sight of a letter stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Curious, you paused and read the words.

Dear Dr. Abbot, I’m not really good with words, so I’ll try to keep this short and sweet. I just wanted to send a quick note to apologize for my mother’s actions. I can only imagine how stressful this has all been for you, and I’m truly sorry. The truth is, my mother and I hadn’t been speaking much because of everything surrounding the case. I was worried about how things would turn out, but I’m glad to hear that she has dropped the lawsuit. It’s a relief, and I hope you can start to move forward from here. I hope she and I can move forward from this as well. I also wanted to share that I’m in my senior year of high school and applied to Penn State on a whim—out of state, no less—and surprisingly got in. I think all the recent changes and the chaos might have been what led my mom to file the lawsuit. It probably felt like everything was happening so fast for her between my abortion and me applying to colleges far from home. It took me some time, but I have finally accepted my scholarship to Penn State and will be starting there this fall. I just want you to know—you changed my life. Because of you and PTMC, I get to go to college, and I’ll never forget that. Thank you for everything. -Kristi

Jack noticed you reading the letter. Kristi had sent it about a week after the lawsuit had been dropped.

But for Jack, none of that mattered right now.

His focus was entirely on you.

The firecracker in his kitchen.

The firecracker who took a chance on him.

and… the firecracker he was madly in love with.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

That’s it for our Rebel Cowboy and our Firecracker!

Also, some people asked me, and I pictured the reader to be 33 and Jack to be 44. Ever since they’ve said Dr. Abbot is ‘40’s, handsome, with an edge’ —my brain is like well he looks good AF, so why can’t he be in his early 40’s? I don’t know how realistic becoming a partner at 33 is, but reader is a badass so let’s not question it.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

how would clark react to shy!reader wearing cute panties around him for the first time? 

cw: mildly suggestive, fem In the privacy of his own home (and mind), Clark calls you his sweet girl. It’s the perfect way to describe you, and while others may find it saccharine or infantilising, he knows you appreciate it for what it is. A sweet girl given some tenderness back. 

You’re sitting on the arm of his sofa with your socked feet brushing against the floor, in pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that cloaks the shape of you. He’s making you a cold lemonade in the kitchen, and if his senses weren’t as sharp as they are he’d have tipped half of it onto the cool tile below. He can’t stop watching you. 

You laugh at the TV. “Clark, you’re missing the best part,” you say. 

He could knock you back onto the couch and kiss you dizzy when you laugh like that, only he’d never be so rough with you.

“I’m coming,” he promises. “No patience at all. You could’ve paused it for me.”

“I’ll rewind it, if you want.” 

Clark couldn’t care less about the movie. What he wants is to be sitting with you again, to pull you into his lap before the sun starts to go down. He needs to get his hours in. They’re owed! 

Clark presses the lemonade into your hand, a kiss to your head, catching the click of your jaw from a poorly hidden yawn. 

“Oh, honey, are you tired?” he asks. He’d had no idea. 

“No, I’m fine.”

“Sure. Okay, but we could finish the movie in bed, right?” 

You take a sip of lemonade. Grin at him like he’s perfect when you swallow. “I’m really not that tired.” 

“Humour me?” 

And oh, don’t you let him take you to bed. He guards your shoulder unnecessarily, pulls the sheets back to help you in while you grumble about being spoiled. Clark puts your movie on and slips into the bed next to you, deciding this is better than the spooning he’d planned on the couch. It would’ve taken ages to convince you that he doesn’t mind your weight. Here in bed, he can lie right beside you without preamble. 

You drink your lemonade, nothing so endearing to him as your sips and the way you wipe the condensation from your glass each time rather than let it wet the bed. Clark turns into you, in part due to low self-control, but more because you’re warm and soft to the touch. He puts his forehead on your shoulder and his hand to the hip furthest him. Under the blankets together, you are perfectly cocooned. 

Which makes it harder for him when you insist on getting up. 

“Where you going?” he asks. 

“Just to the bathroom. Gonna freshen up.” 

To freshen up, he thinks, and not to brush your teeth. Is he going to presume himself a lucky man from turn of phrase alone? No. But does he sit in bed waiting anxiously for you to return? Yes. Clark wouldn’t say it’s hard to get you out of your clothes, euphemism or otherwise; you aren’t uncomfortable around him anymore, just your tentativeness remains. He has to be gentle with you, and he doesn’t mind. 

He isn’t surprised to find you fully dressed when you return, smelling noticeably of lotion and something else he can’t name aptly as you stop at your side of the bed. His stomach flickers with heat as you switch off the bedside lamp, leaving the TV as the only light source. 

“Okay?” you ask softly. 

“Perfect, sweet girl,” he says, matching your tone, almost lost under the sounds of the movie. 

You nod. 

His breath catches and stills as you reach for the edge of your shirt and pull it off. 

Then you slip your shorts down your hips and Clark’s mind takes time to catch up. Like, a ridiculous amount of time. 

You’re not not cute, he wants that cemented in the record forever. You are a darling. In whatever plain white panties you deign to show him, in your simple t-shirt bras and especially out of them, you’re a wonder. Clark can’t believe you’re of earth, sometimes, until he thinks of course you are. You are charmingly, broadly human. 

Right now, you’re wearing the cutest matching set he’s ever seen, his mouth immediately cottoned with longing.

They aren’t ‘sexy’, objectively, a fake satin that looks perfectly comfortable to sleep in. The panties have a lettuce hemming, pink fabric, and his entire body has started to fill with a telling heat following the lines of you. “Are those strawberries?” he asks. 

You pull the sheets back and set yourself down beside him. Your little ankle socks stay on. Fuck, his blood is practically boiling in his veins. 

“Honey, you’re gonna have to let me see,” he says lightly. 

“No, ‘cos you looked at me too long. You’re done.”

You’re serious and teasing at once. 

“How was I supposed to not look?”

“Practice your restraint,” you say, really joking now. If Clark concentrates he can hear the patter of your heart picking up. Anticipation sends a flush over your skin. 

“Let me see you again,” he says, warming your thigh through the sheets. “Please.” 

You lay further down in the bed and breathe deeply. “Kiss me first,” you say, and there, he can hear the thread of your nerves, how much courage it actually took you to stand there and shimmy out of your clothes, knowing it was a big change.  

“Yeah, I will,” he promises, raising a hand to your cheek. “You– I don’t know how to say it. You’re–” He takes a calming breath as you had. He could be far more gentlemanly about the situation if he tried. “Fuck,” he groans instead, tapping his nose against yours, hovering for a kiss. Sweet girl.

You laugh, self-satisfaction new and wholly delightful on you as you tip your chin up to meet his lips. 

Clark pictures the feeling of satin under his fingers and presses eagerly into your mouth.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

The Button Nest

wolfstar x fem!whimsy!reader

summary: you’re a shy crow animagus, quietly watching the marauders from the shadows, admiring them from afar. you think you’re invisible, but sirius and remus have started noticing you in ways you never expected. then, after a sudden accident leaves you vulnerable, the quiet distance between you begins to unravel, one button at a time.

warnings: shy reder, animagus transformation, animal form, accidents and injury, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, subtle emotional tension, insecurity, blood, infirmary, angst, lonely reader, anxiety, social awkwardness, mention of ravenclaw!reader, teasing and gentle flirting, mild language, moments of self-doubt, themes of trust and acceptance, angst, happy ending.

w/c: 6.1k

a/n: as someone who was always seen as 'weird', this was so healing to write <3 masterlist

It wasn’t unusual for you to be roaming the grounds late at night.

In fact, it had become something of a ritual—an instinct more than a plan, something stitched into your routine without you ever deciding it. The forest always felt more alive once the rest of the castle fell asleep, the air cooler, the trees older, the world quieter in a way that let your thoughts breathe. 

Most nights, you slipped from your bed and disappeared beyond the edge of the grounds, feathered and weightless in the shape of a small crow, darting through branches and perching high in the canopy where no one thought to look.

What was unusual, however, was this: Remus Lupin limping through the forest, his arms slung around the shoulders of Sirius Black and James Potter like they were the only things keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Now that—that was something new.

You stilled in the trees, tucked between the leaves, dark eyes following the scene below.

It was strange, not because they were out after curfew. That much you’d come to expect from the troublesome Marauders. But because even here, in the middle of the forest, long past midnight, the three of them still carried with them that same impossible brightness. 

You had never spoken to them before, not once, and yet somehow you knew their names the way everyone did. James Potter, Quidditch star with a laugh loud enough to rattle windows. Sirius Black, the most troublesome student, who drew people to him like a flame. And Remus Lupin, softer than the others but no less magnetic, with his weary kind of stillness that felt older than all of them combined.

You’d seen them around—of course you had, everyone had, but you’d been watching them for longer than you’d care to admit. Not deliberately, or creepily, you hoped. 

It was just that once you started noticing them, you couldn’t seem to stop. 

They moved through the castle like they belonged to it, like the halls bent slightly to let them pass. Even when they weren’t trying to be the center of attention, the world seemed to place them there anyway, everything revolving around their presence like they were born to be the stars of some story no one else had been invited into.

And even now, deep in the forest where no one was meant to see them, that pull hadn’t faded. The trees themselves seemed to lean toward Remus, branches curving like they knew he was hurting. The wind circled Sirius like it was part of him, rustling his hair just so. And James—he kept his head high even though his shoulder bore half of Remus’s weight, eyes sharp and steady in the dark like someone who refused to be afraid.

From your branch above, your small body shifted forward slightly, feathers ruffling against the bark.

Remus looked worse than you expected. Pale and exhausted. His mouth was tight with pain, and he leaned heavily on both of them, clearly fighting to stay upright. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. You didn’t need someone to spell it out for you.

You already knew.

You’d known for some time now, if you were honest with yourself. It wasn’t a secret, not if you paid attention.

The monthly disappearances, the gray pallor that settled into his skin for days afterward, the limp he sometimes carried with him, the faraway look he wore when he thought no one was watching. 

It was clear, if you knew how to see it. Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

You weren’t afraid of him.

You weren’t sure what you felt, actually. Not pity, not fear. Just this soft ache in your chest, a fluttering concern that made your wings twitch and your claws dig slightly into the bark beneath you. 

You wanted, more than anything, to help. Not in a way that would ever be noticed, not in some dramatic act of kindness or courage. Just… to be useful. To ease the weight of whatever he carried, even if only for a moment.

But you didn’t move. You stayed quiet in the branches as they passed beneath you, Sirius murmuring something to Remus that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward, just barely.

James glanced up once, scanning the canopy, but didn’t pause. None of them noticed the crow perched above them, holding her breath.

You watched them disappear between the trees, the sound of their footsteps fading into the dark, and felt that familiar twist settle in your chest again.

You were never part of their world. That much had always been clear. You moved through corridors like a ghost with pockets full of silence, a soft-footed observer in a universe that burned far too brightly for someone made of distance.

