#in the scene like... right after this one or something

[butyoudidthis4what]

No Man's Land Part 4

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

You can find Part 1 here, Part 2 here, and Part 3 here!

40.5k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: Angst, discussions of being shot and the shooting, anxiety about partner’s safety, emotions, Robby is sad and has a bad day, discussion of Robby, Jake and Leah (Pitt-Fest happened before Reader and Jack got together), panic attack, anxiety, pretending the Buhl Planitarium is open late, alcohol, vague discussion of Jack’s time in the military, unprotected PIV sex (BC implied with committed relationship), some voyeurism-ness if you really squint hard, oral sex, dom Jack briefly, manhandling briefly, FLUFF, Myrna, Reader: can bake, will take Jack’s last name, struggles with body confidence, is not scared of horses, gets drunk, enjoys prehistory, Author: copped out of writing a lot of sex sorry, half assed the sex she did write sorry again, is terrible at summaries; did not proofread or edit 

Summary: Normalcy is shattered. You and Jack recover and have some fun.

AN: Nobody is judging 40.5k harder than I am. I genuinely feel bad about the word count because I know it can make it harder to read, especially at once, but it gets really hard to cut it into shorter parts sometimes. So please know I really appreciate you taking the time to read it all and then interact with it. Likes and reblogs and comments and your guys thoughts mean so much to me and really do inspire me. I am short on serotonin and all the interactions give me a little burst of it, genuinely. That all said, we start off pretty heavy but after the first scene things get much fluffier and happier for the most part so it's 100% a much, much lighter read than Part 3. I should have Part 5 out by the end of the week! And again, thank you so much for reading.

You and Jack fall back into a routine, back into normal. Things are really starting to actually feel better. But all it takes is one thing to upend it all. 

You weren’t looking forward to this Monday. Neither was Jack. Both of you were simultaneously surprised and unsurprised the day even came. Both of you were also aware that the fragile normal you’d just settled into was shattered, even if only temporarily and even if you knew it was coming. Both of you hated it.

Trial. 

The shooter wouldn’t plead. So you and Jack find yourselves standing outside of the Westmoreland County Courthouse. The case had unsurprisingly been moved from Allegheny County and you were grateful for that. It would have been another level of fucked up to have to confront the man that shot you in the courtroom he shot you in. Even in the same courthouse would have been bad. 

It’s the first day. Jury selection. Jack told you that you didn’t need to be here every day, that it was okay to only come on the day you had to testify. You knew he was right but some part of you needed to be there for the whole thing. It’s not like it was going to be a super long trial. But long enough and emotional enough to destroy normal. Both you and Jack have to take a week off work, stay in a hotel so you don’t have to constantly drive back and forth. The trial shoves it all right back in your faces again. 

You hate how easily normal is obliterated. How easily that man is stealing normal away from you again.

“You sure about this?” Jack asks as he squeezes your hand. He’s not questioning you or your decision, just asking if you’re okay and ready. 

“No. But also yes.” You look over at him. “You’ll be here every day with me, right? I know it’s a big ask, and that it’ll be just as hard for you as it is for me at times and I feel bad about asking you to put yourself through that for me but I just need to be here. I have something to prove to myself even if I can’t figure out exactly what it is.”

“Course I will, Doll. I’d never let you go in there alone, not to face him or this in general.” He steps in front of you and wraps his arms around you, pulls your head to his chest for a moment as you wind your arms around him. “And you’re not asking me, nor am I being put through anything. I’m here supporting my fiancée. I’ve got you,” Jack murmurs before leaning down to kiss you. You let yourself get lost in it, lost in him, even with as chaste as he keeps the kiss. 

You look down once you’ve broken apart, can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes for your next question. You already know the answer to it but you just need the reassurance. “If this, being here more than I have to be makes me slide back or get worse again. You… You won’t get mad, right? At me for kind of causing it in a way?”

Jack knows why you’re asking the questions, knows that your use of right at the end of the first is because you already know the answer and just need reassurance. He’ll give it to you as much as you need. 

“No. I won’t be mad at you. I won’t be mad at all. Healing isn’t linear,” he reminds you, “and that’s okay.” You give him a little nod and one of his hands finds your chin and he hooks a finger under it, pulls up gently to see if you’ll move your head, he would never force you. You let him pull your chin up and look at him. “And Doll, even if you do slide back, it is not because of you. You wouldn’t be causing it. Okay?”

You look at him for a moment, really try to fully believe what he’s saying, before giving him a small nod. Jack kisses your forehead before releasing you and lacing your fingers together again for the walk inside. 

You sit in the back, off to the side. It gives you your own little bubble but you can still see everything. Everyone. Him. 

At the beginning before voir dire starts the Judge reads out all of the charges. It’s obvious when he gets to the count number that represents you. You’re the only person he’d shot that day who lived. So you’re the only attempted murder. It’s difficult for you to hear yes, to cope with the reality that someone tried to murder you. To hear it spoken about that way. You’d spoken with the district attorney about it though during witness preparation so you had your head wrapped around it a bit. 

Hearing it levels Jack. It takes a second because he’s in some weird denial about it but Jack’s brain finally lets him accept it and think about it. That was you, that count represents you, attempted murder, someone tried to murder you. That man tried to murder you and take you away from him. There’s a few seconds where Jack thinks he might be having a heart attack because it gets so hard to breathe at the thought. Rationally he knew that’s what it was, that’s not really a realization for him. It’s just hearing it phrased like that. Attempted murder.

Being there is hard. Hearing it all. Seeing it all when security footage gets played. You knew the video was coming. They’d showed you it during witness preparation. Jack knew it was coming too because you told him, but he didn’t realize how much it would impact him, having to see it all play out, even when the video isn’t of where you were on that day. More will be played when you’re on the stand. The video of you. Where you’re so clearly visible and what’s happening is so clearly visible. 

During a recess on the first day while the defendant is still in the courtroom Jack pulls you a little closer to him. “Doll,” he says lowly, not quite a whisper, but low enough to keep it just between the two of you. “I know it’s hard. I know I don’t even know how hard it is for you but I need you to look at him for a second, please. Just a second.” You turn your head and do as he asks as much as you don’t want to. You know he wouldn’t ask you for no reason. “I know you still feel guilty and like my feelings are your fault, like you caused all of this, that our need to heal and recover is somehow on you, somehow your fault. But it’s not. It’s his fault. It’s on that man sitting in that chair. Nobody else. I want you to try and remember that.”

You get a bit teary and don’t say anything for fear of bursting into tears, just nod and turn into him. His arms were already open and waiting, hand finding the back of your head and holding you close. You bury your face in his neck, take in deep breaths through your nose to smell him, let him overwhelm as many of your senses as possible right now to keep you from crying. 

You cry when you get to the hotel that night. And the next. You hate it, you tell Jack, because it means you’re going to end up crying on the stand and you don’t want to give that bastard the satisfaction. Jack holds you and reminds you it’s okay to cry up there if you need to. You won’t be the first or last, but that he understands. And he thinks you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.

Then the day comes. Your name gets called and then you’re up there sworn in and testifying. The DA plays the video of it. It’s the first time Jack sees it. He didn’t even know there was video footage of the courtroom, of where you were actually shot. He didn’t know there was video footage of you being shot, even if you can’t really tell when it happens from the video. It destroys a little piece of him, completely rattles him. But he knows that right now he has to be strong for you. 

You surprise yourself but not Jack. You don’t cry on the stand. Don’t give him the satisfaction. You completely and totally wall yourself off. Shut down emotionally. Make yourself deliberately numb. It’s just what you have to do to survive this. When you’re asked to identify the man who shot you you’re able to pretend to be cool, unbothered, even, as you describe what the man who shot you is wearing. 

Jack on the other hand does cry a little. Because it’s hard, it’s really fucking hard to hear this. Yes, he’s heard it before because you guys have talked about it, but it’s different hearing it here in front of all of these people, seeing and watching you react to the video. It’s hard to watch you totally shut down emotionally because he can see it in your eyes, but he understands why you have to. It’s hard watching you get cross-examined and needlessly grilled like there isn’t clear video showing it happening. 

It’s hard to watch the fucking video. To finally have a visual of what happened to you that day. To know that at some point during the video you get shot. It makes him nauseous, so nauseous at points he worries he’s going to face the choice of being sick right where he is or having to run out of the courtroom on you. He never does though, is pretty sure it’s knowing you need him that keeps it from getting to that point. He hates it. All of it. And he feels so selfish thinking about how hard this is for him when you’re the one up there on the stand. 

When you’re finally finished you walk back over and sit next to him, give him a small smile that falls a little when you see his red eyes. You’re completely out of it and not truly present and he gets it, doesn’t try to pull you back. Instead he gives you a little smile back, pulls you close and whispers in your ear how fucking proud of you he is, how much he loves you. 

You grab dinner at a place across the street from the courthouse after the trial adjourns for the day. Neither of you say much but Jack is happy when you actually eat a fair amount. The car ride back to the hotel is also largely silent. Jack knows you need it to be, need just the background hum of the radio playing. Both of you know that if you start talking now you’ll fall apart and you really don’t want to fall apart in the car. You want to be able to fall apart in Jack’s arms. 

You make it into the hotel room and hear Jack lock the deadbolt before you freeze. You’re not sure what it is about the hotel room that suddenly makes walking or doing anything seem impossible. Maybe it’s the knowledge that you’re finally in a safe place where you can break down in Jack’s arms at war with how badly you don’t want to break down at all. Maybe you feel like if you do nothing, if you don’t move or speak or do anything, then you won’t break down and you won’t have to feel everything you’ve been keeping down today. 

Jack knows. Even with your back to him and unable to see your face he knows you’re stuck. He walks up behind you and rests his hands on your hips, gives them a gentle squeeze. 

“Do you want to shower?” he murmurs.

It takes you a moment to fully process what he says and formulate an answer. “No,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” Jack whispers back, kisses your temple. He squeezes your hips again and pushes on one and pulls on the other gently to get you to turn around so he can help you get in the bathroom. He puts the toilet seat down and gets you to sit on it. 

He gets his teeth brushed, stands close enough to you that you can lean your head forward and rest your forehead against his side while he brushes. Once he’s done and has washed his face he turns to you.

He’s silent as he grabs one of your makeup wipes and tilts your head up with one hand before he starts cleaning your face with the other. He’s so careful around your eyes getting your mascara off it makes tears stream down your face. 

Jack doesn’t comment on them, just tosses the wipe and gives you a kiss and a thigh squeeze before offering you his hands. You take them and let him pull you up and get you standing in front of the sink face to face with him. He grabs your headband and pulls it on, secures the rest of your hair the way you usually do to keep it from getting wet. He makes eye contact with you for a second and while you’re present enough, he knows you’re not going to take it from here. He grabs an extra towel and drapes it over you to cover your front. It’s not much but at least something. He uses his foot to slide over the shower mat so that it’s between the two of you. 

Jack gets a washcloth wet with warm water and uses it to wet your face, grabs your face wash and puts some in his hand, starts to rub it together and then on your face. He sees your lip tremble for a second but you don’t let yourself cry. He turns the water back on, grabs the washcloth in one hand and gets it soaking, a towel in the other. He squeezes the washcloth over part of your face to rinse it, holding the towel just below to catch the water. He repeats it over and over, soaking the washcloth, shifting to a new part of the towel until your face is completely rinsed. He pats your face dry with a hand towel then wrings out the washcloth and hangs it and the towel he’d been using up to dry. 

You track him with your eyes, something about watching him and the strong grace he moves with soothing you. He gets your toothbrush wet and toothpaste on it. You open your mouth a little automatically for him and let him brush your teeth for you. It is one of the most intimate and loving things Jack has ever done for you. And you love it. 

But you hate that you can’t take care of yourself, start to wonder how long Jack will be willing to take care of you like this, like you’re a child. You know it’s one night and that you’d do it for him forever if you needed to, but it feels different for you. He holds your face so gently as he brushes your teeth for you. When he’s done he turns the water on and puts some in a glass for you, hands you it. “I can’t do this part for you Doll or you know I would.”

You force yourself to sip from the glass and spit in the sink, rinse your mouth a few times. You give the slightest nod when you’re done and Jack wipes your lips with a towel, rinses the sink out before getting you back to sitting on the toilet. 

He grabs the first product in your nighttime skincare routine and smooths it out over your skin. He gives it a second to absorb like you always do and then he grabs the next product. Your lip and chin tremble harder than they have all night at it and you have to shut your eyes and look down for a moment. He knows your whole routine. Just from observing you. Just because he wants to know so he’s prepared for this, for the time you can’t do it for yourself. You know he knows your morning routine and shower routine too. 

You open your eyes and tilt your face back up for Jack, the two of you looking at each other for a moment before he starts rubbing the next product in. There’s no hesitation in his eyes, no irritation or annoyance that he’s having to do this, no frustration or anger, no sadness or pity. Just love and adoration and pride. You weren’t expecting to see pride. He gives you a little smile and then starts rubbing it in and the way his eyebrows come together and eyes narrow slightly in concentration makes your heart flutter because he’s so adorable. He finishes your routine in perfect order, gets your headband off and hair back as you like it and puts some lotion on his own face and then holds his hands back out for you again. 

You take them again and he leads back to the main room, carefully strips you and gets you into your pajamas before helping you slide into bed. He’s quick to change and turn all the lights off except for the lamp on his bedside table. He sets an alarm for the morning and gets his prosthetic off. It’s still fairly early but he knows it’ll be a while before you sleep. He also knows you’re not leaving this bed tonight. 

He turns and arranges some pillows so he can be propped up a little against the headboard. Once he slides in and gets settled on his back you move closer to him, lay on your side and cuddle into him, your top leg hooking over the top of him as you roll into him and get as close to him as you can, head on his chest. 

“Thank you.” You whisper it so softly it’s barely audible. 

“Nothing to thank me for, Doll.” Jack has his arms wrapped around you tightly, pulls you into him a little more, shifting himself at an angle just slightly so you can get closer. “You know my routine and would do the same for me.” He feels you shake your head slightly. He knows you’re not saying that you wouldn’t, but that it’s different, he can hear you saying it, and trying to explain it really is because his routine is shorter. Jack also knows that you need to let yourself do this, let yourself cry and feel everything from today. He hates it, hates how much it will hurt you, but he knows it’ll hurt more and for longer the more time you wait to do it. 

“I love you.” He leans his head down and nuzzles his nose in your hair, kisses the top of your head. “And I want you to know how fucking proud I am of you. For having the strength to get up there and watch what happened to you all over again in front of the man who did it. For doing what you wanted and I knew you could do, not crying and giving him the satisfaction. For being here for the full trial and going back again tomorrow and the next day and until there’s a verdict. I’ve got you, okay? Always. Unquestionably. So whenever you’re ready.” He’s trying to give you subtle encouragement, let you know that he knows what you need and is here for you. You start to shake a little and he knows you’re at the edge. Jack whispers your name.

That’s what does it. His whisper of your name. You fall completely apart in Jack’s arms, sobbing into him as he hugs you tighter, doesn’t let any of the pieces slip past him. All you can do is sob for a couple of minutes, choking on air and your tears every time you try to say something. As much as you’re weeping because you’re sad it’s more panicky this time. Jack can tell from the way you shake and cling to him. 

“I, I h-hate this Jack, I hate it!” You finally manage to get out after several minutes. Your hand fists at the front of the t-shirt he’s wearing to sleep in. “I hate that I let him get to me like this. I hate how, I hate, I hate how scared he made me feel.”

It’s been a while since Jack has seen you this worked up, panicking more than crying. It’s hard for him not to step in, but he knows you need this. “All I could think about was, was watching him point a gun at me and shutting my eyes and I heard, I heard the gun go off, but I didn’t feel anything, I didn’t and I thought I was okay, I really did Jack, I promise, I promise I wasn’t trying to lie in the, in the t-trauma room.”

“I know,” he whispers into your hair, “you were in shock and had so much adrenaline you didn’t feel it.” He kisses at the top of your head, runs his hand up and down your back and keeps one holding the back of your head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe here.”

That makes you cry harder because you know you are. You always feel safe with Jack. Sometimes the only place you feel safe anymore is when you’re with him. “I know, I know, I just wasn’t,” you’re interrupted by a wracking breath, “I just wasn’t with you, wasn’t with you on the stand and I, I was scared and kept thinking what if he had a gun again somehow.” Jack shuts his eyes at that, clenches his jaw tight. Seeing you like this breaks his heart, causes him physical discomfort and hearing how scared you were, how you thought you might get shot again makes him feel the familiar pressure and rush behind his eyes of tears forming. But Jack’s wrong. You weren’t thinking about getting shot.

“I didn’t even,” you sniffle a couple of times, “I wasn’t even thinking about, about what if I get shot again, I was thinking what if he turned and shot you Jack, what if it was you, what would I do, what was I supposed to do and and how would I go on if you died, and, and” you take in a couple of hiccuped breaths and the tears Jack felt forming start to slide down his face because you were worried about him. Not yourself. “And then it made me feel worse because what if I had died, what would’ve happened to you? You would have been, been so sad Jack and I wouldn’t have been there to help you and I hate, hate thinking about you being that sad J-Jack and don’t ever want you to hurt like that.” You take a huge choked breath in. Jack knows you need to let this out but you’re getting close to a point of him intervening because of how hard you’re starting to panic, escalating quickly the more you talk. Hearing this kills him and his tears fall harder even as he keeps his focus on you. “Then I felt bad, felt guilty because of what I said to you in the hospital about if I had died, and wishing I had, and you could grieve, grieve properly and move on because just thinking about it.” You take in another breath but it’s shallow, blown out quickly as you start to hyperventilate. “Just thinking,” a breath in and out, “about it, I could never,” more hyperventilating, “never move on from you and I, I,” you start to feel a little dizzy, “I said that to you and made you, made you think it.”

“Okay, Doll.” Jack knows you’ve tipped over an edge and have said enough and need help calming down and regulating. “You’re going to make yourself pass out, I need you to follow my breathing, yeah?” Jack grabs one of your hands and brings it to his chest even though your head is already there. He adjusts his breathing to deep breaths in and out and feels you trying to follow him through your tears and hiccuped breaths. “Five things you can see, please. If you can.” He knows with the tears and swelling of your eyes it might be hard. 

You wipe at your face a little with the sleeve of your shirt. “The sheets, pillows, your shirt, your arm, the wallpaper.”

“Good.” He kisses the top of your head. “Four you can feel.”

“Your shirt, your hands on my back, how warm you are, my face throbbing.”

That last one hurts Jack a little and he has to fight from sniffling and making you aware he’s crying. He doesn’t want you to start taking care of him and he knows you will. He clears his throat and hopes you won’t think anything of it. He’s sure if he doesn’t he’ll sound like he’s been crying. “Three you can hear.” 

You take in a deep breath, breathing calming and starting to match his. “The AC, your heart and your breathing.”

“Two you can smell. Again, if you can. I know your sinuses are probably swollen.” He gives you another kiss to the top of your head. 

You try to take a couple of breaths in through your nose. It’s not completely in vain. “You. Your body wash and you.”

“And one you can taste.”

“Metal. The adrenaline.” He’s the one who taught you that. “It’s fading though.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Jack kisses the top of your head again and can feel you go to speak. “Don’t apologize for anything, but especially not the shirt.” It pulls a little laugh from you which makes him smile. He’s conflicted, wants to kiss you so badly but knows you’ll be able to tell he was crying and he doesn’t want you to feel responsible. He reaches over and hits the button on the lamp on his table. The darkness provides cover. “Let me kiss you?”

You nod, move your head back and lift up a bit as he leans down to you, gives you a couple before you both settle back. And then you sit in a comfortable silence. There are words at times. Most from Jack, quiet reassurances, he loves you, he’s got you, he’s so so so fucking proud of you. Some from you, apologies he tells you not to give, thank yous and you love hims. Eventually you fall asleep in Jack’s arms and he lets you. He doesn’t wake you to try and get to some resolution of your feelings tonight. That’s not what you need. You need sleep.

Jack stays awake a bit just holding you and studying your face. Your eyes and lips and nose are all swollen, lashes still a bit clumped from your tears. You snuffle more in your sleep because of how swollen your sinuses are. And he loves you, so fucking much. And he hates seeing you like this, hates seeing you struggle despite how human it is. 

Jack knows all too well that life breaks parts of you sometimes. But it doesn’t mean you’re broken, it means you’re human. Life forces you to learn that all humans have pieces of them they’ve had to try and fuse back together. That to be human is to break at times. 

He knows that in grieving and healing, you pick up the pieces and tape them back together, and when they fall apart again because the adhesive of the tape wears away you glue them back together. Each time you put the pieces back together the bond used to do so is stronger because you’ve grieved and healed a bit more. So when something hits just right and the glue fails, you pick the pieces back up and weld them together. 

But Jack knows all too well that even what’s welded together rusts. Metal corrodes and holes form on welding seams. Because no bond is ever perfect, ever strong enough to keep together something whole that’s already been in pieces. Grief never goes completely away. He knows this will never go completely away. Not for him and not for you. And he accepts that, the way you accept that the things that have happened to him and resultant grief will never go completely away. 

That doesn’t stop Jack searching for the perfect thing though, the perfect thing to do that will make it like this never happened. The perfect words to tell you or the perfect look to give you or the perfect kiss to give you or the perfect way to hug you to bond everything back together permanently so that you’d never have to hurt over this again. 

Neither of you wake until the alarm Jack set goes off in the morning. You’re in the same position you fell asleep in, both of you out hard. You stir on Jack’s chest and he shifts you both so that your face is next to his, pulls you further out of sleep with kisses to your face and neck. You don’t talk about your panic attack much, he checks in with you, makes sure you’re okay and asks if you want to talk about it. You tell him you don’t, you just needed to get that out and if you talk again you’ll break down again and you just want to finish the trial and talk about it once you’re home. Jack respects that and doesn’t push, just gives you a kiss and says okay.

You don’t know it but once the trial is over and there’s a conviction Jack asks the DA for a copy of the tape that was played while you testified. The DA, rather inexplicably, agrees and gives him a copy of it. 

And Jack becomes obsessed with it. 

He goes to bed with you. Some nights he waits until you’re asleep to slip out of bed and go watch it at the kitchen table on his laptop. Other nights he falls asleep and wakes up in the middle of the night and goes to watch it. Over and over and over again. 

You notice that he seems more tired than usual. You ask him about it and he chalks it up to getting used to being back at work after being off. You believe him but there’s a certain part of you that has a little doubt. You don’t push it though, know sooner or later it’ll come out or he’ll come to you. 

Jack doesn’t get the opportunity to come to you about it. Because one night after he’s slipped out to go watch it at the table you wake up, have a moment of panic when he’s not next to you. But his side of the bed is warm and when you open your bedroom door and walk out in just his t-shirt a faint glow from the kitchen reassures you. He must be getting a drink. 

You pad to the kitchen and are confused to see him sitting there, headphones in, watching something on his laptop. You feel bad because there’s no great way to get his attention without startling him. But as you get closer you get a glimpse of what he’s watching and ice floods your veins. 

“Jack?” You call loudly, hoping he’ll hear you, and he must, just enough to make him glance to see if you’re really there or if he made it up. 

He knows by the look on your face that you’ve seen what it is he’s watching. He pauses the video wordlessly, pulls off his headphones. The two of you watch each other for a second. “Where did you get that?” 

Jack looks away from you, back at the laptop. “DA.” 

You nod slowly. “Just gave you a copy?” Jack looks back at you, defensive. You hold your hands up. “I believe you, I’m just… surprised I guess. That they would do that.” 

He shrugs. “Well they did.” 

You shift on your feet a little as you try to think of how to progress the conversation. You don’t want to force him to talk to you but you need to know what this is about. “Is this why you’ve been tired? How long have you had it Jack?”

“Does it matter?” He fires it back just a little too quick, a little too acerbic. You furrow your brows and let your lips pull down a little. “No, fuck-” he sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. That was defensive. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” You nod at him, a silent acceptance of his apology, give him time to collect his thoughts. “I got it a few days before you started noticing I was more tired than usual. Week or so ago, maybe.”

You take in a little breath and let it out. You’re mad at yourself for missing it, for not pushing him more on why he seemed so tired. Mad at yourself for letting him suffer alone because of you. You catch yourself. You’re internalizing his feelings into guilt. You think back on what your couple’s therapist has taught you both to stop. Or at least to try to. 

“Why?” you ask delicately as you walk a bit closer to him. “Why did you want it?”

Another shrug. It’s unlike him. Very unlike him. “I don’t know.” He glances back at it again. He’s still a little defensive. “I just wanted to see what happened.” You don’t say anything, just tilt your head a little. You can tell he wants to say more. “I wanted to see what happened to you. Up close. I thought maybe it would help me relate or understand better.” 

You can tell he’s being truthful, you know he is, that he would never lie to you. But you can also tell he’s still trying to figure out how to tell you the whole truth. “Why alone? Why not watch it with me, talk to me about it?”

“I didn’t want to put you through that just because I wanted to try and understand more.” He’s too stoic. His face too emotionless. 

“Honey, if you’ve been watching this for a week” you let out a sharp breath as the realization of it really hits you. “If you’ve been torturing yourself by watching this for a week, I… You should have come to me. Did I do something? Is there a reason why you didn’t want to?”

He lets out a little huff. His façade is starting to crack. “Like I said,” it’s a touch snippy, and you know he feels bad about the way it comes out the second he says it, can see it in the way his eyes narrow just slightly. “I didn’t want to put you through it.”

“Jack-”

“Because how was I supposed to watch it with you?!” It’s not yelled, his voice isn’t raised, not as such. He just says it with a certain force, not of anger but of sorrow. “How was I supposed to watch it with you?” Jack repeats, voice cracking as tears make his eyes glassy. “How was I supposed to sit here and watch it with you?” It’s whispered. His whole jaw trembles as he clenches it to try and keep the tears away, shaking his head a bit. Jack lets out a breath through his nose and looks at you. 

“I’m a doctor. I take away people’s pain, I make them better. And I can’t take away your pain now or make you better, mentally or physically, and I couldn’t when you got shot or when you were in a coma or any of the times you’ve panicked or sobbed into me and I am just so fucking aware of it. Of how I fail you. I’m not saying this to make you feel bad or because I want to make your struggle about me or to make you feel guilty for leaning on me. I want that. I need it. You need it. We need it. It’s not your fault, at all, it’s his, and I don’t want this to make you feel guilty even though I know it will, but I still want to talk to you about it as selfish as that sounds maybe.” Jack stops to take a breath in. You both know it’s not selfish.  

“It kills me that the thing I do, the thing I do well, I get to you, the most important person whose pain I could ever take away and make better and I just can’t. You’re the only person that matters. Fuck everyone else. And I can’t use my skills and knowledge to make you better. I’m failing you, I feel like I'm totally failing you, and sometimes I get so in my head and sit and start worrying about the day you’re going to realize I’m failing you and just how badly I’m failing you and leave. The day you realize that I’m able to take away everyone else’s pain and make them better but not yours, not you. The day you realize how unfair that is and how totally fucking shitty of me that is.” He lets a shuddery breath out.

“And so I watch this video like it’s going to give me answers.” He shakes his head a little as a few tears slip down his cheeks and he takes a breath in through his teeth. “It’s like I think if I can identify the exact moment you got shot somehow that’ll give me all the answers and I’ll know exactly what to do and how to take away your pain and make you all better so that this never hurts you again. I’ll know the perfect way to hug you and hold you and kiss you and how to look at you and know what you need to hear and then I’ll do it all and put all the pieces back together just like that,” he snaps his fingers, “so that you’re better and aren’t in pain.” More tears stream down his face. “Because that’s what I do. I take away pain, I make people better. But not for you. Not for the most important person, the only person who matters.”

Jack sniffles and wipes some of the tears off his face. “And I know it’s stupid, and it’s not how the world or healing or grieving or any of it works but I have to try. I have to try everything, just in case maybe the world and healing and grieving will work like that for this, and this will be the rarest outlier case that makes no sense but somehow is real.” 

“Oh sweetheart,” you murmur as you walk over to Jack, lean over him and run your hand down his chest, kiss at his neck. Jack leans his head in against yours, hands coming to clutch at your forearms. “It’s not stupid. It’s not stupid at all.” 

“I just hate it,” he whispers. He turns his head into yours more and you understand, turn yours to so you can kiss him, let him take whatever he wants and needs from you. “I hate that I can’t make this better and take away your pain. I hate seeing you hurt and being so useless and helpless. And I hate how I’m making it about myself.”

“I know you do. But you’re not making it about yourself. This happened to both of us,” you say against his lips. You let your hands run over his chest for a moment. It’s one of those moments where how much you love and adore and need him overwhelms you. You never thought you’d ever have anyone who would sit alone at night and watch a traumatizing video over and over for weeks just to try and figure out how to help you. And as much as you wish he hadn’t because you don’t want him hurting himself, the fact remains that he did and that means something. It means a whole lot.  

The feelings make you want to cry not from sadness but just from the overwhelm and a bit the frustration of knowing you’ll never be able to tell him how much you love him. “I love you so much. Come back to bed with me?”

“Okay. Love you too,” Jack whispers and nods before stealing one more kiss from you. He lets you lead him back to your room and into bed. You turn on your bedside lamp so that you can see each other better, both of you leaning against the headboard and turned towards each other a bit. You grab one of his hands and start to play with it. 

“It’s not stupid,” you repeat. “At all. It is sweet and loving and yeah, a little heartbreaking for me, but that’s okay. You are allowed to feel what you feel. And I am so glad that you told me, okay? Feeling how you do is valid and it makes so much sense to me.” You bring the hand you’re playing with up to your lips and kiss each of his third knuckles before looking back up at him, getting that true eye contact that he loves. 

“But, Jack, my love, you are not my doctor.” You say it so gently yet so firmly, like there’s no room for debate because there isn’t. And Jack knows that and that you’re right. “You need to remember that. You’re my partner. My fiancé. You’re not my doctor. I don’t expect you to be my doctor. You aren’t failing me. In any capacity. I promise you.”

Jack shrugs. “Still.” His fingers play with yours. “I’m a doctor. I make people better and I can’t make this better for you.” You nod at him, think on your feet and decide to run with it since he’s fixated on the idea right now and you know it’ll get through to him better.

“You are. You are a really really fucking good doctor Jack. One of the best. But you don’t send every patient home in perfect condition, completely pain free and fixed and all better, with no healing left to do or pain to experience do you?” You let it linger just a second to make the point. “No. You can only heal them so much sometimes. Probably most of the time because healing takes time and is more than what you as a doctor can do for anyone. People have to do some of the healing on their own. So you admit them to a service. Or you send them home with pain killers and discharge instructions,” you give him the smallest smirk at that which makes him huff a little and his lips twitch upward. “And you set them up with follow up appointments and sometimes you give them casts or braces or stitches or sterile dressings or crutches or a sling or whatever else.” You tilt your head at him. “You, Peter, are all of those things for me.”

Jack’s eyes water again a little bit at your statement, eyebrows furrowing inward and up a bit, asking if you mean it. You nod. 

“You say that you can’t take my pain away or make me better but you do Jack. You do. Just by being here. By showing up for me every day no matter how bad I am, how sad or how grumpy or how quiet or anxious or numb or whatever. Just by kissing my forehead in the morning and saying you love me as you walk out the door and filling up my drink when you get up and making sure some part of you is always touching some part of me when we’re sitting on the couch together. You’re always here. Even when you’re physically not. I know for a fact I could call you at work and say I needed you, fuck I wouldn’t even have to say it, you’d hear it in my voice as I said your name and you’d be on your way. I could call you anywhere and you’d show up. You know how much pain that kills? You know much better that makes me? Just to know I have you? Just to know you love me? To know I’ll never have to sit here alone in the grief and guilt and sadness? To know you’ll always sit here with me in it if that’s what I need? I don’t know where the fuck I’d be with all of this without you Jack.” You lean in and kiss his forehead, rest yours against his after a second. 

“You are not failing me. You are healing me, Jack. Helping me heal. Helping me get better. You take away my pain, even if some days it’s not completely. There’s some pain even the strongest drugs can’t get rid of completely. But you make it so that it’s always bearable and hold my hand and me while you do it.” You pull your head back, run your hand through those salt and pepper curls you love so much. “I know that you think you need to find the perfect thing to say or do to make me better and pain free from this forever, but we both know that’s not real life, just like I can’t find those perfect things to make you better or pain free from all of this forever. Every kiss and hug and smile and I love you and pat on the ass and cheeky boob squeeze when you walk by me in the kitchen or wherever and cuddle is perfect, and puts me back together a little tighter so that it hurts a little less. Yeah, there are some bad days where I feel like I’ve taken seven thousand steps backwards, but you know who the person taking those backwards steps with me and holding my hand and helping me take the first step forward again is?” You give him a soft smile with slightly crinkled eyes you can only hope reflect how much you love him. “You.” 

Jack reaches for you, pulls you up against him in a tight hug. He doesn’t really know what to say in the moment, feels like words have run out. “Thank you.” You can feel him shaking a little and it makes you squeeze him tighter, kiss at his chest wherever you can reach. 

“Any time. Always.” You know he wishes he could say more but that he can’t, not as he processes it all, especially with how exhausted he is. And you’re okay with it, more than. He doesn’t need to say anything as long as he heard you and tries to take what you said to heart. 

His hands slip under his shirt that you’re wearing just to seek out more of your skin, just to help ground himself a little further. You pull back a little and his hands are already moving to get the shirt off you and tossed to the floor. You settle back on his chest in a close hug. 

“I’m sorry for not saying anything. And for keeping the video from you. I know I should have talked to you about it, I just really wanted to find the answer on my own and I became convinced it was somewhere in that video.” Jack nuzzles his nose into the top of your hair. “I’m not saying that as an excuse either.” 

“I know you’re not. And I forgive you, to the extent there even really was anything to forgive. I understand Jack, I really do. But it’s going to be okay. We’re going to keep getting through this together.” You move your head from his chest to capture his lips in a couple of sweet kisses. “And now that trial is over we’re getting back to normal again and we’ve got France soon. What happened isn’t going to define our lives or our life together, Jack. We’re not going to let it. There’s just going to be hard moments.” There’s a few minutes of comfortable silence as you just hold each other. 

“Do you feel guilty? Because of what I told you? Like you’re somehow responsible?” Jack murmurs, keeping your faces close together, hands running up and down your back. 

“Honestly? A little.” You nod as you make the admission. “But I’m thinking about what we’ve learned in couple’s therapy and trying to use the things we’ve talked about and so it’s not so bad. Not like it would have been if we hadn’t started going. You feel guilty?”

Jack nods into your neck before kissing you there. “A little, yeah. Like you said though. Not like it would have been.” He slides his hand up your neck as he moves his head back, holds your face. “We’ll delete it tomorrow,” he nods. You nod back at him, bite the tip of his nose, making him fake scoff and shake his head. 

“Let’s go back to sleep?” You scratch at his scalp and Jack leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. 

“Mmm,” he hums, nodding and rolling you over so that you’re on your back. His hands find the waistband of his pajama pants. “There’s one more thing I think I’d like to do. You know. To make us both sleepy.”

You bite your lip and giggle as he starts taking his pajama pants off. “Oh yeah?”

Once the pants have joined the shirt on the floor Jack looms back over you, presses his body against yours, hips grinding against yours just enough to pull a little gasp from you when you feel him. He nods as he leans in and kisses you. “Yeah.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It comes up fairly early on, while you and Jack are both still at home and chatting about wedding stuff one night. You’re on the couch with your head in Jack’s lap, attention split between the show you put on TV, listening to Jack think out loud while he does the crossword and scrolling Pinterest.

“Four words lead to this declaration.” Jack has the crossword on the armrest of the couch, his left hand intermittently resting gently on the side of your neck, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, or on your arm. He clicks his pen in thought. Because of course he does the crossword in pen. “Three letters. Nothing filled in.” You hum in acknowledgment at him, your way of saying you’ll think.

 “Pennsylvania recognizes self-uniting marriages. We could just marry ourselves,” you suggest.

“We could, yeah.” You turn your head and look up at Jack after he says it. There’s something on his mind. “Five letter word for blowhard.”

“Storm,” you both say at the same time, share a little laugh about it. You sit up and Jack makes a little noise of discontent. 

“I’m staying right here, don’t worry,” you tell him as you curl up next to him and wrap your arms around his left upper arm. “You don’t want that.” It’s half question half sentence. You’re trying to give him the space and opportunity to say what he’s thinking about who he’d like to marry you. 

“I, no. It’s not that I don’t want that or that I wouldn’t love that.” He shakes his head.

You give him a second. “But you’d prefer something else? Someone else?” An imperceptible nod. 

“It’s going to sound stupid.” 

“I sincerely doubt that.” You give him an encouraging smile.

Jack clicks his pen a couple of times before turning to really look at you. “I was thinking, what if we asked Robby? I know he’d have to do the whole getting ordained online thing, but…” Jack trails off for a second. “He just, before you, before I had you, Michael saved my life more than once. Metaphorically speaking. And he’s saved your life. Literally. And he’s my best friend and I don’t know. It just felt like maybe it was right.”

A slow smile pulls up on your face, all gooey and in love. “I think that feels perfect.”

“Really?” Jack raises his eyebrows at you. He’s not really shocked per se, it’s just one of those moments where it falls out of his mouth. 

“Really.” You nod. “I know how much he means to you. He means a lot to me too. You know the whole saving my life thing.” You lean in and give Jack a kiss on the cheek. 

“Okay,” Jack nods with you. “We’ll have to find a time to ask him, decide how I guess.”

“I have confidence that we will figure it out. We have time.” You squeeze Jack’s arm and then pull away, start to go back to the position you were in. 

“I do,” you say as you settle your head back on Jack’s lap.  

“A little premature, but I love to hear it.” Jack smirks at you as you look up at him. 

“The crossword clue.” You playfully roll your eyes at him. “Four words lead to this declaration. The answer is I do. The four special words are ‘will you marry me.’”

You end up deciding to do it at the Pitt one day. 

You considered planning it and asking to do dinner and make it a thing but that all felt a little too formal and almost pretentious. It didn’t fit. Doing it on the fly while he was working felt right. 

“Can we talk to you?” Jack asks Robby, you standing next to him holding his hand. Jack just finished his day shift at eleven thirty in the evening, had you come to the hospital around seven just in case he got off on time. You chilled in the break room the last four and half or so hours, chatting with people as they came and went. 

Robby looks between the two of you. “This feels ominous.” 

“Yes or no question Michael.” Jack deadpans. 

“Jack!” You chide him a little, but your smirk belies you.

“I’m sorry,” Jack mutters, “can we please talk to you?”

Robby rolls his eyes at Jack calling him by his real name. “Yes. I suppose you can.” 

“Thanks Robby!” You smile at him. 

Robby thinks it’s odd. You seem almost nervous and so does Jack, but Jack is harder to read at the moment. The shift he just finished was the last on his run and he didn’t get off within four hours of when he was supposed to a single one of those three shifts. Plus this shift was particularly trying. Between all of that and him still adjusting to being back he’s exhausted. It makes him even harder than usual to read.

“In here,” Jack nods, opens the door to the family room. 

“Okay, you guys are kind of freaking me out because this is ominous and now you’re taking me into a room where we tell family members their loved ones have died.” 

“It’s not bad, I promise.” You try to smile at him reassuringly. Robby nods at you like he doesn’t quite believe you as he sits down in one of the chairs, you and Jack taking the two across from him. 

“So.” You clear your throat. “Obviously you know we’re getting married.” You hold up your left hand and flash the ring at him, which pulls a little smile from Robby. 

“Robby,” Jack starts. But he stops. He looks emotional, like this is a hard conversation to have but not because it’s bad but because it means something. Jack takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Michael,” he starts again, earning a slight eyebrow raise from Robby because of the tone, “we were wondering if you would consider getting ordained and officiating our wedding. If you, if you’d marry us?”

Robby���s head lolls forward a little and his eyes widen, brows raised as he looks at Jack and then you and then back at Jack and then away from you both as he leans back. “Wow,” he breathes out and laughs a little. “Holy fucking shit you guys! I thought you were bringing me in here to tell me one of you had some terrible illness.”

You and Jack laugh a little, your hand finding his and squeezing. 

But it’s then that your words really hit Robby. He looks back at the two of you. He’d deny it if anyone asked but his eyes are a little glassy. “You want me to marry you?” He has to clear his throat of some emotion. “Really?”

“Please,” you nod. 

“Seriously,” Jack says quietly. 

Robby still looks a bit stunned but a huge smile pulls onto his face. “I, fuck, wow, yes. Yes, of course. I would be honored.” He stands and you follow, let him pull you into a big hug. “You’re sure about this?”