Where they shone with the ease of constellations, you lingered at the edges like mist, half-invisible and entirely forgettable.

It was not envy that caught your breath when you looked at them, it was something lonelier than that. 

You told yourself it was mere curiosity, a passing glance toward something golden.

But the truth pressed heavier than that simple excuse. You had spent so long folding yourself into the corners of rooms, shrinking beneath your own voice, that to witness something so effortlessly vibrant felt almost otherworldly.

It was not that they demanded your attention. You would have resented them if they had. It was that your attention, unbidden and unwilling, bent toward them in spite of you.

As though their presence altered the air itself. As though their laughter rewrote gravity.

You tried to retreat, to withdraw as you always had, but the further you pulled, the harder you were drawn in.

It was the slow inevitability of celestial force, like a lonely moon being dragged across the dark by a sun too blinding to ignore.

You told yourself you were content in the quiet, and maybe you were. But every so often, when the night made the world gentler, and their noise softened into something almost tender, you allowed the wondering.

You let yourself ache for the impossible. To imagine, just briefly, what it might feel like to stand in the warmth.

And then, as always, you turned back into the branches, into the dark, into the small and silent shape of someone who was never meant to be seen.

You stay in the tree long after they pass, eyes tracking the shape of them as they disappear into the thicket, the way James’s silhouette leads, the way Sirius shifts slightly to support more of Remus’s weight without ever making it seem like a burden. 

They speak in low voices, too distant for words to reach, but the rhythm of their steps is steady, if uneven, and for a moment you allow yourself to believe they’ll be alright.

Still, you follow.

You shift in the branches, feathers settling against your sides as your body lightens, stretches, and then lifts, black wings cutting through the night with soundless ease.

You dart above the treetops, careful to stay far enough that they won’t hear the flutter of your passage, but close enough that you can still see them through the breaks in the canopy.

You watch as Sirius ducks beneath a low-hanging branch—too low, it turns out. The edge catches his shoulder, just barely, and he swears under his breath.

James chuckles while Remus winces and lets out a soft noise you can’t quite hear. They all pause for a beat, just long enough for Sirius to adjust his grip around Remus’s back.

And that’s when you see it.

The glint of something small and dark tumbling from Sirius’s cloak as he shifts. It falls soundlessly into the underbrush, half-hidden by shadow and leaf, but you catch the flicker of it all the same.

A button. Round, worn, and gleaming faintly in the moonlight as it lands near the base of an old root.

They don’t notice.

They keep walking, unaware, their laughter returning faintly on the wind as they near the edge of the woods.

You watch them for a few more moments—watch as James pushes the castle door open with his shoulder, as Sirius leans close to say something low into Remus’s ear that makes him sigh softly despite himself.

Their backs retreat into the stone, swallowed by the warmth of the light spilling from within.

Only once the door swings shut behind them do you move.

You dive, wings spread in a wide curve, and land beside the tree root. The button sits half-buried in moss, still holding the faint warmth of Sirius’s coat.

You press your beak against it, tilting your head. It’s not much, just a lost scrap. An unremarkable little thing that no one will miss.

You nudge it into your beak carefully, curling your claws against the bark to steady yourself. The metal is cool, and a little heavier than it looks. A strange weight for something so small.

You glance up once more toward the castle, just to be sure. And that’s when you see him.

Sirius.

He’s paused in the doorway, slightly turned, head tilted back toward the woods. His eyes scan the tree line..

For a second, your eyes lock—his wide, gray, still crackling with whatever storm he always carries behind them, and yours small and dark and unblinking.

Then he gives a tiny tilt of his head, just barely perceptible, like a question. 

Then he turns and disappears into the castle all the same.

And you lift your wings again, button tucked in your beak like a treasure, and fly after him—back toward the tower.

The days that followed blurred into one another with a kind of quiet that felt dreamlike. Nothing monumental had happened, but something within you had shifted.

You told yourself it meant nothing. Just curiosity, perhaps. A trick of loneliness. A moment that would fade if you left it untouched. After all, you didn’t really know them.

And yet, your gaze sought them in every room. You lingered in places you normally passed through.

You didn’t know how to name the feeling that followed you. It was not love, not yearning, not anything so clear. Just a soft ache that fluttered behind your sternum whenever they looked your way.

So you tried to smother it gently, the way you always had, with quiet rituals and familiar comforts.

That afternoon, the castle pulsed with early spring. Laughter echoed through open halls, and golden light spilled across the stone like a secret.

You had left the library later than usual, the small wooden box clutched protectively to your chest, your bag slipping slightly off your shoulder as you hurried to make it down the hallway before the rush swallowed you. 

You weren’t paying close attention to where you were going. Your fingers curled tightly around the lid of the box, and your thoughts, once again, had drifted far ahead of your body

You didn’t see them until you collided.

Your shoulder struck something solid—someone’s chest—and your breath caught in your throat as the impact jarred the box from your hands.

The lid sprang open, and in an instant, a hundred small fragments of your quiet world tumbled across the cold stone floor.

Buttons scattered in all directions, clinking and skipping like startled birds, tiny kaleidoscopes of color and shape spinning out across the corridor.

You dropped to your knees with a sharp breath, heart racing, hands frantically collecting what you could before they rolled too far.

You reached for them with trembling fingers, too humiliated to look up, your mind already preparing for the laughter, for the awkward glances, for the words you’d have to stumble through.

But the first voice you heard was warm, low, touched with a gentle humor.

“Are you okay, love?,” came the voice, unmistakably Remus Lupin’s.

Your breath froze.

You looked up slowly, dread tightening behind your ribs—and there he was.

Remus stood just above you, tall even when slightly tilted from the weight of his cane, his soft knit sweater stretched slightly across his frame, the collar turned wrong in a way that made your fingers ache to fix it. 

His gaze was steady, unreadable, but not unkind—warm in that quiet, bone-deep way he always seemed to carry, as if the tiredness in him was ancient and affectionate and chose what it wanted to notice.

Beside him, Sirius Black was already crouched to the floor, hair falling in black waves around his cheekbones as he reached for one of the stray buttons—a glossy red one with a cracked side. He held it between his fingers and tilted his head as he offered it out to you.

“I think this one belongs to you,” he said, and there was a smile in his voice—not mocking, not teasing, just bright and real and somehow far too much for your chest to hold at once.

You reached for the button slowly, your fingertips brushing his for a second too long. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Sirius turned the button once more between his fingers before letting it go.

“This looks exactly like the one I lost the other night,” he said thoughtfully. “Coat got caught on a branch, and I remember it falling.”

You blinked, your mind scrambling to build some sort of casual response. “Oh. That’s… funny. What are the odds?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes with mock suspicion, but only smiled. “Yeah. What are the odds.”

Remus’s voice broke in again, quiet but curious. “Do you usually carry a whole collection around with you?”

You glanced down at the box in your lap, half-full, many of the buttons still scattered across the stone. 

“I collect them,” you said. “I find them, and rescue them, I guess.”

Sirius leaned closer, crouching again, interest flickering in his expression. “You rescue them?”

“Yeah, I just think buttons are really cute,” you said softly, cheeks warming. .

There was a pause, quiet and weightless, suspended like a held breath.

Then Remus smiled, slow and gentle. He leaned down slightly, balancing his cane with practiced ease, his gaze steady as it met yours. 

“I think you’re really cute,” he said, voice low but certain, as though he were stating a simple fact rather than handing you the sun.

Your breath caught. The heat in your cheeks flared instantly.

Sirius, still crouched beside you, let out a bark of laughter. “Moony,” he said, grinning wide, “you’re absolutely flustering her.”

He then picked up a button shaped like a starburst and turned it over in his hand.

“Do they have names?” he asked, half-smiling.

You hesitated again, but they were both still looking at you like they genuinely wanted to know. And so—shyly—you nodded.

“That one,” you said, pointing to the pink with the curved edges, “is Dai. The red one is Cheri, the little navy blue one is Ruxy, and the green swirl one is Teo.”

Sirius grinned. “Ruxy looks like a cutie.”

“She is!” you said automatically, and then blushed again.

Remus gave a small laugh—barely audible, but sincere.

And then Sirius’s gaze flicked back to you, brighter now, edged with something that felt almost like a secret.

“Well then,” he said, voice low and amused. “Can I have a button named after you, Miss Ravenclaw?”

The words hit you all at once. You stared at him, mouth parting slightly.

“I—um. You can have the whole box,” you said too quickly. “If you want, I don’t mind.”

Sirius laughed, rich and surprised, eyes narrowing just slightly as he leaned in a little.

“All of them?”

“They’d be safe with you,” you answered, almost without thinking. “With you and Remus.”

Remus looked at you again, gently. “But I thought you said they were precious.”

“They are,” you murmured, your fingers curling tighter around the box. “But I think they would be safe with you.”

Sirius leaned back, something like admiration flickering behind his lashes.

You didn’t quite know what to do with the way they were both looking at you.

And just when the silence stretched a little too long, a voice called from the far end of the corridor—“Oi! Sirius! Remus!”

All three of you looked up.

James Potter stood down the hall, grinning, fingers laced with Regulus Black’s in a way that felt less surprising than it should have been. Regulus looked vaguely annoyed, but didn’t pull away.

Remus stood first, then Sirius, both of them brushing imaginary dust from their sleeves.

Before turning to leave, Remus looked down at you once more, his expression softer than it had been all afternoon.

“Buttons like these,” he said gently, his voice as low and warm as a lullaby, “are safest with someone like you.”

He smiled once more, and then he was gone—walking beside Sirius, their shoulders brushing as they headed toward James and Regulus, leaving you behind with your heartbeat in your throat and your button box held close to your chest like it had just turned into something more than what it had been that morning.

In the days that followed, you found yourself seen in ways you had not expected. It was never loud or showy. Just the kind of noticing that lingered in the spaces between things. 

Sirius would greet you with a grin that curved wide, his laughter always arriving half a beat early, as though he had been waiting for yours. 

Remus had a different quiet, a warmth that never needed words. He would glance at you across the Great Hall, the corners of his mouth tilting up slightly, as though something about your presence softened the sharpest parts of his day. 

Their light caught you even when you were not trying to catch it.

And somehow, you found yourself orbiting them without realizing when it had started. You did not speak of it. You simply moved in tune with it, steps quieter, glances longer, as though gravity had chosen for you.

But on full moon nights, the gravity changed.

You could never remain in the Ravenclaw dormitories, not when the thought of them beyond the walls left your chest tight and your sleep restless. So you became what magic had allowed. 

You shifted. Feathered and silent, you slipped into the dark as a crow, wings slicing through the wind with singular purpose.

You did not follow too closely. You never let yourself be seen, but you watched. You hovered high in the trees, a shadow among branches, waiting for their safe return.

It was not out of duty. It was something far deeper, far stranger. It was worry, but it was also something you refused to name.

Especially when it came to Remus.

There was something about the way he moved beneath the moonlight that left you breathless. Something quiet and aching, something wild and controlled all at once.

It drew you in the way a fire does to someone who has always lived in the cold. You had not meant to fall into such devotion, but you did.

What you had not meant to do was get caught.

You had not seen the branch until it was too late. It had splintered beneath your landing, sharp as a blade, and pierced clean through the delicate bones of your crow’s foot.

You had cried out, a sound that belonged to neither bird nor girl, and now you are trapped. Your leg is twisted, impaled through the narrow branch, wings fluttering uselessly, body trembling from pain and fear.

The forest is deep and dark around you. The sky is heavy with clouds. The world below is quiet in the way that makes sound feel impossible.

You try to pull free, but it only burns. You try to breathe, but each breath comes thin and shaky.

You had come to protect. You had come to be sure they were safe.

And now, you are the one in danger, and no one knows you are here.

Remus was lying curled in the grass, his body trembling with the aftershocks of transformation. His skin was slick with sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. 

James crouched beside him, murmuring something too low to hear, while Sirius stood just behind, watchful and steady, arms folded tightly across his chest.

They were preparing to carry him back—like always. The routine had become muscle memory by now: someone took his shoulders, someone his legs, and they would move through the underbrush in silence, just three boys and the weight of what they refused to name.

You watched from above.

You always watched.

Perched in the tree line, your feathers damp and trembling, your heartbeat a staccato against the splintered wood that held you. The pain was sharp now—constant.

The branch had pierced clean through your crow’s leg, the wound throbbed with each flutter, and your small body had begun to lean sideways from exhaustion. 

You really were trying not to fall.

You tried to call out again, but the sound was strange and half-formed, stuck somewhere between your beak and your pain. You blinked, dizzy and panicked, watching Remus blink slowly up at the trees, unaware that you were breaking just above him.

Sirius glanced up. It was casual at first, a flicker of curiosity. His brows furrowed slightly, his gaze lingering.

"There's a crow watching us," he muttered.

James looked up too. “Bit early for birdwatching, innit?”

“Looks hurt,” Sirius added, voice quieter now, cautious. “Wing’s twitching.”

“Probably just spooked by us.”

But Sirius didn’t look away.

You wobbled again, wings fluttering helplessly, and this time the pain stole your breath entirely. Something gave—a soft sound, barely audible—but Sirius stepped forward like he heard it anyway.

“That’s not normal,” he said, a strange edge to his voice. “That—James, that bird's not flying off.”

James straightened, still holding Remus’s arm draped over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s not scared of us. It’s watching us. Bleeding, even.”

You blinked again, vision swimming. The pain was starting to blur the edges of things.

And Sirius had always been sharper than he let on. He stepped forward, squinting up into the tree line, eyes narrowing. “It’s too still, like it’s waiting.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach turn.

They didn’t know you had followed them—every full moon, without fail. That you had shifted the second they were gone, just to make sure they were okay. That you stayed out of sight. That it wasn’t a coincidence, the way a crow always seemed to circle above them at the end.

They didn’t know because you’d never told them.

Because what would they say?

The shy Ravenclaw girl who barely spoke at meals. Who had feathers hidden beneath her skin and a fondness for strange winds. 

You hadn't meant to be seen.

You hadn't meant to fall.

And now, all it took was one branch and one mistake to unravel it all.

Sirius took a step closer.

“Something’s not right,” he said, voice low now. “I’m going up.”

“Pads—” James started, but Sirius was already reaching for a low limb, already climbing, already listening to something he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore.

Sirius climbed carefully, boots pressing against bark slick with moss, one hand braced on a branch as he narrowed in on the trembling bird.

The crow didn’t flinch. It only watched him with dark, glassy eyes, chest rising unevenly with every breath. Its feathers were ruffled, one wing visibly twitching from strain, its claws caught by a jagged splinter of wood. The wound had darkened the bark below it with a smear of blood.

And beside it, nestled in the fork of two branches, was a small, uneven nest.

A nest filled with buttons.

Sirius froze.

Red. Pink. Navy. Green.

His breath hitched.

Cheri. Dai. Ruxy. Teo.

It struck him like a gust of cold wind, the memory rising all at once—how you had shown him those buttons in the quiet corner of the hallway when you bumped into him and Remus, your voice barely above a whisper, explaining that you named the small things you kept close. 

He looked back at the crow, still trembling, and his chest clenched with certainty.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low but sure, “it’s you.”

And in the seconds that followed, you shifted.

Feathers melted into skin. Wings collapsed inward and became arms, trembling and bruised. Your body curled in on itself, still perched awkwardly in the tree, leg bloodied and twisted at an angle that made Sirius’s stomach flip. 

You clutched the branch with shaking fingers, hair matted and face flushed with effort and something deeper—shame, thick and suffocating.

You didn’t cry from the pain. Not even when your injured leg gave a sharp spasm, tearing through the nerves like fire, or when your fingers trembled uselessly against bark still sticky with your own blood.

You cried because you had been seen.

It had always been the one thing you wished for. The softest, most secret ache of your childhood.

To be seen. Not glanced at, not acknowledged in the polite way professors nod at a raised hand or classmates murmur a distracted hello—but truly seen.

To be noticed with intention. To be understood in your full, strange shape. You had begged for it in silence, prayed to stars without names, asked the moon to make you visible.

And now the universe, in its crooked wisdom, had answered. You had been seen—bloodied, exposed, and caught in your smallest truth.

You had sat through years of being overlooked, of having your voice mistaken for wind or your presence mistaken for absence. You had learned to expect it, but never stopped wanting otherwise.

You had begged, in ways that did not involve words, to be noticed

And now, here you were.

Revealed in trembling flesh and blood. Not behind a desk, not through the soft offering of a smile or a story or a named button—but like this.

Injured, fragile, unraveled, and caught.

They had seen you, truly seen you. Not the version you curated in classrooms or in hallways with quiet nods and subtle glances. They had seen the strange bird who followed them into the night.

The girl who built nests out of threadbare things. The one who had watched them like they were made of light and belonged to a constellation she would never be brave enough to touch.

And it was cruel, wasn’t it? How the universe had finally answered your oldest prayer, but in the wrong language.

How being seen could still feel like being misunderstood.

You hadn’t wanted them to think you were weak. You hadn’t wanted their pity or confusion. You hadn’t wanted their worry to be born from the sight of your blood or the way your hands shook. You hadn’t wanted to be caught.

You had wanted them to understand.

You had wanted them to see the quiet devotion threaded through every watchful flight. The care behind every shadowed perch. The love it took to stay hidden when every part of you wanted to land at their side.

But now that they had—now that they had seen the part of you you kept hidden beneath feathers and wind—you wanted to disappear all over again.

Isn’t that the tragedy of it? That the very thing you once begged for could arrive in a form you didn’t recognize. That after all the aching, all the hoping, all the prayers you sent to unseen gods, being seen could still feel so much like being misunderstood.

And yet, even in that moment, even with shame biting at the edge of your vision and tears sliding down your cheeks, part of you still clung to the hope that perhaps—just perhaps—they hadn’t misunderstood you after all.

“Hey—hey. Look at me,” A voice low but urgent breaks through your haze.

Hands find your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes with a softness that makes something in your chest splinter further. 

“Don’t cry, love. Please don’t cry. You’re alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you, just breathe with me, yeah? Just stay with me.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you. His gaze holds yours, steady and unwavering, the kind of look that feels like being tethered—pulled back to something real, something warm.

You barely notice Remus limping toward you until he drops beside the branch, breath catching in his throat.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and his voice breaks around the edges. “Is it your leg? Are you hurt? Y/N—what happened?”

You can’t answer, not right away. Your mouth opens, then closes again, but Sirius is still there, crouched in front of you, hands steady despite the thudding panic you can feel rising in both your chests.

He speaks again, softer now. “You—you’ve been watching us? All this time?” His voice trembles with something between awe and heartbreak. “Alone? During every full moon?”

You nod once, a small, broken motion, tears slipping down your cheeks in silence. Your jaw is clenched so tightly it aches.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you whisper. “I thought—if you saw me, it’d be weird or pathetic, or—”

He cut you off gently, reaching out to cup your cheek with a care that made your throat tighten.

“Pathetic?” he echoed, incredulous. “Pathetic? Y/N, you’ve been dragging your body into the sky just to keep us safe. You bled for us tonight. You’ve been doing this alone. That’s not pathetic—that’s... that’s fucking brave.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Below, James appeared at the base of the tree, voice rising in concern.

“Sirius?” James shouted. “Is it hurt? Is it—wait, where are you?”

“It’s Y/N!” Sirius called back down. “It’s her. She’s an Animagus.”

“What?” James’s voice cracked. “What do you mean it’s her?”

But Sirius wasn’t listening anymore. He was already helping you into his arms, cradling your body close with infinite care, his hand pressed protectively to your injured leg, holding you like something precious and breakable. 

He whispered reassurances as he climbed down, slow, careful steps that betrayed the panic beneath his steady hands.

By the time Sirius’s boots hit the earth again, Remus was already beside him.

His breath came ragged, the lingering tremors of the transformation still curled in his limbs

Now, standing just steps from you, Remus looked like the ground had given out beneath him. All the color had drained from his face, but it wasn’t just shock. 

You tried to speak, but the moment Sirius set you down gently in the grass, Remus was already kneeling, like his body had moved before his mind could catch up.

“Y/N?” His voice cracked, hoarse and thin. “What—what happened? What were you doing out there?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Not with the weight of both their gazes pressing into your skin. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden?” he repeated, the word leaving his mouth like it tasted wrong. “You’ve been following us? While I’ve been transforming? Every full moon?” His breath hitched. “While I was—”

“I didn’t want anyone to worry,” you whispered. “I just needed to know you were okay.”

Remus inhaled sharply and let it go like a wound reopening. His hand hovered near yours, trembling. Then he reached for you anyway, brushing your hair back from your damp, dirt-streaked cheek.

His fingers paused near the scratch below your ear, reverent, aching.

“You shouldn’t have had to do that alone,” he said, softly but with conviction, like he was swearing an oath he never should’ve forgotten. “You shouldn’t have had to hide this. You didn’t have to hide this.”

“I didn’t think you’d understand,” you murmured, tears threatening again.

“We understand now,” he said, brokenly. “And it shouldn’t have taken blood for us to see it.”

Sirius’s jaw was clenched so tight it trembled. Remus’s voice was frayed, but firm. And both of them looked at you like you had done something immeasurably brave. Like you were worth mourning, protecting, holding—everything.

You finally looked up at them, eyes glassy, face streaked with tears and dirt and disbelief.

Sirius exhaled sharply, pressing a kiss to your temple. Remus closed his eyes, his hand settling gently over yours.

James crouched nearby, still stunned, but his voice was gentle when he finally spoke. “Next time, you don’t watch us from the trees. Next time, you’re down here with us.”