“Of course.” You smile at him as he releases you. “Nobody else we’d rather have do it.” 

Jack stands up behind you and you step to the side, let the two embrace.

“Thanks brother,” he says quietly to Robby. 

“I mean it Jack. It’s an honor.” The two step apart and you lean into Jack, all three of you smiling at each other. 

You exit out of the room and walk by the lockers so Jack can grab his backpack and you guys can leave. You wait by the desk, chatting idly with Robby and Samira until Jack walks up behind you. 

“Ready Doll?” 

You can hear how tired the poor man is. It almost makes you feel a little bad about sharing the thought you just had. Almost. 

“You know, I just realized that everyone up on the altar will have seen my boobs!” Your lips turn up and turn into something between a grin and a smirk. 

You hear Jack take in a big breath and release it as a breathy, “Oh my god.” He just shakes his head and finds your hand with his, laces your fingers together. “Come on, you, we’re done here.” 

Jack starts walking towards the doors, tugging you along with him and you just giggle.

“Oh so you’re just leaving me here to explain that?” Robby calls after you. It just makes you giggle louder. 

“I’ll show you my tits if it’ll make you feel better, Fruitcake,” Myrna offers Robby from her wheelchair, suddenly right behind him, as she raises her eyebrows at him and goes for the hem of her shirt.

“Jesus!” Robby nearly jumps. “Where did you even come from? When did you get here? Stop lifting your shirt up!”

You turn around a little and look back over your shoulder and wave. “Bye! Thanks again Robby!” 

Beside you Jack lets out a tired and huffed laugh because he loves you so much. When you turn back around he slips his hand out of yours and winds his arm around you, making you do the same. Jack pulls you a little closer to him and presses a kiss to the top of your head as you walk out the doors. “I love you Doll.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You okay?” Jack asks, squeezing your thigh and interrupting your thoughts.

It takes you a second but you look over at him. “How could I possibly be anything less than okay right now, Peter?”

“Hey,” he laughs quietly, “I was just checking. You seemed a little zoned out.” 

“I’m on a plane, in very nice seats, sitting next to my unreasonably handsome fiancé who I’m on my way to France with.” You set your hand on top of his and squeeze. “I was just thinking I’m glad this came after the trial.”

The trial finished about a month and a half ago, just long enough for you and Jack to heal from all the emotions it stirred up and settle back into your routine so that things were normal when you had Robby drop you at the airport earlier tonight. You had been concerned for a bit that the trial might shortly after your trip. Neither of you wanted that because then it would be all either of you were thinking about during the trip. 

“Me too.” Jack nods. “I’m ready for some time alone with you, truly alone and away from all the bullshit. I’m glad I decided we’d start with a couple of days in Nice. That was very smart of me.”

You giggle and roll your eyes at him. He’s right though, it was. “It’ll be very nice to have some time to just lay out on the beach and relax before making our way up the country.” You pull the armrest up and lean into Jack who wraps his arms around you. “I’m ready to nap on the beach with you under an umbrella.”

Jack yawns at the word nap. “Yeah I’m going to need a nap on the beach alright.” He’d booked you a red eye, leaving at almost midnight Pittsburgh time so that you get to Nice in the morning and can maximize your time in France. You both know the first day will be a lazy one though and you’re both more than okay with it. Napping on the beach together being an option and all.

“You should sleep,” you encourage him. 

“You should too.” He raises his eyebrows at you a little. 

“I don’t sleep well on planes.” You shrug. 

“Yeah, but you sleep well on me.” He cocks his head at you and gives you a bit of a lopsided smile. 

You laugh silently through your nose, shaking your head at him. “You’re pretty slick sometimes, you know that?” 

“I just speak the truth, Doll.” Jack pulls you a bit closer to him and grabs the traveling blanket you’d brought with you from the seatback pocket where he’d put it earlier. You help him spread it over the both of you and then snuggle into him as much as you can in airplane seats. Jack’s breathing evens out pretty quickly. It takes you quite a bit longer to find sleep, but once you do Jack is right. You sleep pretty well.

Nice is gorgeous and relaxing and so what you and Jack need, some lazy time together to focus on each other and nothing else. Your hotel is stunning and right on the beach giving you easy access to it. You’d spent your first day at the beach too given how tired you were and how nice it was to just lay in the sun together and relax. You’d walked around Nice your second day and picked up the car you’d be driving through the country in. You’d taken a little drive to Grasse, and looked around, gone to Fragonard and done the museum before you and Jack decided on a perfume for you and cologne for him.

And now you and Jack are spending your last day in Nice back at the beach all day. 

You’re both laying out on towels on the sand currently, your stuff on top of the shaded lounge chairs you’ve claimed. Jack’s wearing the beach leg he got so that he can be in the sand and sea. The softness and warmth of the sand is relaxing against your backs. If you and Jack weren’t intermittently talking you’d probably fall asleep. 

There can’t be much more than a foot between you and during a lull in conversation Jack blindly feels for your hand. He plays with your fingers once he finds it. You sit up and take a moment to admire him.

“France looks good on you, Dr. Abbot.” Your eyes trail up and down his body appreciatively. With the time you’ve spent out in the sun Jack is unfairly tanned, skin glowing. It makes his freckles pop even more which is something that drives you insane. You’d really noticed it yesterday when the two of you showered together.

You dragged him out of the shower quickly and to bed so that you could try to kiss and count each one while telling him how hot and gorgeous he is, how unfairly so and that you can’t believe he’s given himself to you, that you’re the one that gets to see him like this and have him. You’d spent the rest of the night loving on him.

And apparently you’re not ready to be done. 

“Oh yeah?” He turns and smirks a little at you. 

“Yeah.” You lay back and roll on your side, put your elbow in the sand and rest your head in your hand.

“I love your hair like this.” You run your free hand through it. He didn’t get a chance to get it cut before you left. It honestly can’t be more than a centimeter longer, but it’s just enough to show off his curls a little more, especially when they’ve dried from the sea’s salty water. “Just a little longer. Gives me a little more curl to enjoy.” You hum for a second. “To pull on.” 

“Really?” Jack’s basking in your attention and love

You pull your eyes from his hair down to his face. “Yeah, really,” you nod. 

“You want me to keep it this length always?”

“Would I like that? Absofuckinglutely. But it’s your hair. And I love it shorter too, like when we met. So you should keep it how you like it.” You scratch at his scalp a little. “I will love my salt and pepper curls no matter their length.” 

“Yours?” Jack raises his brows and gives you a teasing grin.

“Mhm.” You nod. “Mine.” You roll a little more and lean your head towards him. “Just like these are also mine.” You kiss at the freckles on his shoulder and chest, PG enough for the beach but with enough of a lingering edge and a nip to make him feel it in his groin.   

“Yeah?”

“And so is this.” You drag your nails down his happy trail, stopping just short of his cock. Obviously you couldn’t rub it here to make your point as much as you’d have liked to.

Jack lets out a harsh breath through his nose. “Careful, Doll.” He can feel himself starting to get hard. 

“What?” It’s all fake innocence and pout. “All of you is mine. Isn’t it? Just like all of me is yours?”

“Of course.”

“So let me have you tonight. Let me appreciate what’s mine, focus on you.” You grab one of his hands and bring it to your mouth, kiss at his fingertips. You give the tips of his ring and middle fingers the quickest kitten lick. “Because your face twisted in pleasure, and the groans I pull from you, and the way you say my name and look when you come are also all mine.”

Jack has to sit up and bend his knees at that. His heart is beating much faster now, lust and need coursing through his veins. He’s hard and that’s a problem in these swim trunks. 

You follow him, sitting up and leaning back on your hands. “Unless you wanna go back to the hotel room now?”

“Yes,” he breathes, a frustrated edge to it. 

You smirk. “Let’s go.” 

“We have to wait a minute.” 

“Oh?” You raise a single brow at him. “Why’s that?”

Jack huffs. “You know exactly fucking why.”

“I swear, I have no idea what you mean,” you’re giving him your most innocent doe eyes, the subtlest hint of a smirk at the corners of your mouth, “Dr. Abbot.” 

Jack’s jaw clenches hard, eyes searing into you. “Get up.” 

You do as he asks, start to collect your things. Your movements are hurried, you’re just as desperate as him, swimsuit sticky already with how wet you are for him. 

You go to grab your towel but Jack stops you. “Yeah, yeah, I got the towels, thank you very much.” You furrow your brows together for a second in genuine confusion before Jack stands up and quickly drapes your towel over the arm he’s holding against his lower abdomen and grabs his and does the same so that the towels hang down and cover what would otherwise be his very obvious erection. 

“Oh dear,” you tut, finally letting a self-satisfied grin pull on your face. “That’s why we needed to wait?” 

“Go.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He tries to stay stoic but you don’t miss the way he clenches his jaw again and rolls it, how he shifts on his feet just slightly. You widen your smile and kiss his cheek before throwing the last few things in your bag and taking his hand. 

You giggle as you walk back. With how much bigger Jack’s steps are than yours and how fast his desperation for you is driving him to walk you’re almost having to jog a little to keep up with him. 

Once you’re back in the hotel room and have literally just dropped all of your shit and the towels and get to the side of the bed you try to push Jack back onto it but he doesn’t let you, uses your motion to push you back onto the bed. 

You whine and try to get up. “No. You can have me tonight like you said.” Jack’s hand comes to your chest and pushes you back down.

“Jack!” You whine. But you can feel your heartbeat in your clit, have to rub your thighs together a little, which doesn’t escape Jack’s notice.

“You really thought you were going to get me painfully hard in public and call me Dr. Abbott and sir and get away with it?” Large, strong and dizzyingly warm hands make quick work of your swimsuit and toss it aside.

“I thought you’d let me focus on you.” You push your lips out in a little pout.  

Jack leans over you, caging your head in between his arms. He ghosts his lips over yours. “You thought wrong.”

He pulls up and starts taking off his swim trunks. You make a high-pitched noise of protest as he gets off you. “Not even a kiss! You won’t let me have you like I want and you won’t even kiss me when you were right th-”  

“Stop talking.” It’s firm. He’s hit order territory. It makes you shiver. You like it when he gets like this. This edgy kind of dominant that’s distinct from other times he’s dominant. Just a little rough at the right moments. Manhandling you however he wants. Using you for his pleasure. 

You could reply in one of two ways, both of which would rile him further, just in different ways. But right now the choice is clear. 

That makes you smirk and arch a single brow at him. Jack already knows what you’re about to say. “Make me.”

Jack hums a dark laugh and smiles at you. “With pleasure Doll.”

You’re a little confused when he walks around to the foot of the bed and grabs under your arms and yanks you further onto the bed. The suddenness of it makes you shriek a little. “Jack!”

He moves your lower body so your legs are out in front of you comfortably facing the head of the bed and then pulls you down further so that your head is hanging off the bed. Jack’s a little rough shoving his fingers in your mouth to open it and get them wet. You know what’s coming when he pulls them out. 

Jack lets out a slightly strangled sigh of relief at the feeling of your mouth around him. “There we go, hm, Doll?” He leans over you, shoving himself further into your mouth but not too far, he controls the angle of his hips. You realize he didn’t just move like that for himself when the two fingers wet with your saliva come to circle your clit and slide down, tease your entrance. You already know he’s going to edge you like this. 

You swallow your whine when he pulls his hand away and then are choking around him from the shock and pleasure when his hand comes down to smack your clit. “Look I’m even being so nice,” Jack coos at you, “giving you what you wanted. Because this is what you wanted right? To be choking on me?”

Jack pulls out of your mouth so you can answer. You take a couple of breaths before you do, mostly to prepare yourself. “I don’t know. Is it?” 

“Hm,” Jack laughs again, smacks your clit before pinching at it, pulling another little shriek from you and a moan of pleasure that he can see you fighting to keep down. He likes when you make him work for it. “Be careful what you wish for, Doll.”

After dinner that night, which you were actually a little surprised you were able to walk to, Jack does let you have like you talked about on the beach. He’s a man of his word and it’s quite the opposite of a hardship.

The next day you guys hop in the car and start driving. You hit Arles and then go up to Avignon to look around, spend the night there and go walk through the city to find a cute café to have breakfast at. 

From there you head to Nîmes, and then on to Carcassonne. You spend the later part of the day looking around the town before heading to the hotel you’re staying at. Carcassonne leads you up to Rocamadour. 

All of France is beautiful, but there’s something about the way the town is literally built into the side of a stone cliff that really stuns you both. It’s just so incredible and makes you feel so small in a way for some reason. It’s hard to comprehend the reality of it. 

“I could spend so much money here,” you whisper to Jack. The two of you are browsing in the most incredible leather store you’ve ever been in, and probably your favorite shop of the trip so far.

Jack stops walking and flicks his head a little, staring at a spot on a table a bit down from you before looking down at all of the things he’s carrying in leather bags you’re getting. “I think you are spending so much money here, Doll.” 

He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, isn’t complaining about it at all. He’d buy you the whole store if it would make you happy and he feasibly could. He’s happy to spoil you, though he’s well aware there’s going to be a fight when you go to checkout about who’s paying. 

You look back at him and stick your tongue out a little at him. He rolls his eyes at you and does it back as you walk over to him and show him a little cosmetics bag you’ve picked up before adding it to one of the bags he’s holding. Jack nods at it appreciatively. “It’s not all for me.” That’s true. You’re getting quite a few gifts here for all the people in your lives. “The leather is just so beautiful and well priced.”

“It is.” Jack picks up a nice leather wallet and looks it over. “And not everything we’ve got here is something you picked out, I’ve added my own stuff.” 

“What?” You look up at him with mock offense. Jack’s eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head, bunching his shoulders up. “And you haven’t been showing me?”

Jack looks at you for a second. “No?” You give a little scoff, but it’s teasing. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to?”

“Well, you are,” you say matter of factly. “So show me.” You nod when he doesn’t move, smiling at him. You’re adorable when you’re this excited. “I want to see! I like seeing! That’s half the fun of shopping!” 

“Okay! Okay! Give me a minute to dig it all out!” Jack laughs a little, shaking his head at you. A wave of love and adoration for you crashes into him and he gets a little overwhelmed by it as he goes through the bags to pick out what he’s put in. He just loves you so fucking much. He shows you and you love all of them, take another spin through the whole store before checking out. 

You leave Rocamadour then and head to Lascaux II. You’re particularly excited for this one. You’re in awe the second you get down into the replica cave. Jack almost wants to record you in Lascaux II because of how fucking precious and cute you’re being and how completely fucking oblivious to it and how it’s affecting him you are. 

“This is so incredible,” you say for probably the tenth time. “Look at this Jack. I couldn’t do this now. Imagine them doing it 20,000 years ago. That’s just… I don’t even know. It’s making me bizarrely emotional.” 

“Aw, baby.” Jack breathes through a little laugh, pulls you close to him. He gives you a little squeeze and kisses your forehead before you step away to go back to chatting with your tour guide as everyone looks around this room. He knows it defeats the purpose of the visit for him and that you’d lovingly chide him if you knew, but Jack doesn’t care and spends more time smiling and watching you take it all in and chatter away with the guide than he does looking at the cave paintings. He never wants to leave.

The tour, however, does come to an end and you look around everything else and the gift shop and leave Lascaux, head to Limoges to spend the night and tour tomorrow. From there you tour Château de Chambord and then Amboise, where you go wine tasting and get quite tipsy together before making your way back to your hotel room with the both of you in a fit of giggles.

In the morning, you and Jack leave Amboise and drive to Ohama Beach and the Normandy American Cemetery.  It’s not sad as such, just kind of somber, which makes sense. 

You and Jack walk through the rows silently, hand in hand with Jack reading name after name. It gets to him a little. Makes him feel kind of bad. Here he is all the way in France on vacation doing this and thinking about people he doesn’t even know. He lives less than four hours from Arlington and hasn’t been back since the last funeral. 

He thinks about the rest of his unit, the ones still alive. They’d all moved across the States, settled different places where they or their spouses had family or just wanted to live. They kept in touch though, texts and calls. He went to a couple of weddings, knows each time someone welcomes a baby. All but one are coming to the wedding and the only reason he’s not is because his wife is due only two weeks later. 

He’s told you some about them. He realizes in the moment though that he’s told you more about what happened when he lost his leg. You know pretty much everything, everything he can remember at least. It took him a while to open up about it, not even so much because it was hard to talk about, talking to you about it was actually not easy but not as hard as he thought it would be because he knew you had him and would really be listening and there for him if he fell while talking. It was more he struggled with the idea of you having to know, having to carry it around similar to how he does, less so obviously but still. He didn’t want that for you, felt it was like a burden almost, a cross to bear with him. But he’d spoken with his therapist about it and been able to see it wasn’t.

“You know if you ever want to take a trip to Arlington I’m there with you, yeah? You don’t have to go alone unless you want to.” You squeeze his hand.

Jack smiles to himself and nods. You would know what he’s thinking about right now. “I know.”  He squeezes back. You don’t say anything else, know that you don’t need to. 

You end up getting sandwiches from a little café and have lunch sitting on a wall overlooking the beach. Jack shares some stories about his time overseas and on base here, most of them funny and making the both of you laugh. “Have I ever shown you pictures?”

“A couple, yeah. From weddings after or photos of new babies or pregnancy announcements.” You give him a small smile and tilt your head. “You don’t have to show me or tell me anything, you know?”

“I want to,” he nods as he pulls his phone out. It takes him a minute to find them, but when he does he scrolls through them and tells you the context, points out who everyone is. Tells you who was lost, little things about others, where they are, if they’re still in. 

One he shows you is old, from when he first joined. “Oh my god, you’re a baby!” You take his phone from his hand as he laughs. “Look at you! How old were you here?” You look up at him. Jack tells you and you look back down at the phone. “Wow,” you breathe, “do you have more of you younger?”

“Yeah.” He takes his phone back from you and scrolls. He’s a little bit older in these ones. “Right before I deployed on my first tour.” He swipes. “This was taken the day we arrived over there.” 

You bite your lip to try and hide your smile. You know it’s maybe not appropriate in a way, but you only do so because of how young he looks. You’ve never really seen him this young before. It’s always been much younger, baby photos, middle school, high school graduation. 

Jack bumps your shoulder with his. “You got any of you this age?”

You grimace at that and shake your head. “I mean, yeah, but you don’t want to see them, trust me.”

Jack barks a laugh at that. “I trust you on everything Doll, but not that.”

You deepen your grimace as you look at him. “You should.” 

He shrugs. “Prove it then.” 

You groan at the challenge. “Fine,” you mutter, “but I expect a ‘you’re right I’m so sorry for doubting you’ and you take my ‘I told you so’ without comment or a look.”

Jack’s giving you a look already because he knows you’re full of shit and he’s going to love them. “If that’s warranted then I promise I will. But I know it won’t be.” 

You drive into Paris in the late afternoon early evening, get checked into your hotel. Jack did good. Jack did real fucking good. Your room has a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower and a big jacuzzi tub. It’s just large enough but is still small enough that it’s cozy and romantic. You look around with big eyes and a look of disbelief.

“Jack, this is so beautiful.” You open the balcony door and walk out onto it. You’re almost a little speechless. Not even from how beautiful the room is and the view and the tub but from the fact that he chose this hotel and this suite for you. Because you know the only thing he was thinking of when he booked it was that he wanted to spoil you and make you happy and see you smile. “It’s incredible.” You murmur it but you know he’ll hear because you can feel that he’s standing right behind you even if the noise of the city covered his footsteps. You recognize his presence.

Jack’s hands find your hips and his chest presses into your back as he kisses the top of your head. “I didn’t order the champagne.” There’s a very nice bottle sitting in a bucket of ice for you, two flutes on the table it’s next to. 

You turn, shaking your head at him. Jack’s hands opening and settling back on your hips once you’ve turned all the way. “That’s not what makes it incredible.” 

Jack gives you a little knowing smile and nods. “Anything for you, Doll.” 

You lean up and kiss him, again and again until you’ve managed to maneuver the two of you so that Jack’s pressed against the balcony wall as you makeout. “You know this is very unfair,” you whisper against his lips when you break apart for air. Jack flicks his eyebrows up at you. “You get to plan the honeymoon too. When is it my turn to plan a vacation and spoil you?”

Jack laughs softly, catches your lips in another kiss and slips his tongue into your mouth for a second. “You can have the next one, okay? After the honeymoon.”

“Okay, good.” You kiss until you’re breathless again and then pull apart. 

“What would you like to do before the Tower and river cruise tonight?” Jack asks you with a little tilt of his head. “Champagne and a little moment on the balcony?”

“I’d like to start,” you take a step back so that he can walk past you and into the room, “with you getting on the bed. Fully clothed.” 

He cocks his head further. “You don’t have to do anything to thank me. I wanted to do this for you. Wanted to see the smile you gave me when you walked in and looked around.”

“I know I don’t,” you reassure him with a nod. “But I want to. I want to suck your cock for you and see the smile you give me right after you’ve come.” Hands squeeze your hips a little harder. “So please. Get on the bed.” 

Jack looks at you for a moment, genuinely wanting to make sure you know you don’t have to and he didn’t do this so that you’d take him in your mouth once you’d seen the room. When your eyes and expression convince him he nods and does as you ask.

Once Jack’s finished and recovered you decide to head out and walk around, just soak in the City some before you go to your reservations at the Eiffel Tower. 

Jack thinks he could live here and spend every day for the rest of life watching you and the look of wonder as you lead him through Paris. 

You and Jack share champagne on the top of the Eiffel Tower before you find a cute Seine side café for dinner. At 10:30 you board the boat that will take you up and down the Seine letting you see lots of the sights uplight and bathed in different shades of light. They of course pause down by the tower just before 11 and once it hits the Eiffel Tower sparkles and your face lights up exactly how Jack knew it would. He snaps several photos of you, the angle perfect and letting him get your profile and the tower in the same shot before he gets your whole face so he never has to even imagine this look again. His favorite is the one he gets when you turn to him beaming to thank him for this because of the expression on your face and how happy you are and how you’re looking at him like he’s the only thing on the planet that matters to you. 

It’s his phone’s wallpaper before you even disembark. 

The next morning you start with Notre Dame and Sainte-Chapelle before heading to the Louvre. 

“I think it’s this room.” Jack nods towards one. 

You take a cursory glance at it and keep walking. “It’s not. It must be further up.” 

“You didn’t even look!” Jack catches back up with you in two strides. 

“I promise you that when we get to the room you won’t need to ask if it’s the room.” You look up at him and try to give him a convincing smile. He narrows his eyes at you but nods. 

You guys walk up a bit more and come to another doorway off the side of the hallway. 

“Ah,” Jack clicks his tongue. “I understand now.” You share a look with him but don’t say ‘I told you so’ or even give him that specific look. 

You only have to glance at the room to know it’s the one housing the Mona Lisa. The huge mass of people making it difficult to even get through the doorway makes it quite obvious. You and Jack slip in and stay off to the side. You manage to get a good opening and are able to work your way in a little bit to see it before you quickly get out of the room, overwhelmed and done with all the people. 

“It’s smaller than I thought,” Jack comments as you walk down the hall a bit away from the room. 

You stop walking and look up stoically at the wall in front of you before looking at him as he keeps walking for a minute before realizing you’re not next to him and spinning. “Doll?”

“If only you had someone who told you that it was going to be smaller than you thought before you even stepped foot into the country.” You tilt your head at him. You’re not mad or annoyed, just playfully teasing him. The smirk pulls up on Jack’s face just a little too quick. He said it to fuck with you. “You asshole,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes and shaking your head as you walk ahead again. 

Jack chuckles as he catches up with you. “Sorry, Doll, I couldn’t resist.”

You shake your head, have to laugh with him for a second. “It’s not even you doing it, it’s the fact that it fucking worked on me.”

“I can be very convincing.” Jack laces his hand with yours and squeezes. 

You slow to look at a painting but look at Jack first. He’s already looking down at you, smiling, shoulders tensed just slightly in a way that tells you he’s about to lean down and kiss you. “Yes you can, Dr. Abbot.”

That earns you a little twitch under his eye before he leans in and kisses you. 

You spend the next day at Versailles. “Golf carts?” You furrow your eyebrows but smile. 

Jack lets out a bitten back laugh. “You know it doesn’t scream Jardins du Château de Versailles, but with how big the gardens are I get it.” He looks around. “They have a little train too.”

You and Jack have finished touring the palace proper and have walked out to see the gardens and trianons. You shake your head. “Oh no. No, no. We are so renting a golf cart.”

“Yeah, I know.” He grabs your hand and starts walking towards the booth you rent them from. “I knew the second you said golf carts.”

“Are you saying I’m predictable?” You bring your other hand across you to poke the side of his tummy. “Ow!” It doesn’t even hurt, it was just more unexpected. “I’m not saying that at all, believe me, Doll, you never fail to keep me guessing. I’m saying that wanting to rent a golf cart to drive through the gardens of Versailles is so you that it’s like they decided to do it just for you.”

You smile a little at that. You like knowing you keep him guessing but that he thinks things are very you at times. “I’m driving.”

Jack nods. “Knew that too.”

The day after Versailles you do more of Paris. You’re walking around the Palais Garnier headed towards the gift shop, your tour of the opera house having just finished. 

“We could do a Phantom of the Opera roleplay.” 

Jack breathes out a laugh that makes it clear how much that is not what he expected to come out of your mouth. “We could do a Phantom of the Opera roleplay,” he mutters, shaking his headband bowing his chin to his chest for a second. He looks back at you. “We could, yes.”

“It would be very hot.” 

Jack laughs. “Any roleplay would be very hot with you, Doll.” You’re both keeping your voices low enough for only the two of you to hear. 

You stop walking and smirk at that. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack emphasizes the word as he nods. 

“You’ve thought about it before?” you simper, resuming walking. 

“You haven’t?” Jack shoots back with a smirk of his own.  “What have you thought about?” You need to know now, need to know if they match your own fantasies and if you could taxi back to the hotel right now and act one out, tour of the Catacombs be damned. 

“We can talk about it at dinner. Or after dinner.” He squeezes your hand and keeps walking you both towards the gift shop. 

“Or we can talk about it now.” 

Jack knows this is a battle he’ll lose and he’s honestly okay with that. “Can we at least do the gift shop and then grab some food and talk while eating? I’m hungry.” 

“Yes. I can live with that, but can’t live with you being hungry.” You let go of his hand as you walk in the gift shop so that you can look at things. “I’ll be speedy.” 

The rest of your trip passes too quickly for either of your liking. Before you know it you’re walking into your hotel room for the last time. You’re back a little earlier than usual but you’d decided to come back after dinner to spend the night together in your room and in the tub and on the balcony just focusing on each other. Neither of you are looking forward to having to go back to work. Back to being apart. It’s going to be hard going from being together 24/7 to only having mornings and nights except for the weekends if Jack has it off. 

You’re both ignoring it, don’t want it ruining your last night here. There will be plenty of time to be sad about it tomorrow at the airport and on the plane. 

You order a bottle of wine and bring it to the tub with you, sit and soak across from each other while giving each other foot massages and talking about your favorite parts of your trip. 

“This isn’t a very fair deal, you know.” You can hear the teasing in his voice. 

“I can’t help that my hands are smaller and not as strong as yours! I’m doing my best!” 

Jack laughs. “That’s not what I meant, you give the best massages.” You raise your eyebrows at him and shake your head to ask what then. One of Jack’s hands falls from your foot to find the other one underwater. “This,” he pulls it up and puts it next to your other foot, toes sticking out of the water a bit, “is what I meant.” 

“Oh my god,” you roll your eyes at him and flick some water at him. “You are so full of shit, Jack Abbot. You know for a fact that once you’re done with my other foot I’m going to get closer to you and massage your leg. If anything, it’s nice for you because my hands get a break and aren’t as tired so I can go longer.”

You’re correct. Jack does know that for a fact, he just likes to fuck with you sometimes. “Did you just flick water at me?”

Your head shrinks back a little at the question because it is not what you were expecting. You let out a laugh. “And what if I did?”

Jack tightens his lips together and nods his head at you once quickly. “Then I would have to do something about that.” You stare at each other for a moment, your eyes narrowing as you try and figure out what his move would be.

“Don’t.” You try to stay serious but laugh a little. “You will send water everywhere.” You know he isn’t just going to flick water back at you or even send a wave at you. The playful look in his eye tells you that he’s going to lunge for you which will force the water forward with him and out of the tub just so he can grab you and pull you close to him. 

Jack’s smile widens. “We have lots of towels.”

“Jack.” You try so hard to stay serious but his adorable goofy grin makes it nigh on impossible. “I don’t want to spend our last night in Paris mopping up the bathroom floor.” 

“You should have thought of that before you flicked water at me.” He shrugs.

You scoff in shock and gape at him. “How was I supposed to know your reaction to a small flick of water was going to be to want to attack me at the opposite end of the tub and make a fucking tsunami in the procecss?”

“That’s just a risk you take with me Doll.” Jack clicks his tongue and shakes his head with mock solemnity. 

You stare at him. He’s going to do it. “You’re cleaning it up.” 

“You’ll help.” Jack smirks. 

You both know he’s right. “Fuck you.”

That makes Jack grin at you and lunge.

You find yourselves sitting on the balcony now. You’re dry from the tub and wrapped in the big fluffy towel robes the hotel has. Jack had at least managed to angle his lunge so that most of the water was pushed toward the tile wall behind the tub and not on the floor. It hadn’t taken long to mop up with towels. 

It’s getting later, closer to time to go to bed. As much as you’d done a good job of ignoring the reality that your trip was ending, it’s harder to now, and some of that sadness is in the air. It grows a bit with the small lull in conversation. 

Jack glances down at his watch. He leans back in his chair a little, appreciating how deep the seat is. He stands and moves his chair so that it’s just inside the balcony door. It’s a good height, his feet are flat on the ground when he sits in it. He grabs the small table and drags it to be what he estimates is the right distance from the chair.  “Peter?” Your heavy confusion is evident in your voice. 

Jack sits back in his chair and beckons you. “Come here, sit on my lap.” You’re never going to turn that down, so you do without really thinking about it. But before you can sit, “Robe off. I want to feel you. You can put it over you like a blanket.” It makes you pause for a second but Jack opens his robe so that it won’t obstruct your skin from touching and so you do as he asks, then sit. “Good girl.” It’s whispered low and right at your ear. 

He adjusts you so that your back is against his chest as you pull the robe over your like a blanket as he suggested even though you’re back in the privacy of your room. Your feet instinctively find the edge of the table to rest on and help you balance since you can’t reach the floor like this. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, slips his arms from his robe and wraps them around you under yours. 

You swallow hard. “I love you too,” you whisper. 

You stay like that for a couple of minutes, Jack holding you on his lap and you resting your head back against his chest. Jack slips a hand down to your thigh and squeezes to get your attention. “Spread your legs.” 

Your heart rate picks up just at his words. “Why?” 

You ask the question but do as he says while you do. “Good,” he praises you again. The hand that had squeezed your thighs dips between your legs. “So I can do this.” His finger circles your clit once and then slides down. He smiles at how wet you are. “Always so ready for me,” Jack murmurs against your ear.

“Jack,” you breathe out his name, hand wrapping around his wrist, not to stop him but to anchor yourself. You can feel him growing hard behind you and you grind into him a little. 

It makes him grunt a “Fuck.” Jack’s other hand slides up and grabs one of your breasts, squeezing at it before rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger at the same time he slips a finger inside you. 

“Oh,” you moan. “More! Please,” you pant. He’s quick to listen to you and slip another finger inside of you with how wet you already are. 

Jack’s breathing harder too, cock fully hard and aching with each wiggle of your ass as he makes you squirm. “Is that enough?” You shake your head against him, try to roll your hips in time with his fingers drawing in and out of you as they curl perfectly so that he’ll slide even deeper. “That’s not an answer.” 

“No!” The word shakes as you cry it, Jack’s hands already winding you tight. 

“Another one?” Jack slides another finger into on this pass and you keen for him, wiggling so much he groans from the stimulation and how it’s not enough. Once you settle again he resumes, works his fingers in and out of you, spreading them inside you sometimes. You’re letting out the softest high pitched moans with each breath you pant out. “This is enough?”

“No,” you shake your head hard. “No, no, I need your cock. Now. Please. I’ll be so good,” you start to babble just a little, “so good for you.”

“You already are being good for me.” His hand stills with his fingers buried in you. “My sweet good girl.” Jack lets out a harsh grunt at how tight your cunt squeezes his fingers at that. “How could I ever say no to you?”

He slowly pulls his fingers from you and brings them up to his mouth to suck clean. “You taste so fucking good,” he almost growls. “Makes me want to get you on the bed and just eat you out all night instead.”

You whine at that, torn between the thought of his tongue and his cock as grind yourself back against him. You shake your head. “Need you. Need your cock, please Jack. Tongue later if you want, later.” Jack laughs softly at your conflict and then the desperation with which you ask for his cock. “Cock first Jack, please.”

“Shh,” he soothes you, using one arm to lift you up a little and adjust you into a position that will work to get him inside of you. “I’ve got you Doll. I’ve always got you.” Jack shifts a little. “Help me, yeah?”

Your hand is there almost immediately to help guide him inside of you. “Fuck Jack, fuck fuck fuck.” Every word is moaned out as Jack moves his arm and helps you lower yourself onto him. 

The groan Jack lets out once he’s bottomed out in this position is strangled and almost pained. “You are so fucking tight like this Doll,” he’s panting hard now and he hasn’t even started to actually fuck you, “holy fuck.”

“I know,” you whimper, shaking a little from the pleasure already. “You feel even bigger, I feel you everywhere.” 

Jack starts to thrust up into you. With the angle there’s not a ton of movement but there’s just enough for his head to rub that spot inside you over and over and over again with every thrust. Your robe eventually falls off but neither of you give the slightest fuck, you’re in the room anyway and plenty warm. 

Your hands cling to him, one at the side of this thigh and the other at the upper part of the arm he has diagonal across your chest and tummy, fingertips ghosting teasingly over your collarbone and making you shudder, every so often running along the bottom of your jawline. 

Both of you are already panting and struggling to form coherent sentences, when the top of the hour hits and the Eiffel Tower starts sparkling. 

“Oh,” your panted breath catches in your throat. 

“Thought you might like that,” Jack grunts out as he keeps fucking you. He slows a little though, wants to draw it out. 

Jack’s hand slips under the back of your neck and he shifts you to the side a bit so he can see your face better and you his. It’s now his breath that hitches as he takes in you in, eyes roaming your face and chest, greedy and unabashed. The glittering light falling all over your face makes you look unreal, ethereal and divine and how on earth are you his? “Gorgeous,” he rasps between heavy breaths. “You’ll never fucking- fuck” Jack throws his head back for a second as a heavy wave of pleasure rushes through him at the way you clench even tighter at his words before looking back down at you, eyes burning into you hotter than they ever have before, “you’ll never fucking know how perfect you are to me.” 

Coupled with the way he’s looking at you as he says them, Jack’s words fully steal your breath for a moment as you stare back at him, go beyond making it harder to breathe. You have never felt more loved or more beautiful than you do right now. And you know that Jack isn’t just saying it solely because he’s in the throes of passion and that he’s not just talking about your looks. He means it all of the time, he thinks it all of the time. You’re always perfect to him, in every way. 

“Breathe for me baby,” Jack coos at you through a panted breath out. 

The reminder has you taking a shuddery gasp of air in. “Jack, I, I.” You shake your head a little as pressure builds behind your eyes, tears starting to form. You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, there’s no real words, just Jack. He nods at you to soothe you and tell you he knows.

It almost feels silly or cliché somehow but there’s something about the sparkling lights that almost makes it more intimate. His eyes look beautiful like this, the flicker of the light showing off every color in them. The constantly moving shadows on his face highlight every feature, highlight just how handsome he is, especially like this, flushed and panting and sweaty. He’s breathtaking. He’s yours. Body, mind and soul. This man has given you all of him, keeps giving it every day. 

You somehow get your voice steady enough to whisper to him. “You’re beautiful, Jack.” 

His hips stutter at the compliment. Jack’s not sure he’s ever been called beautiful before. There’s a little shake of his head that you catch as the Tower stops sparkling. He’s not disagreeing with you, he’s trying to explain he doesn’t know what to say. 

“S’okay, you don’t have to-” You’re cut off by a gasp as Jack’s hips shift. “Oh Jack!” you mewl, “Jack, Jack, Jack. Don’t stop, please don’t, please.” Your reaction tells him he’s found the perfect stroke and so he keeps it. Doesn’t stop or slow down or speed up, just keeps it and revels in the way one of your hands finds his hair and tugs, the other clawing and surely bruising his thigh just above his knee. “You don’t h-have to say anything,” you finally choke out as tears of pleasure hit your eyes, “just know you are.”  

Jack holds your eye contact, always does whenever possible. You watch as they grow glassier with every stroke. You talk to each other through looks, thank you and I love you and I can’t believe you’re mine and what did I do to deserve you and you feel so fucking good. 

Jack finally breaks the silence with a low “I love you,” like he hasn’t been telling you how much he loves you with his body and eyes this entire time. 

“Love you too,” you breathe on a pant out, “love you so much. Please, Jack.”

Jack’s hand finds your clit, starts working you perfectly. He has you memorized and you know it. There’s no lead up, no working his way into the touch you need to come. He’s just there with that touch immediately. Because he needs you to come.

“Fuck Jack!” you moan, jolting at his touch and how direct it is, how he’s so desperate there’s no lead up. “I’m gonna come.”

“I know,” he pants. “Come for me.” With how tight you are Jack knows that seconds after you come he’s going to follow. “Please Doll.” Jack can feel how close you are, rubs at your clit just a little faster as his hips get sloppy. “Need it, Doll. Fuckin need it. Make me come, please.” They’re all choked out and broken with how out of his mind on you he is. He keeps winding you tighter, so tight you still and go silent, become convinced your muscles are going to break all your bones with how deep the pleasure has you clenching them. “Please. Love you so m-much. Need it sweet girl, please.” The last please is cracked and pure desperation. Jack rarely begs but he is right now. 

It shatters you. 

Your orgasm rips through you, white-hot and searing every nerve in your body with unbridled bliss. It’s dizzying, has you clawing at Jack and tugging his hair even harder as you struggle to breathe through it, tears finally sliding down your face as you sob a little, almost unaware of how Jack’s name drips off your tongue so fast they slur together. 

Jack is mere seconds behind you, coming with a broken shout of your name. He shakes from the ecstasy of it, from how fucking good you make him feel, wave after wave of pleasure making him breathless as he struggles to cope with the rapture. “Doll,” he groans, over and over, “fuck, you’re so good,” his words are strangled, caught in his throat and forced out because he needs you to hear them, “feels so good, love you, love your pussy, fuck.” 

Jack is completely pussy drunk as he fucks you both through the crest, doesn’t still his hips or his fingers on your clit. He drags it out of you, never wants it to stop for either of you, never wants to leave this moment.  

But once he feels it ebbing for you he moves his fingers off your clit, leans over you to reach your lips and kiss you. It’s sloppy and breathy and there are moments where he can barely kiss you back with how overrun with pleasure he is. You keep sighing his name, keep whimpering it as tears keep slipping down your face. 

His hips keep thrusting as he works himself through it, sloppy and even less movement hunched over you to kiss you but it doesn’t matter. It and how tight you are and how you’re fluttering around him as you try to come back down is enough to drag it out of him and keep him coming. 

“Are you?” you breathlessly giggle at him.

“Yes, fuck!” Jack hisses. “You’re too good, pussy’s too good I can’t,” he pants, almost sounds pained by the pleasure, “stop.” 

You deliberately clench at his words and it pulls another groan from Jack, pulls a little more cum from him, and a grunted “Fucking shit!” as he stills his hips but pushes up to grind against you a bit.

Jack stops grinding after a few seconds because it becomes too much, rests his forehead against yours as you both shiver with aftershocks for a few minutes. Eventually he brings his head up and rests it against the back of the chair with his eyes closed as he pants and readjusts you, both of you hissing at the movement of him inside you as he does. He wraps his arms around you tighter, and you exchange murmurs of sweet nothings as you both attempt to come back to earth.  

“Oh fuck,” Jack pants after a few minutes, still trying to catch his breath. “You’re fucking unreal.”

You giggle at him. “Mm, I’m very real, Peter.” It’s a little slurred. 

He just hums at you, words still hard. You sit like that for another couple of minutes, Jack’s hands starting to rub and down you as your fingers draw soft circles in the crease of hips. “I want to get us to bed so we can cuddle properly but I’m not sure if I can walk.”

“I know I can’t,” you laugh. “Cum is going to get everywhere.” It’s already leaking out of you, always does, but with how long and how much he just came it’s going to be worse. 