The walk back to the castle was slower than usual. Not because the path had changed, or because the forest was any darker than it had been—but because something between the three of you had shifted.

Sirius carried you most of the way, arms secure beneath your back and knees, murmuring quietly each time you winced, while Remus walked close beside him, watching your face as though afraid it might disappear. 

James had gone ahead to clear the way and fetch Madam Pomfrey, but you hardly noticed his absence.

Your body ached, but it was the tightness in your chest that throbbed hardest. You had never meant for them to know, not the Animagus form, not the secret flights, and certainly not the nest tucked into the trees like a childhood you’d never outgrown.

By the time Sirius set you down gently on the edge of the infirmary bed, your throat was dry from trying not to cry again.

Remus didn’t speak at first. He just knelt beside you, hands gentle as he peeled away what was left of your sock and began tending to your leg. His fingers were deft but soft, brushing the dried blood away with a damp cloth, jaw clenched as he examined the wound with quiet intensity.

You hated the silence. You hated how heavy it felt.

“I’m sorry,” you said, the words breaking free before you could stop them. “I know it’s weird. I know I’m weird. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

Sirius, who had been standing nearby, leaned forward suddenly, resting one hand on the mattress beside your hip.

“Stop,” he said, firm but not unkind. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize for being the one person who cared enough to follow us into the dark.”

Your breath caught.

“I just… I didn’t want to be a burden,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

Remus’s hands paused in their careful rhythm as he finished unwinding the gauze. He looked up slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but certain.

“Y/N, if you truly believe we’d ever mock you for caring—for watching over us in the only way you could—then I’ve clearly failed to show you the kind of man I am, and the kind of man I hope to be.”

Your fingers curled in your lap. “I watched you,” you whispered, eyes flicking toward Remus. “Every month. I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out there. I just... needed to make sure you came back.”

Remus didn’t look away. He soaked the cloth in warm water and pressed it gently to your scraped skin with hands that trembled slightly—not from fear, but from how much he was holding back. “You never needed to explain that,” he said. “But I’m glad you did.”

Sirius moved closer, silent until now. He sat down beside you on the bed, his palm finding the small of your back, grounding you.

“You watched over us,” he said, his voice low and rough at the edges. “Even when we didn’t ask. Even when we didn’t know. You broke your body trying to keep us safe. And you’re still sitting here thinking we might call you strange for that?”

You looked up at him then, wide-eyed, voice shaky. “I mean... I collect buttons. I sleep with open windows so I can hear the wind. I speak to animals. I—I’m not exactly—”

“Normal?” Sirius offered, a half-smile playing at his lips. “Good. We’re not either.”

Remus finished wrapping your leg and looked up, expression softening like a wave pulling back from shore. “You think we’ve spent all these weeks noticing you for no reason? You think we didn’t see the way you listen more than you speak, or how your eyes always catch the smallest things—the things no one else notices?”

“You care in ways no one else ever has,” Remus added, more gently now. “You cared about me in a way I didn’t know how to accept until right now.”

Your breath caught. “Wait… are you saying...?”

Sirius laughed under his breath and leaned a little closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Love, we’re saying we’ve been completely enchanted by you for ages. We just didn’t know how to say it until tonight.”

You blinked, stunned. “Really?”

“Really,” Remus said, his voice warm. “In every way that matters.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came. Your throat was too full of something tender, too new. 

Remus leaned closer, his voice softening. “Listen to me,” he said. “You don’t have to hide yourself from us. Not your wings, not your magic, and certainly not your quiet. We like you—we care about you—for everything you are. You’re not strange, love.”

Your lip trembled.

“And the button nest?” he added, grinning now. “It’s the most heartbreakingly you thing I’ve ever seen. That nest in the tree… it wasn’t weird. It was beautiful.”

Sirius smiled, something quiet and bright in his expression. “Well, we were talking about it on the way back—Remus and I, and if there’s ever room for two more in that nest, we’d be honored to be named and to be part of something you created.”

You blinked. “You want to be… buttons?”

“Not just buttons,” Sirius said, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “Your buttons.”

Remus looked up then, meeting your eyes with something deep and sure and aching in its sincerity. “If we’re lucky, maybe you’ll even give us names.”

You looked down at your lap, hands trembling in your lap, and then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, tentative but real.

“You can be in my button nest,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

And for the first time, it wasn’t just that someone had seen you.

It was that they had recognized you — all the strange, quiet, fragile pieces you’d kept tucked behind your ribs, the ones you had never dared to name aloud.

They hadn’t flinched from your softness, or your silence, or the wild devotion stitched into the things you loved. They had understood it. And more than that, they had chosen it. 

Chosen you.

You had spent your life making altars out of small things. Buttons, feathers, the hush between words. You had prayed in your own language — not in churches or temples, but in the way you noticed everything others overlooked. You had asked the world for so little: just to be held in return. 

Just to matter to someone the way you had quietly, unfailingly let others matter to you.

And for so long, the world hadn’t answered.

But maybe it was not that it hadn’t heard you. Maybe it had simply taken time.

Because now, without asking, without performing, without even meaning to — you were seen. Not in passing, not in pieces, but fully, tenderly, and without having to translate your love to the world.

You were no longer a distant thing. 

And perhaps, after all, the universe had been listening the entire time.

Now, it had spoken , softly and reverently, in the form of two boys who looked at you as if you were something celestial stitched into the earth. 

After all, the button nest had always been waiting for them too.

a/n:

to the readers with soft hearts and quiet hopes; may someone see your soul the way you see the world. to the readers who love gently, who notice everything, and who wait, patiently, to be noticed in return; may your button nest always be full ❤️‍🩹

-dalia

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Me and Shen are the same.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

flirt protocol ! — c k

summary — you, hr’s primary nightmare, counteract all of lex luthor‘s bitterness with excessive infatuation for superman, though you may swoon for clark kent just a bit harder

diva!fem!reader , warning by itself !

monthly visits to perry’s office were routine for you, but hows that your fault, really? if lex luthor was bitterness refined into steel, then you were its counterweight; shamelessly flirty, too infatuated to take seriously, except you were serious, and everyone was aware of it.

you once told perry that if the city was ever on fire, you’d be looking for a red and blue streak in the sky before a neon green exit sign. but it wasn’t superman that got your stomach twisted, not really. though he was an exciting fantasy.

in contrary, it was clark who had you all breathless and smitten.

the chief storms out of his office, evidently stressed. you’re supposed to be editing, however, clark’s adorably geeky manner of pushing his thick rimmed glasses upwards as he read seemed much more appealing.

“where’s that damn headline? i need olsen’s photos, i need kent’s copy, and you —” he levels a weathered, ink-stained finger directly at you, voice rising into that gravelly shout that usually precedes a fireable offense, “— need to stop treating the bullpen like a strip club.”

you pause, blinking once, then you frown, theatrically offended, “excuse you, i’ve been shockingly tame today.”

jimmy doesn’t even glance up from his camera, adjusting a lens calmly, „you purred at clark.”

a gasp leaves your glossy lips, manicured fingernails to chest, mock-scandal radiating off you like your expensive perfume. “it was a low whisper of admiration,” you tilt your head, eyes glittering, “very subtle, deeply respectful.”

behind her ridiculously sugar filled coffee mug, lois exhales, not blinking. “you called him midwestern daddy ten minutes ago.” she speaks exhaustedly, victim to your menacing ways for too long.

the silence that follows is loud, though clark’s chair creaked slightly.

said journalist stiffens, shoulders drawing up. he doesn’t look at you but you can see the pink hue spread across the tip of his ears, glasses blurring faintly at the edges. clark’s mouth opens, speechless. there’s something preciously boyish in the way his hand fiddles nervously.

you watch the motion like it’s a ticking clock, like if you stare long enough, maybe you’ll unravel the rhythm of his thoughts.

he exhales through his nose, steadying himself. there’s a flush creeping down his throat now, staining the collar of his deliciously fitting suit, and it hits you with quiet satisfaction how undone he looks from nothing but your affection.

you lean back in your chair, unbothered, heels-clad feet crossed sensually. your coworkers snicker knowingly, observing the tension.

“you’re going to cause a workplace incident.” lois speaks smugly.

“if he files a complaint, it better be formatted in ap style,” you reply sweetly.

behind his glasses, clark shoots you a look. quick. pink around the edges. it lands and disappears almost instantly, like he regrets it the second it leaves him. but not before you see it, just the flicker of something too sharp to be harmless.

you’ve built your whole career off catching what people don’t say.

clark shifts awkwardly, so him. “i—” his voice is hoarse, chest-deep, then quieter, “i have a meeting.”

a beat passed, everyone waiting for his next reaction. soon enough, it came. “with perry.” he stands too fast for the size of his body, chair scraping loudly against the floor, like it’s also trying to flee with him.

“you know,” jimmy murmurs, fiddling with his camera settings again, “one day you’re gonna push him too far and he’s actually gonna ridiculously fall to his knees right by your feet.”

you shrug, unapologetic. “i’m counting on it.”

you don’t see him again for an hour, not that you’re counting.

you definitely are.

but only because he fled like a man personally threatened by the concept of being admired for too long, and perhaps you’d leaned back in your chair after he left, a little smug, though you shouldn’t have.

because now you’re trapped in a mandatory safety meeting.

and he’s back but not exactly clark.

superman. glowing on the screen at the front of the bullpen like a gift you didn’t deserve but would never return. voice calm, steady in a heroic authority.

and you’ve never been good at behaving.

your fantasy personified speaks serene and unbothered in a pre-recorded safety hazard video, „remain calm and exit through the designated stairwells. do not —”

“— run unless you’re running toward me, babe.” you mumble, seemingly hypnotized.

perry slams his pen down like it personally offended him. “for the love of god, l/n, can we get through one meeting without this torture?”

lois snorts, jimmy full-body winces into his sleeve, someone two rows over mutters your name like a prayer and a warning.

you just sip your iced coffee, eyes still glued to the screen. “respectfully,” you start, calm as ever, “i’m a better listener when the instructions come from a man built like justice and righteousness.”

superman, onscreen, pulls a lever to activate a mock sprinkler system. expression stern, focused and dangerously, to you, competent.

“look at those forearms, suddenly, i care deeply about protocol.”

clark, three chairs down, doesn’t look up. doesn’t speak.

but his neck is pink, flushed in that telltale way, knuckles white and spine rigid, shoulders drawn back with that exacting control he thinks makes him unreadable, yet you see it; the way he sits too still, as if he relaxes even an inch, you’ll catch him thinking something unforgivable.

lois leans toward you without looking away from the screen. “so what happens if the safety video’s starring clark instead?”

you glance at her casually. “then i’d evacuate straight into cardiac arrest.” a beat passed, “he is the emergency.”

clark’s breath hitches subtly, but you catch it with the proximity of your bodies.

you smile delightfully.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

seven months.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Summary: Robby, the best neighbor and best friend you've ever had might just have yet another miracle for you

warnings: language, kinda slow-burn, friend of a friend Jack, grammatical error, not beta read.

this is set in the same universe as my pervious fic, seven years, but is written to be a stand-alone/prequel to that one. but don't worry you don't have to read that one to understand this fic or vice versa.

════════════════════════════════════════════

“Wanna talk about it?” you asked Robby as you sat beside him on his decade-old couch, looking at him still in his scrubs two hours after he clocked off. You had learned to read his mood over the time you know him, scrub on and the TV off meant that whatever happened on his shift today was way too hard for him to even have the energy to do a mundane task. 

He shakes his head, rubbing his hands on his face roughly before looking to his side, “thought you’re going out with your friends.” You know that he’s changing the subject like he usually does when things get too hard for him to process. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. For now, you’re just going to be a good friend and humor him. 

“I was going to, until that asshole decides to join.” Robby snorted, “The attending?” he knew who you’re referring to, after countless rants to him on how much you hated the guy. 

“I just don’t get how someone can be such an asshole and people somehow still lick the ground he walked on like he’s fucking Superman or some shit,” you said it in such an exasperated tone, Robby laughed. 

“You ever thought maybe he’s a bully to you because he likes you?” He teased you, you frowned in disgust, mentally holding back the vomit at the mere idea. 

“Okay, that was the most disgusting shit you ever said to me.” 

“You talk about him all the time, maybe you’re thinking about him all the time, huh?” You shoved his shoulder roughly upon his admission, and he laughed at you. “You talk about that Jack guy all the time like you’re in love with him, man,” 

“I talked about him because he’s my brother, you talk about that guy like you’re just one argument away from falling in love with him,” he argues. he does, in a way, talk about Jack a lot, and from what you’ve heard from his stories, Robby found himself a good one by his side. 

“Robby, I love you like my brother, but your idea of love is fucking twisted if you think I’m gonna fall in love with an asshole, pervert, stupid, old attending,” you huffed, standing up to walk to his kitchen to fetch something to drink. 

“Yeah, go ahead, welcome yourself into your neighbor’s and steal whatever's left in his kitchen, totally normal.” he called out to you as he heard the fridge’s door opening. 

“I’m the one who bought this Coke, I’m just taking what’s mine-” you said, taking two cans of Coke from his fridge, walking back to the couch to pass him one, “-besides, I’m coming over to check on the elderly.” 

You tossed him his can, and he catches it mid-air, “fuck you, i still have reflexes of a cat.” 

The sound of a can being opened fills the air, the sizzle filling the normalcy you often shared. He takes a big gulp, groaning in contentment when he puts down the can on the coffee table, “y’know what goes perfect with that? Fucking pizza.” 

At the mention of Pizza you could feel your empty stomach growling, “gimme your card, i’ll order one.” 

“Jeez, first you came here uninvited, now you ask me to hand you my card? West-penn didn’t teach you manners?” he said, fishing for his wallet to pass you his card. Not that he minded, both of you have a strict ‘pay me back next time policy’ and all the things you ever did for him was priceless in his eyes.

You take the card from his grasp, “you’re an attending, one pizza ain’t gonna make you broke-” you said before walking over to the fridge to look for the pizza place’s flyers amongst other take out places Robby tacked on it. “-I’ll pay you back when i’m an attending” and there it is, the punchline, the one-liner you always used when it’s Robby’s turn to pay for food.

Robby groaned, “You know I hated it when you think you gotta pay back.” he turned his head towards his kitchen, watching you skim over the choices, “you make me sound like a jerk of a friend.” You looked up to catch his eyes, shrugging, “eh. It kinda has a nice ring to it.” 

“Can I ask you something?” Robby suddenly asked, legs propped up on the table, nursing a beer in his hand after finishing the pizza. You turned your head away from the TV, a curious look on your face, “You never ask for permission before.” 

“It’s kinda sensitive,” he said sheepishly, scared of what your reaction would be if he asked the thing that’s been making him guilty.

“Dangerous, but go ahead.” 

“What happened with, y’know, Toby?” ah. Toby, the guy you used to go on a few dates with until he decided that your friendship with Robby is one he can’t handle if both of you decide to date. But you’ve known Robby longer than you’ve known him, and Robby is like a brother to you, so you decided that if he can’t even handle you having a guy friend, maybe he’s not the right guy for you. You weren’t in love with the guy yet, so parting ways with whatever that relationship was was an easy decision you had made. 

“Told me I can’t be friends with you anymore if we were to date,” he winced, about to sputter out an apology before you shut him off with a look, “I fucking explained to him that you’re like my brother, and what did he say? Well, choose between your brother or me. Yeah, like that was hard.” 

“Jeez, that’s bad. Did you tell him about the whole can’t be friends if you like them?” he asked. he was honestly warmed by your admission that you think of him as your brother. You nodded, annoyed with the stupid memory, “Yeah, but you know men sometimes have that fragile ego,” 

“Ouch. Well, on behalf of men, I’m sorry-” he lifted his beer to his lips to take a sip, “-you’ll get the right guy when the time’s right,” he offers a half-assed consolation, one he knows you would prod back at him.

“Tell that again when you've got a girl, trust me, i’m more concerned about finding you a girl.” you teased him, he groaned loudly, “just shut up,” 

“Seriously, do you want me to set up an account on those dating apps? ‘Cause I know you can’t keep up with them apps, so-” 

He lifted a pillow to smack you, “shut up.” 

════════════════════════════════════════════

You were pissed off. The day had started out great, nothing out of the ordinary, until that stupid pervert attending accidentally touched your ass in the parking lot when you’re about to go home. You had shoved him then, roughly, and honestly, if it was one of those days when you’re close to a breaking point, you would’ve punched him out cold. He played it out as an accident, that the gap between your cars was too narrow, but you had warned him off what if he were to even have the nerve to do that shit again, accident or not, you would’ve beat him to a pulp. 

You called Robby inside the grocery store, while choosing which big cookies pack you were about to bring home to at least end the day with something nice. He picked up on the first ring, “I’m at the store, you need anything?” 

“Can you get me a six-pack?” you nodded out of reflexes, not that he can see you, “Okay, yeah, anything else? I’m getting cookies and fries,” you can hear him talk to someone on the other side, “nothing else, thanks though,” you give him an okay and a bye before hanging up to walk over to get the beers. 

You can’t wait to tell Robby what happened, quickly changing out of your scrubs and walking over to his door, not even bothering to knock because you know he could actually hear your footsteps marching on to his door with how thin the walls are in this building. 

“Robby you can’t fucking believe what happened today, I should’ve punched the shit out-” Robby lifted his hand motioning for you to slow down, you take a deep breath, putting his beers on the table before starting again “He touched my ass, fucking touch-” you stop your words when you see someone coming out from his bedroom, hair wet fresh out of the shower, and damn attractive. 

“Who are you?” you looked at his figure, suddenly feeling conscious of your loungewear choices when his voice fills you in, “i’m Jack,” 

You turned your head to Robby who’s still sitting in his spot, “the night-shift grump Jack?” Robby nodded, eyes glinting with amusement. 

“Grump?” he said as he walked around you to sit down at your spot on Robby’s couch, that damned spot that even Robby himself cannot sit on when you’re around. You should’ve stopped him from sitting there, should’ve at least commented on it, but the scent of his body wash when he passed you was way too overwhelming that you decided that maybe sitting on the rug beside Robby’s leg isn’t too bad. 

“that’s what all I heard about you, told me that’s like your personal branding and what not,” you said opening the cookie pack and taking one for yourself before putting in on the table. 

“You seem to know more about me than I do about you,” you turned your head to look at him, though your view was obstructed with Robby’s knees, you offered him your name, he nodded. 

“Nice to finally put a face on your name,” you tell him, still munching on your cookie, he leaned over to grab one, stopping to look you in the eye as if asking you can i?, you nodded to him, pushing the pack closer to him. He grabbed one and leaned back again. 

Robby waved a hand in front of your face, you looked up at him, he looked at you back expectantly, “you were saying?” oh. The story. You swallowed before leaning back. 

“Oh yeah, where was I?” honestly you already forgot what you were saying before you were stopped by Jack coming out of the shower looking…yeah no, he’s Robby’s friend, you’re not going to even elaborate on how Robby supposedly downplayed all his story about how many patients hit up on his friend.

“You were saying something about ass,” Jack said, you can hear the smirk playing on his face without even having to look at him. You feel your ears go hot, Robby saying that you were talking about ass was one thing, but Jack? You literally just met the guy for a few minutes. 

“Oh yeah, I parked my car near the asshole, Rob, I was about to get into my car when he touched my ass, fucking touched it, and he played it off as ‘accident’” you said quoting the word accident with your hands.

“So what did you do?” Robby asked you, he know you well enough to know that you at least did something to the guy. 

“Shoved him, was gonna deck the guy but it’s gonna be his word against mine” you explained to him, suddenly getting annoyed again. 

“What? He’s your senior or something?” Jack asked you, you leaned your head on Robby’s knee, an action Jack watched closely. 

“Her attending at west-penn, Horacio,” Robby leaned forward to take two beers, passing one to Jack. 

“Fuck, that’s the one who sent me the anti-vaxx parent, was so pissed off the next time someone requested for a transfer to west-penn I didn’t think twice, once the kid was stable I sent em off.” 

“Huh, I once got a transfer from PTMC too, think it was Abbot? Called the guy and he was like, i’m doing what you guys did to me, real asshole.” Robby choked on his beer, laughing, you watched him bewildered and looked at Jack smirking. 

“I’m Abbot.” his tone held no malice, the smirk still perched on his lips. The guilt? Or shame you don’t have time to think what to feel. So instead you sit up straight, extended your hand to him to shake. 

He takes your hand on his. Shit. play it cool. He’s rob’s buddy. “Truce?” he shake your hand firmly, “Truce.” 

Normal people would release the grasp the moment the action of shaking hands are done, but the both of you were never real people, anyway. Until Robby lifted his hips in search of the TV remote to change the channel is when you finally released his hand. 

“5 bucks oilers,” you said lamely, eyes on the TV, Robby puts his hand on top of your head, shaking it, “deal.” Jack watched the way Robby shake your head on his hand, how you seem so unbothered by it. 

“Fuck. oilers? Really?” Robby groaned, “don’t even start, man. She’s like a mcdavid’s groupie” 

You slapped Robby knees, hard. “I’ll have you know he’s got potential and my admiration was purely from his skills-” you looked up at him, “-though he is cute, in a way.”  

“Isn’t he like, twelve?” Robby chimed in, you slipped your hand under his back to take one of the pillows, “i’m not in love with the guy or something, jeez, just saying he’s gonna be a real star,” 

“5 bucks crosby trashed him,” Jack offered his hand to you once again, you take it in your hands, shaking it, ignoring the weird feelings when your hand does touched his. “5 bucks mcdavid scores. Deal.” 