“I’ll get you to bed and eat it out of you,” Jack mumbles. He means it too, as tired as he sounds. He’s not really tired as much as he needs more time to recover. 

“I might actually cease to exist if you do,” you tease. 

Jack chuckles at that. He knows he’d have to wait too long to give you time to not hit a more painful than pleasurable hypersensitivity the second he started. “Can’t have that.” Jack doesn’t have to say more, doesn’t have to reassure you he’ll take care of you and clean you up. You know he will. He takes in a big breath and lets it out. “Alright, I can feel you getting cold, we’re gonna do it.” 

You nod against him and take your feet off the edge of the table and fall forward a bit, Jack slipping out of you in the process, little moans from both of you at it. Jack keeps strong hands on your hips as you stand up, legs just a bit wobbly. He follows you up and gets beside you, wraps an arm tightly around you. It’s actually not as bad as either of you thought, you recovered better than you realized while sitting with each other. Getting to the bed is pretty easy, all things considered. 

Jack shuts the patio door and then grabs a washcloth, gets it a little wet with warm water before coming over and cleaning you up. He takes it back to the bathroom and rinses it, leaves it to dry with all the other towels, shaking his head slightly at the sight. 

And then he finally climbs into bed with you, rolls on his side and starts pulling you close to him at the same time you move towards him. Once you settle he smiles as he looks at you, his eyes flitting about your whole face before settling on your eyes. “There she is, my pretty girl.”

“My handsome man.” Your voice is rough, a bit ragged from the moaning, but not as bad as after the second proposal. 

Jack leans in and kisses you. Just because he can and he loves you and he’s in bed with you in Paris and you’re marrying him. 

You look sad when he pulls away, maybe it’s more a preemptive forlornness. “I’m going to miss this,” you murmur. 

“I know. I am too.” Jack nods. Because he is. He hates seeing you upset but he wants you to know that he hears you and your feelings are valid before he tries to distract you. “We’ll always have Paris.” He fails to hide the smile that wants to grace his face, corners of his lips twitching up a little. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you just said that.” It worked. You’re smiling now, distracted.

“What?” Jack sings the word a little. “You were supposed to be impressed I can quote Casablanca at will.”

“I don’t think one needs to even have seen Casablanca to know that line.” You love him, him and the way he validates you but coaxes you into a better mood when it’s right. 

“Okay but I have.” He waggles his eyebrows at you. “Have you?”

You smirk. “We said no questions.” A little challenge for him. 

Jack nods, presses his lips together and pulls them down, raises his eyebrows at you. “Here’s looking at you, Kid.”

“Aha!” you laugh, “you really have seen it and you remember it!” A bigger smirk pulls on your face. You want to see how far he’ll go. “Play-”

“I’m not singing As Time Goes By,” Jack cuts you off. 

You gape at him a little, smiling as you do. “I love you so much.”

“Did you mean for that to be a quote?” He smirks. 

Your jaw slackens a little bit as you smile. “I-” you shake your head. “No. No I did not.”

Jack laughs softly. “I love you more, Doll.”

You shake your head at him, lean in to kiss him, to taste him and consume him and be consumed by him. And then you blink and it’s morning, and blink again and you’re walking back into your apartment together. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hawaiʻi is always a good option, especially if you don’t want to go international.” 

You and Jack are out on a date. He’d planned it, chosen a nice restaurant where you currently find yourselves, your favorite cuisine, of course. You’re doing something after but he won’t tell you what yet. It’s the weekend after the string of anniversaries. Your second anniversary together which you spent together out doing your favorite things together and getting a couple’s massage and having sex. 

That anniversary was followed a month later by the anniversary of the shooting and when you went septic and when you came home. There had been a lot of emotions with these three, but you and Jack got through them together. You didn’t try to ignore the meaning of the day as such, but you did try to take the days back, especially the day of the shooting and the day you went septic. So you spent the days together doing fun things both out and at home and enjoying each other and your time with each other and laughing and being close and having sex and yes, sometimes crying. Jack had thought a date the weekend after the last anniversary passed would just be a nice little thing to do, so he’d planned this.

“You don’t want to go international?” Jack asks. 

“No, no I never said that. I’d love to go international. I’d prefer to go international, honestly. I was just thinking out loud.” While you take a sip of your drink you make a little thinking face that Jack finds so adorable. “Fiji looks beautiful. Or any of the Caribbean islands. Bali. Mexico.” You get another bite of your food on your fork but pause before bringing it to your mouth. “We could go ziplining any of those places I bet. Ooh! Or horseback riding on the beach!”

Jack gives you an amused smile while you take your bite. “Anywhere else?”

You bob your head back and forward as you chew while thinking. “I’ve always thought one of those Viking river cruises would be cool! They go a lot of places now I think, and that would be a really cool way to see a region of Europe potentially.” You hum. “A tour of Italy. Or Spain. Or Croatia maybe!” You realize you’ve been doing all of the talking. “What about you? I’ve been the only one throwing places out there, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Jack shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. “I was having fun listening to you think of places and watching your face as you spoke about them. You’re very cute.” You give him an almost shy shrug and Jack is tempted to end the date here and now and take you home to have his way with you. “I like all of those places. Ireland would be cool I think, especially if we got a car and drove around. I’ve always wanted to do Japan too. Kyoto and Osaka. But then Greece or Crete or Cyprus also sound amazing.”

You nod as he speaks, smirk a little. “You’re going to have one hell of a decision to make, Peter.”

“I am,” Jack laughs softly. “Really depends on what we think we’d like to do on our honeymoon.”

“Each other, ideally. A lot.”

Jack lets out a huffed laugh, he should have seen that one coming. “Well, yes of course. There will be a lot of doing each other I have no doubt, Doll. But you know, do we want to do museums? Do we want to go look at historical sights? Do we want to just lay on the beach all day? Do we want a combination of all three?”

“No, I know what you mean, I was just teasing.” You run your foot up and down his left leg under the table. “I would be happy with any of those, genuinely. I know that’s not particularly helpful, but you could pick wherever you wanted and I’d love it. As long as we’re together.”

Jack smiles at you. He knows how much you mean it and he understands because he feels the same way. You guys could stay at your apartment for a week on a honeymoon and he’d be content. That’s not going to happen on his watch, but still. He knows it’s about the person and to some extent the reason and not so much the place. “That’s very sweet.” He lets his foot brush against the side of yours under the table. “It’s very unhelpful, you’re correct, but it’s very sweet too.” 

You playfully roll your eyes at his teasing. “I mean it. And you want to plan the honeymoon and do this as a surprise and I don’t want you to feel like you have to pick a place I said or that we have to do any of the things I said. We have a whole life together to go see all the other places.” 

“I know,” he reassures you, “I don’t. I just wanted to hear your thoughts and ideas.”

“Okay.” You nod and finish off your drink. “As long as you know that the honeymoon destination that will make me the happiest wife is the one that you pick because you put the time and effort into thinking about it and picking it and planning it.”  

Wife. You say it so nonchalantly but Jack’s brain glitches out and scrambles at the word. Of course he knows you’re going to be his wife, but hearing you refer to yourself as it leaves his mind fuzzy and reeling in the best way. It takes a second for him to process the rest of your sentence. 

“Jack? You okay?”

“I’m perfect, Doll. You okay?” The smile he gives you as he says it is so beautiful you curl your toes in your shoes to keep from screaming. 

“Yeah,” you nod, “but what was that? Something happened there for a sec.”

Jack’s smile doesn’t fade. He almost feels a little self-conscious in a way, being so affected by it. Sometimes it still fucks with his mind that you are going to be his wife. That you choose him. That he’s lucky enough to get to love you and be loved by you. But you are, and you do, and he is, and there is nothing in the world that makes him happier or prouder and so he doesn’t fucking care that the word got to him. 

“Wife.” You raise both of your brows at him, raise your chin a little too in question. “You said ‘honeymoon destination that will make me the happiest wife’ and my brain just got totally snagged on the word wife for a second.” You bite your lip and giggle at him. “Don’t laugh at me!” He’s laughing as he says it, no real meaning or force behind the statement because he knows you’re not really. 

“I’m not! I just think it’s cute!” You tilt your head at him. Something about the revelation makes you emotional in a way because you get that way with him and the word husband. And you get that way because it hits you how lucky you are and how much you love him and how proud you are to be his and call him yours, and so the thought of him having those same thoughts about you makes you emotional. “You say husband sometimes and the same thing happens to me, and so I just think it’s cute that it happens to you too.” You shrug a little. You seem almost flustered. “And, I don’t know,” you shake your head slightly, “it just makes me feel good knowing the same thing happens to you when you hear me say wife.”

“Of course it does.” Jack gives you his own shrug. His smile turns a little teasing. “Lots of things you say snag my brain sometimes.”

“Oh? And what things-” You’re interrupted by your waiter asking if he can clear your plates and if you’d like to see the dessert menu. “Yeah, I guess we’ll have a look, thank you.” You take it from him and help him collect your plates. Once he’s gone you look back at Jack to finish your question but he’s smirking and shaking his head. You know he won’t tell you. 

“Anything look good?” He asks, nodding at the menu in your hand. You roll your eyes at him, but your smile makes it clear how you really feel. 

You look over the menu, hum to yourself a bit as you do. “It all looks good.” You hold the menu out for him to take. “Look, you can practice your decision making skills now and pick for us.”

Jack shakes his head and smirks. “I don’t need the menu. I know exactly what I’m having for dessert.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, closing your eyes and shaking your head. But again, your smile gives you away. You open your eyes back up and keep shaking your head at him. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Mmm,” Jack hums. “Technically you didn’t take me here. I took you here. On the date. That I planned.” You roll your eyes at him. “Let’s skip dessert here. We can get it after the next thing, okay?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I want to know what the next thing is.”

“And so you will soon.” Jack flashes you one of those smiles of his that completely disarms you before turning his head and grabbing the attention of the waiter to get the bill. 

Once you and Jack step out of the restaurant you lace your fingers with Jack’s and wrap your other hand around his upper arm. “So do I get to know what we’re doing next now?” You shake him a little bit to show your excitement and emphasize how badly you want to know. 

Jack smirks at you and cocks his head. “You know I wasn’t going to tell you.” You pout at that and he brings his free hand up and swipes his thumb over your downturned lip. “But you’re so cute and adorable that I will.” Your eyes widen a little, sparkling in the street light. “We’re going stargazing.” 

Your head tilts forward a bit, a confused smile pulling onto your face. “Stargazing?” 

“Stargazing.” He nods at you and gives you quite the self-satisfied smile at your reaction. You’d told Jack early into your relationship that you found space and stars incredibly interesting, and that you like looking at constellations and learning about their meaning. He happened to see something in passing that reminded him about it and gave him the idea. “That okay?” Your silence doesn’t worry him, but he just wants to check. 

You shake your head a little. “So much more than okay. I love it, thank you.” 

“Good, and you’re welcome, the pleasure of setting it up was all mine, Doll.” He offers you his arm and it makes you grin and giggle like a love sick fool. You take it, looping your arm through his and letting him lead you to wherever it is you’ll be stargazing together. 

It requires a trip on the light rail and when you get off you’re even more unsure of what exactly Jack’s plan is. You’re near the Steelers’ stadium. “Are we stargazing at the stadium? Are they like doing an event?” 

“Nope.” Jack pops the ‘p’ a little and leads you down the street. 

“I’m very lost, I don’t think I’ve ever been down here at night.” You pause. “Not sober at least.” 

Jack chuckles softly to himself. “Hold on, we’re almost there.” You guys walk a bit more and Jack stops. “We’re here.” 

“This is where we’re stargazing?”

Jack points to the building up just a bit in front of you. “The planetarium.” You look where he’s pointing, the hand not holding his coming to rest over your lips. “I saw that they were doing late night programs and it made me think of you. You said you liked stars and space once, constellations. I’d love to take you real stargazing, and I promise to one day, but I wasn’t sure how long it would be until we could steal away to somewhere with a lot less light pollution. So I thought this was a nice compromise. I know we might not be able to talk as much as if we were out in the middle of nowhere, but at least we’ll have someone explaining what shit is. There’s a couple different shows we can see too.” He thinks it’s ridiculous how his heart rate speeds up, how he’s engaged to you and seen you almost die and been with you for more than two years and he’s still nervous about whether you like his date idea. 

“Compromise?” You laugh breathlessly as you turn back to him. “Jack, this is… incredible. I…” You close your mouth and laugh a little. “I’m kind of speechless. I had to have told you that back when we first started dating. I want to say I can’t believe you can remember but fuck,” you shake your head a bit, “I think you just remember everything about me.” 

“I try to keep track of it all. Sometimes I get lucky and my memory gets pinged, like when I saw the poster for this.” He lets out a breath. “Okay, good. I’m glad you like it, I got kind of worried there for a second.” 

“I more than like it Jack.” You slip your hand from his so that you can take his face in your hands. You smile at him and you’re sure it looks as gooey and in love as you feel. He knows that look.

Jack stifles a laugh. “You wanna say it together?” You keep the smile but scoff a little. “What? You get a look. It’s this very particular smile. I know what it means.” You squeeze his face a little and take a small breath in. 

“You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot,” you and Jack say in unison. He beams as he shakes his head at you, laughing softly and looking at you like you personally hung the moon and all of the stars you’re about to go see together just for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the anniversaries pass you and Jack really start to focus on wedding planning. While you didn’t want a two year engagement because you both just wanted to be married already, you knew it was the right call. You didn’t want the first anniversary of the shooting to fall a month and a bit after the wedding, since you’d chosen your anniversary as your date. And you needed the extra year for that day to fall on a Saturday, so you both felt it was just meant to be.

The first thing you end up really doing for the wedding is your registry. You weren’t even going to make a registry until Dana found out and convinced you that you should. It’s a spur of the moment thing one weekend. You haven’t done anything for the wedding really but you have a date and that’s enough to start a registry so you decide to go do it even though it seems out of order. It makes a great date for the two of you that has you laughing and dreaming about your future together. Neither of you expect anything from anyone. You make a couple at different places, to give people options. And because it’s fun to do. 

You and Jack browse Crate and Barrel. You don’t know why the sight of him in Crate and Barrel makes you a little giggly, but it does. “An espresso machine.” Jack cocks his head at it. “What do we need an espresso machine for?” he asks, scanning it in anyways despite his question.

“Espresso.” You offer no further explanation. 

Jack stops walking and lets out a deep sigh, hanging his head for a second and then shaking it to himself. But you both know he loves it, the sass. “You hardly drink espresso,” Jack points out.  

You shrug as you keep perusing. “Well maybe I would drink more if we had an espresso machine.”

“You really want someone to buy us an espresso machine?”

“Nobody is actually going to buy us an espresso machine. People know us better than that. And if they don’t then that’s what returns are for.” You turn around and smile at him. He’s shaking his head at you but wears a smile. 

“And when whoever gets it for us wants to come over and doesn’t see it out on the counter?” He raises his eyebrows in a little challenge as he walks closer to you and uses his free hand to squeeze your hip. 

You contemplate for a second. “We’ll make a list of people we can never invite over. Or we’ll keep the espresso machine.”

Shortly after making your registries you nail down a venue. It’s fairly overwhelming trying to find one in Pittsburgh because of the sheer number of options. And that’s just if you stay in Pittsburgh and don’t consider the surrounding areas. “I don’t know, Doll, I’m not good with that stuff. With words.” You and Jack are driving around the city looking at different options today. 

“I don’t know, Jack, the speech you gave as you proposed was pretty damn good.” Jack throws you a look. “They don’t have to be flowery or some crazy level of poetic beauty or whatever. All they have to be are vows from you. From your heart. I’m going to love them no matter what as long as they come from you. It’s not like I’m some poetic master.” You put your hand over his where it rests on your thigh. “If you really don’t want to, I’m not going to make us I just-”

“No,” he cuts you off because he doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea. “It’s not that I don’t want to, at all. I do want to. I don’t want us to get up there and only say the traditional vows. I like the idea of personal vows, I want that.” He lets out a big sigh. “I’m just concerned about my ability to… execute.”

“Can you name a challenge you took on and failed to rise to the occasion and execute?” You trace random shapes on the back of his hand, wait for an answer. One never comes. “That’s what I thought, because I know I’ve never seen it happen. Why don’t we plan to do them, and if we get closer and you’re concerned then we can revisit, yeah?”

Jack shakes his head as he pulls into a parking spot at the next place. He turns to look at you once he’s parked. “We’re doing them. No reevaluating. I want to do them. I have a lot to say to you, a lot to promise you.”

You beam at him. “I have a lot to say to you and promise you too.” You lean over the center console and push your lips out for a kiss that he’s happy to give you. “Come on. Maybe this will be the place we do all of our saying and promising.” 

This place will overwhelmingly not be where you and Jack get married. It is comically bad. You and Jack are both having to focus hard on not losing it with laughter.

The person showing you around is blissfully oblivious to your guys’ struggle. It’s not even so much that the place is bad, it’s how different it is than the photos you saw online. Your brain is truly hurting trying to figure out where the photos you saw online were taken and how the spaces could have ever looked like the photos. 

“I would love to know who took the online photos for them because they sure are talented,” Jack whispers as you follow the man into the reception room. 

“Same, I’d hire them for our wedding in a second.” You have to swallow hard right after saying it to keep from laughing. 

You and Jack both walk around the space and pretend to be interested as the man continues to talk about all the various features of the room. You make the mistake of glancing up and over at Jack. He’s not even looking at you, he’s standing behind the man showing you around who is somehow still talking about the features of the room staring at him with a look of concerned horror mixed with bewilderment. 

You spin so that you’re facing a wall and neither Jack nor the man, hand flying to clamp over your mouth as you bite your lip hard to keep from laughing. You walk away a bit, standing over near a random swatch of carpet embedded in one corner of the dancefloor. 

“Oh, yes!” The man calls to you and you shake your head to yourself a bit, have to let out a small scoffed laugh just to ease some of the tension in you. “The dance floor is great, isn’t it! A great size and the flooring is beautiful.”  

You nod. “Yeah, it’s so pretty,” you force out, voice a couple of octaves higher as you hold in your laughter. You don’t have to be looking at Jack to know his eyes snap to you, the shit-eating grin that pulls up on his face radiating off him even from across the room. 

You already know he’s on his way over to you so you take a couple of deep breaths and pull yourself together. You focus on the wall in front of you. You know that if you look at Jack you’ll break. 

“Everything alright, Dear?” Jack asks in a whisper as he walks up to stand next to you all fake saccharine and concern in his tone. The man has launched into some tale about some famous Pittsburgh native who had their wedding here.

“I’m great.” You nod, swallowing hard. “I’m really great.” 

“You sure?” He’s smirking now. “You can’t even meet my eyes.” 

“I’m not looking at you. And you know why.” You shake your head, keep your eyes focused on the wall in front of you. 

“But I have a very cute face. You tell me so all the time.” You can hear his pout. 

“Jack,” you warn, lips twitching up. 

“Okay! Okay!” The way he gave it up so quickly has you on edge.

“Jack. I swear to god.” You do your best to sound stern but there’s too much of a laughing lilt to your voice to be at all effective. 

“I said okay!” he protests. You’re still suspicious. 

And you’re right to be. You and Jack move across the room and get a bit closer to the man, do your best to pretend you’re interested in the story and the space. You make the mistake of looking away so that Jack is no longer in even your peripheral vision. And that’s when he makes his move, casually reaching his hand towards you and pinching your ass.

“Jack!” You manage to keep your shrill laughed yell of his name at a relative whisper as you bat away his hand. The only thing that saves you from cracking up is your very smart choice not to look at Jack.

Not quiet enough though. The man turns around. “Pardon?”

You’re immediately grabbing Jack and turning him, pretending to point at something across the room. Your voice is still a couple octaves higher as you fight back the laughter. “Oh, I was just pointing… that out to him.” You smile and nod at the guy. It evidently placates him enough because he launches straight back into whatever his current story is about. 

“That? That is what you came up with?” Jack whispers, finally looks like you’re making him struggle to keep from laughing. 

“I couldn’t pick one of the many fucking thats in the room fast enough!” This time you reach out to poke his side but he’s too fast, catches your hand with a smug grin. But you’ve played this game enough times with Jack. 

While he focuses on the hand he ends up catching you’re subtly moving your other hand near him. So the second that smug grin hits you poke his side, arching a brow and giving him his own smug grin back when he jolts and lets out half a laugh that he then pretends was a cough. 

You look away from him and take a few steps away because it’s getting to be too much again. “Jack.” Another warning as he comes up behind you again, still too much laugh in it for it to be particularly effective.

“I promise I’ll be good.” You believe him this time, can hear it in his voice. He presses his lips to your temple. 

“You better be,” you whisper. You can feel him smile and give you another kiss there before pulling away. 

Mercifully, the man concludes the tour and asks if you’d like to come in to book a date and discuss options. You’ve recovered enough to let him know you guys are going to look at a few more just to be sure. 

Both you and Jack are surprised when the guy appears to be fine with that and doesn’t insist you come back to his desk for some hard sell. You’re sure fucking grateful for it though because there’s no fucking way you guys would have kept it together at a table with this man.

The man walks you to your car which you both find odd, but the look you exchange is an agreement that the move fits the vibe of the place. 

You had both been doing so well, no longer on the verge of tears of laughter. But then the man tells you what weddings start at for the event and you both have to stifle laughs because there is no fucking way anybody is paying that much for this. You just nod at the guy and accept the second brochure he gives you as he tells you that if you guys decide to do the wedding here he can offer you a thirty percent discount. 

Jack decides this is the perfect time to return to your little game. 

“Thank you very much, we’ll be in-” Jack chooses then to pinch your ass again, making you blurt out half a laugh that you somehow manage to stop from devolving into the fit of laughter you have the urge to break into. You clear your throat. “We’ll be in touch, thank you.” 

You stand there frozen and smiling until the man is far enough away and then let out a long breath. Jack pinches your ass again. 

“Oh my god! Jack Daniel Abbot!” you shrill as you turn to him. “You were so trying to make me come unglued in there and out here you asshole!” It’s all bark and absolutely no bite. You’re not mad or even really trying to chide him. You love it. 

“Oh?” Jack laughs. “Whisky on your mind, lover? Because I know my middle name isn’t Daniel and I know you know that.” 

You huff and roll your eyes. “It just came out okay! It’s just what rolled off my tongue in the moment because I’m so mad at you!”

“Oh no, you’re not mad at me. Not even a little. You fucking love it.” Jack smirks, looking like the cat who got the cream. And he’s right and he knows it.“But would you like to see what can roll off my tongue in the moment?”

For whatever reason that’s what makes you crack. That comment. Within seconds you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, and Jack is right behind you.

“That was so bad,” you almost whisper through your laughter. You both laugh so hard you go soundless, laugh so hard it hurts and you both cry. You end up leaning into Jack to help stay standing because you can’t stop fucking laughing.

“I can’t breathe,” you laugh, keep laughing even after you say it, tears dripping from your eyes.

“If you can laugh and talk you can breathe,” Jack manages to get out, wiping away some of his own tears of laughter.

“Oh,” you give him a fake glare through your tears, “don’t you get fucking medical with me right now, Dr. Abbot.”  

You both start to calm down, laughter trailing off and giving way to sniffles and coughs to clear your throats, the occasional giggle from both of you. Jack gives one last huff of a laugh. “Come on, Doll. Let’s get in the car.” 

Jack’s hand finds the small of your back and he leads you the little bit of the way left to the car, opening the passenger door for you and shutting it once you’re in. You’ve been together over two years now and him opening and closing the door for you still makes you melt. It’s just so Jack in a way you don’t know how to describe.

Jack gets in the car and closes his door and you both let out long breaths at the same time before spending a moment in a comfortable silence, both of you thinking back on that entire tour. 

“That was certainly…” you trail off, giving a long shake of your head as you look for the word. 

“Something,” Jack fills in for you. “That was certainly something.” 

You and Jack burst back into laughter. It doesn’t last anywhere near as long this time, but you both get a little teary again because the whole thing is so fucking absurd.

“Is it bad…” Jack trails off, sniffling and wiping some tears from his eyes as he laughs a little more. “Oh god,” he sniffles again, “is it bad that it’s so bad it almost makes me want to get married there?”

You shake your head, laughing harder for a second. “No. No, because I had the same thought for a second. It would be so bad it would be good. It’s like The Room.” The thought makes your laughter pick back up for a second before you both finally start to come down.

“We’re not going to actually do it though, right?” Jack asks as you both recover from all the laughing. 

“No.” You shake your head a bit as you sniffle and wipe the last of your tears off your face. “Absolutely not, no.”

“Alright then let’s get out of here.” Jack leans over the center console and gives you a quick kiss. 

“Yes,” you type the next venue into your phone so the directions show on the car’s infotainment screen, “let’s.”  

This time, you both fall in love with the venue almost immediately. It’s perfect for the two of you and just the right size for your smaller and more intimate wedding. You and Jack wander up and stand at the place you think you’ll set up the altar, turn to face each other and hold hands. “What do you think?” you ask him quietly. 

“I think that this is where I’m going to be standing the first time I see you in your wedding dress,” he smiles. 

“Yeah?” you breathe. “You love it?”

“I think it’s perfect.” Jack wraps his arms around you and pulls you close. “Wanna practice the best part?” You giggle as you nod and wrap your arms around Jack’s neck. Jack’s smiling as he leans in to kiss you. It’s lingering but chaste. Jack pulls away from you and you’re immediately back to smiling at one another. He leans in for another kiss and this time he catches you by surprise when he dips you and you feel him laugh against your lips. He brings you back up, keeps holding onto you. “We have a venue.”

You nod, still smiling, probably look like a love drunk fool but you don’t care. “We have a venue.”

The next item crossed off the list is a dress for you. You keep your group small, a friend from work and Dana, Heather and Mel, the Pitt crew you’ve become the closest with through all of this.

You stand at the desk with the four of them, Robby, and Jack. Dana had put in for a half shift so she could attend and you’re collecting her on your way to the store. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come? Robby can handle it here by himself.”

“Excuse me? Have you looked at the board?” Robby points up to it. 

“I’m sure.” You give Jack a knowing smile. “You get to see it on the day when I’m at the top of the aisle my love.”

“Alright, I just thought I’d offer.” Jack holds up his hands. You know he’s dying at the thought a little. It’s one thing for him to know you’ll be getting a wedding dress. It’s another for him to know you have a wedding dress and he can’t see it. 

“You’ll be fine Jack.” Dana swats at him. 

“You know I could come? If you’d like a male perspective,” Robby offers. “Jack can handle it here by himself.” You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing, Dana not even trying to hide her snicker while your friend, Heather and Mel turn their heads. 

“Absolutely fucking not!” Jack hisses. “Michael does not get to see my wife in her wedding dress before I do!”

Nobody comments on his slip. On the way Jack just called you his wife. You bite your lip even harder at it and look to the side and exchange glances with Mel, who shoots you a wide eyed look of excitement and surprise at it. 

You look over at Robby and smile. “I appreciate the offer Robby, but I think the five of us will make out okay. You guys ready?” You look at the group. When everyone agrees you turn your attention back to Jack, walk over to give him a quick kiss. “Have a good day at work, Peter.”

“Have fun dress shopping.” He kisses your forehead. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

You nod at him and the five of you leave out the ambulance bay doors. It’s not a long trip to the wedding dress shop you found, a short ride on the light rail and up a few blocks. Your consultant is nice, asks what you’re looking for. You’re not really sure and not trying to box yourself into anything so you’re kind of open to anything. You tell her about the venue, the general feeling you’d like the dress to have, your budget and trust her to go pick the dress. 

It’s strange sitting in the dressing room. You think back on everything, your whole relationship with Jack, how much you’ve already been through together. You fidget with the ring on your finger as you wait. He really did do a great job picking out a ring and you love that it’s bespoke and so yours alone. 

Eventually your consultant returns with an overwhelming amount of sparkle and tulle and lace and chiffon and silk organza and taffeta in every shade of white and some blush tones. You start trying them on. You try on five or six, come out to show your party four of them. You all agree that none have been quite right. You get closer as you try on dresses but it’s hard not to feel a bit discouraged. You want to find the one so badly. 

Once you’re out of the last dress your consultant runs back to the stockroom, tells you she thinks she’s thought of the perfect dress. You take a little gasp when she walks in with it and shows it off to you. It’s stunning just on the hanger. Just having it on before you turn to see yourself you already feel like it’s the one. The dress you’re supposed to marry Jack in. 

“Oh wow,” you breathe as you turn around and look at yourself in the mirror of the dressing room. Tears start to form but you do your best to blink them away. You head out to show the group and you aren’t even conscious of it, but you’re beaming. 

You get up on the pedestal and face yourself in the mirror. The dress highlights all the right places, the color goes perfectly with your skin tone and makes you look glowy. But most importantly it makes you feel good, which can be so hard for you to find. As you take yourself in you realize the dress makes you feel how Jack makes you feel when he looks at you. Special and beautiful.

“What do you guys think?” Your consultant helps you turn towards them. 

“That’s the one.” Dana smiles back at you.

“Unquestionably,” your friend agrees. 

Heather and Mel agree as your consultant brings over some accessories including a beautiful veil for you to decide on. You turn back and look at yourself in the mirror all done up and are handed a tissue because you get so teary. It’s perfect. 

“You guys think Jack will like it?” you ask.

All of them laugh a little at that and you half turn back around. “What?” You give a little laugh too because of the looks on their faces. 

“As cliché as it is, you could walk down the aisle in a trash bag and Jack would love it and think you’re the most beautiful thing in the world.” Heather smirks at you. 

“He’s going to love this. You look so, so beautiful.” Mel beams at you. “And gorgeous and stunning.”

“He’s going to fucking lose it when he sees you,” your friend laughs softly, squeezing Dana’s arm as Dana leans into her a little to show her agreement.

“He’ll cry.” Dana nods, a little teary herself. You know she has a special relationship with Jack, that they’ve known each other a long time and she, like Robby, has seen him through some of the worst moments of his life, helped save him too. 

“He fucking better,” you laugh through a sniffle, blotting at your eyes. You look back at yourself in the mirror and get a bit teary again. “It just makes it so real, you know? We’re really getting married. I’m getting married to him in this dress.” 

“So you’re saying yes?” Mel asks, huge smile on her face. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yes. This is my wedding dress.” Everyone claps and gets up to give you hugs. You take some photos of course and then get everything bought, get told to make sure you have your shoes by the time of your first alteration appointment. The five of you grab an early dinner and then you head home and wait for Jack. 

You’re chilling on the couch with your feet laid out on it, head propped up a bit with a pillow and the armrest, scrolling and watching tv. You’re in one of Jack’s old oversized t-shirts and a pair of booty shorts. The way you’re laying on the couch though makes it seem like you have nothing on under them. You hear the sound of the door unlocking and Jack step in. “Honey, I’m home!” he calls out teasingly as he drops his bag and gets his shoes off. “Well,” Jack drawls, voice lower than normal, walking towards the couch, “this is a sight I could get very used to.” 

You laugh and affectionately roll your eyes at him as he starts to crawl up the couch between your legs. You drop your phone to the side and widen your hips to help accommodate him. “Hi.” You smile at him and give him the kiss he seeks. Jack lowers himself so that he’s laying on you, chest to chest with his head resting to one side. He can hear your heartbeat and lets out a big sigh, shoulders sagging a bit. “Long day?” 

“Yeah. Not a bad one, just long.” You start running your hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp and it makes Jack hum, nuzzle into your chest. “That constant kind of busy that’s just draining some days.” He can’t help but let out another hum of contentment as you let him lay on you and scratch his scalp and let him listen to your heartbeat and smell you. Let him become enveloped by you. It’s always so relaxing. Sometimes he falls asleep and you stay like that until he wakes up hungry and realizing you both need dinner. 

He lets out another big sigh, this one full of fake hardship. “Plus I had to spend all day thinking about my fiancée out getting her wedding dress and knowing she won’t show me or give me a hint about it.” He playfully bites at your chest over his shirt, his voice so deliberately overdramatic it makes you laugh. “You find one?” You can hear the smile in his voice now. 

“I did, yeah.” He can hear the smile in your voice now. You don’t say anything more, in part because you have nothing else to say and in part because you know he’s going to comment. 

When you don’t speak he fills the silence like you knew he would. “You wanna show me? Give me something? A little hint?”

He can feel the vibrations of the quiet laugh his words pull from you. “Not particularly, no.” Jack makes a little noise of protest. “Alright. A trade.” Jack nuzzles into you again in acknowledgment. “You can see me and the dress if I can know where we’re going for our honeymoon.”

“No!” Jack says immediately. “I want it to be a surprise.”

His head moves with your chest as you laugh properly at that. “That’s how I feel about my dress.” You let one of your hands come up to his face, brush your thumb over his cheekbone. “You know I’ve never actually seen you in your dress blues, so really your dress blues are your dress.”

“I’ll show you a photo of me in my dress blues if you’ll show me a photo of you in your dress,” Jack is quick to offer as an alternative trade even though he knows it’s in vain. 

“Nope.” You pop the p. “I’ll wait to see you just like you’ll wait to see me.” 

You decide not to wait on wedding bands though, not to pick them out for each other and have them be a surprise for the other like some couples prefer to do. You guys want the experience of going in and doing it together. 

You go, of course, to the local store where Jack got your engagement ring. The owner is thrilled to meet you and see the woman he helped Jack design the ring for. You talk about wedding bands and what you’re looking for. You guys walk around and pick a couple out and then the owner brings over more options, from simple metal bands to more intricate bands with diamonds for you, a couple of men’s options with diamonds too. 

Jack picks one he likes and slips it on his finger. He looks down at it as he clenches his fist to see how the band thickness feels before straightening it back out. It hits him, how he’s really going to be married. To you. And seeing a ring on Jack’s finger levels you in a way you weren’t expecting. 

“Wow.” It’s a little breathy, the way you say it. It makes Jack look over at you. “I thought getting the dress made it feel real, but this, you with a wedding ring on… wow.” You look up at Jack and give him an equally breathy laugh. 

“Yeah,” he breathes back, clearly also a bit dazed. “Put one on,” he encourages. 

You take your engagement ring off, pick one and slide it on, stare down at your hand. “I know you’ve had a ring on but still,” Jack swallows thickly. 

“It’s a wedding ring,” you murmur, staring down at your hand. You slide your engagement ring back on and hold your hand out again, the wedding ring you tried on sitting nicely underneath it. “That’s so wild.”

Jack starts laughing because that’s such a you thing to say. He leans into you and gives you a kiss on the cheek. “I love you,” he murmurs. 

“Love you too,” you hum back. You both try on quite a few more. It’s easier for the two of you to pick one for Jack than it is for you. You’re overwhelmed by all the options. “I’m glad I didn’t have to pick out the engagement ring,” you mumble. 

Jack nods with you. “I’m glad I just saw the ring and knew it was almost perfect. And I’m glad we’re picking this one out together.”

“I don’t know how to decide. They’re all so pretty.” You wiggle your ring finger a bit so the diamonds catch the light as you evaluate the current option you’re wearing. You take it off and then look over the tray of rings you haven’t tried. One catches your eye. It’s over in the corner of the tray by happenstance so it was easy for you to overlook with all of the choices. You recognize it as one of the ones Jack had picked out when you were looking around. You slip it on and evaluate by itself. It’s perfect. You slide your engagement ring on top and it remains perfect, the wedding ring complementing your engagement ring as though they were made to be worn together, even with their differences. 

You hold your hand up again, wiggle it. “I really love that look,” Jack murmurs. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” you agree. “It’s perfect.” You pull your eyes from the rings and look up at Jack who’s already looking down at you with a soft smile. “This is the one. This is my wedding ring.” You lean up and kiss him. You keep it chaste and short since you’re in public with the owner nearby. “You picked it out, you know.”

Jack nods, eyes earnest and crinkling a bit at the corners with the small smile he wears. “Yeah I remember. I had a feeling. But I didn’t want to pressure you. And I promise I don’t love it just because I’m the one who picked it out.”

“I know, I never thought that.” You look back down at your hand and grab his left hand, place yours on top, fingers offset by one so that his wedding ring sits next to your engagement and wedding rings. “We have our wedding rings.”

Jack grins at you, eyes sparkling like the gemstones surrounding you. “We have our wedding rings.”

About five months out from the wedding you go catering and cake tasting. Jack loves to pretend he doesn’t have a sweet tooth but you know he does. It’s why you love baking for him so much, because you know he loves it and enjoys everything you make. You know his likes well by now. He likes sweet but not too sweet. 

“That’s alotta fucking cake.” Jack’s eyebrows are raised as he watches the woman bring the big tray of cake samples over to you. 

“Well,” you have to fight back a laugh at the way Jack said alotta fucking cake. “We certainly won’t be able to say we didn’t have options.” The woman sets the tray down. Each small slice of cake has a number in front of it, and she hands you a piece of paper that describes each of the cakes as identified by their corresponding number. “We need a whole ass pamphlet to explain what the options are.” Jack snorts at that, pulls his phone out and takes a photo quickly. “An experience you don’t want to forget?”

“I’m sending it to Robby.” He glances at you and you quirk an eyebrow at him. “He wanted to come to the cake tasting so fucking bad.” 

“So you’re showing him what he’s missing out on?” You smirk at Jack.

“No, I am encouraging him to find someone so that he can have his own cake tasting. I’m tempted to send it in the group chat with Dana so that she gets on his ass about it.” He looks so amused with himself you have to chuckle. Jack puts his phone back on the table next to yours. “Sorry. Just had to do that. I’m focused now.”

You laugh softly and lean into Jack a little, each of you holding the pamphlet with one hand. “Lemon blueberry with tangerine icing is interesting.” 

“I bet it’s good, though. Refreshing. Oh, espresso ganache,” Jack has to hold back a laugh. “How fancy.”

“I think you’re going to like that.” You point to a different one. “Ginger-infused cake with cognac. I think that’s the one that says fancy.” 

“Espresso ganache? You really think I’m going to like that? I prefer my coffee black, my americanos black. Not with mocha or whatever else. Ginger cognac does sound fancier though. I bet it’s good.”

“I am quite certain you’ll like it in the context of a cake.” You keep looking. “Almond. I like a nice simple almond cake. Oh fuck, cannoli cake I bet that’s so good, it has cannoli filling layers.”

“Yeah but their almond cake isn’t going to beat yours, so. I’m not convinced about the ganache.” Jack shrugs. You smile to yourself at his compliment. “English lavender with earl grey buttercream is probably good. Red velvet. But again, yours is so good. Glazed donut is interesting, but okay. Butterscotch bourbon, that’s probably really good. Oh, here’s the winner. Sultry chocolate cake. Not just chocolate cake. Sultry chocolate cake.” 

“It sounds like something for the honeymoon suite. Imagine having to put that on the placard things or whatever that tell people what the cake is. Sultry chocolate cake. And you haven’t tried the ganache yet, of course you’re not convinced.” You take in a breath and look up at Jack. “I think we just have to start trying. Unless there are any you want to eliminate right away.”

“We’re here now with them in front of us. Might as well try them all.” Jack shrugs. “How about starting with the strawberry champagne cake?” You nod and Jack grabs the slice and sets it in front of you. You each take a bite and make a little noise of appreciation at how good it is. You keep trying new flavors, some immediately being taken out of contention. 

“Let’s try the glazed donut. I feel like it’s going to be kind of weird,” You say as you grab the plate and bring it in front of you both. “Like if you want the taste of glazed donut at your wedding just have fucking glazed donuts.” 

Jake takes a bite and hums in appreciation. It’s not bad. “Donuts aren’t as elegant.”

You fake roll your eyes at him as you take a bite. You shrug. “It’s not terrible, but I just come back to have donuts.”

“Agree, it’s not bad but also not going to be our wedding cake flavor.” Jack nods. You both look over the pamphlet and try a few more, a couple of which you’re really considering. 

“Cannoli next?” He knows this one will likely end up in the serious contenders section of the table, clears a spot for it. Jack grabs the slice and sets it in front of the two of you, takes a forkful. 

“I’d always rather be your cannoli than glazed donut,” you hum softly as Jack starts to chew.

Jack chokes a little, managing to get the bite down in stuttering gasps, coughing and reaching for the bottle of water they’d given you as you pat his back and bite your lip. You feel bad, you hadn't meant to make him choke. Once he settles you take a bite of the cake. Unsurprisingly, it’s really fucking good. 

“What did you just say?” Jack’s finally able to whisper, voice a bit scratchy. 

You furrow your brows in feigned innocence. “That I’d always rather have cannoli cake than glazed donut cake?”

“No,” Jack draws the word out and gives a little laugh. “I don’t think so.” You deepen the furrow of your brow in mock confusion. “I think you should admit it, lest you end up my glazed donut for a while.”

You snort. “Please. You love filling your cannoli way too much. I’d be your glazed donut maybe once before I was back to being your cannoli.”

“Is that a challenge?” Jack narrows his eyes at you. 

“No.” You pull your lips down and shake your head as you take another bit of the cake on your fork. You look back up at Jack. “It’s a statement of fact, Peter.” You finish bringing the fork to your mouth and take the bite while maintaining eye contact with him. 

“Oh,” he laughs out the word softly. “Is it now?”

“Mhhhm,” you nod as you keep your mouth closed and chew. “And I love that fact about you so much, because like I said, I’d always rather be your cannoli than glazed donut.”

“Good,” Jack nods, trying his hardest to seem unaffected and succeeding in relation to everyone except for you. “Thank you for saying it.” 

“I think it should go in the serious contender area.” You flick your chin at the cake. 

“I already made a space Doll.” Jack gives you a little smirk. “I know you and your tastes very well by now.” 

You try a few more, none of which either of you really cares for. Then Jack goes to try the cake featuring the espresso ganache. You look at him expectantly with a little smirk on your face. You can see him fighting to keep his face neutral as he tries it. “Okay. I’ll admit it. You were right, it’s actually really fucking good.”

“See!” You poke at his tummy. “I know you and your tastes very well, Jack Abbot.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jack takes another bite. “I think this is actually one of my favorites. You could totally recreate this at home I bet. I could have it for every birthday or special occasion.” 

You consider it as you take another bite. You probably could. But then a slow smirk draws on your face and you look at Jack. You can’t help yourself. “Jack, my love. My darling. Love of my life. Do you know what making this at home would require?” Jack shakes his head while working on another bite. Your smirk grows. “An espresso machine.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can tell by the way he unlocks the door and steps in. He doesn’t say anything as he locks the door behind him. Jack just drops his bag and looks at you.

“Rough shift?” You grimace a little just from his expression. He looks demoralized almost, which is rare for him. 

Jack walks over and sits next to you on the couch, leaning in to grab a kiss before answering. It feels a little different than his usual home from work kisses, lasts a little longer. 

“You could say.” He lets himself sink back into the couch. You wait, see if he wants to volunteer more. Jack shakes his head a little. “Just lost a few people, more than usual.” You reach over and squeeze his thigh, move a bit closer to him and lean on him a bit. You know feeling close to you can help. 

“I’m sorry it was a bad day, Peter,” you murmur. You know that there’s not much you can say that will help right now. This is one of those parts of Jack’s job that hits much harder some shifts than others and no words will take it away or fix it. All you can do is listen and be here for him and let him know he doesn’t have to bear it alone.   

“No kids.” Jack shrugs. “I guess at least there’s that.” Jack’s hands grab your hand from his thigh, hold it between his.

It’s a cover. There’s something about the way he says it, his tone and the particular mannerism of his shrug and the way he picks up and holds your hand between his. You nod to yourself slightly. He can’t say it out loud. Either can’t or doesn’t want to. But you know. 

“How far away was the wedding?” you whisper. 

Jack lets out a pained laugh. “Fuck,” he mutters. He squeezes your hand and you know he’s saying thank you for knowing and seeing me and understanding and asking when I couldn’t say it. “Six months.” You rest your other hand on the top of his and squeeze gently. “And now he’s going home alone with a funeral to plan and a wedding to cancel. God, and I feel so fucking selfish and like a terrible person for saying this with what that guy is going through but I really could have done without having to watch him slide her engagement ring off her finger.” The fingers of his bottom hand instinctively search for yours. 

You wince at his words, heart aching at the thought of him having to watch that scene unfold. “Thinking that doesn’t make you selfish Jack, it makes you human.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Jack drops your hand and rubs his hands over his face. “I don’t want to dwell. It was just a rough day.” 

You respect his wish, don’t keep talking about it or try and get him to open up to you about it more right now. He’s told you that’s not what he needs. “Can I get you anything? Beer? I could go draw you a bath?”

Jack finally turns his head as it rests against the couch to look at you. “No.” Jack reaches for you, grabs at one of your hips and thighs. You get that message too and slide yourself onto his lap so that you sit perpendicular to him. Jack rests his forehead against the side of your neck for a second and breathes deep before pulling back. “I just want to be here with you for a bit.”

“Then here for a bit is where we’ll be.” You give him an adoring smile and lean in closer to him, cup his face with your hands. You kiss all over his face, but not in a flurry like you do sometimes. You take your time, plant each kiss deliberately and linger it for just a second to make sure Jack really feels it. You start at his hairline, move back across his forehead. You kiss each of his eyebrows and the space between them, his temples and then his eyelids, soft lashes fluttering against your lips. You kiss his cheek bones and the bridge of his nose, the apples of his cheeks and then the tip of his nose. You kiss the skin around his mouth, the bottom of his cheeks, and then his jawline and chin. And then you kiss his lips and Jack takes over. 

You yield to him, let him take control and deepen it, your hands sliding down to hold onto his scrub top as Jack licks into your mouth and groans. He’s needed this all day, all fucking day. Needed you. He doesn’t even need more, he just needs you, in some capacity. Eventually the two of you are forced apart by the need for oxygen. 

“I’m here,” you murmur. 

Jack takes in a big breath and lets it out a bit shakily. “Yeah,” he brings his hands up to cup your face, looks you in the eyes. “You are.” You let yourself lean into Jack, rest your head on his shoulder as his arms wrap around you to keep you close. You just sit like that for a while, let Jack hold you and feel you and come down from work.

“So I was thinking,” Jack starts.

You can’t help yourself. “Uh-oh, we’re in trouble now.”

Jack rolls his eyes at you and clicks his tongue, but he’s grateful for it, the way you help shift the mood. He needs it, to have a good night with you, the two of you just being normal together. “I was thinking that once we’re back from our honeymoon and have settled for a couple of months, what if we started looking at houses? Or a townhouse? Condo even, I guess. Something that’s ours. That we own together. As the Abbots.”

You pull yourself up from resting on him and blink at him for a moment, brain processing what Jack just asked. Not in a bad way, in a holy shit you can’t believe this man just asked if you wanted to buy a house together way. “You want to buy a house with me?”

Jack bites back a smile. “I want to do everything with you, Doll. Part of the reason I asked you to marry me.”

 “No! I know, I don’t doubt that or you, I’m sorry if I made it seem that way-”

“You didn’t,” Jack interrupts to quell your worry, one hand rubbing your back. “It was a very adorable reaction.”

“Okay, good.” You let out a little laugh. “I don’t know, I know it’s only like four months away, but sometimes I still can’t believe I’m going to be your wife and you’re going to be my husband. And we’re going to be the Abbots.” 

Jack squeezes your hip a bit at wife. “I get it. Sometimes I still can’t believe it either.” He lets out a bit of a sigh. “You know what would help me believe it more and make it even more real?”

“Oh I have a feeling I do,” you mutter, eyes preemptively rolling.

“Seeing you in your wedding dress.” There’s the slightest edge of hope in his voice even though Jack knows you’re not going to say yes. Doesn’t stop him from giving you his biggest puppy eyes though. 

“There it is.” You shake your head at him. “Not happening, sir.” You pause for a second. “But I do think it’s kind of cute how you keep trying.” You boop his nose and he moves his head up to playfully try and bite your finger. “To answer your question though, I would like that. A lot.” 

A slow smile spreads over Jack’s face. “Yeah?” He nods once as he says it.

“Yeah.” You nod too and lean in to kiss him. “I want to buy a house or something with you.” You run your hands through his hair and tug at his curls just slightly as you kiss him again, a little way you have of saying you love him.

“That reminds me,” Jack breathes when you break the kiss finally. “Do you want me to keep my hair this length for the wedding or get it cut shorter like I kept it when we met?”

You shrug. “It’s up to you, it’s your hair. You didn’t give me any input on my wedding hair.”

“Well no, but it’s a bit different.”

You give him a bemused smile. “I don’t think it is Peter.”

“A little.” You go to speak again but Jack beats you to it. “Your preference? Please.” He gives you a little pout. 

“Jack,” your eyes dart around his face a little trying to read him before moving up to his hair,  “you know what my preference is. But I want you to be happy and feel good more than I want my preference.” 

“Do I?” He ignores the last sentence which makes you laugh slightly. You realize something in him just wants to hear you say it right now. That you love his curls, that you prefer it at the just slightly longer length he has it now because it shows more of his curls. Just to feel close and talk about the wedding without talking about the wedding given what happened today.

“I love your curls. I prefer it at this length because it shows them off a bit more, but you’re the most attractive and handsome man I’ve ever had the privilege of laying eyes on, let alone calling mine, however you have your hair.” You run your hands through it, smiling to yourself a little without even fully realizing it. It’s a bit fluffier right now, the curls pulled out a bit from how much he must have ran his hands through his hair this shift. You love it so much. Love him so much. 

“And I love the salt and pepper. God, Jack, I really fucking love the salt and pepper.” You shift on his lap slightly, roll your ass just a little. “I love it everywhere.” You look him in the eyes and lick your lips. 

Jack’s eyes darken as his pupils dilate, cock starting to harden in his scrubs. Jack has started to go gray everywhere and you can both very easily and very clearly remember the night it first became visible enough for you to notice. He throbs just at the thought. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hum as your hands find the hem of Jack’s scrub top and start pulling it off. You deliberately keep his undershirt on, love the way he looks in it alone, how tight it is against all of him. “All of it drives me insane.” Jack lifts his arms and you finish getting his scrub top off, tossing it wherever. You nuzzle your cheek against his, stubble grown out a bit since he last shaved. “Stubble too.”

You slide yourself off Jack’s lap and he whines a bit, tries to grab at your thighs to pull you back but you don’t let him. “Shh, let me do this for you, okay?” You coo at him as you move yourself to stand in front of Jack, his legs opening for you automatically. 

“Doll,” Jack breathes as you sink to your knees in between his, one hand starting to rub at his now fully hard cock over his scrub pants. “You don’t have to do this-”

“Oh I know I don’t have to, Jack. I want to. I’ve been thinking about having you in my mouth all day. So please?” You push your bottom lip out for him. “Let me help you relax, Dr. Abbot.” 

“Fuck,” Jack groans, eyes fluttering shut and head tipping back a little already. “You’re so good to me.” 

“No, I just treat you how you deserve,” you hum as your hands find the waistbands of his scrub pants and boxer briefs, eyes taking in the outline of his cock intently before you go to pull them both down at once. 

“Wait.” You pull your head back to look up at him and take your hands off his waistband. Jack grabs a pillow. “Here, put this under your knees. I know you like the bruises but you need to let the ones you have heal.”

“You’re so good to me.” You mirror his words back at him, eyes sparkling with adoration as you take the pillow from him and put it under your knees. You smirk as you return your hands to his waistband. “Just makes me want to give it to you even sloppier, Jack.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you for having a late lunch with me and dropping me off at work,” Jack gives you a little smirk as you stop near the fire hydrant at the corner where the street turns into the ambulance entrance. He’s working an odd mid shift today to help cover. 2 p.m. to 2 a.m. It kind of sucks because it’s a Saturday, but you at least made the most of the morning and had a nice lunch out together. 

“Anytime, Peter. Thanks for asking.” You smile at him and set your hands on his chest as his come to rest on your hips. “Do you know what is exactly three months from today?” Your eyes sparkle as you say it. 

“Hmmm,” Jack hums, pretending to think. “The best day of my life?”

You press your lips together and smile, tilt your head at him and grab at his scrub top a little. Your eyes get just a little bit glassy because you know how much he means it. “That was really good,” you laugh. 

“I thought so.” He gives you a self-satisfied grin. “It’s true too.”

“I know,” you nod, “it’ll be the best day of mine too.” You slide your hands up around his neck and hug him, relish in the feeling of his hands sliding off your hips and around your back as he returns your hug, backpack hanging off one shoulder like always. “Have a good shift, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” he nods. “You should just take an uber home.” You raise your brows at him. He glances up at the sky. “It might rain. You don’t have an umbrella. It’s not a long walk home but it’ll feel like it if it starts to rain.” 

He’s right. The clouds do look threatening but when you looked at the weather earlier it said it wasn’t going to rain until later. Hence why you didn’t bring an umbrella. “Okay.” You shrug and pull out your phone. “I’ll let you know when I get home. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Jack pulls you in for one last kiss, lets it linger before pulling away and squeezing your hand. He turns and walks down towards the ambulance entrance and you stay where you’re at while you order an uber.

Jack nods at Robby as he walks in, slows for a second when he hears a car honking. It’s harder to tell this far away but it’s definitely coming from the direction he just came from. It stops though and he takes a couple more steps when the sound of screeching tires, crunching metal, shattering glass, the high pressured spraying of water and screaming draws everyone’s attention. An accident right outside the ambulance bay. Good spot for it, Jack thinks until it hits him. The water. The fire hydrant. 

You’re standing on that corner. 

No, no no no. This is not fucking happening. This is so not fucking happening. It’s three months to the fucking day before your wedding. The universe cannot possibly be this cruel. 

The problem is Jack knows it can be. That it often is. 

And he knows that you were standing on that corner because of him. Because he asked you to have lunch with him and walk with him to work. Because he said you should just get an uber home and you listened to him instead of walking like you were going to. And now what? He’s going to be left with a wedding to try and cancel and a funeral to plan and wedding rings you never got to give each other and a wedding dress he never got to see you in? 

All that and a hope and a prayer Dana has a photo of you in your dress so he can see you in it just once. 

All of these thoughts go through his mind in mere seconds. Jack is panicking. Silently and for the most part stoically. He looks up at Robby for a second and Robby just knows by the look in Jack’s eye. 

Jack drops his backpack and takes off running out the door, multiple people following him. They’re all headed to help victims, anyone who might need help. Jack is headed for you and you only. He almost hopes he doesn’t see you but he knows there’s no way you got an uber and drove far enough away in the twenty or thirty seconds it took him to walk in. 

But there you are. 

Walking down from the corner towards him and calling his name and trying to reassure him already, holding your arms out a little for him as he gets to you, not sure what his instinct will be. As soon as shit had stopped flying you’d started walking quickly towards the ambulance entrance doors, taking a bit of an arc to avoid getting soaked. You knew Jack likely heard the accident and would be worried and out looking for you. 

He says your name as he gets closer to you, panting less from the short run and more from the intensifying panic. “Are you hurt? Were you hit?” Slip of the tongue there that you both catch. His hands cup your face as he looks over your face. They drop quickly though to hold so that  his eyes can trail unobstructed up and down your body almost methodically.

“I’m okay, I promise.” You grab his hands. “Jack, I’m okay. I wasn’t involved and the crash wasn’t even that bad, it sounded much worse, some guy drove straight into an empty and parked car and someone swerved to avoid him and hit the hydrant. I saw it coming and moved down the street.”

“No offense Doll but I’m okay is so the fuck not going to do it this time.” The way he says it isn’t mean or snippy or angry. It’s scared. Jack finally looks at you, really looks at you in your eyes. “You’re coming in for an exam. You could have been hit by debris, a sharp piece of headlight plastic and you’re probably having an adrenaline rush so you might not feel it and you’re in all black so I can’t get a good look at you and blood isn’t obvious. So just, you’re coming in and I’m going to look you over.”

You tilt your head a little and go to say something but stop for a second as you fully take in Jack. In addition to the sacredness in his voice you can tell  he’s panicked by how he looks physically, pupils blown wide and chest heaving. He looks like he could be sick at any moment. While you know you’re genuinely fine this time you know that Jack doesn’t and that he can’t believe you as much as he trusts you, he just can’t, not on this, not after what happened last time. You know Jack’s not going to be able to see another human being until he’s checked you over. 

“Okay.” You nod at him. 

“Doll, please don’t argue, it’s not excessive or overdramatic-”

“Jack,” you say his name and drop his hands so that you can hold his face with yours. “I said okay. Let’s go in and to a room, yeah?”

“Oh,” Jack nods. He shakes his head slightly and it’s like he comes back to. “Yeah, yeah, come on.” He wraps an arm around you as you walk towards the ambulance entrance like he’s trying to be prepared to catch you when you drop any second now. Because he is. Because Jack is convinced he’s going to get you in a room and find something wrong, some horrific injury that’s going to leave you fighting for life again. Because Jack is right back to that day, the PTSD episode taking over his mind fast and gripping him like a vise.

He grabs his bag as you walk by it, catches Dana’s eye as he opens the door to central 6 and leads you inside. She gives him a knowing nod as Jack pulls the curtain to give you privacy since the door has a window.  

You set your purse on the bed and turn to face Jack, grab the hem of your shirt and start to pull it over your head. Jack sets his backpack down and his hands find yours before you can. 

“Let me,” he whispers, eyes still a bit crazed. You move your hands and nod, lift your arms when needed so he can pull your shirt off. He tosses it over your purse and looks at you, asks a silent question with his eyes. 

You nod and Jack unhooks your bra, puts it on top of your shirt. His hands find the waistband of your pants and underwear and he kneels as he pulls them down. You rest your hands on his shoulders as you pick up one foot at a time for him to get them all the way off. Jack stands back up and sets them on top of your bra and shirt. 

It feels like you should be uncomfortable or embarrassed standing like this, naked in front of a fully dressed Jack, even though he’s seen you naked a thousand times now, showers with you all the time, and has seen you in far more compromising positions than this. And in some sense it is because you don’t have a ton of self confidence despite all of Jack’s constant praise and body worship. But it’s also not because it’s Jack and the way he looks at you and takes you in, even now for the reason he is, makes you feel like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and like he’s thinking to himself how lucky he is that you’re his and he gets to have you and see you like this. That you let him. And that is in fact what he thinks to himself. 

Jack starts with your face out of habit of looking in your eyes. A hand gently trails behind his gaze, fingers running softly over your skin, pressing just a bit like they’re looking for something. Jack just needs to feel you, feel your body and warm skin. He moves from your face down to your neck, covers it all before his eyes move to your shoulder and down your arm to your hand. 

It’s not clinical, the way he looks over your body. It could feel clinical easily given the setting and the fact that Jack is checking for injuries. But it’s not. Instead it just feels like the man who loves you is taking in every piece of you to make sure you’re unharmed. Like a man who is so in love with you that he won’t be able to function again until he’s made sure you’re uninjured is taking reassurance from you body. Like being loved.

His eyes and hand go up and down you slowly, methodically. He does the top half of your body first and then crouches to do the lower half. Not a scratch on you. Jack stands back up, kisses at a couple of your scars as he does and then your forehead and then your lips. 

Neither of you have said anything since Jack whispered to let him and you haven’t needed to, still don’t need to. He grabs your bra first, helps you get it back on then does your shirt for you. He crouches again to help you with your pants and underwear, pulls them up with you as he stands back up. You adjust your clothes and smooth them out a little as you get situated again, Jack’s eyes still trailing over your body some. 

It’s then that he looks back into your eyes. They’re normal now, his pupils aren’t dilated and he doesn’t look so out of control with worry. There’s definitely still some worry there, but not like there was. Jack starts to move just a half second or so before you, stepping closer to you and cupping the back of your head with his hand. He pulls you into a hug like that, one you were already moving to give him. His hand stays on the back of your head, moving to the side a bit as he holds your head to his chest, his other arm wrapping around you to hold you tight. You wrap your arms around him, let him hold you as tightly as he needs to and hold him back just as strong. 

Jack nuzzles his nose in your hair and smiles at the familiar scent. It helps ground him. He presses a couple of kisses to the top of your head, lets his lips linger with the last one. “I’m sorry,” he finally whispers. He releases you so that you can take a step back and look at each other. But his hands stay on your waist to keep you close, thumbs brushing back and forth absentmindedly, your hands rest on his chest. “I’m sorry if I was mean out there, I hardly even remember, I was just so…” 

“You have nothing to apologize for. You weren’t mean, I promise, Jack. You were just worried. That’s okay.” You slide your hands up his chest to his neck into his hair, scratch a little. You know he loves it. “Did it help?”

He wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you a bit closer again. “Yeah, thank you. For letting me. I just needed to know and see with my own eyes that nothing had happened to you.”

You smile at him. “Of course, it was a pretty easy ask.” You try to give him a little smirk to see if he’ll smile and he does, just slightly. “Jack,” you tilt your head at him, encouraging him to speak to you but not demanding it. He’s still way in his head even if he’s come down from the panic he was in.   

He lets out a long breath and sits in one of the chairs. “I was standing there and heard it and thought to myself that was a good place to crash. Right by an emergency room. And then it hit me that you were on that corner. And it was like the entire world was falling out from under me again. I was right back there in a way, it was like I was right back there.” He shakes his head a little and runs a hand through his hair. You know where he means. 

You step closer to him and he automatically opens his legs so that you can stand between them. You rest your hands on his shoulders. “That makes sense.”

Jack settles his hands on your hips and bows his head forward so that his forehead rests against your tummy. “Maybe, yeah.”

“No, not maybe.” You move your hands, one rubbing the back of his neck and the other running through his hair. “It does make sense Jack. It was a PTSD trigger even if the circumstance wasn’t exactly the same. You feared for me and my life. Of course it’s going to take you back there. And I know it’s not my fault, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you’re going through this and feeling this way right now and hurting. And if there is anything I can do to help Peter, please tell me.”

Jack squeezes your hips and lifts his face a little to give your tummy a kiss. “You’re already doing it,” he mumbles against you. “Just being here and letting me look you over and talking to me.” He pulls his head from your tummy and looks up at you, cocks his head slightly. “You know?” 

“I do,” you nod. “Because you do the same for me. You heal me just by existing in this world with me.” 

The two of you share a moment of eye contact before Jack pushes his lips out. You lean down and kiss him until he pulls away. “I should get to work.”

You nod. “Probably, yeah. I actually need to talk to Dana about my last fitting so it’s good I ended up coming in.”

There’s a comfortable silence as you share a look. Jack knows that you do need to talk to Dana but that it’s not the only reason you’re staying. You’re giving him a little more time to come down with you still in his sight. “Okay. Just let me know before you go, yeah?”

“Of course.” You smile at him and give him another kiss before the two of you leave the room. After you speak with Dana you find a reason to hang around the Pitt for a while longer. You chat with everyone who’s on and gets a couple of minutes to spare, hang around the desk without being intrusive or disruptive. You can feel Jack’s eyes on you frequently as he runs around from patient to patient, nurse to nurse, doctor to doctor. The two of you share a look at some point and you can see the gratitude in his eyes even as far away as you are. 

Eventually though, you know you need to leave. You track Jack down to let him know. 

“I’m going to head home, okay?” You smile reassuringly at him. 

Jack stiffens just slightly for a second. When you rest your hands on his chest he relaxes a bit. “Yeah,” he nods, “okay, that sounds good. Make sure you get some dinner, yeah?”

“I will if you will.” You give him a knowing look. 

“You know that’s not fair.”

You give an overdramatic huff. “Fine, but please try and have dinner if you can.”

“I promise you I will try.” He pulls you in for a hug and kisses the top of your head. “Text me when you’re home, yeah?”

“Of course, Peter. Call if you need anything. Or text.” The two of you step apart and Jack walks you over to the doors. “I love you.” 

Jack leans down and kisses you. “I love you too.”

You try so hard to stay awake for Jack, but you slip asleep reading your book on the couch without even realizing it. You had told yourself when you laid out on the couch that you would end up falling asleep but you convinced yourself you wouldn’t because you were at such a good spot in your book. Famous last words. The book is now face down on your chest rising and falling with your steady sleeping breaths. 

Jack thinks it’s odd when he opens the door and the lights are on but you don’t say anything. You’d have heard the door. He drops his bag and takes a few steps in to see if you’re on the couch or just forgot to turn the lights off when you went to bed. Maybe you left them on for him deliberately. 

He smiles when he sees you asleep on the couch, walks over and grabs your book off your chest and marks the spot for you. You stir awake at it, blinking rapidly to clear your eyes before giving him a sleepy smile. 

“Sorry, I tried waiting up for you.”

Jack smiles wider. He loves your sleepy voice. “I can see that,” he teases. “Don’t apologize. Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

You nod and sit up. Once you’re standing Jack grabs you for a quick kiss. “Dinner is in the oven staying warm for you, bring it to bed.” You yawn a little. You rarely have to do this anymore now that Jack works days but whenever he’s covering a night or mid if you make a real meal for dinner you always leave some in the oven for him with it set to warm. It is really such a simple thing but makes Jack feel so incredibly loved and taken care of and cared about and appreciated. “The granola bar or yogurt or whatever you had stored away that you ate doesn’t qualify as dinner.” You give him a knowing look, a little bit of the edge lost with how sleepy you still seem.

“Thank you, Doll.” You just nod at him, wait for him to grab it. You both change and you sit on the bed with him while he eats, chat a bit about his shift. 

“You want to talk?” He knows you’re referencing what happened earlier today with you. “Need to?” Jack also knows you’re not pressuring him, just genuinely asking and reminding him that you’re here if he needs. 

“I’m okay, honestly. Being busy at work helped,” Jack explains once he swallows the bite he’d taken. 

When he finishes the two of you go to the bathroom and brush your teeth, wash your faces and get ready for bed. You curl up together once you’re both in bed. You wind up with Jack’s head on your chest, tangled together in the perfect position that’s comfortable for you both. “You’ll wake me if you have a nightmare?” You’re half asleep already when you ask.

“I will, promise. But I think I’ll be okay.” Jack nuzzles against your chest a little, telling you without words that the sound of your heart beating in his ear seems to keep them away. “I love you.” 

“Good. I love you too.” Your words are all sleep slurred and Jack chuckles a little. “Sleep tight Peter. Less than three months now.” 

And it’s just under two months until the wedding when Jack pushes open the trauma room door and raises his eyebrows at Robby. It’s nearing the end of their shift. “What’s up?” He’s a bit confused why Robby called him in. It’s an MVA victim and the patient, while critical and in need of further stabilization, diagnostics and treatment, isn’t circling the drain. Robby can handle this with his eyes closed. He has a great team running it with him too. So Jack is confused why Perlah came running to grab him. “You’ve got this-”

“Jack, it’s Leah’s sister.” Robby’s voice shakes as he says it. 

“Oh fuck.” Jack doesn’t need Robby to say anything more. He goes to grab a gown and gloves and jumps in, displacing a new intern. 

“We can’t lose her Jack, we cannot fucking lose her.” Robby’s shaking his head as he finishes intubating her. “I can’t talk to her fucking parents again.” 

Jack finishes off a chest tube and after a minute Jesse yells out a new round of vitals. They’re strong as she stabilizes further, strong enough that Jack can take a second. 

“Robby,” Jack calls to him but Robby doesn’t look over, just starts moving to do something else. “Michael!” That gets Robby to look up and Jack catches his gaze. “We’re not going to.” Robby’s frenetic anxiety has made the entire room far too wired. “Okay everyone stop!” Jack isn’t mean about it, but it’s firm. There’s no room to argue or do anything but stop. “She’s stable for now so everyone take a breath.” Jack is still looking Robby in the eyes. Everyone takes a breath and lets it out. “Alright,” Jack nods, “let’s go.” 

Jack is right. They don’t lose her. She stabilizes nicely and gets admitted and taken upstairs. Robby tries to talk to her parents but Jack doesn’t let him. He’s not sure where Robby went off to, but he can guess. 

He calls you first quickly. You answer on the second ring. “Hi! Sorry I was turning the bath on to soak, so it took me a sec to get to my phone.” Jack smiles to himself at you explaining as if you needed to. “You have nothing to apologize for, Doll. I just wanted to let you know that I’m finally fucking off but it’s going to be a bit still.”

There’s an edge to Jack’s voice that concerns you. It’s almost like he’s had a bad day but not quite. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m okay, I promise.” He lets out a sigh, rubs his free hand over his face. “Robby had a MVA victim today. Leah’s sister.” 

“Oh fuck.” You walk over and turn the bath off. 

Jack lets out a little laugh at that. “Yeah. Robby called me in and told me it was her and I said the exact same thing. She made it. She should be fine, she’s admitted upstairs. I spoke with her parents this time.”

“Robby’s not though.” Your heart aches for him. It’s around that time of year too. You weren’t around for Pitt Fest, but Jack has told you pretty much everything at some point or another. 

“Robby’s not though.” Jack confirms. “I’m pretty sure he’s up on the roof. I’m going to go talk to him and then some people are going to the park now, I’m going to try and get him to go to see how he is.” 

“Okay, Peter,” you murmur.

Jack knows the sadness lacing your voice isn’t because he’s just called you to let you know he’ll be home even later than he already texted you he’d be. It’s because you’re sad for Robby. That empathetic heart of yours is something he loves about you so much, but he knows it means you feel real emotional distress at times. “He’ll be okay.”

“No, I know, I just… wish I could make it better for him.”

“I know you do Doll. I do too. I’ll text you, okay?”

“Yeah.” You nod even though he can’t see you. “Jack?” You say it before he can start to say goodbye,

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s really hard watching your best friend hurt. I’m here, okay?” You chew on your lip a little. You know it hurts Jack to see Robby struggling and vice versa. 

“I know you are. Thank you.” You can hear the smile in Jack’s voice. “I love you and I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home.”

“Okay, love you too.” 

Robby is exactly where Jack expects to find him. “You’re not allowed to jump off the roof,” Jack calls to Robby as he walks over to where he stands beyond the guard rails. 

“Jack, I really don’t want to do this again. It’s too much déjà vu for one day.” His voice is steady at least. He’s not crying or near tears. Jack takes that as a positive. He gets closer and leans against the guard rails near Robby.

“We don’t have to do anything. But you knew I was going to come up here to find you,” he says pointedly. Robby tries to shake his head at first but ends up giving him a nod. Jack can tell Robby really doesn’t want to come apart here again. He gets it. “I’m serious. Can’t have my officiant jumping off the roof. Especially not this close to the wedding.” 

That at least gets a huff of laughter from Robby. He lets out a long breath and shakes his head. “I don’t know Jack.” Robby turns and ducks back under the guard rails and stands next to Jack. “It was years ago,” Robby laughs and runs a hand through his hair, “but right now it feels almost like that night.” 

“Yeah,” Jack nods slowly. “That’s PTSD for you.”

“I recognized her.” Robby looks over at Jack. “They looked so alike. But I couldn’t place her. And then someone was going through her stuff and read her name and it hit me at the last name. Leah’s sister. I felt fucking awful that I didn’t recognize her. I should have. Shouldn't have forgotten. And then it was just like I can’t lose her. I can’t do that to her parents again. And I should be over it, and it shouldn’t fuck with me this much still.”

Jack lets the words hang there for a minute, in part to see if Robby will say anything else. “First,” he starts, “should is a stupid word.” That earns him a look from Robby that Jack waves off for later. “Second, she wasn’t Leah. You shouldn’t have recognized her. They looked similar, yes, but still. You’d never seen her before, had you?” Robby shakes his head. “Then how would you have known? I get the not losing her thing. And even if you hadn’t called me in you wouldn’t have. You’re a good doctor, Michael. Leah was effectively DOA, you know that.” 

Robby takes in a big breath and lets it out. “Yeah.” He shrugs. “Still.” It’s whispered and Jack knows Robby’s getting close to his limit. 

“I know. Come on, let’s go to the park. Even just for one.” Robby grimaces at Jack. “It’ll be good for you.”

Robby gives Jack a look that says he doesn’t believe him but nods anyway and they head down, sit on their usual bench. It’s much livelier than it had been when Jack thinks back on the night of Pitt Fest. More people. 

Everyone chats and laughs but Jack can read Robby and knows it’s all fake, all forced and shallow. It’s unsurprising but Leah’s sister hit him hard. Jack wonders when the last time he spoke to Jake was. 

After what can only be five or so minutes Garcia smirks and looks over at Jack. “Your girl decided to join us?”

Jack’s brows furrow together in genuine confusion before his eyes follow Garcia’s. Sure enough, there you are, in leggings and one of Jack’s oversized sweatshirts you’ve stolen. Jack tilts his head as he gets up and walks towards you, reaching you before you hit the group. His heart rate ticks up a little. 

“Hey,” he calls to you before he reaches you, his hands wrapping lightly around your upper arms when you’re close enough, eyes starting to move over you. “You okay? Did something happen?” 

You melt a little inside. He’s so protective and caring. You know some of it stems from trauma but he was like this with you before you were shot. You bring your hands up and squeeze Jack’s forearms softly. “I’m okay, promise. I didn’t come for Pitt services.”

Jack believes you but he can’t help the way his eyes give you one last scan. The way they linger at your torso doesn’t escape you. “Okay, good.” He releases your arms and you his as he pulls you in for a hug, kisses the top of your head. “So why are you here? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you or that you can’t come see me randomly.”

You separate a little so you can look at each other. “I don’t know. I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Robby shouldn’t be alone. As long as you’re okay and don’t need my undivided attention.” Your eyes flit around Jack’s face as you look for any signs he does. “I love Robby, but you always come first.” 

Jack smiles at you and shakes his head slightly before leaning in to give you a kiss. It’s chaste, there’s no tongue or real movement, he just lets it linger to communicate how much he loves you and appreciates you. “I’m okay.” He looks you in your eyes like he loves. “I promise.” 

You nod. You believe him, know he is. “Good.” The two of you exchange small smiles and agree on the plan without speaking a word of it. It’s just intuitive. Jack swallows hard because you’re so good not just to him, but everyone in his life. 

Jack laces his hand in yours and walks you over to the bench with him. You greet everyone, smile and nod at Robby as you sit down by Jack. You aren’t there long before Robby stands up and says he’s going to head out, starts walking. 

“You ready?” Jack asks you. You nod at him, both of you saying your goodbyes. 

You don’t wait for Jack though as he finishes saying goodbye. Instead you walk quickly to catch up with Robby. 

“Robby!” You call out as you get close. He stops of course, turns to look at you, is about to ask if something is wrong. “Come to ours.” 

He raises an eyebrow and takes a deep breath in as he gives a single nod, grimaced smile pulling up on his face. Jack told you at some point. He’s not mad about it.

“That’s very kind, but I’m fine. I’ll be okay.” He starts to turn to walk again but you follow beside him. 

“I don’t know that I believe you that you are fine, and it’s okay not to be.” You give him a little look when he looks over at you. “Even if you are, you don’t have to work towards being okay alone.” 

Robby’s steps slow. “It’s okay, honestly.” He sounds much more emotional now but also like he doesn’t know what to do with the offer for some help. “I’m sure Jack would like some alone time to decompress.” He’s trying to deflect. 

“I spoke to Jack before I offered, he’s okay with it.” The two of you are standing again. “Well it’s less of an offer at this point and more me telling you. You shouldn’t be alone and I know you well enough at this point Robby to know that you don’t want to be. So come to ours.” You grab a fistful of the sleeve of his sweatshirt. You know you have him and don’t need to say more but you give him another reason. His favorite thing you bake. “Let’s go. I’ll make you white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies.”

You don’t wait for him to say anything, just tug at him by his sleeve and turn around, start walking over to a waiting Jack. Robby doesn’t protest, walks by your side. 

“She’s persuasive isn’t she?” Jack smirks as you approach. 

“She grabbed my sweatshirt and started pulling, I’m not sure if that’s persuasion.” 

“I said I’d make him white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies,” you tell Jack as you release Robby’s jacket and lace your fingers through Jack’s outstretched hand. 

“You better,” Robby huffs as he smooths out the creases your hand had caused in the sleeve of his jacket. The attitude is all fake. 

“Or what, you won’t marry us?” you fire back, largely to distract him. 

“Ha!” Jack laughs loudly which makes you join in. Even Robby has to as much as he tries not to. 

“I am a woman of my word, thank you very much. I will make you the cookies.”  

It’s not a long walk to your and Jack’s place. You kick off your shoes and walk in as both men drop their bags and get their own shoes off. You’re in the kitchen by the time they come to find you, assembling supplies and ingredients. 

You glance up at them as they walk in. “Shower. Both of you. If you want. But also do it.” You look at Robby. “There’s a clean towel on the guest bed for you, and I put a pair of Jack’s pajama pants and a shirt on the bed for you too. There should be stuff in the shower but just yell if you need something that isn’t in there.” 

Jack’s standing a little behind Robby and staring at you. It’s one of those moments where he really thinks you’re too good not just for him but for the world. You did all of this after getting off the phone with him, planned for it, came to see him, yes, but also to check on Robby and silently ask Jack whether Robby needed this, to not be alone. All because Robby is his best friend. You and Robby are close in the sense that he’s Jack’s brother effectively and so you know him well and most everything about him and love him like family, but you’re not best friends. This is something you’re doing for Robby, yes of course, but also for Jack and he knows it. Jack catches your eye and mouths he loves you. The smile you give him says you love him too.

“I will, uh. Thank you.” Robby gives you a small nod, both he and Jack walking down the hall to their respective rooms. 

While they shower you order a pizza and start on the cookies. The dough doesn’t take too long to make and you have it blast chilling in the freezer and grab the pizza from the delivery guy and have it on the counter by the time Jack comes out and finds you in the kitchen. “Hi.” He wraps his arms around you from behind and hunches a bit so he can kiss at your neck.

“Hi.” He can hear the smile in your voice as you tilt your head to give him more access to your neck. “You okay? Nice shower?”

Jack lets his lips stay against your neck. “I’m good, Doll. And it was okay.” He kisses his way up to your jaw. “Would have been better if you’d been in it with me.” 

You giggle, turn your face more so that you can share a real kiss. “Tomorrow. I promise.” Jack hums, loosen his grip around you when you go to turn all the way. You run a hand through his still wet hair. You really do love that he’s keeping his just slightly longer now all the time. “I love your hair,” you sigh, tilt your head at him. Ever since France he’s been keeping it that centimeter or so longer. He doesn’t have a huge preference and you’ve made it clear just how much you love it like this. And he does too with how feral it can make you and how it lets you tug on it even harder when he’s got his between your legs or is fucking you. 

Jack lets out a laugh through his nose. “You know I’ve picked up on that.” You tell him you love his hair all the time, play with it all the time, run your hands through it. You love his curls and the salt and pepper. He teases you all the time that you’re the reason for the increasing amount of salt. 

“I’m jealous.” 

“Picked up on that too,” Jack laughs. “You got us pizza?”

“Mhm, I knew the chances of either of you having eaten something substantial were slim to none.” You give him a soft smile. 

He loves you so much. The way you anticipate his needs, seem to think of everything. He’d love you as much as he does even if you didn’t, but you do. Jack tilts his head and leans in for a kiss, this one far less chaste than any you’ve had since parting for the day much earlier this morning. Jack starts to deepen the kiss even more, push you into the counter a little as he gets closer and you let him, scratch at his scalp to make him groan. 

The shutting of the guest room door startles you both and ends the kiss. Jack whines softly as he leans his forehead against yours. “Eat, Jack.” You poke his tummy softly. He grumbles a little but kisses your forehead and walks over to the box of pizza, grabs a slice. “You too,” you tell Robby once he walks back into the kitchen. “Eat.”

Robby looks over at the pizza and nods. “Thank you.” 

Jack opens the fridge once he finishes his first slice and pulls out two beers. “Doll?” He raises his eyebrows at you. 

“No, I’m okay but thank you for asking.” He nods at you and takes the tops of both, hands Robby one and grabs another slice of pizza, as does Robby. You’re all mostly quiet as they eat, grabbing more slices when they finish one, and you take the dough out and scoop it out onto some cookie sheets. You give both of them a look when they each grab a little dough out of the bowl to eat. 

Jack and Robby move into the living room while you finish and get the cookies in the oven, a timer set. You follow them into the living room, just for now. You’ll give them some time together once the cookies are done. 

The two sit at opposite ends of the couch, both leaning on the armrests a bit. You sit right next to Jack, feet curled up almost under you and lean back into him a little. “Tell her what you said on the roof.” You look back over your shoulder with your brows slightly furrowed at Jack. “You’ll see, just wait.” Robby’s brows are even more furrowed than yours. He has no idea what Jack means or what part of the conversation he’s referring to. “About being over it.” 

“Oh,” Robby runs a hand through his hair and looks at you. “I should have recognized her and I didn’t. I should be over it. It shouldn’t fuck with me this much this far out. And normally it doesn’t, but today it sure fucking did.” 

You nod as soon as he says the word, squeeze Jack’s hand. “Should is a stupid word.” 

Robby lets out a little laugh. “So I’ve been told.” 

“I didn’t tell him the rest,” Jack informs you. “I think hearing it would benefit him though.”

“You could have told him.”

“Yeah, but I like hearing you say it. And it seemed like something that would be more convincing tonight coming from you.” Jack runs his hand up and down your thigh now. 