It was one of the best nights you had in a while, Jack had been easy to be talk to, and he’s easy in the eyes, way too easy, but that was a thought for another time, tonight you’re just gonna enjoy the extra ten bucks you’re gonna get. 

════════════════════════════════════════════

You woke up after hitting the snooze button three times. Your mind wished that your body at least allows you to sleep in more considering that it was your day off, but the habit of waking up early has been ingrained way too deep. 

If you remembered correctly, it was supposed to be Robby’s day off also, and he head promised you he’d help in building the new shelves you got the next time he has a day off. The last time you met Robby was when Jack was over and that was three days ago. Jack. as much as you hated to admit it, you had find your mind flitting over to him when you least expects it. 

It started the next day after meeting him, looking over to the coffee on the rack when you started to think of how he most likely takes his coffee, and it has been going downhill since then. Waffles. Stupid waffles, was when you realized it was bad, is he a maple guy? Or worse, pancake guy?

As much as you wanted to stay in bed, you needed coffee, powering through the last of your willpower to take your own coffee grounds and walk across the hall to get a good cup of coffee from Robby’s fancy coffee machine he wasted on low quality beans. 

You knocked on his door. No answer. You knock again, still no answer. You knock for what you decided was the last time before heading back to your own coffee machine until you heard steps from the other side of the door. 

You anticipated Robby, half-asleep, one hundred percent annoyed, telling you to fuck off and come back later. But the sight on the other side of the door throw you off. 

Jack, all in his half-asleep glory, rubbing his eyes when he stopped, eyes going wide. “Morning,” he said rubbing his hand on his curls, an action he used to pretend changed the way his hair looks, as though his hair weren’t short and curly enough that the action won’t change anything. 

“Morning-” you should honestly be proud of how you were able to voice that word out, with the way your stomach went stupid after hearing Jack’s morning voice. “-where’s Robby? And what are you doing here?” 

The part where you asked Robby’s whereabout was good, the last part? Not so much, it came out of your mouth way too fast. And stupid. School-crush level stupid.

Jack takes a good look at you, at the coffee in your hand, before looking back at you, “he’s covering for a friend, he didn’t tell you i’m spending a week here?” 

“A week?” so all this time you’ve been stupidly berating yourself for thinking about him, he was literally across the hall? 

He nodded, “yeah, the pipes in my building busted-” he nods at the coffee in your hand, “-mind sharing that with me instead of Robby?” you look down to your hand before looking back at him. 

“As long as you let me in first,” he chuckled and open the door wider to let you in. how the hell does he still smell good first thing in the morning? Was your thought as you walked past him. Not your proudest moment, you admit. 

You haven’t even arrived at the threshold of Robby’s kitchen when you stopped your step, making Jack collide with you with his hand instinctively shot up to your shoulder for support. “Whoa, what?” 

His hands on your shoulder should’ve made your stomach somersault if not only for the fact that you just realized he’s working on night-shift, which meant that he just slept for a few hours. You turned your body to face him, making his hand fall down to his sides, “sorry, reflexes,” he said almost embarrassed. 

“Did I woke you up?” you asked him, his hand went to rub the back of his neck, nodding sheepishly. He had confirmed your suspicion, so you step back towards the door “go sleep, holy shit, sorry, go back to sleep.” 

“What?” he mumbles as he tried to catch you before you exit, his hand shooting up to your shoulder once again, making you face him, “you just got back right?” you spoke first. 

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly, “You woke me from a full nine hour sleep, you’re good.” 

Oh. okay, not a bad thing, you supposed. Jack noted your silence, calling your name to gain your attention, “hey,  you good?” you looked up at him, nodding silently. 

“Oh, yeah, i thought i was ruining your sleep,” you walked back to the kitchen, “so, coffee?” he nods, “yes, please, I can’t figure out that rocket engine,” 

You make the coffee in silence, with him going to the bathroom to wash his face, you got a moment to collect your thought. He’s robby’s friend, don’t be awkward, don’t be awkward. Sure, you’ve talked with him plenty when you met him three days ago, and it wasn’t awkward at all. But there was Robby at that time who acted as a buffer between the awkwardness of two people who shared a mutual friend, now that Robby wasn’t here, you’re silently turning your brain on what to talk about with him. 

It was awkward. 

It wasn’t a bad awkward air, it’s just that you wanted to talk to him, but you weren’t sure what to talk about, and him sitting across looking real pretty kinda makes you unsure on what to say to him. So you did the best thing in your mind, you speak up suddenly, “we shouldn’t be this awkward right?” 

He chuckled. Fuck me. “Well, you did called me an asshole, so that should clear the awkward air out, right?” 

You groaned, “you had the audacity to say you were doing us a favor how was i supposed to comment on that?” 

“Well if i knew that was you I wouldn’t say that, y’know,” he smirked to his cup, eyes looking at you. You scoffed, “isn’t that worse? You’re selectively being an asshole.”  

He laughed and the silence shifted. Both of you now enjoying the coffee in a comfortable silence. He propped his head on his hand, “so how long has you and Robby, y’know?” 

You laughed, “nah, he’s like a brother I can’t get rid of, i love him, really, but he’s still annoying as hell.” 

You look at his coffee cup, of course he takes it black. 

“Huh?” 

You look up at him, “huh what?” 

“So what if i take it black, huh?” you seriously need to stop talking to yourself, this is exactly why. 

You chuckled nervously, “nothing. I just was thinking about what type of coffee you’d take,” why did Robby keep his place so warm?

“What an honor,” he had the audacity to smirk, making you curse indefinitely at the way Robby kept his place so damn hot all the time. 

Silence fills the air once again, you decide to take a second cup when Jack’s stomach grumbled loudly, you look at him, starting to laugh. 

“Did you just…” 

“Can we pretend that didn’t happened and this is the part where I ask you to breakfast?” he said sheepishly. Cute. wait not cute. Not that his red ears are making him cute, nah, not that. 

You mentally went through what you have over at your own fridge. Pizza leftovers, chinese leftovers, i seriously need to stop having leftovers, diet coke, red bulls, frozen dumplings, milk, eggo, yeah that’ll work. 

“I got some eggos and dumplings if you want those, which on second thought doesn’t sync at all, but yeah,”  you offered him. 

“First i’m taking up his place now i’m hogging his neighbor, damn.” 

You look at him expectantly, “so….” 

He nodded, “if you don’t mind, yeah, sure,” 

No you didn’t want to explain to yourself the rollercoaster of feelings when he looked on your week old ikea boxes commenting that he’d like to help you, no you didn’t want to think when he commented that unlike Robby, you kept your place at warm temperature, and no, you definitely didn’t want to elaborate on the way he asked for your number claiming that he’s gonna need your help to make coffee during his stay on Robby’s. 

════════════════════════════════════════════

“Remind me again why do we watch this show again?” Jack asked both you and Robby on his last night of staying at the latter’s place. 

Robby shushed him, muttering something along the line of “it doesn’t work if you only watch one episode,” 

“Plus he’s kinda hot,” you nod your chin on the conventionally attractive guy on the screen. Robby nudged your shoulder with his knees (between Robby’s bad back and Jacks condition, you gladly take one for the team sitting on the floor) “he’s not even your type?” 

You looked up at him, “the hell that’s supposed to mean?” he shrugged, “dunno, he doesn’t strike me as someone you’d find hot” 

“And how would you even know what type of person i find hot?” Robby mouth went open to retort something, finding nothing to say back, he closes it again. “He’s just conventionally attractive dude, but he kinda is not my type.” 

“What’s your type, then?” Jack’s sudden question makes you think twice before even saying anything, a rare feat if anything. 

What even is your type? 

A nice no-nonsense guy? Good looking? Older? Emotionally available? 

Everything you think about somehow leads to you just thinking about the guy on your left. 

You shrugged, “i dunno. Never think about it actually” 

Robby takes a deep breathe, “you go for someone older, definitely. Someone who know his worth, so he’s not gonna be jealous over stupid things. Someone who’s attentive but not over-bearing, so you stil have your own space.” 

You looked up at him again, shocked at his words, and somehow afraid that maybe your small crush on his friend being outed. “Holy shit.” 

“What? I know you, man.” he said to you, pretending that it was not a big deal. 

Still not fully convinced, you stared at him long enough he groans audibly, “you said mark was too childish for you, then there was kim was it? Who kept on ‘bothering’ you that you don’t get your own space or whatever it is you said, then there’s toby, who stupidly enough got jealous of me,” 

“Got jealous of you?” you throw your face to the other side, facing Jack. “told me if I wanted to be with him I can’t be friend with Robby” 

“Which, i’m still really sorry.” 

You shake your head, “nahh i’m just gonna find someone who will actually get to know you” Robby half-scoff, smiling anyway, “yeah right,” 

Jack caught your attention from the TV when he quietly stand up using your shoulder as a support to go to the bathroom. You really hated the way his small touch gets to you. 

When he came back to the living room, you can see a reddish mark from where you are sitting down on the space between his neck and collarbone. Stupidly enough, your mind played the worst case scenario, you’re holding the itch to ask him, maybe to even tease him if you can find the courage to ask him. But for now you’re just gonna keep your peace by staying silent. 

You don’t know by what grace Robby also realize the reddish mark on his neck, but Robby, unlike you had actually points it out, teasing Jack by saying “did you get lucky yesterday?” 

Jack instinctively touched the red mark on his neck, wincing when he pushed the bruise to hard. “Your fucking table is the lucky gal” 

You looked up at him, “how do you even get hickey from a table?” 

He looked at you, almost hurt? By the fact that you out of all people perceive it as a hickey. “You know that he put his table so damn close to the couch?” you nodded, “let’s just say I kissed the table,” he takes a hand to his lips to pull on his lower lip, pulling on it to show the small tiny ulcer. 

You laughed loudly, imagining him in such condition was definitely one your very creative mind can’t even think about. You pulled back your attention back to the TV, leaning your head on his knees now. “Oh man, I would pay to see that,”

If you weren’t so relaxed right now, you would’ve find the way he patted your head while he mutters a “i’d rather die” makes your stomach do its stupid thing. But for now you’re just gonna put the feeling of his hand on your head for another time.

════════════════════════════════════════════

Weeks passed since Jack’s stay, and beside the rare encounter when he hang out on Robby’s, you haven’t had any chance to meet him again. Not that you were looking at his number saved on your phone. 

There was a small part of you that wished he was there when you barged in Robby’s place after shift, that maybe he’s watching a game, or maybe he’s hanging out. There was also a smaller part of you that wished he’d text you, he asked for your number, for god sakes, that should at least mean something, right? 

“Jack’s been acting weird,” Robby suddenly said, eyes still looking forward to the TV. 

His name being dropped catched your attention, “what do you mean?” 

He leaned forward to take the fortune cookies, passing one to you, “i dunno, kept on telling me to just hang out on my place, he used to practically avoid coming, telling me just to hang at his place instead,” 

Now that made you overthink, but you give yourself the benefit of doubt, you nod at his fortune cookies, “open it.” 