You nod, look at Robby, catch his eyes so that you’re really looking at each other. “Should is a stupid word,” you repeat. “Nothing should or shouldn’t be. Things just are. And it’s okay for them to be as they are. It’s okay for this to be as it is. It’s still going to fuck with you, Robby. Some days more so than others. And no fucking shit it did today. It was her sister, in your trauma room. You’ve gotta give yourself some grace.” 

Robby is quiet, has to look away from you as he thinks. But you saw how glassy his eyes grew, how close to tears he was before he looked away. Jack knows he isn’t sure how to respond to that. So he moves the conversation forward a bit. “When’s the last time you talked to him?”

Robby takes in a deep breath through his nose and holds it for a second before letting it out as he shakes his head. “Couple of months. Four or five maybe.” He clears his throat to try and get rid of some of the emotion, takes a sip of his beer. Jack shifts slightly so he’s a bit more turned, can rest his hand on the top of your thigh. “He just doesn’t want to talk. He’s still mad. I think at least. Sometimes I feel like it’s something else but can never figure out what. Talk about it in therapy every now and then, but there’s not much left to say.” Robby swallows thickly, sets his beer down. 

You and Jack are both quiet for a moment. You’re trying to read both Robby and Jack, trying to see if further input from you is wanted or if this is a shut up and listen moment, or something Robby is telling Jack for later, when they’re alone. 

Jack can damn near hear you thinking and squeezes your thigh. He’s sure Robby needs to hear whatever it is you have to say. You shift down the couch a little, sit a bit closer to Robby, fully facing him on the couch with your legs crossed under you. You grab his hand and hold it. Not like you hold Jack’s but like you hold the hand of a friend you’re comforting.

“Sometimes you don’t think he’s mad anymore. Sometimes you convince yourself he’s not mad anymore. I think, maybe, instead you think he’s over it, or as over it as he’ll ever get and he’s just done with you.” You let out a small breath as Robby squeezes your hand hard. All three of you know that you’re right. “You think he has gotten used to you not being there, has moved on from you and doesn’t want you to be in his life anymore. You think he’s no longer angry and grieving and confused and struggling. You think he just doesn’t need or want you. And the thought that he just doesn’t need or want you hurts much more than him blaming you for her death ever did. Because he’s a son to you. And so the thought that he just doesn’t need or want you anymore is the pain of losing a child in a way, Michael. You’ve gotta try and let yourself feel that.” 

Robby looks at you. “Holy fuckin shit.” He’s stricken and you know it’s an uncomfortable realization but if life and therapy have taught you one thing it’s that sometimes having words, knowing how to say what you’re feeling, is helpful, makes it better, no matter how hard those words are to say or hear. “You… I…” Robby drops his head, takes his hand back from you so that he can hold his face in his hands.

“I know,” you murmur. You scoot just a bit closer and wrap your arms around him from the side, rest your head on the back of his shoulder and just hold him in the hug as he finally starts to cry. 

Robby drops one hand from his face and holds onto your arm that’s across his chest, just as something, someone to ground him. He never has this, never has someone with him when he’s like this except for maybe occasionally his therapist and every so often Jack. And you’re offering him this platonic affection and comfort of a hug and so Robby lets himself have it. 

You don’t say anything or move. Just hug him silently. Jack watches the two of you and thinks about how funny it is that he’s always thinking there’s no way he could love you more and then you do something, something like this, and somehow he does. 

The timer for the cookies goes off around the time Robby starts to calm down so you take your arms back and get off the couch, give Jack a quick kiss before going to the kitchen. You get the cookies on the cooling rack and fan at them a bit so they set up enough for you to get them on a plate, take them into the living room. 

Robby and Jack have sat quietly together while you’re gone to give Robby some more time to collect himself. You set the plate on the middle of the couch between them. “I’m going to bed, but come get me if you need anything. There’s more cookies in there too, if you run out.” 

You step a little closer to Robby off to the side and lean over, run a hand over his hair and hold the back of his head while you kiss the top of his head off to the side. You move over to Jack, stand between his legs and lean down for a proper kiss, hold his face in your hands. “I love you,” you murmur against his lips, smiling. 

“I love you more.” He wraps his hands around your wrists and gives you another kiss, another few, honestly, Robby still so out of it he doesn’t even make a comment or fake a gag. You giggle a little and give him one last one before pulling away and heading into bed.

“She’s right,” Robby admits once your bedroom door closes. He grabs a cookie, so does Jack.

Jack takes a sip of beer and nods. “She usually is.”

Robby shakes his head and rubs his face with his hand, takes in a deep breath. “I never know what to think with him, Jack. Sometimes we text and it feels so normal. Other times it feels like he’s sending answers because he feels he has to and like it’ll end the conversation faster. Sometimes we do frequently, a couple of days in a row and then this. We go months.”

“When’s the last time you spoke on the phone? Or facetimed or whatever?”

Robby has to think about it, grabs another cookie while he does. “His birthday. He answered when I called. It was short, but he answered. That was like nine months ago.”

Jack raises his eyebrows to himself as he grabs another cookie. Nine months is a long time. He’s not judging Robby, at all. It’s just a long time and he knows how much it must kill Robby. 

“She got married,” Robby says quietly. 

“Janey?” Jack’s kind of surprised by the news but he doesn’t really know why. 

“Yeah.” Robby shrugs. “So he really doesn’t need me,” Robby tries to laugh, “he has someone else, someone who didn’t kill his girlfriend.”

“You didn’t kill his girlfriend Robby. And I have a lot of doubt that some guy his mom married when he was over 18 has replaced you.” Jack finishes his beer and sets the empty bottle on the end table. “Jake loves you, a lot.” Jack shakes his head as Robby starts to interrupt him, grabs a cookie and shoves it at him to try and keep him from talking. “No, don’t tell me he doesn’t. I saw him that day before he left, I saw how he looked at you. He might have been mad at you, might have hated you in a way, but he loved you when he left the hospital Michael.”

“I don’t know if that makes it better or worse,” Robby sniffles. “Even if he loves me and I haven’t been replaced and even if he needs me,” Robby shrugs. “He still doesn’t want me. And not wanting me wins over the rest and I don’t know what to do with that.”

Jack sits up a little and lets out a breath. “Have you tried asking him if he wants to do something together, in person, since he started talking to you again?” It had taken six or seven months for Jake to respond to Robby’s texts after Pitt Fest. He gave Robby the coldest of shoulders at Leah’s funeral, almost looked mad he was there.

“No. Why would I? He doesn’t want to and then it just makes it awkward for him to have to try and find a way to say no.” Robby shakes his head, finishes his own beer and sets it to the side. “I don’t want to put him through anymore than I already have.” He grabs another cookie.

“But maybe he does want to, Robby. He’s still a kid, even though he’s over 18 and it happened when he was 17.” Jack catches Robby’s gaze. “Maybe he doesn’t know how to text or call first or maybe he doesn’t know how to ask you to do something or be back in his life and have things be like they were before Pitt Fest because he thinks he hurt you too bad and doesn’t know how to apologize and can’t imagine you ever forgiving him. Maybe he thinks you don’t want him. Maybe he’s hurting just as bad as you are and maybe he misses you just as much as you miss him.”

Robby’s gaze falls from Jack’s and Jack can tell he’s thinking. Jack can tell he’s hoping. 

“I don’t,” Robby starts but then stops, shakes his head a little. “You think?”

Jack shrugs. “I think it’s a possibility, yeah. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Robby nods. He grabs another cookie and Jack sits with him in silence.

“I think I need to sleep on it,” Robby finally says. 

Jack nods. “That’s a good plan.” Jack knows that’s also Robby’s somewhat subtle way of ending the conversation. Jack stands up and grabs his bottle, holds his hand out for Robby’s. “You taking those to bed with you?”

Robby rolls his eyes as he stands up and grabs the plate and follows Jack into the kitchen. “No, just a couple.” Jack snorts a laugh as Robby grabs some and a paper towel. He gets the rest of the cookies and those left on the plate in a ziploc and sets them on the counter in front of Robby. Robby tilts his head at him. 

“She made them for you. So they’re yours.” Jack shrugs as he walks out of the kitchen towards your room. “I hope you don’t get too many nightmares tonight,” Jack calls back to Robby. It’s his way of saying sleep well because Jack more than most people understands what sleeping is like after a PTSD episode.

You’re asleep on Jack’s pillow when he walks in, he’s just able to make out your form in the darkness. He heads to the bathroom and quickly brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed. 

Jack slips in behind you, bare chest pressing into your back as he wraps his arm around you and pulls you even closer. You stir, push yourself back into him as you take in a breath. “Hi Peter,” you mumble. Your sleepy voice is so precious and adorable Jack swears he has to stop himself from biting your shoulder. 

“Hi Doll, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers back, kisses the side of your face. 

“Wasn’t sleeping hard, trying to wait for you. Didn’t work,” you let out a little sleepy laugh that turns into a yawn. You can feel the vibrations of Jack’s chest when he chuckles at you. 

He squeezes you a little for a second and then fully settles behind you. “Thank you. For doing this for Robby.”

You hum softly. “Course. Robby’s family, you don’t need to thank me.”

“Still. Not every girlfriend or fiancée or wife would do this, even for family. I know it’s been a long week for you and that you’ve missed me and Robby coming over meant we wouldn’t get much one on one with each other tonight.” Jack kisses at your neck. “You didn’t have to. Do any of it. Show up or get him to come over or get pizza or make cookies or talk to him.”

“I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. For him and you. Even with as much as I wanted it to just be us tonight. He needed to not be alone.” You give another little yawn, smack your lips a little. “And what can I say?” It’s a little sleep slurred. “Guess I’m not every girlfriend or finacée or wife.” Jack’s arm is still draped over you and you grab his hand, bring it up and kiss haphazardly at his knuckles. “Just yours.” 

Jack nuzzles his nose against your neck and kisses there. “You’re not just anything.” Hearing you say you’re his always gets to him and he can feel himself filling out a bit, especially with your ass pressed back into him. “But you are mine, yes,” Jack confirms. He feels your breathing start to slow and even out as you fall back asleep. “And I’m yours.”

A week later you and Jack are laying in bed reading and intermittently chatting. It’s Friday and it has been a long fucking week for you. Working late and going in early and barely taking lunch and just constantly busy. And it’s all been particularly emotionally draining. 

“Are you having anyone walk you down the aisle?”

That question makes you pause, sit up a bit stiffly and look up from your book. Somehow during all of the planning it never occurred to you. “I… don’t know I guess.” You shake your head as you look over at Jack.

He shrugs. “I just wondered. You don’t need to have it figured out right now, there’s still time.” 

“Yeah.” You nod to yourself. But you stay sitting up and stiff. Jack watches you out of the corner of his eye and glances at you every now and then, hoping you’ll relax and go back to reading. He hadn’t meant to upset you or cause you stress or anxiety, but he realizes now with how exhausted and emotionally zapped you are from the week your brain has been looking for a reason to spiral and he just unknowingly at the time handed you one. 

He sets his book down on his lap. “Hey.” You look over at him and Jack can almost see the dizziness you’re feeling in your eyes from how fast your thoughts are churning in your head. “You don’t need to know right now, okay? You don’t need to decide tonight. There’s seven weeks still. You have time.” 

“No, I know.” You nod at him. And you do know. Jack watches you carefully. “I’m just thinking now.” You slip out of bed and start to pace. Jack chides himself mentally for his comment even though he knows he didn’t deliberately give you something to spiral about, he still hates the fact that he did. “It’s going to be so much attention on me. On us.” You look up at him as you pace. “At the altar. Walking down the aisle, like everyone is going to be looking at me and what if I fall? And then the first dance and cutting the cake and like we have to say our vows in front of everyone and what if I just like forget how to read.” It would be funny if it weren’t causing you such real distress. Jack’s eyes stay on your face so he can try to read your expression as you pace at the foot of the bed. “Maybe we should downsize the wedding, maybe that would be better and then there wouldn’t be so many people.” 

“Downsize the wedding,” Jack repeats, very obviously confused to an extent because you’d discussed this together when you started planning and were deciding how big you wanted your guest list. He’s about 95% sure this is anxiety and exhaustion talking, but he wants to hear you out of course, wants to help and that means listening and asking questions so he fully understands you.  “In what way?” 

“Yeah, like what if we just didn’t have a big wedding? Just like a handful of people, maybe less.” You walk over and sit facing him on the edge of his side of the bed. “Or like you know,” you shrug, “what if we just flew to Vegas tomorrow and eloped?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I know that’s like a little baby kind of cliff-hanger but I felt like I had to keep it interesting I’m sorry! 😭 I hope it was otherwise okay! I did not feel particularly great about any of this but it's hard to know if that means something or is just how I always feel lol. Part 5 and the wedding will be here soon!!

If you made it this far, seriously thank you, I know it's a lot to read and I appreciate you taking your time to read, I know how precious time to yourself can be so I am very grateful. I would love to hear your thoughts and comments!

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[blueberrybirdsworld]

Plus one 4/5

Summary : When Lando Norris realizes he's the only F1 driver attending the Monaco F1 movie premiere without a girlfriend, he panics and convinces Oscar to help him find a last-minute plus one.

Author note : I get this story idea after the private projection of the F1 movie with all the drivers in Monaco (also can we imagine they weren't wearing their team kit and actually did dress up).

Genre : pure fluff

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The credits began to roll, and the house lights rose gently, flooding the once-cozy darkness with cold brightness. Applause echoed around the theater as the names of actors, producers, drivers, and directors lit up the screen. People stood, stretched, straightened their jackets.

And just like that, the spell broke.

The cocoon Lando and Y/N had shared in the dark, the stillness, the little glances, the quiet laughter during that scene, vanished like smoke. Their seats were just seats again. Her hand was no longer on his arm. And he didn’t know what to say.

He rose slowly, brushing invisible dust from his trousers, glancing toward her. She was smiling softly, still processing. He wanted to say something.

What did you think? or You okay after that hospital scene? or even just Thanks for coming but he didn’t get the chance.

Because Lily appeared instantly.

“Oh my God,” she said, looping an arm around Y/N’s. “That scene. I thought I was going to melt into my seat.”

Y/N laughed loudly, clearly relieved someone else had brought it up first. “Right? That was so intense. I didn’t know where to look. The sound design alone deserves an award.”

Lily grinned. “I could feel Carmen holding in her breath next to me. George was so uncomfortable. Did you see his face?”

They dissolved into laughter, already halfway down the aisle, wrapped in their own moment. Y/N didn’t even look back.

Lando stood there, still beside his seat, watching her disappear.

Oscar tilted his head. “Uh-oh. I know that look. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You are absolutely spiraling.”

“I’m not.”

“You look like you just got dumped by a girl who doesn’t know she was your girlfriend.”

Lando glared at him. “Well it's your fault, you didn’t tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“That it was supposed to be a date. You said you’d explain!”

Oscar blinked. “I said I’d text her. Which I did. I said you needed a plus one. What more do you want? A powerpoint presentation?”

“You made it sound like I needed a replacement.”

Oscar burst out laughing. “Oh, come on. You’re blaming me because you suddenly fall in love after one movie?”

“I’m blaming you because she thinks this was a girl’s night out!”

Oscar shrugged. “To be fair, she had more fun with Lily than you.”

“That’s not helping!”

Oscar put his hands up. “What do you want from me, man? If I’d told her it was a date-date, she never would’ve agreed!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do. I absolutely do.”

Lando crossed his arms. “She held my arm during the movie.”

Oscar gasped dramatically. “Oh my God! Call the wedding planner!”

Lando shoved his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Maybe if you had told her she looked nice instead of staring at her, she’d have picked up on the vibe!” Oscar said, adjusting his jacket.

“I did tell her she looked nice!”

“When?”

“Before the movie.”

Oscar squinted. “No you didn’t.”

“I meant to.”

“That’s not the same thing!”

Lando groaned. “This is the worst night of my life.”

Oscar snorted. “You were literally on screen. A whole movie about your job. And you're out here pouting like someone forgot your birthday.”

“She called herself a fill-in!” Lando hissed.

Oscar wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. “You’re so dramatic. Do you want me to go over there and tell her for you? ‘Hi, Y/N, Lando caught feelings somewhere between the opening credits and the awkward sex scene.’”

Lando exhaled, staring across the room. Y/N was still with Lily, laughing about something. Probably about him. Or his tragic inability to flirt.

The after-party was in full swing.

The rooftop venue above the theater was everything you’d expect in Monaco: sleek lighting, a terrace overlooking the glowing harbor and champagne flowing like water.

Lando stood near a tall table, trying not to look as out of place as he felt. Y/N was laughing with Lily and sipping something pink from a flute like she belonged in this world, even though she’d insisted all evening she didn’t.

He hadn’t spoken to her since they left the theater.

Oscar, being a menace, appeared beside him with a wine glass and a grin. “So. What’s the hold-up now? You gonna make a move or just watch her from across the party ?”

“I’m waiting for the right moment.”

“She’s not a solar eclipse, mate. You don’t need to time it with the NASA.”

“She’s talking to Lily again.” Lando glanced toward the other side of the terrace. “They’ve been talking for twenty minutes. What could they possibly still be discussing?”

“I don’t know. Probably the sex scene again.” Oscar smirked and continue teasing him. “She did say it made her want to hide under her chair. Maybe you traumatized her by existing.”

Lando shot him a look.

Oscar shrugged. “Or maybe, and this is wild, she just doesn’t know it was a date. Because someone” he jabbed a finger toward Lando’s chest, “didn’t clarify anything. And someone else” he pointed to himself “may have been not clear enough in his text.”

Lando groaned. “Alright, fine. I’m going.”

“That’s the spirit. Please don't be awkward.”

Lando straightened his jacket, walked toward her, mentally rehearsing a million ways to start the conversation.

But before he could reach her, Lily spotted him.

She smirked. “Landooo,” she sing-songed, immediately elbowing Y/N. “Look who’s finally decided to say hi again.”

Y/N turned, smiling. “Hey! You okay? You kind of disappeared after the movie.”

“I didn’t disappear. I was... mingling.”

“Alone?”

He blinked. “Strategic mingling.”

Lily sipped her drink, clearly not buying it. “So strategic that you ended up standing still for twenty minutes behind the gelato cart.”

Y/N laughed. “Is that where you were? I thought I imagined that.”

“I was...thinking,” Lando muttered.

“About what?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“How do you feel about sunsets?” he blurted.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Lando cleared his throat. “Sorry. I meant, sunset views. The view up here is really nice. I thought maybe you’d want to see it. With me. For a minute.”

“Oh.” She tilted her head. “Are we not already seeing it from here?”

“No, I mean… yeah, but like…just with me. Away from everyone else.”

Lily coughed into her drink to hide a laugh.

Y/N blinked again. “Sure?”

Lando exhaled through his nose like he’d just been given a time extension on an exam.

They stepped aside toward a quiet corner of the rooftop. The breeze was softer there. The glow from the city sparkled across the dark water. Romantic. Intentional. Perfect.

Lando tried to speak. Failed.

Y/N leaned on the railing. “It’s pretty.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You too—I mean—it’s pretty too. The view.”

She smiled, not really reacting.

He stared at her profile. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

“Yeah,” she said. “The movie was really good. Intense. But good.”

“Even the awkward part?”

She laughed softly. “Even with the awkward part. Do you liked it ?”

He nodded. “I wasn’t really paying attention to the movie.”

“No?”

“I was watching you.”

That made her glance at him, surprised. “Oh?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. You just… you looked so into it. Like your reactions to things were better than the film.”

She blinked. “Oh. That’s… sweet. I think?”

Lando looked down at his hands, then up at her, then… blurted it out.

“So, listen—I just… need to say something.”

Y/N tilted her head, sipping her drink, waiting.

“I kind of thought this was a date,” he said. “For me, I mean.”

Her brows shot up. “Oh.”

“I mean, I thought I was being clear. With the whole ‘plus one’ thing. And inviting you. Actualy Oscar propose it first and then I ask him to text you. Which—okay, that part was a bad idea, but I thought you knew what this was. I know we just met but I wanted you to come here with me tonight, not jus as a fill-in”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed instantly. She looked down, fiddling with her glass. “Oh. Oh God.”

“I didn’t mean to freak you out—”

“No! No, you didn’t! I just—Lando, I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t?”

She shook her head, groaning. “I thought you had an extra ticket. Like, your original date bailed or something. And Lily told me to come with her, and Oscar texted me like it was all casual, so I just figured… I don’t know, that you had no one else to bring.”

Lando blinked. “You thought you were a backup?”

“I thought I was here for the vibes!” she said, covering her face. “I was excited to see the movie and spend the night with Lily. I didn’t realize I was your date. That actually explains so much.”

He laughed under his breath. “What does it explain?”

She dropped her hands and smiled sheepishly. “Why you were acting weird. Like nervous-weird.”

“I was trying to be cool.”

“Well… you weren’t,” she said, then immediately added, “In a cute way!”

He laughed for real this time, warm and a little relieved. “You were so calm, though.”

Her face scrunched up. “I was not! I just looked like it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“I was freaking out inside,” she admitted. “I kept thinking, ‘oh my God, I’m sitting next to Lando Norris at a movie premiere, try not to say anything stupid.’ So I just… said nothing at all.”

He grinned. “If that’s you freaking out, I need lessons.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling. “I avoided you most of the night, didn’t I?”

“A little.”

“I was kind of… intimidated,” she said, almost whispering it.

“You were?”

Y/N nodded. “You’re you. You’ve got a Netflix special and a race car and a fanbase that tracks your every moves. I have a biology degree and anxiety.”

He looked at her, fond. “I’ve got anxiety too.”

“Well, great. We can panic in harmony then.”

They both smiled.

Then she paused, suddenly serious again. “Also, um. This is awkward, but… I kind of maybe have a crush on you.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

“Like, before tonight.”

“You do?”

“I did. I do.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “God, this is embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, grinning now. “It’s not at all.”

She peeked at him. “Lily knows. So I think Oscar knows too.”

Lando laughed. “That little gremlin.”

“Right? I should’ve known it was suspicious when he asked me if I ‘liked red carpets.’ He was so casual about it.”

“So he did set us up.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “And I didn’t realize it until just now.”

They stood in silence again, this time smiling like two people who finally figured out they’ve been reading the same book.

“Okay,” Lando said. “So we agree. This was a date.”

“Technically retroactively, yes.”

“And we’re both awkward.”

“Painfully.”

“And we both like each other.”

She looked up at him. “Seems like it.”

He grinned. “So if I asked again, clearly, directly this time, what would you say?”

She leaned in, her voice lower now. “I’d say yes.”

“To a real date?”

“To whatever you want,” she said softly. “Just... no matchmaking texts from Oscar.”

“I’ll block him.”

She laughed and bumped his arm gently with hers.

He glanced around. “You want to go? Grab real food somewhere that doesn’t sparkle?”

“God, yes. I’m starving. I’ve been pretending to like those fancy canapé things all night.”

“Same. I had three and still don’t know what any of them were.”

They turned together toward the stairwell, but not before looking back one last time.

The empty terrace. The glittering skyline. Their friends somewhere inside, probably watching through a window, smirking.

“They’re going to be insufferable,” Y/N said.

“They already are.”

“And you’re not mad they set us up?”

Lando smiled. “No. I think... maybe they were onto something.”

She looked at him, that familiar, quiet smile he’d fallen for all evening.

“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe they were.”

And together, under the soft Monaco night, they slipped away from the rooftop, not just as teammates’ friends or accidental plus-ones, but something quietly beginning.

Something real.

Permanent taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @hi26loveie, @bunnisplayground, @nina481, @reallifemermaidprincess, @cars-and-frogs, @delululeclerc, @txmhxllqnd, @lydia-demarek, @destinyg237, @rhaenyrasversion, @sarascabiosa, @readz4u, @tvdtw4ever, @mynameisangeloflife, @teti-menchon0604, @suns3treading, @op814kitty, @prettyboyroseberg, @willowsnook, @ariesandwolves, @clarksgf, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @pinklemonade34, @fat-meh, @tiaajosephin

Let me know if you want to be add or removed from the taglist :)

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

✨ HOW TO ACTUALLY START A BOOK

(no ✨vibes✨, just structure, stakes, and first-sentence sweat)

hello writer friends 💌 so you opened a doc. you sat down. you cracked your knuckles. maybe you even made a playlist or moodboard. and then… you stared at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.

here’s your intervention. this post is for when you want to write chapter one, but all you have is aesthetic, maybe a plot bunny, maybe a world idea, maybe nothing at all. here’s how to actually start a book, from structure to sentence one.

—

🌶️ STEP 1: THE SPICE BASE ~ “WHAT’S CHANGING?”

start with this question:

what changes in the protagonist’s life in the first 5–10 pages?

doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. they could get a letter, lose a job, run late, break a rule, wake up hungover in the wrong house. what matters is disruption. the opening of your book should mark a shift. if their day starts normal, it shouldn’t end that way.

🏁 opening chapters are about motion. forward movement. tension. momentum. if nothing is changing, your story isn’t starting, you’re just doing a prequel.

—

⚙️ STEP 2: THE CRUNCHY BITS - CHOOSE AN ENTRY POINT

there are 3 classic places to start a novel. each one works if you’re intentional:

The Day Everything Changes most popular. you drop us in right before or during the inciting incident. clean, fast, efficient.

pro: immediate stakes con: harder to sneak in worldbuilding or character grounding

The Calm Before the Storm starts slightly earlier. show the character’s “normal” life, then break it. useful if the change won’t make sense without context.

pro: space to introduce your character’s routine/flaws con: risky if it drags or feels like setup

The Aftermath drop us in after the big event and fill in gaps as we go. works well for thrillers, mysteries, or emotionally heavy plots.

pro: instant drama con: requires precision to avoid confusion

📝 pick one. commit. don’t blend them or you’ll write three intros at once and cry.

—

🧠 STEP 3: CHARACTER FIRST, ALWAYS

readers don’t care about your setting, your magic system, or your cool mafia politics unless they’re anchored in someone.

in the first scene, we need to know:

what this person wants

what’s bothering them (externally or internally)

one trait they lead with (bold, anxious, calculating, naive, etc.)

that’s it. just one want, one tension, one vibe. no bios. no monologues. no “they weren’t like other girls” essays. put them in a situation and show how they act.

—

⛓️ STEP 4: OPEN WITH FRICTION

first scenes should create questions, not answer them.

there should be tension between:

what the character wants vs. what they’re getting

what’s happening vs. what they expected

what’s being said vs. what’s being felt

you don’t need a gunshot or a car crash (unless you want one). you need conflict. tension = momentum = readers keep reading.

—

✏️ STEP 5: WRITE THE FIRST SENTENCE - THEN IGNORE IT

okay. now you write it.

no pressure. you’re not tattooing it on your soul. this isn’t the final line on the final page. you just need something.

tricks that work:

start in the middle of an action

start with a contradiction

start with something unexpected, funny, or sharp

start with a small lie or a weird detail

💬 examples:

“The body was exactly where she’d left it - rude.” “He was already two hours late to his own kidnapping.” “There was blood on the welcome mat. Again.” “They said don’t open the door. She opened it anyway.”

once you’ve got it? keep going. don’t revise yet. don’t edit. just build momentum.

you can come back and make it ✨iconic✨ later.

—

📦 BONUS: WHAT NOT TO DO IN YOUR OPENING

don’t start with a dream

don’t info-dump lore in paragraph one

don’t give me three pages of your OC making toast

don’t try to sound like a Victorian cryptid unless it’s on purpose

don’t introduce 7 named characters in one scene

don’t start with a quote unless you are 800% sure it slaps

be weird. be sharp. be specific. aim for interest, not perfection.

—

🏁 TL;DR (but make it ✨useful✨)

something in your MC’s life should change immediately

pick a structural entry point and stick to it

give us a person, not a setting

friction = good

first lines are disposable, just make them interesting

and if you needed a sign to just start the damn book, this is it.

💌 love, -rin t.

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[ceramini]

loser! jake BUT readers all of a sudden nice to him and jake is confused (and turned on ofc) maybe special occasion or smthn.surprise ne queen !!

⁺𝅄 𓊆 ❀ 𓊇 just so u guys know.. this will be my last jake fic/drabble before I retire him :(( i write for all of the members and I didn’t think people would request or even like my loser!jake stuff this much, so he WILL make a retrurn on my blog, I just want to share my work for other enha members as well <33 pls understand

pair loser!jake x hot!reader ͡ ͘◡ ꫶᳝᳜᳝᳜᳝᳜৯ tags reverse cowgirl, cockwarming ✿ scene jake forgot their third anniversary, again. He’s bracing for punishment, but instead, you’re suddenly super nice to him. Like, really nice. Confused, flustered, and lowkey turned on, Jake starts to wonder: is this mercy… or a horrible horrible setup? ────── library ⊹ ࣪ click to join taglist

like + reblog appreciated <3

Jake wakes up to the smell of bacon.

Which is weird, because he’s the one who usually forgets the pan and sets off the smoke alarm, and you usually sleep in on Sundays like it’s a constitutional right.

He blinks, dazed and warm and puffy-eyed, as your voice floats into the bedroom.

“Jakey,” you call softly. “Wake up baby. I made you breakfast.”

Jake sits up slowly. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are crusty. He’s half-hard under the blanket because of a dream he already forgot, and his first thought is:

Are you possessed?

“Baby?” you peek your head in, grinning.

Jake squints. “Wait. Did I die?”

You giggle. “No, dummy.”

“Did you die?”

“No.”

“Then why are you—” he looks down at the tray you’re carrying, eyes wide, “—bringing me pancakes?”

You sit beside him on the bed and brush a kiss to his cheek. “Because I love you.”

Jake flinches like you slapped him.

“You do?” he says, eyes watery.

You roll your eyes fondly. “Obviously.”

He leans against you, still confused but clinging like a koala.

Jake is an affectionate idiot, he clings without realizing, kisses without thinking, forgets his keys in your purse because “you’re the safe place.” But today, something about you is different.

You’re not just being kind, you’re being intentional.

You kiss him before he leaves the house.

You help him find his shoes even though they’re right where he always leaves them.

You pack his lunch. Write a little note.

And when he comes home after hanging with Sunghoon, there’s candles on the table.

Candles.

Jake stops in the doorway, staring.

“…Are we summoning something?”

You turn, wearing that adorable outfit, the one he kept staring at the day you tried it on in the store, too stunned to speak, until you went “should I not get it?” and he panic-yelled “NO GET IT GET IT.”

You wore it.

For him.

Jake gulps.

“Did I do something right?” he asks. “Or did I do something wrong and this is the part before you kill me?”

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist, laying your cheek against his chest. “You did everything right.”

Jake stands frozen. His whole body is stiff, except for one very obvious part.

You notice.

Of course you do.

You giggle. “You’re so easy.”

Jake whines. “You’re being so nice to me. It’s turning me on. That feels unethical.”

Dinner is perfect.

You give him his favorite part of the steak.

You laugh at every one of his terrible jokes.

You even rub his knee under the table like you want him.

Jake’s not used to being the pretty one in the relationship. You’re hot. So hot. It makes no sense to anyone that you date a guy who once cried during an animal shelter ad and accidentally set his microwave on fire trying to make instant ramen.

And yet.

You treat him like he’s the prize.

Jake wants to cry.

And then…

You give him a gift.

Wrapped. Bow and all.

Jake tears it open, confused, and finds:

A framed photo of you two, from your beach trip where Jake got sunburned and you made fun of his farmer’s tan.

A pressed flower from the first bouquet he gave you. He thought you threw it out.

A tiny hand-written book titled: “101 Reasons Why I’m Glad You’re Mine”

Jake blinks down at the cover.

“I—I don’t—” he stammers.

And then, finally, his eyes flick to the calendar on the wall.

The date glows like a punch to the gut.

Anniversary. Three years.

Jake forgot.

You didn’t.

“Jake,” you say softly, sitting beside him on the bed. “You okay?”

He looks like you kicked his puppy.

“I’m the worst boyfriend ever.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am. You did all this. And I didn’t even get you, like— like a card. Or a rock I found outside. Or a dumb doodle or a weird TikTok link or, anything.”

You rest your hand on his.

Jake’s bottom lip wobbles. He sniffles.

“It’s okay,” you say gently. “You always forget dates. I kind of expected it.”

That only makes it worse.

“You knew I’d forget?” he says, heartbroken.

You give a small, sad smile. “It’s not about remembering. It’s about trying.”

Jake stares at you.

And then, without a word, he kneels.

He presses kisses to your thigh. Your knee. Your hip.

Your stomach.

“Let me make it up to you,” he murmurs. “Please.”

He worships you.

That’s the only word for it.

Jake moves with reverence. He kisses you like he’s trying to apologize with his mouth, long, wet kisses that leave you gasping.

When you slide his shirt off, he fumbles a little with yours.

“Can I see you?” he whispers. “Please?”

You nod.

Jake groans the second your top’s off. His hands are greedy, trembling, desperate. But still gentle.

He takes his time.

So much time.

“Turn around?” you ask softly, cheeks warm. “I wanna ride you. That way.”

Jake’s brain short-circuits.

“Reverse— um what is it— um?”

“Reverse cowgirl?.”

Jake whines, already tugging his pants off. “I don’t even know if my heart can take that.”

You straddle him, slow and teasing.

And when you sink down, his hands fly to your hips.

Then hesitate.

Then slowly, tentatively, cup your ass.

“Can I?” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You nod.

Jake lets out the dirtiest moan you’ve ever heard.

“Your ass is insane,” he babbles. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna die. This is my punishment. You’re punishing me.”

He doesn’t even thrust.

He just holds you there, buried inside, cock so deep and warm that it feels like you’re melting together.

“P—please,” he breathes. “You’re so warm— n’so pretty. Like a goddess. Like an avenging angel with the softest—oh my god—you clenched.”

You giggle.

“I’m sorry,” he moans. “I know I forgot. I know I don’t deserve this. But I love you. I love you so much I feel it in my spine.”

You lean back slightly, rocking your hips once.

Jake chokes.

“I’ll never forget again,” he gasps. “Swear to god. I’ll tattoo it. I’ll set calendar alerts. I’ll carve it into my desk.”

You bounce once.

Jake screams.

You’re both laughing by the time he flips you over and kisses you breathless, trying to say everything with his hands and his mouth and his body that he forgot to say with words.

And after, when he’s soft inside you, buried to the hilt, and you’re both tangled and warm and sticky, Jake whispers:

“Next year I’m doing the most. Be ready.”

You hum, nuzzling into his chest. “Can’t wait.”

🪷 ─── @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto (join the taglist guys..)

[sooniebby]

Boxer OC idea… yall should watch Knockout the series immediately. Anyway, bottom male reader obvi. Just a little stream of consciousness on how the character works/story. LI means love interest

A popular boxer who known for being a little cocky, telling his opponents that they have to offer something if they lose. He always offers 35,000 dollars, an extra 20,000 if they deliver a knockout in or before the third round if he loses. No one’s been able to get it. While the LI always asks for something he notices the opponent cherishes. Like jewelry, a date with their partner, their car. Anything really.

He never usually keeps them. Uses it for like a week or two and then returns it, not without flaunting it on his Instagram to show it in their faces.

Your older brother is an up and coming boxer who hasn’t lost a fight so far—and has been dreaming (obsessing) over managing to knockout LI. So when at the press conference, a month or so before their scheduled fight, LI asks what your brother will offer when he loses.

Theres tension at the word “when” while your brother is about to offer up his car, not wanting his boyfriend to go on a date with him.

“That’s boring… obviously, that boyfriend of yours is more important.” LI said. The coaches immediately have to hold your brother back just as you manage to slip near your brother’s boyfriend and friend.

LI is about to call on the boyfriend when he notices you. You’re confused as it looks as if he’s recognizing you from somewhere but you’ve never seen him before. He takes in your clothes, noticing the scrubs you’re wearing, similar to the boyfriend.

“I know,” he suddenly said, catching your brother off guard, “he has to be my nurse for six months.”

Your brother hummed, “that’s.. better. Okay. He can do that.”

LI smirked. “You probably should’ve double checked on who I was asking for.” He said, nodding his head towards you. Your brother glanced back and immediately panicked at seeing you.

“Hey—you can’t—!”

“—too late~ you already agreed. Aim for a knockout, buddy.” LI pats your brother on the back before leaving the small stage. He walks over to you and leans down so only you could hear him.

“Can’t wait for our six months, babe~”

Smut ideas: heavily into manhandling you into any position. Constantly touching you and riding up your shirt, even if other people are around.

Semi-blood play, definitely would purposely spread his blood over your face with kisses. Sometimes even biting your lip so you could bleed… blood mixing, he nasty like that.

Pictures. Definitely takes pictures after or during sex, sometimes videos so he can watch them back later for masturbation. Would ask for audios of you masturbating.

Constantly tearing your scrubs open. He starts paying for your scrubs since it’s gotten to a point. The store clerks know you by name now.

First few times he’ll use condoms but quickly wants to do it bare. Into covering you in his cum.

While he’d love claiming and leaving marks on you, he’d encourage you to mark him up to. Most certainly going to show it off in front of your brother to piss him off.

Primal play, degradation. Little bit of feminization, gotta have a scene of reader having to wear a Halloween nurse costume, just gotta. Yall see the vision right?

Tag list: @secretivemessenger @kiiyoooo @star-3214 @cherry-blossoms-187 @tomoeroi @rhetorical-conscience @the-ultimate-librarian @chill-guy-but-cooler @remdayz @tehyunnie @mooncarvers-world @ofclyde @smellwell @castocipher @love-kha1 @ning1e @yuzuukix @m00n-b4b3 @iwishtobeacrow @mello-life25 @anchoredphoenix @bensontrechic

[flixpii]

“Why you here?”

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 10.9k

Synopsis :

It’s been five years since Remmick disappeared—right after he kissed reader for the first time. No goodbye, no explanation. Then one night, out of nowhere, he shows up at their door like he never left.

A/n : Y’all, please bear with me. I don’t know how to write synopses.

This is inspired by Smoke & Annie’s reunion 🫶🏾

Also, reader was an adult when she met remmick. There’s mentions of reader living in her family’s home during the time she was with Remmick, so I need to clarify that she was and still is an adult.

There is a sex scene, but it isn’t explicit.

————————————————————————

The kettle had just begun to whistle when you heard the knock.

It wasn’t loud. Barely a tap, really—like the wind brushing a loose shutter. But in the quiet hush of your cottage, nestled on the edge of a pine-wrapped clearing miles from town, it sounded louder than thunder. You stared at the door as the kettle screamed on behind you. For a moment, you wondered if you imagined it.

No one visited this late. Not in Winter. Not out here.

You slid the kettle from the stove’s flame and crossed the wooden floor with steady feet and a heart that betrayed you, thudding harder with every step. The lantern light cast long shadows behind you.

Who in their right mind would be so far out of town on a Winter night?

Your mind raced with millions of thoughts as to who could be outside of your door. A part of you said to keep from the door—whoever it was had to be out of their mind, and you wanted nothing to do with it.

But another part of you, the part deep inside, felt as if you already knew who was waiting outside that damned door. That part of you wanted so badly for reality to fall apart and rebuild itself so that he could be here.

You almost didn’t open it.

There was something in the knock—too soft, too patient—that stirred the back of your mind like a wind through old ash. The fire crackled low in the hearth, but it was your blood that warmed too quickly.

But when you did open the door, the cold evening air swept in—sharp and pine-scented. But what caught your mind wasn’t the intensity of the bite of the winter air, or the scent of the pine trees, it was the figure who stood just outside

He hadn’t changed. Not truly. Not in the way humans do. His coat was worn at the shoulders, his boots dusted with soil, his hair longer than it once was, curling slightly at the ends—but it was still him. Pale, proud, and silent as ever, standing beneath your porch light as if no time had passed.

You told yourself it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. He was gone. Long gone. Kissed you beneath the stars and left nothing behind but silence and memory and the aching ghost of his hands at your waist. You buried him with the rest of the dreams you no longer allowed yourself to feel.

The night curled behind him, but he made the darkness look softer. His figure was cut in shadow, lit only by the warm lantern glow behind you. And still—still, somehow—he stole your breath. Not because he was beautiful, though he was, achingly so, in that still, mournful way only he could be. But because it was him.

The him you used to imagine at your doorstep, soaked in guilt and rain, whispering your name.

The him you hated for leaving.

The him you loved anyway.

Your hands didn’t tremble, but they should’ve. You held the door like it might anchor you to this moment—because your heart was already slipping, pitching between fury and longing, sorrow and disbelief. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to cry into his coat. You wanted to ask him if he’d thought of you even once during the silence, if he’d known what it cost you to wake up alone each morning and not hate the sunrise.

He looked at you like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.

And you? You couldn’t even speak.

Because five years ago, you gave your first kiss to a man who didn’t age, didn’t die, and didn’t sttay. And now, standing in the doorway of your little cottage, heart caged in your throat, you were staring at the same man—unchanged, as if time itself bowed to him—while every inch of you trembled with the weight of the years he stole.

“Hey, baby.”

A breath escapes you before words can.

Your heart stops in your chest, and your eyes widen just slightly.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Remmick.”

But it didn’t sound the way you wanted it to. It cracked. Like your heart, that night you realized he wasn’t coming back.

Remmick didn’t answer. Not right away.

And you hated that he still looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Even after five years.

——

It was late when he took your hand and led you past the willow tree at the edge of the field.

The church bells had long stopped ringing. Most folks had gone home. The lanterns in town flickered low, their oil nearly spent, and the air had turned thick with the smell of dew and wildflowers—like the earth had just exhaled after a long, hot day. Crickets hummed somewhere in the tall grass. Your feet were bare. You’d slipped off your shoes hours ago, and now the cool, damp ground kissed your soles as Remmick walked just ahead, his grip gentle but certain.

You knew, somehow, that this would be the last night.

You knew it in the way he looked at you when he stepped onto your porch—like he was memorizing your laugh. You felt it when he lingered a little too long, standing there in the golden hush of your candlelight like a ghost waiting to be invited in. And now, under the blanket of stars, with only moonlight outlining the slope of his cheek and the quiet between you pulsing like a held breath—you knew.

You’d never see him like this again.

He stopped beside the fence. The old one by the churchyard, half-swallowed by ivy and time. You leaned against the post while he turned to face you, his features caught in fractured silver light.

“You don’t belong here,” you said quietly. Not because you wanted him gone. But because it was true.

He gave a slow nod. “I know.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

His jaw clenched slightly. Then softened. “Because you make me forget.”

Your heart ached. Not from hurt. From something deeper. Like he was saying goodbye in a thousand tiny ways before the words even left his lips.

“Remmick…”

He stepped forward. You didn’t move.

“I shouldn’t.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “But I want to.”

The space between you vanished.

His hand came to your cheek, the backs of his fingers cold, but they trembled. You’d never seen him falter before—not like this. Not Remmick, who never flinched when threatened by your father, who swore Remmick was the devil. Who never stepped back when others crossed the dark streets to avoid him. Who always stood like he’d already faced the end and survived it.

Now, he looked like a boy again. A boy on the edge of something vast and fragile.

He leaned in.

You didn’t close your eyes right away. You watched his—the way they darkened, the way they flickered down to your mouth and then back to your eyes like he was asking permission with every breath. Your lips parted, and just before he kissed you, he exhaled your name.

It felt like falling.

The kiss was soft at first. Barely a press. A question in the shape of a touch. And when you kissed him back—when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and you rose on your toes to feel more—it deepened. Became real. Became everything.

His other hand found the small of your back, pulling you gently against him. His lips were cool but slow, reverent, as if he feared you might vanish if he held you too tightly. And you kissed him like you were afraid you’d never be allowed to again.

Because somewhere in the warmth, somewhere in the sweetness—you knew.

This was not a beginning.

This was a memory being made for the ache.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. His breath shuddered against your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

And you barely had time to ask why before he was gone.

No footsteps. No goodbye.

Just the wind in the trees, and the taste of him still on your mouth, and the echo of a kiss that felt like a promise he was always meant to break.

——

The memory clung to you like fog.

Even as you stared at him, standing just inside your doorway, your body still remembered the shape of that kiss. The way his lips moved like he was trying not to break something. The way he whispered I’m sorry like he knew he already had.

You wondered if he remembered it the same way.

You wondered if he’d kissed anyone else since then.

Your eyes drifted to his mouth before you could stop them, and your chest ached with something old and unfair. Five years had passed. Seasons had bloomed and withered and bloomed again. And you had learned to live without him—or, at the very least, learned how to quiet the part of yourself that still waited on the porch of your family’s home.

Time passed, and you changed.

Remmick stepped forward, just slightly, enough to graze the threshold of the door.

“I thought about you every night,” he said.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight with a hundred things you hadn’t said.

“I told myself I’d forget. That it was just a kiss. That I didn’t feel what I felt.”

“And did you?” you managed to say. “Forget?”

He shook his head. Slow. Tormented. “No.”

You turned away, because his eyes were too much—too open, too full of the man who once held you like you were fragile and holy and forbidden all at once.

“I waited for you,” you said, your eyes not meeting his. “Not forever. But long enough to hate myself for it.”

“I know.”

“No. You don’t.” Your eyes flitted back to his face, hard, steam from the kettle curling behind you like breath as it began to scream. “You kissed me like I was something to hold onto. Then you vanished. Not a word. Not a sign. I used to lie in bed and wonder if you’d died. If someone had got you. If I’d made it all up. Because how could anyone love me like that ‘n leave?”

Remmick closed his eyes. Exhaustion flickered across his face like lightning behind clouds.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” he said. “I left because I did.”

The air collapsed between you.

He stepped forward again, hands at his sides, like he could force himself through the threshold with enough pushing.

“Just let me in, darlin’. I promise to make this right—I-I’ll make it right.”

You looked at him. Really looked. He was older in the eyes now. Not physically, but in the weight of what he carried. The edges of him were more worn. Like he’d been running, but never from anything fast enough.

And still, your heart tugged toward him. Because he was Remmick. Because he was your first kiss. Your last kiss. Your undoing.

“No.”

Remmick’s eyebrows furrow slightly, and he lets out a soft sigh—his head shakes slightly as if he knew you’d say that.

“I can’t come in,” he finally said, his voice low, taut with restraint. “You know that.”

You did. Of course you did. You’d read the stories. Heard the whispered rules by the elderly women in your hometown. A vampire could never cross the threshold of a home uninvited. It was one of the last laws Remmick obeyed. Maybe the only one that mattered anymore.

You leaned your shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“I never told you to leave,” you murmured. “But you did anyway.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, like he’d expected this—but had hoped it would go differently. “I came back.”

“You left me in the dark.”

“I know.”

His tone sharpened, just barely, like a blade catching the edge of a stone. He stepped closer—still outside—close enough for the porch light to catch the hollow curve beneath his cheekbone, the flicker of something fierce in his eyes.

“I stood at that door for hours that night. I thought about knocking. About running. About throwing myself to the sun if it meant I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Your heart thudded, heavy and slow. But your lips stayed still.

“And now?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Now…” He clenched his fists briefly, then forced them to loosen. “Now I’m asking you to let me in. Not because i want something from you. Not because I think I deserve it. But because I can’t keep standing on the edge of your life hoping you’ll crack the door.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t move. Part of you hated him—truly, wholly, with every piece he’d carved out of you when he vanished. But another part, deeper and crueler, still ached to pull him into your arms and ask if he ever held someone the way he once held you.

Remmick’s jaw tightened again. His voice dipped low—quieter, but not gentler.

“This is gettin’ cruel,” he muttered. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to talk to me again. But either invite me in or shut the door.”

The words hit like ice.

You blinked, slowly.

It wasn’t that he was angry. Not truly. You could tell he was tired. Frustrated. Worn thin by guilt and hope and years of imagining this moment and how he would earn it—or fail. But something in you twisted at the audacity of it. That he could give ultimatums now.

“You don’t get to call me cruel,” you said softly. “You don’t get to stand there, after five years of nothing, and act like I owe you warmth.”

“I’m not asking for warmth,” he said. “I’m asking for a chance to explain. To exist in the same room. That’s it.”

You watched him, heart hammering, lips dry.

He took one more step toward the door—and stopped just shy of the threshold. The space between you felt sacred. A breath away. A chasm. His voice dropped again, hoarse this time.

“Please,” he said. “Let me in.”

The word please hung between you like incense.

You swore you could feel it on your skin. Heavy. Sorrowful. Like a prayer whispered too late.

But still, you didn’t speak.

You stared at him. At the man who had once kissed you like you were the last light he’d ever see. At the man who left without a goodbye. You hated how part of you still felt drawn to him—as if your soul remembered something your mind tried so hard to bury. But there he stood, outside your door, and every second you waited felt like a match burning low between your fingers.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

“Christ,” he muttered under it, almost to himself. “You really won’t make this easy, will ya?”

You didn’t flinch. “Did you expect I would?”

He let out a bitter sound—part laugh, part exhale. His eyes searched yours, dark and full of something wild, something breaking.

Then his mouth twisted, his voice low and guttural, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Fuck. Let me in.”

Your name followed, low and wrecked. His tongue curled around it like it hurt to say it. As if you were Christ, and sharing such profanity in the same breath as your name was blasphemous. And it was—the way he said it, like it bled reverence and fury all at once. Like your name tasted like guilt and godhood.

You stared at him, heart a drumbeat in your ears.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you whispered.

He stepped closer—still outside, still bound by the law he’d never dared break—and his voice dropped like a stone into water.

“I don’t need you to trust me. Not yet. I just need you to understand me.”

“I understand you,” you said, and you meant it. “But you’re not the same man I knew.”

Remmick’s lips parted, then closed again. He looked down—at his boots, at the floorboards, at the edge of the world he couldn’t step into.

When he looked back up, there was something raw in his eyes. Not the vampire. Not the centuries he carried like chains. Just the man from that autumn night. The one who kissed you like a confession and vanished before sunrise.

“I know I’m not him,” he said. “And I probably never will be. I just want you to understand why I did what I did.”

You didn’t speak.

The wind shifted behind him. Leaves scattered along the steps. Somewhere in the trees, an owl cried out.

And Remmick… he stood still. As if his entire eternity had come down to this moment. A doorframe. A silence. A woman deciding whether to let a ghost step inside.

You should’ve just said it.

The words hovered at the back of your throat, aching for air. Two syllables. Come in. That was all it would take—a breath, a tremble, a simple gesture of mercy. But they wouldn’t come.

Not because you wanted him to suffer.

But because you were still suffering.

The past pressed itself into the hollows of your ribs. You could still feel the version of yourself he’d left behind—the girl who had stayed up for days listening for footsteps that never came, who flinched every time the wind knocked gently on the windows. Who had kissed him under moonlight and then had to carry the weight of it alone.

She wasn’t gone.

She was you.

And that version of yourself stood now, arms crossed and voice hollow, watching the man who had hollowed her out beg for an opening.

“I used to wait,” you said quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, where the trees swayed in the cold. “Every night for weeks. I’d leave the window cracked open even when it rained. I thought maybe you’d come back like the stories said. Pale and sorry. With flowers, or a poem, or somethin’ stupid like that.”

Remmick flinched—barely. But you saw it. Felt the sting of it in the way his jaw shifted, how his hands curled slightly at his sides.

“I came back with nothing,” he said. “Just me. Nothing else made it through.”

A beat. The ache in your chest twisted crueler.

You looked at him again.

He wasn’t the same. He carried too much now. Too many sleepless years. Too many choices with no turning back. The man you kissed that night had disappeared—maybe the moment he stepped away from you. Maybe he’d died in the silence he left behind.

And yet… something of him remained. The way he looked at you now, like you were the only light he remembered. Like he was terrified of what you’d say next.

You shook your head. “You can’t just show up and expect to pick up where you left off.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I don’t expect anything. I just—I just wanted to see you. I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”

That did something to you.

Made something shift.

“You think I’d die before you?” you said, voice softer now. Almost bitter. “No. That’d be too easy.”

He looked at the ground again. His lips parted. But this time, he said nothing. Just stood there. So close. Yet still outside.

Your hand tightened on the doorframe.

You felt powerful and powerless all at once. He couldn’t cross unless you allowed him—and he knew it. But with every heartbeat, you realized this wasn’t just about ancient rules or myths or blood-soaked pacts.

This was about trust.

About whether you could let him near you again and survive it.

Your voice came quiet. Trembling. Unsteady.

“What if I let you in and you leave again?”

Remmick’s eyes met yours.

“I won’t,” he said.

“Promise?”

The word came out like a dare.

And his voice cracked as he answered. “Yes.”

Still—you hesitated.

The silence went on too long.

It curled around your ribs, stretched across the porch, filled every crack in the air like smoke that wouldn’t lift. And he—Remmick—just stood there in it, waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t beg. His shoulders stayed tense, and his eyes, though tired, never left your face.

But you saw it now—in the tight line of his mouth, the slight tremble in his fingers.

He was afraid you wouldn’t.

And somehow, knowing that gave you back a little of your breath.

It was strange. You thought when this moment came—if it ever came—you’d slam the door in his face. Or scream. Or cry. But instead, you just felt tired. Like your heart had been holding its breath for five years and was only now remembering how to exhale.

You stepped back.

Not far. Just enough.

The invitation was wordless at first—a shift in posture, the gentlest yielding of space. But that wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he was.

He still couldn’t move.

Your mouth was dry. Your tongue felt too big in your mouth. But your voice came anyway, low and almost uncertain.

“Come in.”

The wind hushed outside, as if it had been waiting too.

Remmick moved before you could second-guess yourself. One step—and then another—and then he was inside. He passed the threshold like it hurt. Like the warmth of your little home singed him where the cold of the world had frozen in. His shoulders relaxed, just barely. And for a heartbeat, he looked almost human.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, eyes wide, as if he were trying to memorize everything—the low flame in the hearth, the scent of rosemary drying on the windowsill, the chipped mug you’d left on the table.

Then his gaze returned to you.

You didn’t know what he saw. Maybe the same girl from five years ago. Maybe someone new. Maybe both. He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But it was enough, for now, that he was in.

He closed the door gently behind him.

The sound echoed like the end of a chapter.

You stood across from him, arms still crossed, unsure what to do with the ache in your chest or the ghosts in the room. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t ask for your hand. But his eyes—God, his eyes—still looked at you like he was waiting for the moment he could breathe again.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. “For letting me.”

You nodded once. “Don’t thank me yet.”

The kettle had gone quiet again.

You turned from him and went to the stove, reaching for it with hands steadier than they should’ve been. The heat kissed your knuckles as you moved the kettle, refilled the mug you’d left half full. You didn’t ask if he wanted tea. You weren’t ready for that.

Behind you, Remmick loitered—that was the only word for it—near the kitchen table. He didn’t sit. He hovered with his fingertips just barely grazing the back of one of the chairs, his shoulders rigid, his body angled like he still wasn’t sure if he belonged.

He didn’t know where to stand. Where to be.

You remembered that about him—even before he left. For all the quiet confidence he wore like armor, there was always something uneasy in him when he stepped too close to warmth. He didn’t know what to do with gentleness. Or with silence that wasn’t threatening.

You stirred honey into the tea. It gave you something to do with your hands. Something to focus on besides the way his presence filled the space like a second heartbeat.

“Are you going to sit?” you asked finally.

He blinked. “Should I?”

You turned, met his eyes. “You’re not just a shadow on the porch anymore.”

After a second, he pulled out the chair and sat—slowly, cautiously, like the wood might protest. His hands rested on the table, pale and long-fingered, one thumb absently rubbing over the knuckle of the other.

You set the mug down across from him. You didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter, arms folded again, the ache in your chest blooming slow.

And then you asked it.

The question that had been pressing against your lips since the moment you opened the door.

“Why you here, Remmick?”

Remmick didn’t answer.

Not right away.

His eyes flicked down to the grain of the table, then back to you. You saw the war inside him—the way his mouth opened and closed, the way he leaned forward like he was going to speak, then pulled back like the words were teeth.

You thought he might lie. Or say something vague. Something that would spare both of you.

But he didn’t.

“I came back for you.”

The room stopped moving.

His voice wasn’t soft, not really. It was low and certain—like a verdict handed down after years in silence. You stared at him, every part of you taut with disbelief and heat. And maybe—maybe—some part of you had longed to hear it. But it wasn’t enough. Not after all this time.

“Why’d it take you so long?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He flinched.

A sharp fang found its way into his bottom lip. You saw it clearly—the slight glint of enamel just before it bit down, hard enough that blood might’ve bloomed if he still bled like you. Then, with enough force to give even the undead a headache, he wrenched his head away from you, eyes turned to the wall like it had something safer to offer than your face.

“I told you,” he snapped. The words came through gritted teeth, sharp, strained—not angry, but barely held together. “I had to leave.”

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t look at anything, really, except the knots in the old table where his palms pressed flat, white and firm. He leaned forward, using it to brace himself like the truth was too heavy to hold upright on his own.

And maybe it was.

But that didn’t soften anything in you.

Your feet moved before you realized it. Across the floor. Slow, quiet steps until you were close—close enough to feel the cold that came off his skin, close enough to see the fraying thread of guilt stretching between his shoulders.

“You ain’t utter those words to me,” you said, and the tightness in your voice surprised even you. “You didn’t say nothin’. Just… left.”

He didn’t move.

Your eyes traced the curve of his neck, the tension locked in his jaw. The scent of him rushed forward unbidden—dirt, pine, and that same death-like cold that always made you shiver, even before you knew what he was. It hit you like it always did—grounding, haunting, familiar.

You hated how much it still felt like home.

“You could’ve said something,” you whispered. “Anything.”

“I know,” he said.

But it didn’t sound like surrender. It sounded like a man swallowing a knife just to prove he deserved it.

You were so close now. His body tensed with your nearness, but he still didn’t look at you. As if facing you fully would make this all too real. As if your eyes were the final punishment.

“You kissed me like you were going to stay,” you said, and it came out too soft, too bitter.

His hands curled tighter on the table.

“I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The question landed like a stone.

Remmick let out a breath — quiet, but jagged. For a moment, the silence thickened again. His head still bowed, his fangs still peeking out slightly from where his teeth clenched. Then, finally, he looked at you.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned and looked down at the table, eyes flickering as if weighing whether to say what he hadn’t told anyone—maybe ever. His jaw shifted, but no words came.

You could feel something building in the silence, hot and wrong and old—not just guilt. Not just regret.

He was hiding something. Something big.

“Why’d you leave?” you pressed, your voice harder now, the hurt finally boiling over. “What were you even looking for?”

He still didn’t speak.

So you stepped closer.

Your voice dropped, sharp and low. “You said you came back for me. But that don’t mean much if you left in the first place to chase ghosts.”

That did it.

Remmick stood.

Abrupt. Tense. His chair scraped against the floor, and the sudden movement made the candlelight flicker in the glass. He walked to the other end of the table without looking at you, putting space between your bodies like he needed air—or maybe protection.

His side was to you now. One hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale.

You didn’t let him off easy.

“Who did you need to find?” you asked. “What was more important than me?”

His shoulders tensed, his fingers curling tighter.

And then—suddenly, sharply—he turned.

“I had a mission long before I met you,” he snapped. “Don’t act like I was ever whole.”

You froze.

The words struck like thunder. They came from someplace deep—not just his chest, but his soul, what little of it was still tethered to this world.

“I’m not some romantic ghost story,” he said, voice thick with something between fury and despair. “I didn’t crawl out of the dark just to fall in love with a girl and settle down in some goddamn cottage. I’ve been alive for thirteen hundred years. Do you understand that? Thirteen. Hundred. Years.”

You stared at him.

His chest rose and fell—not from breath, not really. From emotion. From centuries unspoken.

“I was cut off,” he said, quieter now. “Spiritually. Whatever gave other people peace—prayer, bloodlines, death rites—it abandoned me. When I died, something severed. My people… they’re gone. And I can’t feel them. I can’t reach them.”

He looked down. His voice broke like something old inside him cracked loose.

“I had to go looking. I thought maybe, just maybe, there was someone—somewhere—who could help me reconnect. A seer, a walker-between-worlds, a blood priest who still remembered what it meant to be part of something older. I had to try.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Because for the first time, you saw it—really saw it—the full shape of his exile. Not from the world. But from his own legacy. His ancestors. His people. His place in the story of everything.

You watched him, chest burning.

And he said, softer now, “I needed to know if I could still belong to anything.”

The silence after was unbearable.

It wasn’t just pain in his voice now. It was loneliness so ancient it smelled of blood and salt and fire.

The room felt colder now.

Not from the night air—the door was shut tight, and the fire still flickered steady in the hearth, but from the quiet. From the way his words seemed to cling to the walls, to the wood grain beneath your bare feet. They filled the space like smoke.

You didn’t move. Not toward him. Not away.

Just stood there, arms limp at your sides, fingers twitching uselessly as if they were supposed to reach for something but didn’t remember how.

He didn’t turn back to look at you.

He stood by the table, spine drawn taut, as if afraid that facing you would undo what little dignity he had left. His hand pressed flat to the table like he needed something solid to keep from breaking.

You’d never seen him like this.

Not even back then—when he kissed you like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted just because he wanted it. Back then, he was quiet, yes. Sad, sometimes. But this—this was different. This was something hollow and hurting and ancient.

You swallowed hard. Your voice didn’t come.

All you could hear was the wind outside, the slow pop of a log in the fire, and the quiet thud of your heartbeat behind your ribs.

He was thirteen hundred years old.

And for thirteen hundred years, he had walked in the skin of the forgotten—untethered, unseen, unclaimed by the very people he once bled for. That kind of grief didn’t pass. It settled in the bones. It made a home there.

And you hated him for leaving. You did.

But now, watching the rigid line of his back, hearing the strain in his voice, you realized something.

You weren’t the only thing he’d abandoned.

He’d been running from himself long before he ever touched your mouth with his.

And that was almost worse.

Your throat ached. But you said nothing.

You let the silence stretch—not as punishment, but as a kind of mourning. For what he’d lost. For what you never had a chance to hold. For what neither of you knew how to name.

And he just stood there, in the quiet, like a statue of a man still waiting for the gods to speak.

You took a breath.

Slow. Unsteady.

And then you took a step.

Just one, toward him. Toward the man who now stood by your window like he’d forgotten how to be a person. The man who had finally cracked open the vault of his silence and spilled centuries across your floor. You didn’t know what you were going to do. Touch his arm, maybe. Say his name. Sit beside him and share the weight of what he carried.

But before you could take another step, he spoke again.

“…I shouldn’t’ve said all that.”

His voice was quieter now. Tighter. A sharp turn inward.

You froze mid-step.

He shook his head, one hand dragging roughly through his hair, fingers catching at the strands like he wanted to tear the words back out of the air. “Christ. You didn’t ask for any of that. I shouldn’t’ve—” he broke off, breath catching, jaw tightening again.

“You think I came back noble and bruised with purpose, but I’m not. I’m just—” he laughed once, but it was brittle. Empty. “I’m just tired. Tired of chasing ghosts. Tired of trying to outrun what I am.”

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see his face in profile. His lips parted, his brows drawn in, the gleam of his fang still barely visible where it caught the candlelight. There was something hollow in the way he held himself now—like all the certainty he had just minutes before had collapsed beneath the weight of your silence.

“I shouldn’t’ve come here,” he muttered. “Not like this. Not after what I left you with. I-I didn’t mean to drag you back into my ruins.”

Your chest tightened.

It wasn’t that he was angry. Not really. It was shame. Pure and bitter. The kind that turns into a blade when it sits too long. You saw it in the way he curled slightly inward, like he was bracing for rejection before you could even offer it.

He thought he’d said too much. Thought you’d turn away now, disgusted, or maybe worse—pitying.

You hadn’t even opened your mouth yet, and already he was retreating.

It hit you then—a sharp, sudden ache.

He expected to be unloved.

Even now.

You took another slow step forward.

“Remmick,” you said.

And his name in your voice—spoken softly, with nothing but weight and warmth—made his shoulders flinch like a wound had reopened.

He still didn’t turn.

You moved again.

Quieter this time.

No words followed his name—not yet. You didn’t have the right ones. You didn’t know if there were right ones. But your body moved on instinct. On ache. On the pull that had never left you, not even when the pain was freshest.

The floor creaked softly beneath your weight.

He didn’t react. Not to the sound. Not to your footsteps. He stayed still, staring out the window like maybe he could find his ancestors in the dark beyond the trees—like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this would hurt less.

You reached out.

Your hand trembled as it hovered for a breath above his arm—just above the worn leather of his coat. You hesitated. Not out of fear. But out of reverence.

Then you touched him.

Just a gentle press of your fingers to his forearm, near the bend of his elbow.

It was like touching stone that had once been warm. Cold, yes—always cold—but there was tension beneath the surface, something alive. Something trying not to fall apart. You felt him flinch, barely. A tightening of the muscle. A breath that never left his lungs.

“I don’t need perfect,” you said, quietly. “I never did.”

His head turned slightly, but still not all the way. His eyes shifted toward you, not quite meeting yours, as if afraid he’d see disappointment in them.

“You think you ruined me,” you whispered, thumb gently brushing the sleeve beneath your palm. “But the truth is, you didn’t break nothin’ that wasn’t already cracked.”

That made him go still.

You stepped closer—so close now, your chest nearly touched his arm. Your voice trembled, but you didn’t pull back.

“You came back to your ruins, you said. Well, you’re lookin’ at one. I ain’t been whole since the night you left. And I hate that. I hate that you still live in me like a ghost I can’t exorcise.”

A pause.

“But I still touched you.”

Remmick finally turned.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a slow, tired movement of a man surrendering to gravity. His face tilted down toward yours, the candlelight catching his cheekbone, the sadness in his mouth, the storm in his eyes.

Your hand stayed on his arm.

He looked at it. Then at you.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

Because your touch was saying everything neither of you could voice just yet—that the wound was still there. That the pain was real. But so was the longing. So was the tether that no silence, no time, no centuries of grief could quite sever.

The silence held—but it shifted.

It thickened into something breathless. Something just barely tethered to the ground. Your hand still rested on his arm, but you weren’t sure when your fingers had curled slightly, holding him now, not just touching. And he wasn’t looking at the floor anymore.

He was looking at you.

Not just your eyes—but your mouth. Your breath. Your face like it was something he’d spent a century dreaming of and wasn’t sure was real even now. His gaze moved slowly, reverently, and your heart kicked in your chest so hard it hurt.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

And then, so gently it barely registered at first, Remmick leaned in.

His head tilted slightly, the space between your bodies trembling as he moved toward you with all the hesitation of a man who’d once had this—and lost it. His brow hovered near yours, and he didn’t touch you anywhere else. Not your cheek. Not your waist. Just that one arm beneath your hand, steady like a bridge between lifetimes.

His breath ghosted over your lips.

He stopped—not even an inch away. And when he looked at you, really looked at you, you saw it.

The question.

Not in words. But in his eyes. In the tremble of his mouth. In the way he waited.

It was everything you hadn’t been able to say since he walked back into your doorway. All of the pain, the longing, the ache you’d buried in your chest and tried to forget—it was in that look.

You didn’t speak.

You just nodded.

Slow. Barely.

But enough.

And then he kissed you.

There was no rush. No hunger. No sharp edges. Just a deep, aching softness that carried five years of silence and the heavy press of what might have been. His lips were cool, as they always had been, but they warmed quickly against yours, molding with a kind of reverence that made your throat tighten.

He kissed you like a man who hadn’t touched anything real in centuries.

And you kissed him back like someone who’d waited every night for a knock that never came.

The kiss deepened slowly—his hand finally, finally lifting to your waist, careful like you were made of glass and grief. You reached up without thinking, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw, and felt the shiver that ran through him at your touch.

It wasn’t just want.

It was remembrance.

And surrender.

And hope.

And the question that pulsed between both of your mouths as you breathed each other in:

Can this still be ours?

When the kiss broke, it was slow, like neither of you wanted to part—just enough to draw breath. His forehead rested lightly against yours. His hand stayed at your waist.

The silence after the kiss wasn’t empty.

It buzzed.

Low and hot, like a wire pulled tight between your bodies. You could feel the echo of his mouth on yours, the cold of his lips warming against you, the tremor in his breath where it touched your cheek. And you knew—without words, without doubt—that he felt it too.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t ask.

But his hand stayed at your waist, and when his forehead slipped gently against yours again, the smallest sigh escaped him—something between relief and admiration.

Then he kissed you again.

Softer this time. Slower. A question with a fuller answer.

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the stillness beneath. No heartbeat. No rise or fall of breath the way a human’s would move. But he felt alive all the same—alive in the way he touched you now, in the way his other hand slipped up along your spine, fingers splaying wide at the middle of your back to draw you closer.

You let him.

You melted into the cold of him like it had never left you. Like it had always been yours to return to.

He pulled you tighter, and his kiss deepened—not urgent, not rushed. Just full. Like a long drink after drought. Like he was afraid of overwhelming you but hungrier than he’d ever admit.

You didn’t realize you were moving until your back touched the edge of the kitchen table.

His body had pressed yours backward, his steps slow, deliberate, until the wood met your spine. You gasped softly into his mouth at the contact—not from pain, but from the thrill of knowing he was still following you. Still wanting you. Still choosing this, after all the years lost.

Remmick’s hand slid down to your hip, firm but careful, like he still feared you might vanish if he held you too hard. His other hand brushed along your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your ear as he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes flicked between yours and your mouth, lips parted, fangs just barely visible now.

“You’re still warm,” he whispered, voice rough with ache.

You swallowed, heart thudding. “You’re still cold.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression—pain, longing, devotion all tangled together.

But then you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down again.

And this time, when your mouths met, it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was reclamation.

It was every unfinished second. Every breathless night. Every aching dream you’d forced yourself to forget.

His hands roamed now—not frantic, not wild— just slow, admiring. He touched your waist, your ribs, the dip of your spine as if relearning a place he thought he’d never feel again. You clutched at his coat, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring him to you.

His hips pressed closer, and you felt it—the tension he carried, the restraint he held onto with every ounce of control he had. He could’ve taken more. But he didn’t. He waited.

Letting you decide how far this went.

His breath shuddered against your throat as he kissed along the edge of your jaw, your neck, pausing just above the pulse point, fangs hovering—not touching, not daring.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse, barely more than breath. “Tell me now, an’ I will.”

But you didn’t.

You tilted your head back, eyes closed, hands tightening around his shoulders, and your body answered for you.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

And that silence—that permission—made something shift in him.

He kissed you deeper now, fuller, his hand sliding beneath the hem of your dress, fingers tracing the warmth of your waist like he was trying to map what had changed in five years… and what hadn’t. You weren’t sure when your breathing had quickened, only that it matched his now—uneven, shallow, as if the two of you were speaking in rhythm without words.

His coat rustled softly as your fingers pushed it from his shoulders, and he let it fall, never once breaking the kiss. The chill of his skin bled through his shirt, but you didn’t care. You wanted him closer. You pulled at him. Needed more of him, not just the memory, not just the ache.

His mouth left yours briefly, trailing along your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. He moved slow—as if he were reminding himself this wasn’t a dream. That this was now. You felt the press of his lips where your pulse beat hard, and though his fangs hovered, they never broke the skin.

“I missed this,” he whispered into your neck. “I missed you.”

The way he said it—strained and quiet, almost broken—made your fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. You guided his mouth back to yours, and this time the kiss was hungrier. Not rushed, but desperate in a way that only years of loneliness could explain.

Then he reached down.

His hands slid beneath your thighs.

Your breath caught.

And with a strength that made you feel small in the safest way, he lifted you.

You gasped softly into his mouth, hands clinging to his shoulders, and before you could say a word, your back met the cool wood of the kitchen table. His body stood between your legs, eyes hooded, breath shaking, the tension in him almost unbearable.

But he paused again.

Always waiting for you.

His hands pressed to your hips, thumbs brushing small circles there, grounding himself.

“Is this alright?” he asked, voice low, almost lost.

You looked at him and there was no monster before you. No ghost. No predator. Just Remmick. Cold and trembling and human in all the ways that mattered.

And you nodded.

“Yes,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He leaned forward again, and when his lips found yours this time, there was no more hesitation.

Only the steady unraveling of everything you’d both buried, finally rising to the surface—breath by breath, touch by touch.

His hands never rushed.

Even now, with your body perched on the edge of the kitchen table and your breath coming in soft, uneven bursts, Remmick touched you like you were still something holy. Like each part of you had to be reacquainted with his palms, his mouth, his memory. His fingers splayed wide along your hips, thumbs grazing bare skin, cool and steady as he stood between your legs.

You drew him closer with your thighs, wrapping around his waist without needing to ask. He came willingly—as if that was where he’d always belonged. His mouth found yours again, slower this time. No longer asking. Simply being.

The kiss was deeper now—mouths open, breath shared, the weight of his body pressing gently between your knees as he leaned in. You tilted your head to meet him, hands sliding beneath his shirt to find the skin of his back. Cold, yes—but firm, strong. Familiar. You mapped each line with your palms like a song you never forgot how to hum.

When he pressed forward, you arched to meet him.

Your bodies fit in a way that felt fated—not perfect, but true. Like two lives made jagged by time and grief finally finding alignment again.

Clothes slipped away slowly, piece by piece, not in a frenzy but with reverence. You felt his hesitation every step of the way—not from doubt, but from awe. As if he still couldn’t believe you were here. That you were letting him stay. Letting him have this.

And yet you were.

Because your fingers trembled as they undid the buttons of his shirt. Each one undone slowly, like he was afraid to rush the moment. Like he needed to memorize every inch of you he uncovered.

You watched him.

The way his eyes drank you in, like you were light after centuries in shadow. The way his lips parted with something like awe when your bare skin was revealed to him. And still, he moved carefully, never all at once. His hands slid up your ribs, along your waist, grounding himself in the warmth he could never possess fully, but still longed for.

And when he leaned down again, pressing kisses to your collarbone, to your sternum, to the top of your stomach, he sighed against your skin like he had finally found his way home.

You arched into him.

Not to provoke, but to be nearer. To give him more.

His hands curled beneath your thighs again, lifting you further onto the table, angling your hips with the slow precision of someone not rushing toward lust but toward remembrance. His forehead pressed to yours again, and his lips hovered over your mouth as your fingers pushed his shirt aside, revealing the cool, unchanging skin beneath.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his hands gathering up your dress so that it hiked up to your waist.

It wasn’t lust that cracked his voice.

It was the weight of everything he was, everything he carried, terrified that this was just one more dream he would wake from.

You nodded. Slow. Sure.

And then his body met yours—fully, completely—a slow, reverent joining. Not fast. Not rough. But steady and aching and real. His lips found your mouth again, and this time there was no space between you.

The table creaked gently beneath the shift of bodies. Your breath mingled with his. His hands moved beneath your thighs and along your waist with worshipful care, every touch a vow. Every press of skin a memory rewritten. His fangs, now elongated and aching, ghosted over your flushed skin.

The rhythm built gradually—not frantic, but inevitable. Like tides returning to shore. His eyes stayed on yours, even as pleasure pulled at his features, even as your hand tangled in his hair and your hips met his with slow, desperate need. You felt the tremble in him. The restraint. The sorrow and relief wrapped around every motion.

It wasn’t about hunger.

It was about returning.

It was about touching someone who was gone for too long, and finding they still lived in the same rhythm as your heart.

You gasped his name once—broken, breathless—and he kissed the sound from your mouth like it was sacred.

And when it ended, you didn’t move right away.

You stayed wrapped in him, arms around his shoulders, his forehead pressed to your temple, both of you breathing the same air like it would keep the world from spinning too fast.

The world was still spinning when you exhaled.

Your body felt heavy and soft all at once, your skin flushed with the afterglow of everything he gave you—and everything you gave him in return. Remmick’s weight rested against you, not crushing but grounding, his chest pressed to yours, his arms still curled tightly around your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You were still joined.

Still breathing him in.

And for a moment, everything felt… quiet.

Then you felt his mouth against your neck.

Not kissing. Not gentle.

Just resting there. Fangs pressing against your skin.

At first, you thought it was comfort. Some strange kind of closeness. But then his grip shifted—tighter. His breath warmed your throat. His jaw twitched.

And then he whispered.

“I’m not leaving without you again.”

The words made your breath catch.

“What…?” you murmured, dazed, unsure what he meant. Your fingers twitched against his shoulders , mind still hazy from the rush of it all.

Then you felt it.

A shift in his mouth.

A pressure.

His fangs, barely-there at first, began to press in.

Slow. Deliberate.

The pain didn’t come immediately. It was the realization first. The sickening clarity. The way your body tensed in warning before your mind could even process the threat.

“No,” you breathed.

You pushed at his chest.

He didn’t move.

“Remmick,” you said louder, urgency breaking through your haze. “No.”

But he growled.

Low. Deep. From somewhere far older than the man you knew. It vibrated through his chest, into your ribs. And his grip tightened.

Your spine arched slightly under the pressure as he pressed closer, mouth still hovering at your neck, fangs teasing the edge of skin. You felt the warm slide of drool—thick, inhuman—spill from his mouth onto the curve of your collarbone.

He wasn’t biting.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But he was on the edge.

You shoved harder against him, eyes wide. “Remmick—!”

You felt the tremor in his body—not weakness, but restraint beginning to fray.

He wasn’t speaking now. Just breathing—shallow, irregular, mouth still pressed to your neck like he could already feel your blood humming beneath the skin.

“Remmick,” you whispered again, this time not just with fear, but with sorrow.

And still, he didn’t move.

His arms locked tighter around your waist, not crushing, but binding. His chest rose and fell against yours, colder than it should be, but shaking like a man on the edge of breaking.

You tried again, pressing harder at his chest. “Let go.”

But his growl deepened.

It wasn’t rage.

It was need.

Low and guttural and mournful—like something ancient had cracked open in him and was spilling out.

His breath dragged heavily along your neck, lips trembling now as his fangs hovered just above your skin. Not plunging in. Just pressing. Threatening. Tasting what could be his.

And then—a whisper.

Hoarse. Barely spoken.

“I can’t lose you again.”

You froze.

He wasn’t talking to you like a lover now. He was talking to you like a man speaking to a god. Or a ghost. Or the last fragment of a life he never got to keep.

His grip trembled, but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You’ll die. You’ll leave me. You’ll vanish like the rest. And I-I can’t—”

His words broke apart.

And you realized then: he didn’t just want to taste you.

He wanted to turn you.

His desperation wasn’t about blood.

It was about keeping you. Binding you to him. Forever.

As one of his own.

As something that could never slip away in the passage of time.

His fangs pressed in again, slower this time. As if this act would save him. As if you could be his answer, his redemption, his final tether to something real.

You pushed harder, panic flaring, voice trembling. “Remmick—no. Not like this.”

But he didn’t pull away.

His jaw twitched.

His breath stuttered against your skin.

He was close.

So close.

And still, somewhere in his silence—you felt the war inside him.

Because he didn’t want to hurt you.

He wanted to keep you.

But keeping you meant crossing a line he had vowed never to cross. A line soaked in blood. A line he had watched destroy love before.

You were right there—body against his, heartbeat beneath his lips—and still, he hesitated.

Your heart was pounding loud enough for him to feel it. You knew he could—the way his body stayed pressed to yours, the way his mouth hovered at the pulse in your neck like it called to him. Your blood wasn’t just scent anymore—it was music, and he was being dragged into it note by note.

You felt it.

In his breath.

In the tremble of his lips.

In the restraint that was fracturing.

You were losing him.

Not Remmick the man. The lover. The ghost that came back through your door.

But Remmick the thing beneath.

And still—even through your fear—you knew this wasn’t cruelty.

It was longing. It was need. It was the desperate, cloying ache to keep you forever, wrapped in the only kind of permanence he understood. You weren’t dying—not yet—but you could, and that was unbearable to him.

So you did the only thing you could.

You reached up—slowly, deliberately—and you cupped his face.

Your hand shook.

But your touch was sure.

Your fingers pressed into his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, right where the fang pressed against his lip. “Look at me,” you whispered, voice thick. “Remmick, look at me.”

He stiffened.

Your voice cracked.

“Don’t do this. Please. Not like this.”

And for a moment—for a terrifying, suspended second, nothing happened.

Then, with a sound halfway between a growl and a gasp, Remmick ripped his head back.

A jagged sound tore from his throat—part growl, part cry, as if he hated himself for what he almost did. His chest heaved even though he didn’t need the air. His fangs glinted in the low firelight. His eyes glowed red—sharp and unnatural, too ancient for the face that had once looked at you like you were soft and holy.

But he didn’t run.

He stood there, trembling.

And then… slowly… he stepped forward again.

Not to take. Not to finish what he started.

But to ground himself.

he pressed his forehead to yours.

Your breath hitched, hands gripping the fabrics of your dress that you pushed back down over your knees.

You could still feel the heat where he had nearly sunk into you. Still feel the weight of his body, the tremble in his arms. And yet here he was now—no longer devouring, no longer pressing. Just holding. Just… there.

And for a moment, you were both still.

Two bodies suspended in silence.

Your hand found his jaw again, gently, thumb brushing across the cool skin beneath the gleam of his eye. The red began to fade. Slowly. Dimly. Like the storm had passed, but not far enough to forget.