He cracks his cookies, eating half before even looking at the words inside, you decides to prod “maybe he’s just bored at his place?” 

“Nah, this is weird even for him, he hates my TV, this couch, hell he once told me he hates the pizza we used to get, but just last week he ate more than both of us,” 

You shifted slightly to look at him, “people change, i guess.-” you winced at the corny words, slightly huffing, “-nevermind, what’s it says?” 

He pulled the tiny paper, wincing before extending his hand away from his eyes to the perfect reading distance for him, pulling a half-laugh from you. “Shut up.” he grumbles, “you will soon be honored by someone you respect,” he reads out, eating the last half of his cookie. 

“Ominous.” you commented, cracking you own fortune cookie in hand, “what’s yours?” he asked, looking at the cracked cookie in your hands, asking one half of it. 

You passed him, pulling the paper inside, love is on its way. 

You hated the way your mind instantly zeroed in on one guy, one guy that has been plaguing your waking mind more times than you’d like to. 

You scoffed, “i’m not reading this corny line,” he groaned, “oh c’mon,” he said as he takes the paper from your hand, reading it. 

He laughed, looking at you, “aww are you in love?” you wrestle the paper out of his hand, crumbling it to throw into the plastic bag, “told you it’s corny” 

He looks at the way you’re annoyed, “hey, you good?” you look back at him, nodding, “yeah, why?” 

“I dunno you seem more rattled than usual, hard shift?” 

You leaned forward to take your water, taking a sip before you look back at him, “nope. I’m all good.” you said as you put you cup back at the table. 

“he asked about your shelves the other day,” you scoffs at him, “-which I promise I will help you, but he did in a way make me promise to him too, weird.” 

Again, you’re back on the butterflies stupidly flying in your stomach, the fact that he remembered the Ikea boxes in your place when it was weeks ago he’s been inside your place, and the fact that he also reminded Robby to keep his promise to you? That was just too much. 

“You have like four day off and not once did you help me, man, not cool,” you tried your best to change the topic from Jack to his promise. 

“He asked me if you wanted to join on sunday, we’re going to watch the game on that bar with the stupid booth I hated,” 

You loved that bar, Robby know you loved that bar, and you had said with Jack in vicinity when he’s over at Robby’s place, it was just a passing comment when you’re arguing with Robby about which bar to go the next time you guys decided to go out. 

“The booth is nice, your back is just giving up on you, but yeah, sure.” you take a jab at him, ignoring your mind insistence to give yourself slight hope. 

Robby relaxes his back on the couch, you leaned your head on his shoulder. Maybe it was the comforting silence, maybe it was the fact that you trusted him so much, or maybe it was just the way your heart can’t take so much, you sigh softly, letting yourself a moment of vulnerability. 

“Robby?” 

He hummed in acknowledgement, you take a deep breath, trying to find a slight peace from your thought. 

“I don’t think I can’t be friends with Jack,” 

He seemed to catch the meaning differently as he slightly stiffened up, “what? Why?” you give him slight chuckle, making him relaxed just slightly, “no, not in that way,” 

He fully relaxes his shoulder under your head, your words finally hitting him, “oh.” 

“I don’t know, he’s just so… Jack. i tried, rob, i tried not to think about him, but between the week he spent here and his random pop-up, i can’t even get him out of my head most of the time,” 

You can feel his shoulder shakes from laughter, not mocking, just genuine. “You’re down bad, aren’t you” 

“Yeah, sorry,” he chuckles, patting your knee with his hand. 

“Don’t be. It’s a good thing.”

You sigh audibly, the silence taking over the room with the only sounds are the one coming from the TV. 

“So, Jack is what your fortune-, OUCH what the hell!” you jab his stomach with your elbow before he can even finish his sentence, making him reel forward. 

════════════════════════════════════════════

A text notification catches your attention as you enter your bedroom, you fished your phone from your pocket, shy smile blooming on your lips. 

| Jack : you coming too, right? 

You dropped your backpack hastily, needing to sit down to even type a reply. 

| you : yes 

| Jack : Okay, good

Feeling slightly confident from the fact that he asked you directly when he could’ve asked Robby, you type on your keypad.

| you : so you do remember that you have my number 

You waited as the three dots appear and disappear repeatedly, smiling to yourself at the knowledge that Jack seemed unsure on what to reply. 

| Jack : sorry

| Jack : i chickened out everytime I wanted to text you

| Jack : i’ll make it up in the future

That does it. You throw your phone to the bed, practically yanking the nearest pillow to hold back a squeal. You take a few deep breath before bringing your phone up again. 

| you : good to know i’m not only good for coffee machine

| you : also, just a heads up i treat going to the bar with Robby as normal hang out

| you : i’m gonna wear the comfiest outfit I have

The reply from Jack was instant. Somehow still catching you off guard. 

| Jack : you say that like i care what you wear

| Jack : also i’m on my way 

Realizing that you haven’t changed from your scrubs, you quickly typed in a reply 

| you : okay, see you later

With a thumbs up emoji from him, you turned your phone off. 

You stayed true to your words, but the moment you see Jack looking good in his half-zip and dark jeans you felt stupid. Maybe you should’ve spent more time thinking on what to wear for once. 

The booth you’re sitting at weren’t the most spacious one at the bar, but it gave a perfect view of the TV and was the one you swear the coziest. Robby had groaned when you choose the booth, saying something about how you don’t need leg space as much as he does. 

You are honestly grateful that Robby didn’t comment anything about the small talk you had about the man sitting beside you, he doesn’t even give you a teasing look when Jack slides in beside you or when he leaned closer to your ear to say something, though you know he was holding back for when it was just the two of you. 

The conversations were nice, bets were placed between you and Robby with you winning by a landslide, Robby slides the money to you accompanied by Jack’s comment that you’re match-fixing in one way or another. 

Robby’s phone rang just as you were about stand up making you sit back down in the booth as he excused himself. Jack called out your name from your side. 

“You looked good,” he said earnestly, face still warm from a few beers inside his system. 

You shove his shoulder slightly, pushing him away, “jerk.” he looked at you bewildered, wondering what did he said wrong. 

“What? I mean it.” 

“Dude I was fully conscious about my fashion choices when you walked looking all good, and when that two girls enter the room? Fuck me i’m restarting my wardrobe.” 

He looked at you like you confused him, “what girls?” you rub your hands on your face, groaning slightly, “ugh. You know which one i’m talking about,” he didn’t. He didn’t has a single clue which girls you’re talking about, not when you’re sitting beside him so close your thighs almost touching all night. 

He grabbed your elbow, pulling your hand from your face softly, “you can’t possibly think i’m able to see anyone else with you sitting beside me,” 

“You can’t say things like that after I called you dude and then expects me not to turn red,” he chuckles, “maybe i like it when you get all red,” leaning his head to your ears to whisper, “dude.” 

You laughed then, feeling the redness from your face dissipating because being with him is always easy. 

Walking back home with Robby’s hand slung on your shoulders you stopped half-way when you spot someone cosplaying as darth vader in a steelers jersey. Quickly releasing yourself from Robby’s arm to catch the guy to ask for a picture with him. 

“Rob c’mon take a picture for me,” Robby sighed, fishing his phone out nonetheless. 

“What pose should we do? A hug? Would you be okay? Or would that ruin vader’s image?” the laughter you heard was muffled through the mask, but the guy behind the mask nodded anyway, putting his arms on your shoulders as you put your arms around his waist, a laughter coming out of you. 

Robby snapped a few pictures, with you and the guy still laughing and smiling. Jack can’t resist himself when he approached Robby, talking in a low voice, “can you send me a copy of that?” 

Robby looked at him, eyebrows raised, looking both weirded out and strangely suspicious, he looked between his phone and him before smirking and nodding. 

From where you stood, you can catch Robby doing a double take between Jack and his phone, so you quickly said thanks to the guy, wishing him a good night, walking over to join them. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked Robby full of suspicion, Robby shakes his head way too fast. 

“Nothing, what?” 

You looked between him and Jack, but decided that you were too tired to join on whatever the two are plotting anyway, you shrugged, walking away to head home.

════════════════════════════════════════════

“Are you sure you’re nervous because you’re getting stitched? Not because a certain someone is working here?” you wanted to slap the smirk of his face with your free hand, the one that’s not holding the rag on your forehead anyway. 

The whole incident, to put it lightly, was really stupid. You had been babysitting for the nice couple on your building, indulging in the kid’s insistence on play-fighting, not realizing the toy he had in his hand was hard enough to break someone’s skin. But again, who knew a five year old has that strength? 

You would ask for Robby’s help if only he didn’t just used the last suture kit he had on said kid about a month ago when the parents had barged on Robby’s door at night saying their kid is bleeding on his chin. So instead, Robby drove you to his work with mason panicking on the backseat and you having to comfort him. 

“Don’t be nervous, doctor Robby sew me up, and it didn’t hurt at all” you smiled at him, looking at the culprit of all this nuisance (the damn triceratops on his hands). “I’m not nervous, buddy.” 

Robby had the audacity to snort, you give him a look, you promised to stop, he raised his hand to mock surrender. He kneeled down to where mason sit, holding back a laugh at the comically large dinosaur on his hand. “Are you sure you’re okay waiting here? You dad just texted me he’s on his way home,” 

Mason nodded, enthusiast. “I want to wait. My mom told me I have to be responsible.” Robby gave him a thumbs up, standing up to his full height. 

The doctor who called your name as he opened the curtain did a double take on the three of you the moment he sees Robby, eyebrows raising to your neighbor. Robby greets him, explaining the whole predicament to him, who nodded attentively, eyes darting once to Mason. You tell him to take Mason to get some candy when the doctor drag a tray closer to the bed. 

Being on the same building with Jack but not seeing him does things to your fuzzy mind, so you did what might be another reason for Robby to tease you. “Is doctor Abbot working tonight?” 

Putting a gauze on your forehead the doctor nodded, “yeah, you want me to call on him? Heads up he’s not in the greatest form,” 

He takes a step back, removing the gloves from his hand, you shake your head, “nah, you don’t have to.” he nods absentmindedly, “he’s in the break room if you wanna see him-” he throws the gloves to the bin, “-the break room is off-limit though, no one’s brave enough to face him right now,” 

 You quinted your eyes, “why?” the doctor sighed, “he lost a kid earlier,” 

Just when you thought you had it bad today. You know how hard it is when you lost a kid. The feeling of helplessness, between needing someone to talk some sense into you and wanting to close yourself off. You’ve felt it yourself, you’ve also seen how it affects someone as senior as Robby. Most of the time, Robby doesn’t even hear what you said, but you know he always appreciate the company. 

“Can i see him?” he fidgets on his place, “yeah, go ahead, i’ll tell Robby you’re in the break room later.” with a thanks you walked to the direction he points you to. 