“I can’t stay,” he whispered.

The words cracked open something in your chest.

They weren’t harsh. They weren’t cold.

They were broken.

He was broken.

You closed your eyes. Tears burned at the edges, rising fast—not just from fear, or heartbreak, but from the awful understanding of what he meant. Why he meant it.

He was still dangerous.

Still not safe.

Not for you. Not for anyone. Especially when he wanted so much to love you the right way—but didn’t always know how to stop himself when the old hunger rose.

Your breath shook as you nodded.

Slow. Barely.

But enough.

Remmick pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were glassy now, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. He reached up to wipe one with the back of his hand—his touch featherlight, reverent.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice hoarse.

You gave a tiny shake of your head. “I know.”

And though nothing else passed between you in that moment—not words, not promises—the ache that filled the space said everything.

He couldn’t stay.

But he didn’t want to go.

And you?

You would’ve let him in again, even knowing it would hurt like this.

Because it was Remmick.

Because he’d always been the wound you never wanted to heal.

The silence hadn’t left.

It stayed between you, softer now, but heavier somehow—like dust settling after a storm. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the kitchen walls. The kettle had gone cold.

You moved slowly, almost without thought, fingers trembling slightly as you tugged your dress down further and smoothed the wrinkles at your waist. Your legs still felt unsteady beneath you. You could feel where his hands had held you, where your bodies had fit together like they’d never stopped.

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice.

I can’t stay.

Remmick sat on the edge of a kitchen chair now, elbows on his knees, head bowed as he wiped his mouth and jaw with a clean rag you’d handed him. His shirt lay discarded beside him, crumpled and forgotten, its buttons undone, its sleeves twisted from where you’d pushed them aside in the heat of need.

Now, you lifted it with careful hands.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You moved in front of him, the fabric trembling in your grip. He didn’t stop you when you stepped between his knees. He didn’t protest when you helped him slip his arms back through the sleeves, didn’t flinch as you began to rebutton the front of his shirt one small piece at a time.

Your fingers brushed his chest. Light. Steady.

Button by button.

And all the while, your mind wouldn’t stop echoing the same thing:

I can’t stay.

The words looped behind your ribs, behind your eyes, over the rhythm of your breath. You tried to swallow them down, to focus on the simple motion of fastening each button. But they came back, over and over again, louder in your bones than in the air.

I can’t stay.

He hadn’t said it like a man who wanted to go.

He’d said it like a man damning himself for having to.

Your fingers slowed near the middle of his chest. You lingered on the fourth button. Not because it was hard to fasten—but because your hands didn’t want to finish.

Didn’t want to reach the end of this moment.

Didn’t want to let it become past tense.

He looked up then.

His eyes weren’t glowing anymore. But the red still lingered at the edges, like the ghost of a fire that refused to die. He didn’t say anything. Just watched you.

And still, the words repeated in your head, cruel and unyielding.

I can’t stay.

You finished the last button.

And let your hand rest against his chest, just over where a heart would beat if it could.

You didn’t follow him to the door right away.

You stood in the kitchen, fingers still curled around the front of his shirt. He hadn’t moved since you’d finished dressing him—like he was waiting for the moment to change, for time to bend backward and offer something kinder.

But it didn’t.

So eventually, he stood.

His movements were slow, precise—like he feared if he moved too fast, something inside him might splinter. His coat was draped over the chair. He lifted it in silence, shaking the folds loose, slipping it back over his shoulders like armor.

You followed.

Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last.

Outside, the wind had died down. The moon was low. The trees stood like sentinels, dark and unmoved, watching the threshold where you stood with him one final time.

He opened the door slowly.

The air outside was cold, but not cruel. It whispered through the open frame, brushing against your face like breath. And still, neither of you spoke.

He stepped out onto the porch, boots creaking on the worn wood.

Then he paused.

He turned—just slightly—his profile bathed in moonlight, casting his cheekbone and jaw in pale silver.

And he looked at you.

There was something sharp in his eyes, even now. Not hunger. Not danger.

Just grief.

You saw the way he hesitated—the way his body leaned slightly toward you, the way his mouth parted, and his gaze dropped once, just once, to your lips. You saw the way he almost stepped forward.

But then his shoulders pulled back.

And his eyes closed.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Gods, I want to.”

You didn’t speak. Your breath hitched.

“But if I do…” he opened his eyes again, gaze full of something raw, unnameable, “I won’t leave.”

A pause.

“And I have to.”

Your throat burned.

Your chest ached.

But you nodded.

Slow. Hollow.

Because you understood.

If he kissed you again, it would unmake him.

So instead, he just looked at you—like he was memorizing your face. Like he was taking your breath with him. Like he’d already begun to turn into a ghost again.

Then he stepped back into the night.

The wind pulled at the hem of his coat.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

And you didn’t move.

You stayed in the doorway long after he disappeared into the dark, eyes burning, breath held—listening for the sound of his footsteps in the leaves, already knowing you wouldn’t hear them.

He was gone.

Again.

And this time, he didn’t even take your kiss.

Only your heart.

[psformybss]

You Said You Loved Me

drew starkey x costar!secretgf!reader

warnings: emotional whiplash, betrayal, heartbreak, mental health themes, self-harm mention, panic attack, regret, heavy emotions

a/n: tumblr isn’t letting me answer the request like usual but here is this one requested by @kieeslove . this is one is probably one of the most heartbreaking one-shots i’ve written to be honest but i love how it ended up coming out. please please please read the warnings before reading it.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You’ve had the whole day to yourself—no call time, no script changes, no wardrobe fittings. Just a long, open stretch of silence that you’d usually welcome.

But today, it’s been anything but peaceful.

You’ve barely moved from the couch since noon, wrapped in the hoodie Drew left on the kitchen chair last night, half-watching a show you’ve seen before just to fill the space. Your phone rests in your lap, screen dim, but your mind hasn’t stopped racing for hours.

You saw it this morning.

The story.

Odessa’s.

It popped up right after breakfast, when you were still groggy, sipping coffee on the balcony. You tapped through mindlessly until you froze on a video—shaky, close-up, her voice giggling behind the camera.

Drew.

He was leaning against a trailer, smiling—no, laughing. That wide, rare kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. She flipped the camera back to herself, grinning like it was an inside joke between just the two of them.

And maybe it was.

The next slide was a photo. A candid. He had his head thrown back, laughing at something you couldn’t hear, while she stood beside him with only half her face in the frame.

But it was enough.

Enough to make your stomach twist.

Enough to make you stare too long at the caption.

“Set life with this goof 🤍”

The cast knows about you and Drew. Everyone on set does. You’ve stopped pretending around them—stopped hiding the way you slip into his trailer during breaks, how he kisses your temple when he thinks no one’s looking.

But outside of that circle, no one knows. No Instagram posts. No red carpets. Not even soft launches in the comments section.

And you understood why at first.

Keeping it private felt safer. Cleaner. Something just for you two.

Until moments like this.

Moments where he looks like someone else’s.

You scroll back through the texts—between you and Drew, between you and Odessa.

There’s nothing wrong, not really. But there’s a shift. A subtle unraveling.

He doesn’t say “I love you” before bed anymore. Doesn’t kiss your forehead when he leaves for work.

And Odessa—your best friend, the person who once felt like your other half—she’s been on set more and more. Not because she has to be. Just because.

You used to think she came to see you. To hang out between scenes, raid craft services, sit on your trailer floor and gossip about everything and nothing.

But lately, it feels like she’s there for him.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Not to read too much into the way her hand lingers on his arm when she laughs, or the way he seems more awake when she’s around.

But today, alone with your thoughts and too much time, the pit in your stomach hasn’t let up.

You pick up your phone again and scroll to your thread with Odessa.

No new messages.

She didn’t text you today.

Not after she posted those stories. Not after she spent half the afternoon on the same set your boyfriend was working on.

You’d texted her earlier—just a casual “You on set today?”—but it’s still sitting there, unanswered.

You switch to Drew’s messages.

You (9:42am): Miss you today. Hope the scene went okay.

You (12:16pm): Odessa still there?

You (3:03pm): Are you home late tonight?

All read. None replied to.

The front door opens at 1:14 a.m.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You just pull the hoodie tighter around you and pretend the tightness in your chest isn’t there.

Drew walks in with slow, tired steps, jacket slung over his arm, hair tousled from a long shoot.

You look up at him, soft but cautious. “Hey.”

He pauses at the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey. You’re up?”

“Didn’t have any scenes today,” you say, voice quieter than you mean. “Just stayed home.”

He nods, distracted. Opens the fridge. Grabs a bottle of water. Doesn’t ask about your day.

He scrolls his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Long shoot?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, cracking open the bottle. “Ran over like an hour. Just wrapped a little while ago.”

You hesitate. “Was Odessa still there?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “For a bit. She left before we wrapped.”

Another beat of silence.

You want to say more. You want to ask why she’s always there lately, or why he hasn’t said I love you in four nights straight.

But your throat closes around the words, like saying them out loud would make it worse.

Drew glances at you again. “I’m gonna crash. Early call.”

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He disappears down the hall. No kiss. No touch.

And again—no I love you.

You stare at your phone until the screen fades.

Open Odessa’s story one more time.

Watch the way he laughs like he’s weightless. The way she looks at him like she knows something you don’t.

They don’t look like they’re hiding anything.

But you feel like you’re the only one being kept in the dark.

You wake up to an empty apartment again. Drew left early for set, just like he said, but something’s different today. You didn’t have to film any scenes today either, so you stayed home, hoping maybe things would feel normal again. Maybe Drew would come back and the silence wouldn’t stretch so thin between you two.

But that’s not how it goes anymore.

You scroll through your phone, trying to shake the heaviness. You glance at your messages—nothing new from Drew, just the usual short replies.

Your eyes flick to Odessa’s name, the friend you’ve known for years—the one who always seemed like your sister, the person who knew you better than anyone. But lately, even she’s become distant.

You tap her name and open your texts.

“Can’t wait to hang out tomorrow! Dinner and drinks like old times?” you typed a few days ago. No reply. Just like the other texts since then.

The next morning, you woke to a curt text from Odessa: “Had to fly back to LA today. Sorry, last minute. Hope you understand.”

No call. Just a text.

Your stomach dropped. You’d been looking forward to that night all week, but now it was gone—just like her.

You tried not to overthink it, telling yourself she was busy.

She returned, just a few days later but didn’t tell you. You found out the worst way possible.

You were walking past the trailers on set when you saw them.

Drew and Odessa.

Laughing together.

Close.

Too close.

The easy way they leaned into each other—like you used to, all three of you—felt like a punch to the gut.

You stopped, heart hammering in your chest.

They looked up and caught your eyes. Drew smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Odessa’s grin faltered for a moment before she turned back to him.

Your throat tightened.

You blinked, trying to tell yourself you were imagining things. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe you were just overthinking.

But deep down, the pit in your stomach grew.

The distance between you and Drew had been growing too. More than growing—it had widened into a chasm you didn’t know how to cross.

Your conversations were clipped, like you were just two roommates trying to coexist rather than the couple you once were.

You found yourself wondering if maybe you were the problem.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe I’m not enough.

You replayed every conversation, every look, every silence between you two.

The way Drew would zone out when you talked about your day.

The way he spent more and more time texting someone you couldn’t see.

The way Odessa—your best friend—pulled away too, her responses short and distracted whenever you tried to ask if she was okay.

One afternoon, you caught her alone near the trailers.

“Hey, you’ve seemed… different lately. Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

She glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, but you knew better.

She was closing off, just like Drew.

You wanted to reach through the walls that were building around her, but you didn’t know how.

The days blur together, each one heavier than the last.

You watch the calendar pages turn—slow and unforgiving—but the distance between you and Drew feels like it’s growing faster by the day.

He’s quieter. More distracted. Even when he’s in the room with you, it’s like you’re separate islands sharing the same space.

It’s been over a week since he kissed you.

Not a single brush of lips, not even a quick peck in passing.

You catch yourself waiting, holding your breath for the moment it will happen. But it never does.

You try to convince yourself it’s just stress. Long shoots. Exhaustion.

But when the lights go out and the apartment is still, the silence screams louder than any excuse.

One night, you find yourself standing in the bathroom, warm water streaming over your face, blurring your vision.

You don’t want him to hear the quietness of your tears—so you let them fall only in the shower, behind the locked door.

The water carries the ache away for a little while.

Later, when Drew leaves for set—his phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, screen unlocked—you hesitate.

Curiosity gnaws at you.

You pick it up, fingers trembling.

His messages open to a thread with Odessa.

You scroll through, the words soft but sharp:

“Missed you today.”

“Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

There’s nothing explicit. No promises or declarations.

Just the kind of words that linger in the spaces between.

Your chest tightens.

You close the phone carefully and set it back down.

Staring at the ceiling, you wonder how long this has been going on.

How long you’ve been standing on the outside looking in.

You want to confront him. To demand the truth.

But the words catch in your throat.

The apartment is quiet again.

That terrible, airless quiet that makes you feel like even the walls are watching.

Your phone buzzes.

You almost don’t check. You’ve been trying to be good—trying to stop torturing yourself by scrolling through Instagram, through posts with her name tagged beside his, through photos where his eyes don’t even look like his anymore.

But the name on your screen is one you can’t ignore.

Odessa.

Your pulse jumps. You hesitate. Then you open it.

“I told Drew I’m in love with him. He feels the same. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The air leaves your lungs in one slow, numb exhale.

You reread it once. Twice. A third time, as if the words might change if you look hard enough.

They don’t.

No emoji. No nervous laughter. No gray area.

Just a quiet confession and a knife between your ribs.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even blink.

You just sit there on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, the message open on your screen, the cursor blinking like it’s daring you to respond.

You don’t.

The front door opens not long after.

You hear it before you see him—his key sliding into the lock, the door creaking open, boots hitting hardwood.

He walks in humming, like he’s had a good day.

Like the world didn’t just drop out from under you.

Then he sees you.

And the humming dies.

“Hey,” Drew says slowly, careful. His voice is soft, uncertain now. “You got her text.”

Your head turns slowly toward him. Your eyes are glassy, unreadable.

So he knows.

Of course he knows.

“She told you she was going to send it?” you ask, voice flat.

He nods once. “She said she felt guilty. She didn’t want to lie anymore.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“And you let her?”

“I didn’t let her,” he says, stepping closer. “I tried to stop her, but—”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. It sounds like something breaking.

“She said you feel the same.”

Drew hesitates. “That’s not what I—look, it’s not black and white, okay? It’s complicated—”

You stare at him. “Complicated,” you repeat, the word like acid in your mouth.

He moves toward you, crouching beside the couch, reaching for your hand.

You flinch before he can touch you.

He freezes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says quietly.

Your hands shake as you stand, your voice rising without warning. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

His eyes go wide. “I—”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back. “You don’t get to say you didn’t mean to. You chose this.”

“You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did hurt me.”

The fury rises in you like a tide—faster than you can stop it.

“I’ve been here,” you whisper. “Every single day. Loving you. Waiting for you to love me back the way you used to.”

You grab the photo from the coffee table—the one from Paris, the one where you look happiest, safest, most certain of him.

You throw it across the room with every ounce of strength you have.

It hits the wall and shatters, glass and memories scattering across the floor.

He flinches.

“You were supposed to love me,” you say, voice cracking now. “Not her. Me.”

Drew steps forward like he’s trying to fix something already broken. “I do love you—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap. “Not really. Because if you did, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He tries to hug you, arms reaching for you like he still has a right to them.

You let him.

But not out of love.

Out of exhaustion.

His chest presses to yours, and for one brief second you remember the comfort that used to live in that space.

Now it feels foreign.

He murmurs, “We can fix this. Please. I’ll cut things off with her. We can go to therapy or—”

You press your hands to his chest and push him back gently.

“No,” you say. “This isn’t something you fix.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well, you did.”

You walk to the door. Open it.

His breath catches. “You’re really kicking me out?”

You nod.

“I need space. I need you gone.”

Drew just stands there, stunned.

You look him straight in the eye.

“Come back for your things when I’m not here.”

“Please,” he says again, voice cracking. “Just let me explain—”

“You already did.”

And then you close the door.

Not hard.

Just enough to say this is final.

The click of the lock is the only sound in the apartment now.

The kind of silence that feels like grief.

Weeks pass.

The days don’t feel like days anymore.

Just hours strung together like dim beads on a thread you didn’t ask to hold.

You’re back on set.

Back in makeup chairs and wardrobe trailers. Back in long shooting days and artificial sunsets. Back in scenes where you’re supposed to smile, touch, kiss. Where you’re supposed to cry in the rain, shout until your throat is raw, crumble in someone else’s arms like your heart is breaking.

Pretend.

You move through it all like a ghost.

Quiet. Efficient. Detached.

You say your lines. You hit your marks. You laugh when the script says you’re supposed to. You kiss him when the camera rolls. You sob against his chest on cue, let your voice crack in that way the director loves. You even slap him in one scene—your eyes glassy, your voice trembling as you yell through clenched teeth.

But nothing touches you.

Not really.

You feel like someone’s removed your insides and left only the outline of you behind. Something hollowed out and left on autopilot.

Between takes, you sit by yourself.

No music in your headphones. No books cracked open. Just silence, staring at nothing, like you’re afraid to fill the space with anything real.

You used to light up on set. You used to steal the crew’s snacks, laugh between takes, tease Drew when he flubbed his lines. There was always an energy around you—light, warm, full of spark.

Now, the spark is gone.

And everyone feels it.

They don’t say anything, not directly. But you can feel the stares. The too-gentle hellos. The quiet way people check on you like they’re afraid you might shatter if they speak too loud.

Even Drew notices.

Especially Drew.

You don’t look at him unless the scene requires it.

You don’t answer when he says your name off camera.

You don’t sit near him at lunch, don’t meet his eyes when the director gives you blocking notes, don’t flinch when you’re told you’ll be filming another kiss today.

You just nod.

And do it.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

Like it doesn’t kill you every time his hands touch your waist, every time he looks at you like he remembers what it used to feel like to be loved by you.

The worst part is—he still looks at you like he’s in love.

Like he’s sorry.

But sorry doesn’t undo the wreckage.

You’ve already learned how to carry the debris.

Today, there’s a scene. You’re arguing. The kind that gets rewritten the night before for “heightened emotional stakes.” You scream at him, tears in your eyes, spit flying as you shove him in the chest. Your voice breaks in all the right places. The crew holds their breath.

"Cut."

You step back. Wipe your face. The tears vanish as fast as they came.

You turn away from him without a glance, your expression flat. Cold.

Drew just stands there, stunned. Still catching his breath from a fight that wasn’t real—at least not on paper. Still staring at you like he’s waiting for something soft to return to your face.

But your face is steel now.

Sharp angles. No trace of the vulnerability from a moment ago. Just rage simmering under the surface, quiet and controlled and utterly unreachable.

Like flipping a switch.

And that’s what terrifies him.

The way you can drop the emotion like it never existed. Like he doesn’t exist.

Between takes, you walk off set. You need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t feel like recycled heartbreak.

You step out behind the trailers, where no one’s watching.

Your hands tremble as you pull a cigarette from your jacket pocket. You haven’t smoked since college, since a messy breakup you thought nothing would ever top.

Funny.

You light it with shaking fingers, inhale, exhale, trying to find some kind of calm in the burn.

You don’t hear Rudy approach.

But you feel him.

He walks up slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes kind.

Without a word, he reaches out and gently takes the cigarette from your fingers.

You don’t fight him.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance at him, just barely. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

It’s the kind of question that should come with a dozen follow-ups. But he doesn’t push. Just asks it like he’ll believe whatever answer you give him.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie.

He knows it’s a lie.

But he lets you have it anyway.

Rudy looks at you for a long moment before dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

Then he slings an arm loosely around your shoulders.

You don’t lean into it. But you don’t pull away, either.

You just stand there.

Side by side.

Quiet.

Because some silences don’t beg to be filled.

Some are just there to be witnessed.

The moon is a sliver above the water—ghostly and thin, like it’s watching but too tired to shine.

Drew finds you sitting at the edge of the dock, legs drawn up, arms locked around your knees like if you let go, you’d come apart completely.

You haven’t moved in what feels like hours.

He stands behind you for a while, saying nothing. Just… watching.

You look so still.

Too still.

So he steps forward, wood groaning beneath his weight, careful not to scare you. Not that you react. Not even a glance. Your eyes are locked on the black water, the surface rippling quietly like it’s holding your secrets.

He settles beside you, close but not touching. The wind brushes through your hair.

For a moment, all he hears is the hush of the waves and the far-off echo of laughter from the house.

He thinks maybe you’re calm.

Then he hears it.

That faint, stuttering breath. The wet sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

He turns to look at you—and sees it.

Your shoulders trembling.

Your jaw clenched so tight it’s trembling.

The soft, broken sound clawing from your throat as your lungs fail you.

You’re crying.

But it’s not just crying.

It’s a full-body unraveling.

He shifts closer, alarm rising in his chest. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Your body hunches in tighter, shoulders shaking harder as your breath gets faster, shallower—like you’re trapped under something heavy.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Drew tries again, voice soft. “Just… follow me.”

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing your wrist to anchor you, like he used to do back when things were simpler—back when that touch meant safety.

But this time, the contact makes you flinch.

And still, his hand closes gently around your wrist—and that’s when he feels it.

His fingers still.

Then tighten—just slightly.

Because he knows what he’s touching.

Scars.

Fresh ones.

Fainter than they used to be, maybe. But new. Raw.

His entire body goes cold.

“Please…” His voice breaks, a whisper edged in panic. “Please tell me those are old.”

Your head snaps toward him.

Your eyes—red, wide, furious—are like a slap.

You rip your arm from his grip and clutch it against your chest like a secret.

“I told you I wasn’t doing that anymore,” you snap, voice cracking. “I told you I was okay.”

“I thought you were,” he says, stunned. “You promised—”

“You think I wanted to start again?” you explode. “You think I wanted to go back to that?”

Your voice is all rage and ache and grief. “Do you know what it’s like? To sit in a bathroom with a towel under you and a razor in your hand, and you’re shaking so bad you can’t tell if you want to die or just want it to stop?”

He’s silent.

Paralyzed.

“I stopped for you,” you say, trembling. “I stopped because you made me feel like I was enough.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “But then you weren’t mine anymore. You were hers. And I couldn’t breathe, Drew. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You stand up so fast he can barely react.

You stumble backward a few steps, chest heaving, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield.

“If you were just gonna fall in love with my best friend…” Your voice cracks. “Then you shouldn’t have asked me to be your fucking girlfriend.”

He rises slowly, hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“But you did!” you scream, backing away. “You knew how fragile I was. You knew. I told you everything. I told you what it felt like to want to hurt myself. I told you what it cost to survive it.”

Tears streak your face, wild and fast.

“And you still chose her.”

He tries to reach for you. “Please—just talk to me.”

You shove his chest with both hands. Hard. Then again. And again.

“You were supposed to love me.”

He doesn’t stop you. He just stands there and takes it.

“You were supposed to be different,” you cry. “I trusted you with everything. I gave you every broken piece and you just—God—Drew, you left me there.”

More footsteps. Fast ones. The house has gone silent behind you, but now someone’s running.

Rudy reaches you just as you collapse forward.

He catches you in his arms, sinking with you to the dock.

Your body shakes with silent sobs, all strength gone, all resistance dissolved.

Madelyn grabs Drew, her expression unreadable—fear and fury clashing behind her eyes.

She pulls him back, away from you, away from the collapse.

“What happened?” she hisses, voice low and sharp.

But Drew can’t answer.

He’s crying too.

Watching the way Rudy holds you like something sacred and shattered.

Your voice, small and hoarse, cuts through the stillness.

“I really loved you,” you whisper, like you’re trying to remind yourself it mattered. “I really did.”

Rudy closes his eyes, jaw tight, hugging you closer.

“And I tried,” you say, your breath hitching again. “I really tried not to hurt myself. I really did.”

The only sound left is your broken breathing and the water moving beneath the dock.

No one knows what to say.

No one knows if anything would help.

And Drew—

He kneels in the shadows, hands shaking, the words I’m sorry caught somewhere between his heart and throat, knowing they’ll never be enough.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

The room is cold. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the long table that stretches between you and the others.

You sit at one end, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the wood, knuckles blanching with pressure.

Across from you, the cast shifts uncomfortably in their seats—Jonas standing at the head of the table, his hands resting on its surface like an anchor, eyes serious and tired.

Drew sits near the middle, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the scuffs in the floor.

The silence hangs like a storm about to break, thick and unyielding.

Jonas clears his throat.

“We can’t keep filming like this,” he says, voice low but steady.

“This tension, this… distance. It’s hurting the work. And it’s hurting all of you.”

He looks around the room, then back at you.

“We all want to move forward. But that means you and Drew need to talk. You need to clear this, or at least try.”

Your throat tightens, words lodged in your chest like shards.

You stare down at the table, tracing a scratch in the grain with your finger.

Drew finally speaks, voice hesitant, raw.

“I never meant for things to get this messed up. For me to fall for Odessa.”

He looks up, meeting your eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t trying to use you, YN. I swear. You have to believe me.”

You swallow hard.

Bitter words claw at your throat, but they spill out before you can stop them.

“You promised me everything.”

Your voice breaks, trembling like a frayed wire.

“Paris. A house with a garden.”

“Kids. Marley from the pound.”

You close your eyes and press your palms to the table to stop them from shaking.

A cold certainty wraps around your words, unshakable.

The room is still.

Drew’s shoulders slump, a bitter twist in his chest.

“Do you really think I fell for her just to hurt you?”

His voice breaks like glass, fragile and jagged.

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to.

“You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He shakes his head, voice rising with desperate frustration.

“You think this is easy for me?”

The words are raw, ragged.

You lean forward, voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Easy?” you scoff. “You and Odessa? The perfect little couple who ruined me?”

Jonas steps between you with a steadying hand raised.

“Enough.”

You lift your head slowly, voice low and final.

“I can do the scenes. But Drew stays away from me.”

“Odessa stays away, too. If she ever visits, I don’t want to see her.”

The words fall like a decree, clear and unyielding.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping hard against the floor.

Your breath catches—sharp and uneven.

The door slams behind you.

Leaving behind only silence and the lingering weight of what’s broken.

Time passes in strange ways after everything breaks.

The apartment is quieter now. Not silent—just… softer. Like everyone’s learned to move around the wound without touching it.

You’ve stopped crying in the bathroom.

You still avoid him on set.

But you’re functioning again.

You wake up with the sun instead of dragging yourself out of bed at noon. You drink water. You make your bed. You sit on the balcony in the mornings with a journal in your lap and your knees curled to your chest, scribbling down thoughts you won’t say out loud.

You don’t live in the old apartment anymore.

You couldn’t. Not after everything.

The quiet was too loud there. The walls still held the shape of him—his coffee mug on the counter, his laugh echoing in the hallway, the soft imprint of a life you built and lost all at once.

So you packed it all up and left. New place. New routine. Smaller, lonelier, but yours.

No ghosts.

Just space to breathe.

Sometimes, you paint again. You drag an old easel out to the balcony and lose yourself in blues and golds and soft, wide brushstrokes. Your fingers end up stained for days.

Sometimes, you laugh.

Mostly with Rudy. He’s your shadow now. Always close. Always watching.

He knows when to joke, when to distract you, when to sit in silence and just breathe beside you.

JD brings you coffee every morning from town, no matter what. It started as a quiet gesture. Now it’s a ritual. He doesn’t say much—but you know it’s his way of reminding you you’re seen. Still wanted. Still here.

The cast has adjusted. They don’t talk about what happened. Not in front of you. Not in front of him.

You and Drew still share scenes. Still work together like professionals.

But off-camera? You orbit each other like broken planets.

Not friends.

Not enemies.

Just… nothing.

And maybe that’s worse.

Drew keeps his distance, like you asked. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try.

But he watches you when he thinks you won’t notice.

From the far side of the room, across the lawn, just past the camera setup.

Always just out of reach.

You caught him once, lingering in the doorway as you laughed too hard at something Rudy said, your head thrown back, hair messy, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

He didn’t smile.

He just stood there, quiet and still, his expression unreadable.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel anything.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Some days, you think you might hate him.

Other days, you ache just thinking his name.

But mostly—you’re just tired.

Tired of missing someone who’s still right there.

Tired of feeling haunted by a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.

And Drew—

He wonders how it got like this.

How a joke at a table, a few lingering glances, a shared hoodie and some stupid, unspoken boundaries turned into something he’d ruin with a single mistake.

How he lost the girl who loved him enough to break for him.

He watches you from afar, regret curling in his chest like smoke.

You’re still beautiful. Still brilliant. Still trying.

But now, when you smile—it’s never at him.

And he doesn’t know if it ever will be again.

[venusalexian]

could we possibly have something like reader is having a rough day, some of the girls are going to try pull a prank on her but when it happens she just bursts out crying (not because of the prank more because it’s just one of the many things today that’s gone wrong)incomes protective maternal ale, shooting all the girls glares and taking r home, laying on the sofa with her talking through the day and what’s got her so down?

got a bit carried away, so a bit longer than the others, hope you enjoy it!

too much

hurt/comfort – tw: lots of descriptive anxious thoughts, the comfort takes a while to appear

-> neurodivergent reader is having a horrible day, and a non-malicious prank is the last straw (based on my own anxious adhd experience :))

Everything felt wrong. You had tossed and turned half the night, barely getting a few hours of sleep before your alarm went off. Your performance in the game the day before had tormented you. The team still had won, but you could not get over the feeling of letting everyone down on such an important match as a semifinal was. Your thoughts over and over again ran through everything you had done wrong, and how disappointed your loved ones must be.

When you opened your eyes, the light through your window was too bright. The noise from the road was too loud. Your coffee was too bitter. Your usually comfy training clothes itched all over. Your sports bra felt constricting over your chest.

None of the songs on your car felt right, just adding to the noise around you. Your leg bounced, and your hand tapped on the wheel nonsensically. The day was barely starting, and you already wanted it to end. You didn’t want anyone to worry, though, to have to take care of you when they should be mad at you. To feel bad because you’re younger when you’re grown enough to work things out yourself. So you put a smile on your face before going into the training grounds.

You try to act normal. Try to pay attention to the conversations you’re pulled into, try to answer at the right times, and ignore the way you feel physically off.

But they still notice something is wrong because they know you. Because you don’t come in talking excitedly about your latest obsession, you don’t hum or whistle any songs stuck in your head, you don’t seek physical contact. It all screams that something is wrong to them. They think you’re just a bit sad, though. Just some cheering up will do. So the younger ones, the ones you’re slowly becoming friends with, even being less than a season in, think all you need is some fun.

You don’t see it coming. You’re too in your head to notice their barely concealed smirks, their incriminating looks at each other, their not-so-subtle scheming.

You enter the locker room after training, ready to go home and not interact with the world until the next day. You go through your usual motions, but when you open your locker to get your towel to have a quick shower, a picture with a note falls out. It’s you at the game, after the player you had been defending skipped past you and you slipped to the ground.

You know it’s not malicious, you’re usually the first one to share silly stickers of you and your teammates over text, and to send them funny fan-made jokes. But today your head is not being kind, so instead of seeing any fun in it, it sees confirmation of all your worst thoughts. Of not being enough, of your teammates being disappointed, of your friends not really liking you. So instead of laughing and joking back, as they expect you to, you go silent, curl yourself up into the bench with your legs pulled to your chest, your face tucked into your knees, your hands over your ears.

And then it gets worse, because the noise around you gets louder and the one in your head too. You’re making a scene, making it worse; they will not like having to pity you, take care of you. You should go, leave, but you can’t. Can’t get your head up and face them, can’t confirm the hurtful thoughts in your head. You don’t think your legs would hold you up either way.

“Everybody out. Now.”

Alexia’s voice cuts through the clutter. 

After a couple of seconds, the room is entirely silent. The lack of noise lightly relaxes the tension on your shoulders. Then, you feel her hands on your wrists, gently pulling them down. You let her.

“Hey, carinyo. It’s okay, you’re okay. It’s just you and me now. Can you look at me?”

It takes you a few minutes to move your head, but she doesn’t press you or ask again, letting you take your time. She’s not screaming, not berating you for making a scene, not laughing at your performance on the game, you rationalize. Ultimately, she’s Ale. She’s safe, you know, even in this state. She’s proven it to you, to your teammates, she’s reliable and kind and caring. That gives you enough confidence to do as she asks.

When you look into her eyes, they’re soft, warm.

“Hey, thank you, carinyo.” The affectionate nickname soothes you further.

“Wanna come with me? I’d feel better if I could make sure you’re okay.”

You think about it. You really don’t want to burden her. But you don’t think you could drive yourself home right now. And you’re not gonna lie to yourself, you want the comfort even if you don’t fully feel like you deserve it. You nod.

You let her help you stand up, gather your things, and guide you to her car with an arm over your shoulders—warm and protective. You stay silent in the car, but the music is pleasant and soothing, and her presence is, too. 

She drives you home. You barely have to verbalize anything. You nod to the bathroom, and she understands you’re going to shower. You come out much more relaxed, finally in soft, comfortable clothes. You sit with her on the sofa, where she had settled herself, waiting for you. Once again, you don’t need to speak. She opens her arms and you respond to the hug, tuck yourself close. Finally seeking that physical closeness you’ve needed all day. You try to speak, think she deserves for you to explain yourself, but all that comes out is a whisper of a “sorry”.

She shushes you.

“No, carinyo. No sorry. It’s okay for today. You know they didn’t mean to upset you right?”

You nod.

“And that it’s okay to need help if it’s a bad day, that we all have them.”

You hesitate this time. You do know, but it doesn’t fully feel like it right now. You try to rationalize again, though, that she’s right. That you know she is. But that even if you didn’t, you’d trust that she does. Because even in the short time she’s been your captain, you’ve learnt she usually does. You’ve seen her take care, in one way or another, of most of your teammates and friends. So you nod again. The silence stretches for a while. You finally feel strong enough to articulate something more.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, carinyo, of course. Now, we’ll speak tomorrow, yeah? Let’s give you tonight to feel better.”

“Yes, that sounds perfect.”

“Great. Now, what do you want to watch? Please, no trashy reality like Jana or criminal show like Vicky.”

That makes you smile.

Tomorrow, when you wake up much better, you will talk. You’ll tell her what happened, the thoughts that plagued your mind, even if you blush, stammer, and sigh through it. You’ll say to her that this happens sometimes, not often now, it was worse when you were younger. Now you have mechanisms that allow you to deal with it better. She listens attentively, wants to learn how this works for you, wants to be able to look for the signs. She’ll share about her own struggles after her injuries, about how tough it was for her to ask for help. Then she’ll ask about how you’d prefer to go about it if she notices, if she thinks it’s affecting you over what you should take.

The conversation is far from perfect. You are unable to articulate some stuff and still feel a bit wrong for burdening her. But it helps.

You will also answer your friends' apologetic, worried texts and also share some more with them about what happened. And next time something like this occurs, it never escalates because they can tell now, and they can help.

[suliigwp]

MY WOMAN

Lewis Hamilton, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc , Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Max Verstappen

SULI: Okay Ser Lewis version! I love you guys but please no more my woman request 🙏 I have no idea how to make them different anymore. Thank you for requesting!

Warnings: men.ewew

It started over lunch. One of those polished, high-stakes networking events where everything looks elegant and progressive on the surface—until you start listening too closely.

The executive sat across from her, older and well-respected, known for his influence behind the scenes. He had a charming smile and a careful tone, and he talked just enough to make her feel heard—until he didn’t.

“You’re brilliant,” he said, lifting his wine glass as if offering a toast. “Sharp mind, well-spoken. And of course, you’re stunning. That’s part of the appeal.”

She smiled politely. The kind of smile that looked gracious but was actually a mask.

Then he added, casually, like he was doing her a favor:

“You know, if you just… softened your presence a little, more doors would open for you. You have to let men feel like they still matter in the room. Play the game, just enough.”

Lewis sat still beside her, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t say a word. Just took a slow sip of his drink and met the man’s eyes over the rim of his glass. A flicker of something passed between them—unspoken, but unmistakable.

Later, when they left the table and slipped into the elevator, silence fell. Her smile vanished the moment the doors closed.

She didn’t look at Lewis, but her voice was low. Tight.

“You didn’t say anything.”

He glanced at her. “Did you want me to?”

“I’m not sure.” She folded her arms, leaned against the metal wall. “It just... felt like you didn’t have my back.”

That made him turn fully toward her.

“I had your back,” he said evenly. “I just didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it.”

She frowned, unsure what that meant.

Lewis pressed the elevator button for their floor again, even though it was already lit. Something to do with his hands.

“You have no idea how often I’ve heard men like him say that same shit. To me. About women like you. The only difference is, they used to say it behind closed doors.”

She looked at him, jaw clenched. “And what? You were just going to let it go?”

He let out a soft breath. “Of course not.”

...

She didn’t find out what he did until days later.

By then, the man had been quietly pulled from two of the strategy boards. Disinvited from an upcoming FIA summit. His name was no longer on certain email chains, and he didn’t seem to know why. Only that his access was being limited.

Whispers started circulating. It wasn’t public—but it was effective.

She learned about it not from Lewis, but from a mutual colleague who said, “You know Hamilton had something to do with that, right? The man’s radioactive now.”

She marched back to the hospitality suite, heart pounding.

He was at his desk, tapping through telemetry on his laptop.

“You did it behind my back,” she said sharply.

Lewis looked up, calm. “I did it quietly.”

She stepped in further, lowering her voice. “You went after him?”

“No.” He closed the laptop. “I just made sure the people above him knew who he really was.”

She exhaled hard. “I could’ve handled that myself.”

“I know,” he said.

“Then why didn’t you let me?”

Lewis stood up. Walked over. His voice dropped, soft but deliberate.

“I didn’t handle it because you’re a woman. I handled it because you’re my woman. And I’ve had to watch women I love—my mum, my friends, my team—be belittled and pushed aside for years. I’ve watched them smile through it, stay quiet so they don’t seem angry, play it safe. I’m done watching.”

She stared at him. Breathing harder now. Angry, but also—

Moved.

“Lewis—”

“You didn’t need saving,” he said. “You’ve never needed saving.”

A pause.

“But when someone thinks they can reduce you to a pretty face and a polite tone... they don’t just disrespect you. They insult everything you’ve fought to become. And I don’t let that slide.”

He stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“You’re not too much. You’re not too sharp. You’re not too loud. You are exactly who you need to be, and if that makes people uncomfortable, let them squirm.”

His voice softened to a whisper:

“I didn’t silence him. I just reminded him that power doesn’t look the way he thinks it does.”

She stared up at him.

And then, because she couldn’t hold it anymore, she stepped forward—slowly—and laid her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, his hand cradling the back of her head like it was second nature.

They stood there for a long moment. No more words. Just steady breathing. His hand tracing slow, calming circles against her spine.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Plums & Pancakes

Pairing: Dad!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Wife!Reader

Summary: A quiet life wasn’t something Bucky Barnes ever imagined for himself , not after everything he’d endured. But then a blur of flying fruit and a love he never saw coming changed everything.

Word Count: 2.2k ish

Warning/Tags: TOOTH ROOTING FLUFF!

literally nothing but sweet cuteness comfort and loveee oh and did i mention fluff! maybe borderline suggestive but not really?

If i missed anything let me know!

Authors Note: okay guys dad bucky is my favorite thing to write everrrr so if you love it too lmk and ill write up some more for ya! hes a cutie pie in thissss anyways see ya on the next one bbys

REQUESTS / ASKS ALWAYS OPEN! 🌷MY MASTERLIST 💖 COMMENTS REBLOGS AND LIKES are loved and encouraged!

Bucky Barnes never believed the universe would be kind to him.

Not after the fall or Hydra. Not after the years he couldn’t even remember his own name. And not after the blip.

But sometimes , every once in a while—he was reminded that maybe… just maybe… he’d been wrong.

The biggest reminder , funny enough , came in the form of flying fruit.

It had been a warm September day , the kind that hinted at fall without the full commitment. 

The annual farmer’s market in upstate New York was crowded but now overbearing. 

Bucky had been reaching for a small basket of plums—his favorite , a habit from a lifetime ago when living alone in Romania when a blur of motion smacked right into him.

And suddenly , the plums were on the ground. So were three apples, a carton of strawberries ,  an entire paper bag that had clearly been packed to the brim with freshly baked bread, soaps , and jars of something that smelled like lavender.

“ooghf–oh my god, I’m so sorry!” you’d said, immediately dropping to your knees beside the wreckage tyring to scramble and pick everything up. “I wasn’t looking , I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”

Bucky had just blinked. He didn’t think he’d ever seen someone move that fast while apologizing so much.