You had opened the door more softly than what you’re used to. Jack, hearing the door clicking open had raised his head annoyedly, “I told you call me when its- hey, what are you doing here?” his tone going soft as he realized it was you. He couldn’t see your gauze form where you’re standing with your body half-inside. 

turning your hand to close the door behind you, you smiled sheepishly, pointing at your forehead, he had stiffened up, going to stand when you motion him to stop before taking a seat beside him. “What happened? Are you okay?” His attention was fully on your face, the proximity making you lightheaded. 

Your heart warmed at his worried face, “i’m good, got kissed by a triceratop” he raised an eyebrow, you chuckled at him, “a kid I was babysitting hold a triceratop when we’re play-fighting.” 

He lets out a soft ‘ah’, his hand moving to the gauze in your forehead, fingers close enough to touch you, “can i see?” you nodded, letting his fingers carefully check you. 

Deeming whoever worked on you did a good enough and a nod of approve from him, he remove his hands away from you. You softly touch your forehead, “he did a good job, actually” 

“I could’ve done better, why didn’t you ask for me?” 

Because maybe you make me nervous and calm at the same time? And also, i don’t wanna go red in front of Robby. 

“Well i’m sorry that my forehead is bleeding while i need to calm a panicking kid and i didn’t ask for you ” 

He laughed, but the light doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Slowly, you put your hand on his shoulder, rubbing it in a comforting rhythm. 

“Talk to me.” he sighed, leaning forward, putting his head on his head, making your hand falls to the small of his back. 

“There’s nothing to talk about, i lost a kid earlier, can’t help but feel like it is my fault.” your hand stopped its motion. Letting him have all the comfort in his guilt before you knock some senses into him.

You’ve seen this before with Robby, when he just close himself off from anything you were about to say. Nothing you say will even be heeded by him, so you did the one thing that somehow always worked. You release your hand from his back, raising it to the back of his head before slapping on it. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to give him the shock he needed. 

Jack was so shocked by your action that he sit up straighter, facing you, pupils blown wide from the shock. “D-did you just?” 

You crossed your arms, “i’m gonna do that everytime you blame yourself for something that is not your fault, you know damn well it’s not your fault. And don’t you even dare start on whatever bullshit reason you’re going to say about how it is your fault.” 

He opens his mouth to say something, but this was not your first rodeo, you know what he was about to say, so you cut him off, “and don’t start on what you should’ve done. You tried, that’s what matters, you tried your hardest, and sometimes it’s not gonna be enough, but that’s just how it is.” 

He looks at you, took his time, before shaking his head, laughing, dryly but you can see the spark is back on his eyes. “Jesus. That was…” Rubbing the spot you just hit him. 

Your hand instinctively shot up to the spot he rubs, rubbing your hand on his curls. “Oh come on, I don’t even hit you that hard,” 

You ignore the way his curls felt right under your hand, this was definitely not the time for stupid feelings. 

A knock on the door makes you drop your hand from his hair, Robby’s head peeking from the door, “someone wanted to check on you,” opening the door wider to let Mason enter the room. 

“Hey, buddy,” you smiled at him, he looks between you and Jack, “are you sure you’re okay?” 

You nods, “i’m okay, i swear. Oh, mason, this is doctor Abbot, he’s my friend.” Mason extend his hands to Jack, jack looks at you as if saying did you see this gentleman? 

He shakes Mason’s hand, “my name is Mason, are you the one she’s nervous to meet?” 

Fucking kid and their mouth. Mauling me with a dino is not enough????

Robby snorted leaning on the door, your face is red, trying to find an excuse to descalate the situation. Jack gives you a smirk, eyebrow raised in his usual teasing manner. 

Bless mason and his pure heart, as he said his next words so sweet you might melt on the spot, “nice to meet you, i’m sorry I hurt your friend.” 

He releases his hand from Mason’s, pointing at the toy in his hand, “what about your friend? Has he said sorry yet?” Mason looks at the toy in his hand, moving one of its legs to mimic a hand being extended, offering the ‘hand’ to you. 

You chuckled, accepting the handshake anyway. 

“Doctor Robby, when can we go home?” Mason asked Robby, who looked at you for confirmation. You nodded at him, “well. Let’s go, then” you said as you stand up. 

You were half-way through the door when Jack catches your hands, making you turn to look at him. “Thank you, really, I don’t know how you just know what to say,” 

You squeeze his hand, smiling at him, “are you sure you’re good?” he nods, “yeah, after that slap? I don’t think I can function anyway,” 

You squeeze his hand even harder, “ow. Now you’re breaking my hand??” you dropped his hand, looking outside the door to see Robby and Mason nearing the exit. You looked back at him, calling out his name. 

You open your arms towards him, “c’mere” 

He steps closer to you, enclosing his arms around your shoulders, squeezing it tightly with every last ounce of hope he has inside him.

He breaks the hug first, his fist going clenched and unclenched, you pat his cheek, “we need you, okay?” 

His nod is the last confirmation you needed, you walk away from him, mouthing a ‘bye’ as you wave at him. 

════════════════════════════════════════════

You hated working nights. The emptiness you felt after every shift when you go back home always leave you in a state of nothingness. The feeling of being home alone when everyone is up and about with their life is shitty, like the universe is telling you that at the end of the day, you are alone. But you don’t want to be alone right now, you can’t. 

It wasn’t even a hard shift, heck you don’t even remember when was the last time you had ended a shift not dog-tired, it was the loneliness creeping up that gets to you. 

You don’t know who to reach out to, most of your closest friends are working the day shift, Robby is probably already elbows-deep on his third patient of the day. 

A name pops up in your current vulnerability, a name you had promised yourself to only think about when it was a good day, not when you’re one feet in the proverbial door of crying. 

You don’t even know where you stood with him, after the whole bar hang out he seemed to get closer to you, often calling you in the morning claiming that he just wanted to tell you good morning before he went back home to sleep. 

And the texts. God the texts, the texts that always sounded oddly caring and borderline flirty but never once crossing the friendly line. 

You can’t even decipher what he wanted with you, if he even wanted you. You were so sure he wanted the same thing until you were faced with a week of radio silence from him. Fuck. you don’t even know why your thought suddenly go to him, maybe you’re just tired of being alone, maybe you’re just sleepy, maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to fall in love with the guy. 

A knock breaks you out of your self-deprecation, mustering the last ounce of willpower to open the door. Maybe you’re out of your mind, but seeing Jack on the other side of the door agitated you, so for once you let vulnerability won over you. 

“What the fuck do you want?” 

Your words shocked him, you might even feel guilty if it was any other day, but if it was any other day then you wouldn’t even said that in the first place. 

“Can I get in?” you sighed, opening the door to let him in. 

A few moments passed, he noted your silence and almost stand-offish body language towards him, “i wanted to see you,” 

Your response was instant, “for what?” 

“Robby told me-” you cut him off before he can finish, “you come here because robby asked you too? Let me guess, Robby told you I was acting weird so he asked you to check on me?” 

“What? No” he shakes his head, continuing, “i came here because I wanted to see you, I asked Robby if you’re home, and he said yes,” 

You hadn’t said anything else, “did i do something wrong?” 

His question was the right one, because did he? As far as you know the both of you didn’t owe the other anything. But the way he acted as if he didn’t just ghost you for an entire week without saying anything in advance hurt you more than you thought it would. 

“You can’t do that to me, Jack.” the way you had said his name scares him, it was devoid of the usual light to it. 

“You can’t just act like you care about me and the go an entire week as if I didn’t even exist, i texted you, and you suddenly can’t even bother to type a reply for me?” 

His voice was small, just enough to be heard in the overbearing silence, “i was scared,” 

“All this time I thought you wanted me as much as i wanted you, and then you-” 

“I do. I wanted you, so much that I was scared of ruining it,-” he cuts you off briefly, moving closer to you to fully face you, “-and in the process of me being scared I hurt you, and i’m sorry, i’m really, really sorry. But please, never for one moment you think I didn’t want you.” 

Your eyes had softened from his admittance. But your mind are still a jumbled mess that you needed more confirmation from him. “You called me almost every morning and texted me every time you get your hands on your phone, and then suddenly i got radio silence from you for a week, how was a girl supposed to feel?” 

His hand touched your elbow, “i know nothing i do can ever show you how sorry i am, you don’t deserve that treatment from me, but please, please, never think i didn’t care about you,” 

You searched his eyes for any sort of unsincerity, finding none, you collapse your entire body to his arms, your arms encircling around his figure, holding him tightly. “Just never do that to me ever again.” you said against him. The way you’re holding him is awkward and uncomfortable, but you can’t find it in you to care. 

He leaned down his head slightly to give a few kisses on your hair, “i promise.” he had fixed the way the both of you are leaning on each other to make you more comfortable. Making you fully leaning on him as he absentmindedly draw a soothing pattern on your back. 

“I thought something happened to you, then robby tells me you seem okay, sulking, but okay. Then maybe i thought what happened was all in my head.” you softly admit to him. 

“I can swear to you it’s not, okay? And again, i’m sorry for ever making you doubt me,” he said against your head. 

“Why did you disappear on me?” 

His heart breaks at the way you said it so small, so uncertain of yourself. 

“I was scared. When I realized that you liked me too i let my insecurity gets the best of me, you deserve someone better than me, and I thought maybe if i give you distance it would be better for you. Until Robby slapped me yesterday, telling me i need to get my shit straight.” 

You hold him tighter, if that was even possible. “I don’t want anyone, I want you, jack.” 

“And I want you too, and i promise, I won’t ever, ever for a second makes you think you’re unwanted ever again,” you give him a slow nod against his chest, “i’m sorry I snapped on you earlier,” 

“Don’t be. You did nothing wrong,” 

You pushed yourself off of him, already missing his warmth, you give him a slight smile, one he mirrored almost immediately. “Enough sadness for a day, let’s clean up and just rest.” 

“Yeah, I need a shower and an indefinite nap time,” you pat his chest, “agreed, c’mon, up.”

He stand up slowly, wincing slightly when his knees lock up, reminding you to run to your closet to grab a pair of crutches you had from the one time you broke your ankle. You returned to him, offering him the crutches, “you might want to.” 

He smiled, earnestly, taking the crutches from your hand, kissing your scarred forehead. “Thank you.” 

The moment he stepped out of the shower, hair still damp, you can’t help to call out to him, making him look at you expectantly, you take a deep breath to brave yourself. 

“Will you be my boyfriend?” 

His breath caught in his throat, taking a few step forward to catch your face in his hand. “Honey i’ll be anything you want me to be,” he said hurriedly, in a haste of a breathe before closing the gap between the two of you. 

If seven months ago someone told you that the wet haired good looking man coming out of Robby’s bedroom is going to be your man, you would’ve laughed at them, telling them that they are crazier than what even your brain can conjure up at night. But again, the seven months younger you haven’t had the privilege to know just how perfect he is.