“I’m fine,” he’d managed, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

You looked up at him then—cheeks flushed, strands of hair stuck to your forehead from the heat, hands full of squashed plums—and laughed. A soft, kind laugh that didn’t match the chaotic scene at all.

“Guess that’s what I get for trying to carry half the stand in one go,” you said, brushing your hands on your jeans. “I try to help my dad with his stall every week. Still haven’t learned to make two trips I guess.”

He didn’t know why, but Bucky had smiled.

Maybe it was your warmth.

Maybe it was how pretty you were , big eyes filled with wonder.

Maybe it was the fact that it had been a very long time since someone looked at him like he wasn’t dangerous.

“I could, uh… buy you a coffee to make up for the plum mess?” you’d offered after he helped pick everything up.

And Bucky—James Buchanan Barnes, former assassin, hundred-year-old man with too many ghosts was too nervous to trust his voice , so he nodded.

And man did that feel like a lifetime ago.

Because now… now Bucky Barnes was married.

To you.

And the two of you had built quite a life. Settling down into a simple cottage tucked into an open field. Where you two were raising your now four-year-old daughter named Winnie , after his ma , and just recently welcomed your five-month-old son , Grant.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The sun was barely peeking above the horizon when the cries started.

Bucky stirred first. It was a reflex now—like breathing , like how he would hold his breath when he reached for a gun back in the day. 

Only now, he reached for his son instead.

Grant was fussing in the bassinet next to their bed, squirming with his tiny fists clenched tight face angry and red.

“I got him, doll,” Bucky whispered to you, voice thick with sleep as he rubbed his eyes. “You rest a little longer.”

But just as he was lifting Grant into his arms cooing to the baby, another voice rang out from the hallway.

“Mommy!”

You groaned ,  face squished into the pillow. 

“Mommyyyy, I want pancakes!” Winnie’s voice was full of energy and chipper. “With chocolate chips!”

“I’ll make ’em,” Bucky offered, already patting Grant’s back as the baby calmed in his arms. “After I change him , the little guy seems to have a present for me.” Bucky's face crinkled when he stood with the stinky babe.

You chuckled into your pillow now , stretching before rolling out of bed. “I’ll get her dressed. She’s probably already got on her princess boots and nothing else.”

It was true.

Winnie had exactly three obsessions at the moment: chocolate chip pancakes, braids, and her sparkly light-up boots that clomped across the hardwood with the grace of a baby elephant.

You managed to wrangle her into an outfit—jean overalls  and a cream flowy , long-sleeved shirt—and sat her down on the stool in the bathroom.

She chattered the entire time as you sectioned her long brown hair into three even parts. Fingers twisting with precision as you yawned, still shaking off the sleeplessness from Grant's eventful evening.

“Daddy said we’re going to the park. Can we bring snacks? I wanna feed the ducks and geese again. I bet they missed me. Do you think they did? Do ducks like pancakes? Because if they do, I’ll share.”

“You’re a generous soul and yes i think they missed you.,” you told her laughing at her innocent toddler mind. You tied off the braid with a glittery purple band and she jumped into your lap happy with the result.

Meanwhile, in the nursery Bucky had Grant tucked against his chest in a soft wrap. His giant hands moved gently, adjusting the wrap with practiced ease.

“Hey,” he called out as he stepped out of the nursery, “how do we look?”

You turned and—oh.

God help you.

Your husband stood there barefoot, in downy gray sweatpants and a blue soft t-shirt. 

Your baby was swaddled against his chest, all chubby cheeks and content, little fingers curled into Bucky’s chest.

The silver chain of his dog tags glinted just beneath the collar of his shirt.

He smiled, soft and sleepy. “Too much?”

You just blinked. “You know what you’re doing to me.”

He chuckled.

And screw it if he didn’t do the lopsided smirk that made you weak back when you first met.

“I’m just trying to get our kids to the park in one piece,” he said innocently. “If I look good doing it, that’s on you for marrying me.”

He said smiling, leaning down to your face and kissing you full of his love.

“Ugh,” Winnie groaned dramatically. “You guys are always kissing and flirting.”

Bucky ruffled her hair. “Get used to it, peanut cause every day i fall more in love with your mama.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The grocery run had been a blur of snack requests , impulse juice box purchases, and Bucky being stopped by a sweet older woman who insisted Grant looked “just like his daddy.”

 You had smiled politely while Bucky awkwardly thanked her, his face a little pink from the compliment, and then used the excuse of Grant needing to get home to escape.

But now it was time for your favorite part of the day.

The park.

A soft breeze drifted through the trees, the sun warm but not oppressive. 

Winnie ran ahead to the playground, her boots lighting up with every delighted stomp. Grant was now sound asleep against Bucky’s chest, full from his bottle he had between the store and here , his little mouth slack as he dozed in the wrap.

You settled onto the bench with a relieved sigh, one hand shading your eyes as you tracked Winnie’s every movement—up the ladder, across the bridge, back down the slide. 

Bucky dropped a kiss to your temple before walking off to toss a crumpled snack wrapper in the park bin. “Ill be right back just gonna throw this away” 

You looked down to see what he was holding and noticed the lack of his wedding band , tan lines still prominent but the metal was missing , probably forgotten after his shower you thought.

You were keeping your gaze still on Winnie as he walked away , when you heard a loud cackle.

You turned your head to the sound and saw a woman next to your husband.

Tall. Blonde. Designer sunglasses and a perfectly timed laugh.

She walked up closer to him, head tilted like she already knew how pretty she was.

You squinted. 

She was talking. And then laughing. Then her hand touched his chest.

His chest.

It wasn’t threatening, not really. But it wasn’t nothing.

You watched Bucky awkwardly smile , then nod , and finally excuse himself, walking back to you fast , his brows slightly furrowed.

“Well, that was strange,” he said as he sat beside you. “Why do people flirt like that in the middle of a public park? Like, thanks ma’am, but I’m holding my son right here.”

You smirked, turning your head toward him. “Well, women do love hot single dads.”

The look on his face was instant. 

His head snapped so fast you heard it crack.

“SINGLE??” he practically barked. It made Grant stir and whine at the disruptive sound ,  he immediately bounced gently, voice going soft again. “Sorry, buddy. You’re okay , I'm sorry.”

You shrugged, holding up his hand in front of his face. 

“Just saying. You’re out here ringless , looking like that , holding an adorable baby , how do you accept any girl not to jump on you?”

Bucky looked down at his hand like it had betrayed him. “Shit,” he muttered. “I took it off when I was washing the bottles  and didn’t put it back on. I knew I forgot something. I've felt off since we left. She probably thinks I’m trying to—God.”

You laughed, rubbing your hand along his thigh. “Relax. You didn’t do anything. And honestly? It was kind of fun watching someone else drool over you for a change .”

He gave you a pointed look.

 “Don’t say things like that when you know I’m going to spend the next hour trying to convince you you’re the only person I want to look at .”

You winked. “Convince away, Barnes…But the moment a woman's manicured claws touch either of my kids then we have a major problem and the winter soldier will be her last worry.” You said laying your head on his shoulder turning back to Winnie now picking flowers as you rubbed Grants back.

“Okay , okay easy there mama bear” He laughed through his nose.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Winnie went down first.

After a bubble bath with approximately twelve too many toys, two books, and a lullaby from both of you (because she claimed you both sang differently and she needed the duet), she finally dozed off.

Bucky had given her one last kiss on the forehead and whispered, “Sweet dreams, peanut,” before closing her door softly with a click.

Grant had been next—fed, changed, and now out cold in his crib with one arm over his head like a tiny drama king. He is his fathers son–

And now?

Now it was your turn.

You stood in front of your mirror, legs a little tired, back a little sore, but your heart full. 

You rubbed lotion on to your arms and shoulders slowly, the cool cream easing your muscles as the soft light of the bedroom cast everything in a dreamy golden hue.

Behind you, the bathroom door opened.

Bucky padded in barefoot, wearing those navy blue pajama pants you loved—low on his hips, soft from too many washes (thanks to lots of spit up) . His shirt was off, hair still damp from his shower. You caught him watching you in the mirror.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, smiling now brushing through your hair.

He didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, he walked to the bed and flopped down dramatically on his back with a groan. Like I said , father– like son.

“I’m exhausted,” he murmured, eyes closed. 

You laughed, turning around fully and crawling onto the bed beside him. 

You caressed his cheek , the pad of your thumb swiping his cheekbone and slowly moved to straddle his waist , your faces inches apart , when he suddenly held up his hand stopping your movement.

His wedding band back on and shining brightly.

“Sorry, doll face,” he drawled. “But I’m happily married.”

“Oh no. I was just about to ask for your number, too.”

He grinned, one of those rare, slow ones that started with the left side of his mouth and crept across. 

“You can have my number. But only if you kiss me first.”

You leaned in, planting a slow, warm kiss against his lips.

“Done deal,” you whispered.

He exhaled, threading his fingers through your hair as he kissed you again. Longer this time. Slower. A kiss that said thank you–

 I love you 

I love our kids

I love our life.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I still don’t believe this is real, sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “You. The kids. The quiet. All of it. It doesn’t feel like something I should’ve gotten to have.”

You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You deserve every second of this, Bucky Barnes. Every messy , swee t, sleepy , pancake-filled second.”

He tilted his head and kissed your wrist. “Even when I forget my ring and get flirted with by random women in the park?”

You rolled your eyes. “Especially then. Because I get to be the one you come home to and reminded how lucky me and the kids are to call you ours.”

And you did. Every night.

He wrapped his arms around you as you settled into bed under the plush duvet.

 His hand splayed protectively over your stomach as you both listened to the quiet of the house—the hum and crackle of the baby monitor, the faint whistle of the wind outside, the creak of the old floors as they settled.

It was all love.

Not the kind that was loud or dramatic. Not the kind shouted over chaos or with empty meaning. But the kind that was built quietly, with chocolate chips , baby wraps, and whispered lullabies.

And this?

This was the kind of love Bucky Barnes had only ever dreamed of.

-end

[animelovelover123]

Hii! So I’m new to writing requests, but would you like to write headcanons about Sparda boys + V (if you’d like but not necessarily) reacting to their love interest wearing their clothes? Anyway I hope you’re having a nice day! :)

DMC - Wearing His Clothes

Pairings: Dante, Reboot Dante, Vergil, Reboot Vergil, Nero, & V x Reader

Synopsis: One thing that I kind of struggled with in this one is being vague about reader’s body shape. When people hear the concept of “stealing boyfriend’s clothes”, typically the first image that comes to mind is a girl wearing a hoodie too big for her. But not everyone/everyone's OC is a petite female. I didn’t want to exclude men, fluffy people, muscular people, curvy people, etc, so I have to keep things vague.

I originally planned to write out scenes, but I feel like the reaction of the boys, generally, would change depending on how their partner fits their clothes, so instead I did this. Hope it’s okay ^^;

Dante

Dante will say that you're just trying to entice him or tease you that you are too lazy to do laundry, not that he exactly has the right to talk.

What he does not admit, though, is how much he loves seeing you in his clothes.

It can be sexy, like when you wear something of his that is tight on you or revealing, like the coat he wore when he was first setting up shop, but more often it is comforting.

There is a sweet domesticity to you wearing his clothes. Whether they are tight on you, too big, fit well or are a bit awkward on your body, you wearing his things makes your relationship feel so much stronger than it has ever felt before.

What is yours is mine, and mine is yours, that's a marriage thing, right?

It’s hard for Dante to explain or understand, but if he had to sum it up in one sentence, he would say that you wearing his clothes makes him feel like you care and want to stick with him for a long time. And with his track record with loved ones, you staying with him is all he needs.

Reboot Dante

Dante pretty much always assumes that you wearing his clothes is an invitation for sex.

When he comes home to find you wearing a pair of his pants must mean you missed him and want him in your pants ASAP.

You wearing his coat out and about must mean you are staking a claim on him and want him to show everyone who he belongs to.

You slip his shirt on after sex must mean you're raring to go again.

And you know, you wearing his jacket while you fuck, maybe even give you unloaded Ebony and Ivory to hold and point at him with, now that sounds like and fucking amazing night.

Vergil

Vergil does not own that many clothes, so when you take some of his, he is not very impressed.

More often than not, he will tell you to give them back and to wear your own clothes, they actually look good on you unlike his thick, heavy, armored clothes.

Despite this, if he sees you trembling from the cold or fear of demons, he is quick to shrug off his coat and drape it around your shoulders. He’ll even insist on buttoning it up if your body shape allows it.

And you have also woken up from a few impromptu naps to find his coat draped over you like a blanket. If you try to call him sweet or something of the like for doing that, though, he will brush it off as you being incompetent and helpless without him.

Reboot Vergil

Vergil’s clothes are almost all tailor made so no matter what, they are not going to fit you properly. They are going to bunch up and be strained in odd places.

Vergil thinks that, though on the rare occasion ill-fitting clothes works for you, more often than not they make you look frumpy, which is a shame because you are attractive, but that doesn't come through in his own clothes.

He would rather you wear your own clothes.

However, if you really are determined to wear his clothes, and for some reason his loose pajamas are not enough, he will invest in some stretchier articles of clothing, like a turtleneck winter sweater, that can fit pretty much any body type. He can make it work, and the aura of joy and comfort you exude when you confiscate it is worth it.

Nero

Before Nero awakens his demon side, he has the typical response of seeing someone wear your clothes without warning or reason; a bit annoyed, confused why you can’t wear your own stuff, but also doesn't see it as that big of a deal as long as you give it back and don’t wreck it. At most, he may think it's a bit cute or hot, depending on how you fill it out, but all that will do is make him blush and make him look away.

Once his demon side comes in, things start to change.

His sense of smell gets stronger, and you wearing his clothes makes your scents mix together in this perfect way. It was similar to the scent created when the two of you cuddled the morning after sex. It is the smell of comfort, peace, and love.

It is also a mark of connection. When you wore his clothes, humans could see, and demons could smell, that he was your partner. And if they knew anything about him, they knew it was also a warning to not get too close to you.

Nero unconsciously makes a habit of rotating through a few choice tops and leaving them out on the couch or a counter. Somewhere you will find it, somewhere it can beckon you to put it on so you both can feel that connection a bit more.

V

V has a particular style that, though not really good for borrowing and lazing around in, is more suited for social events or simply wanting to be more fashionable. As such, permission is more often requested, or you ask where a specific article of clothing or accessory is because it would complete your outfit.

V enjoys this aspect of your relationship. There was a sense of pride in you liking his clothing and accessories enough to want to borrow them, and it was fun styling outfits together.

And couples outfits, though being a delicate balance, were something you two pulled off amazingly.

V also wishes to borrow some of your clothes and accessories, if that is alright with you. Even if your style is completely different from his, working it into his outfit can be a fun challenge.

And every time he sees you wearing his clothes, especially one of his rings, he thinks about how badly he wants to get you that one, specially made ring and slip it onto your finger.

[starset21]

Plot Twist

Pairing: Isack Hadjar x reader

Summery: You’ve been dating Isack for well over a year, and he knows you write fanfiction. What he doesn’t know is that you write fanfiction about him. Using his real name. And one night he finds out.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: I've seen a few others do this and thought maybe I'd jump on the train here's my first Isack fic <3

You’d always told yourself it wasn’t really lying.

Yes, you were dating Isack Hadjar. And yes, you wrote fanfiction. But it wasn’t like you lied to him about it. You just... never exactly told him what — or who — you were writing about.

It started innocently, before you ever even met. Just a silly crush on a talented, scrappy young driver with a sharp tongue and kind eyes. You wrote a few soft imagines on Tumblr under a fake name, and somehow, it took off.

Then, against all odds, you met. You hit it off. You started dating.

And the fanfic?

Well… it never stopped.

Even after things got serious. Even after you moved in. Even after you started borrowing his hoodies and waking up in his hotel beds, you still wrote your silly little stories about Isack Hadjar and the girl he’d do anything for.

You just didn’t think he’d ever read them.

It happened one quiet Tuesday night. You were back in France between races, curled up on the couch in one of Isack’s oversized Red Bull hoodies, eating cereal straight from the box while he sat beside you, scrolling through his phone. He was quiet — half-watching something on TV, half-dozing off — when a low sound escaped him.

“…Huh.”

You glanced over. “What?”

He tilted his phone toward you, brow raised.

“I just saw a tweet about fanfiction. Someone tagged me in it. Thought it was another thirst edit or something, but…”

Your blood turned to ice.

He tapped the link.

No. No. NO.

There it was. The blog post. Your blog post. A fic you’d published just days earlier — one that had already gained hundreds of reblogs — with the title:

“Stay the Night (Again)” — Isack Hadjar x Reader

He stared at it. Then at you.

You tried to play dumb.

“Huh. People write a lot of fanfiction, right?”

But it was too late.

He opened it. He scrolled.

And when he hit the line where you (well, technically, “reader”) whispered “You’re the only place I feel safe,” in his arms on a Monaco hotel balcony — which you had actually said, in real life, six months ago — he paused.

“Okay,” Isack said slowly. “So this is… incredibly specific.”

You stared ahead, wide-eyed, silently begging for the earth to open up and swallow you.

He turned to face you fully, a hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Chérie,” he said, voice calm but clearly amused, “you use my real name?”

Your voice came out a full octave higher. “...Define ‘real.’”

“Not like… ‘Zack.’ Or ‘an F2 driver who’s definitely not me.’ You wrote ‘Isack Hadjar,’ full name, and then described my hotel room layout and the exact way I kiss you when I’m tired.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands.

“Are you mad?”

He blinked. “I’m… not sure yet.”

“Okay. Valid.”

He kept reading. “Did you write this one before or after we went to Monaco for our anniversary?”

“…After.”

He put the phone down and gave you the flattest look you’d ever seen.

You cringed. “In my defense, it got over 20,000 notes.”

He just stared.

“I said in my defense!”

“You wrote a scene where I give you a back massage after Quali and then say ‘I could win or crash out and you’d still be my favorite feeling in the world.’ I don’t even talk like that.”

“You said something close once!”

He looked absolutely betrayed. “I was half-asleep!”

You groaned again and sank deeper into the couch.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled into the throw pillow. “It started before we got together, and I didn’t want to stop. People liked it. It felt like mine. No one knew it was me — or you — not really.”

Isack watched you, expression softening. A beat passed.

“Wait,” he said slowly, voice full of dawning realization. “That NSFW Alphabet one… was that—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

His mouth curled into the most devilish grin you’d ever seen.

“Oh, you wrote that.”

“I hate this timeline,” you muttered, dragging the pillow over your face.

He was already pulling the blog back up.

“‘K is for Kitchen: where he makes you beg quietly because the wall’s too thin.’ That’s literally my apartment!”

You flailed an arm out and smacked his leg. “Stop reading it out loud!”

Isack cackled, holding the phone just out of reach.

“You’re unbelievable,” you groaned.

“I’m flattered, actually,” he said, nudging your knee. “I mean, who needs PR when I’ve got my girlfriend anonymously publishing erotica about me on the internet?”

You peeked out from under the pillow. “So… you’re really not mad?”

He smiled, a little softer this time.

“No. Not mad.”

You bit your lip. “Embarrassed?”

He grinned. “No”

You tilted your head. “Then what?”

“I’m a little… intrigued.”

You blinked. “Intrigued?”

He leaned in. “So let me get this straight: while I’m out here giving interviews and prepping for quali, you’re writing little scenarios about me — using my real name — where I kiss you like we’re in a movie and whisper things in French?”

You nodded slowly. “Yes?”

He smirked. “And these have, what, thousands of readers?”

“...Tens of thousands,” you admitted.

He whistled. “So I’m basically F1’s main character.”

“In the fic world? Kind of, yeah.”

He hummed. “It’s weird. But mostly just because I had no idea. You’re so quiet about it in real life. Meanwhile, online you’ve got me reciting French poetry in the rain and undoing bra straps like I’ve got a degree in it.”

You laughed, cheeks flushed.

“I take creative liberties.”

“You give me main character energy, chérie.”

He paused. Then, eyes twinkling:

“…Can I request a fic where I win in Monaco and we make out behind the podium?”

You gaped at him.

“Are you seriously making fic requests right now?”

He leaned over, resting his forehead against yours.

“Seriously. I want bonus points if I say something emotionally repressed and French.”

You smiled, your heart still pounding.

“Okay. But only if you stop reading the NSFW Alphabet out loud.”

“No promises.”

Later that night, as you curled up in bed together, he scrolled through more of your blog while you tried — and failed — to take his phone away.

“I knew I recognized this dialogue,” he said smugly, showing you a screenshot. “This is word-for-word what I said when I kissed you after that sprint race in Spa.”

“God, you remembered?”

“Of course I did. I just didn’t think you were going to immortalize it on Tumblr.com.”

You buried your face in his chest and groaned.

“You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

He kissed the top of your head, laughing softly.

“I guess this makes me your muse now.”

You sighed dramatically.

“You always were.”

Isack looked down at you, one brow raised.

"Say that again," he murmured.

You blinked up at him, startled. “Say what?”

He leaned in, voice lower now. “That I’m your muse.”

You swallowed. “...You’re my muse.”

He smirked. “And all those scenes — the ones where I can’t keep my hands off you, where I make you forget your own name — those were based on real stuff too, yeah?”

You hesitated. “Some were... inspired.”

You felt his fingers trail along your waist, under the hoodie. Your hoodie. His hoodie.

He dipped his head, brushing a kiss against your collarbone.

“Then let’s make sure your next fic is even more accurate.”

Your heart practically stopped.

“Isack—”

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Think you can remember the details, chérie?”

You swallowed, heat pooling under your skin. “Vividly.”

He smiled against your jawline, then lifted you effortlessly into his lap, his hands splayed across your thighs like he already knew the next scene.

And you thought to yourself:

Well. There’s your next chapter.

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Bad Words (John Walker)

Description: Y/N and John are a secretly dating but put on the act of hating each other until one of them takes it too far

Word Count:1,773

“You suck!” “You swallow!” “You probably choke on dick, you whore!” Y/N looked over John after he said this. They were dating but didn’t want the others to know so they put on this fake hate in front of the others so they wouldn’t know. “You probably bottom with Bob.” She smirked, “What?” Bob asked, very confused why his name got brought up. “You’d probably like to watch.” He wasn’t wrong, “No not if you’re involved.” Bob’s face was red at this point.

Bucky has rolled his eyes 20 times now and Ava tried to hide her laugh. They’ve been at this since they became a team. At first they didn’t like each other but one mission was just them and they realized that they do like each other. But to the others it only made things worse. They had no idea about the kiss they shared after a huge fight, about the passionate sex they have while the others are asleep, about the first I love you John shared after she nearly walked away from him because he was being a dick and about the fact that they don’t mean the things they spew at each other every single day just so the others don’t have an ideal about them. Bucky wanted them to get along and kept putting them on missions together just hoping that they would hate each other less and less each time, without a clue that they truly don’t hate each other. But with all this hate and fake words they would share to put on a show for the others, would one of them take it too far? 

Alexei and Bob wanted a movie night and everyone agreed, Bucky didn’t really want to but Y/N reminded him that if she had to go on missions with John then he can come to a movie night. Bucky couldn’t argue with that so he agreed, “You and John can’t argue through the whole thing.” He told her and she held her hands up defensive. “I won’t even look at him.” She said. That wasn’t true though,she would be looking at him and wishing that she could be in his arms. She decided that it would be best to not sit by him at all and sat next to Bob.

John didn’t like that at all and decided to comment on it, “Wow of course you’re next guy would be Bob.” John commented before the movie even started. Y/N gave him a weird look and she actually meant it, “What?” It came out of left field, they didn’t have to start right now. Bob was a better guy than John and though John would never admit that, afraid of being insecure.

Y/N always made the jokes between them but it was a running joke in the group, not this. “You probably sleep with a bunch of dudes and Bob is the next one.” He pointed out and Y/N actually laughed. “Is that so?” He nodded, “Are you mad I’d be taking your boyfriend, John?” She asked, not seeing that it hit a nerve for him. “Guys the movie hasn’t even started!” Ava exclaimed and Y/N sat back.

“Sorry Bob.” “It’s okay.” He whispered back. By the end of the movie, Alexei and Yelena were asleep. Bob was falling asleep and his head hit Y/N’s shoulder, she looked over and she smiled a little. Unknown to her John was watching and wasn’t happy about the scene. Y/N felt awkward but she didn’t wanna wake him. She happened to make eye contact with John and gave him a smile which he returned, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Bucky yawned and got up off the couch, “Night guys.” Bucky said, “Walker and Y/L/N don’t kill each other.” Bucky didn’t need to make that comment. It was like he was trying to start something now that he was off to bed, “No promises.” Y/N joked. Bucky left and it was just Bob, Y/N and John left. The tension was high and it shouldn’t have been. Bob was asleep and yet the air was filled with it, Y/N glanced over at John and saw his jaw was tight and he looked lost in thought.

Y/N wanted to ask him what was wrong but didn’t want Bob to wake up and hear. “You look very in thought, Walker. Never thought that you could think.” John didn’t say anything at first, her words soaking in like she meant them. He got up from the couch and walked past her, she reached out to grab him but he shrugged her off. Maybe he thought that Bob would hear them?

Her mind was thinking of every excuse besides the fact that he was actually mad at her. They had this thing for a while so the last thing she would think is that he was actually mad. Y/N slowly got up and made sure that Bob’s head hit the cushion gently before she went off to John’s room. The risk of getting caught at his door was low but when she knocked he never came to the door, “John?” She whispered and not a response back. She shrugged and just went to her room. 

John avoided her the next day, not even a teasing glance was casted her way. His words got harsher as the day went on, his tone wasn’t pleasant or teasing. He was actually pissed and she didn’t know what to do about it. It was like the tension only got worse and none of them could tolerate it. Dinner was the final straw as Bob sat next to her again and John glared at him.

It wasn’t Bob’s fault, he didn’t know about them but it was still annoying. Y/N smiled at Bob as they all got their plate, she was completely ignoring John. “Bob, you were pretty tired last night.” Y/N said, teasing him. Bob’s face got red, as did John’s, for different reasons. Bob was embarrassed by what he did, he didn’t have feelings for Y/N but she was nice and had a good shoulder to sleep on.

John was angry, annoyed that Y/N was fueling the situation, “Surprised you didn’t try to fuck him.” John spit out. Y/N looked over at him for the first time today, “Excuse me?” She wasn’t pretending but nor was he. The room felt worse than before but nobody was going to speak up. “You obviously have something for Bob so be the whore you are and fuck him.” Y/N was more taken back by his words than she thought she would be.

Her eyes boring into his trying to not show any emotion that she’s been hiding from the others. “Is that what you think?” Her voice betrays her as sadness fills her words. The fake words were over as the truth was let loose. “Yes! You were all over him last night!” He exclaims and the others weren’t sure why he was so mad and why it mattered. “I wasn’t all over him-” But John got up from the table, “Save it, I don’t care! You’re a whore and I've wasted my time.” Ava was ready to punch him in the face.

She watched as Y/N held back tears and really wanted to knock him out. The others didn’t get why John was so mad about it, the ideal of him having feelings for her never crossed their minds. She got up and followed John to his room, angry in both of their steps, no longer caring if the others saw or heard anything. Y/N shut the door behind her as John refused to look at her. “So I'm a whore, is that what you think?” She asked him, voice cracking.

John didn’t look at her as he spoke, “You let him lay on you last night even after everyone left.” He exclaimed and she shook her head, “I didn’t want to wake him and have him hear us talking.” She tried but John was an asshole and refused any kind of excuse, “If you like him go be with him, why whore around with me?” He asked and she wanted to kick him in the balls so bad, “Stop calling me that!” She yelled, all the care about the others hearing went down the drain.

“I love you, John! Not Bob! I don’t wanna sleep with him and I'm sorry that you don’t like the fact that it happened.” He finally turned towards her, “Everyone knows now anyway.” His voice was soft and quiet, it wasn’t a whisper but barely above that. His anger didn’t seem to be there anymore nor did he seem to be disappointed that everyone knew. He kinda felt…relieved, no that’s definitely what he felt.

He felt like he could finally breathe and not have to fake things anymore with her. The show was over and they both felt relieved. She walked up to him, small steps in case she was reading it wrong. He towered over her, but he wasn’t tense anymore, he seemed calm and his walls were down again. She didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around him in a hug, his body wasn’t tense as he hugged back, relaxed. “I love you too.” He mumbled and he felt her smile against him.

The others were at the door, listening to everything. “Why would they go through all that trouble just to make it seem like they hated each other?” Bob asked and the others didn’t have an answer. Relationships on a team were hard sometimes and this proved it. Yelena heard footsteps and pushed the others back but the door was already opening, “What are you guys doing?” Y/N asked as she opened the door to find them inches away with curious looks on their faces.

“uh..” Bob trailed off and looked at Yelena for help. “You guys have been together?” She asked and Y/N nodded. “Why act like that then?” There wasn’t a right answer to that question. Judgement? But it wasn’t like John was a horrible person or anything like that so why did they feel the need to hide it in the first place?

“I-” “We like privacy and let’s be honest you guys would just be annoying about us being together.” John interrupts her to say. She bites her lip and nods, “We don’t care that you’re together.” Yelena tells them. “We accept anything.” Bob adds on making Y/N laugh and John pulls her to him, not liking that Bob made her laugh. “Good to know.” John said as he stared at Bob, wondering if Bob was upset about this.

[blackholeca]

There’s definitely stuff I still have issues with, mostly in terms of the plot itself, though obviously that could change depending on how the show continues.

I’ve heard someone talk about it on here before about how a lot of changes they’ve made in regards to stuff like pacing and character interaction completely changes the reasoning/meaning behind some of the more important moments in the book and they’re absolutely right

I feel like the biggest one of these is the current relationship we see between Mensah and Murderbot. Plot wise by the time the group is headed to delt fall in the book Mensah has already cemented herself as a favorite character for a lot of people. One of the first things we get to see her do in the book is check on Murderbot immediately following the Hostile one attack while it’s wrapped in its shitty emergency blanket, leaking everywhere, because she’s concerned about how it’s doing. It’s one of my favorite moments in the book because of it. It’s an awkward and intimate and weirdly emotional moment because Murderbot has been ‘free’ for 4 years and no one has ever come to check on it. No one has ever cared. But Mensah does, and she makes that clear in the book.

In the show, however, Mensah’s concern is confined to hurriedly talking to it immediately after exiting the hopper and doesn’t extend past that. It’s obvious she’d be worried about Bharadwaj which is why her concern for Murderbot feels rushed. She’s got more important things to be worried about than a contracted secunit that’s probably not going to die. In the book Mensah is only shown talking with Murderbot after it’s in the security ready room and Bharadwaj is settled in medical, there’s less at steak, the scene doesn’t feel rushed or halfhearted, they’re not in the heat of the moment anymore and she can take a moment to check on how Murderbot’s doing. In the show, the only reason we see her show up in the security ready room is after Gurathin has declared it as a hazard and after it’s already shown itself to be physically fine. She’s not there to check how it’s doing, not really, and readers can tell whether consciously or not. The moment is uncomfortable and tense in a way that it never was in the book. Both scenes have Murderbot in a vulnerable state, but there’s something more intimate about how they portray that vulnerability in the book versus in the show. It feels forced in the show, though not in the way you might think. In the book Murderbot hides its wounds beneath its shitty emergency blanket so Mensah doesn’t have to see, it’s vulnerable not only physically but emotionally because why is this person being nice to it. In the show Murderbot isn’t injured anymore, the tension is less awkward and more charged with danger, it’s forcefully bared to someone it doesn’t trust, who it knows suspects its governor module is busted (which is another key difference between the book and the show that severely impacts how Murderbot interacts with the others and immediately stunts any kind of developing relationship). Some of it’s in the visuals, but some of it is in power dynamics. Mensah is its contracted client, Mensah suspects its rogue, Mensah could out the information to company, ruin its life, and Murderbot, well, Murderbot could kill the shit out of the entire Preservation Aux Crew. Neither of them really trust each other not to do those things. Mensah has an ulterior motive going into the security ready room and that overshadows any of the actual concern for Murderbot she may have had in going there and that puts nothing towards progressing their relationship. She leaves the room not trusting it and this, in turn, impacts the rest of their relationship.

I think a key difference in the books versus the show is that in both versions Mensah wants to trust Murderbot. In the book she allows herself to, Martha gives her more reasons to. Because it’s saved her team on more than one occasion, because it clearly doesn’t like them all that much but it’s still protecting them despite that, willing to risk itself for them despite that. By the time they get to delt fall in the book Mensah already trusts Murderbot and Murderbot doesn’t think she’s so bad even if she’s weird.

But in the show, while Mensah wants to trust Murderbot, she doesn’t. She doesn’t want to believe Gurathin when he says it’s dangerous, she wants to see the good in Murderbot because it had saved Bharadwaj and Arada. That’s why she visits the ready room, because she wants to check things out for herself and in the end still decides it’s better to remain cautious and again, she has a good reason to (ie. see ability to murder the shit out of them.)

The tonal shift we see between the show and the book has a lot to do with the fact that Murderbot’s relationship with everyone is mostly antagonistic at this point. Mensah doesn’t really trust it, and Mensah has a good reason not to at this point in the show, but it feels so incredibly removed from the book because of it and that’s going to be the real reason so many readers end up not liking the show. Not just because they didn’t like an actor or some of the visuals or whatever else.

And again, all of this wraps back into Murderbot being rogue for much less time in the show compared to the books. Because it’s angry and bad at pretending to not be rogue and people catch onto it much quicker— all before it’s been given time to really show that it’s not out to kill the shit out of them just because it can. And while I appreciate that the writers portray how a change like that could affect the rest of the story, I doubt it’s a change any of the readers really wanted to see considering it completely rewrites Murderbot’s relationships with everyone involved in a way that will likely be felt in any continuing seasons.

(though I will admit that I really like Murderbot and Gurathin’s relationship in the show, they’re antagonistic, they’re mirrors, and i like that a lot. In the books they never got along well either and to me the show is simply exploring that in a bit more detail. Though with the other characters things feel off in a way that any dedicated reader can pick up on immediately.)

So if you’ve read All Systems Red and been keeping up with the Murderbot show you’ve probably realized there’s quite a bit different about how Murderbot acts in the show compared to in the books, the best way I found I could explain this was just that it seemed much angrier in the show compared to the books where it felt more exasperated/annoyed by what the preservation crew were getting up to.

I’ve seen several people on here talk about how in the show Murderbot has been free for a lot less time than in the books (7000 hours vs 35000, so from almost four years to under a year), and how people believe that that’s one of the reasons Murderbot seems so bad at pretending not to be Rogue because it hasn’t had the same amount of time to be able to practice well… not being that, but I definitely think the same goes for its personality, ignoring the plot, show!Murderbot almost seems like the prequel to the Murderbot we all know and love, a glimpse into the kind of personality book murderbot likely had in the years leading up meeting preservation aux

When the show first came out I watched those first two episodes several times over even though I’d already spent time ranting to friends about all the changes and how it wasn’t bad but I wasn’t sure if i really liked it and how “murderbot didn’t seem like murderbot”, but looking back now I realized it’s just a side of murderbot we’ve seen only once before

Some people who are just getting into Murderbot may not be familiar with the fact that in 2018 Martha Wells released a short oneshot (1k) prequel of when Murderbot was watching episode 44 of sanctuary moon for the first time called Compulsory (it’s free to read check it out if you haven’t). I remember the first time I read it thinking that despite it being written by the author the personality it showed hadn’t really seemed like murderbot. But coming now to the show and seeing everyone’s reactions and thoughts about it made everything kind of slot together for me. Because what we’re seeing (both in Compulsory and the show) is murderbot, it’s just a much younger version of it that’s still working its way through all the media book!murderbot has long since watched and learned from and grew through, those 35000 hours of media is why we have a muderbot that has a more exasperated attitude towards humans versus the angry, freshly hacked murderbot we see in the show.

In a way all that media taught it, perhaps not empathy or pity, but the ability to understand and see humans for what they could be outside of the assholes they usually were to secunits. And we get to see the beginnings of that in Compulsory and I’m certain by the end of this season we’ll get see a similar sort of progression, though I wonder how they’ll end up showing that with all the changes not only to the plot, but also to where this story falls in terms of the timeline.

I know there are people out there hating on the changes in the show and how the murderbot they depict in the show doesn’t feel like the one in the books, but I think you can let yourself enjoy the differences while not letting it detract from book cannon. In all the experience becomes more enjoyable, maybe even a bit endearing, when you look at the show from the perspective of this being a much younger version of our favorite murderbot who is still learning to feel and understand itself and the incompetent and gross and weird humans it’s found itself entangled with

[gojoethereal]

"Quiet storm"

pairing: geto suguru x fem!reader tags: high school era, established relationship, protective!geto, subtle jealousy, possessiveness, stranger danger, group dynamics, tension, implied smut, quiet intimacy, handsy, voice kink-adjacent (he talks you into it), reader is a little oblivious, but not dumb, suguru is both soft and dangerous

Geto Suguru never says much.

Not when you’re with your friends. Not when Satoru slings an arm around your shoulder like it’s a reflex. Not when Shoko teases you for how soft you go when Suguru’s around.

He doesn’t need to. He’s not the kind of guy who broadcasts his feelings — not the kind who needs to.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them

It’s not about insecurity. It’s not about control.

It’s just that Suguru notices everything. And sometimes, that’s worse.

The ramen shop is packed — warm fluorescent lights, sticky counters, the sound of Gojo loudly insisting he needs extra menma like it’s a life-or-death issue. Nanami is already irritated. Shoko’s halfway through a bottle of something suspicious. Haibara’s spinning on a stool.

You're second in line, scrolling through your phone, half-listening to your friends behind you.

And then someone taps your shoulder.

You turn — expecting Shoko or maybe Haibara — and come face-to-face with a stranger.

Older. College-age, maybe. Wearing a hoodie that doesn’t quite hide the way his eyes drag over you.

“Cute phone case,” he says, smirking like it's a line.

You blink. “Thanks.”

He shifts closer. “You a student here too?”

“Kind of,” you say carefully. “High school division.”

His eyes linger. Too long.

Behind you, Suguru moves.

You don’t notice at first. You're still trying to be polite, to end the conversation without causing a scene. You laugh — awkward and tight — when the guy makes some dumb comment about uniforms. You glance back, hoping someone will bail you out.

That’s when Suguru steps forward.

Not loud. Not confrontational.

Just there.

He places a hand on your lower back — warm, firm, claiming. “Everything alright?”

The guy takes one look at Suguru — six feet of calm, broad-shouldered warning in a uniform jacket — and backs off with a muttered excuse.

You blink after him. “That was weird, right?”

Suguru doesn’t answer.

Just keeps his hand on you the whole walk back to campus.

You glance up at Suguru, brows furrowed. “Did I… miss something?”

His hand stays on your waist. “No.”

You’re still confused. “He was just talking—”

“I know.” His voice is calm. Low. “I trust you.”

There’s a pause.

“I don’t trust everyone else.”

Back at the dorms, the others peel off in groups — Gojo still talking too loud, Shoko smirking like she knows more than she lets on.

You’re quiet on the walk to Suguru’s room. So is he.

Not tense. Just thoughtful.

He’s sitting on his bed, hair half-tied and falling into his face. You’re by the desk, unzipping your jacket slowly.

“He didn’t even touch me,” you say, looking at the floor. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

Suguru watches you for a beat.

Then: “You didn’t see what he saw.”

You glance up. “What do you mean?”

“He looked at you like he could take you.” Suguru’s voice is low, steady. “Like you wouldn’t notice until it was too late.”

You cross the room. Sit beside him. “But I would’ve noticed. I would’ve said something.”

“I know.” He reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know you’re not stupid.”

There’s something heavy beneath his words — not anger, but heat.

Possession.

“I trust you,” he says. “But don’t ask me to pretend I’m not territorial.”

You blink. “Territorial?”

“Don’t make me repeat it,” he says quietly, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m trying very hard to be good.”

You don’t ask what he means by good.

You’re too busy noticing the way his hand is sliding down — from your jaw, to your neck, to your waist.

Slow. Deliberate.

You’re still mostly dressed, but it feels like he’s already stripped you bare.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says into the quiet.

“I know.”

“I’m just…” his fingers dig into your hip, “reminding you.”

You swallow. “Of what?”

His mouth grazes your throat.

“That no one gets to look at you like that. No one touches you. No one makes you laugh like I do. No one gets to want you like that.”

Your breath catches.

“Suguru—”

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You do.

You always do.

Later, your skin is flushed, your clothes are half-off, and his hands haven’t left your body for the last twenty minutes.

He hasn’t rushed. He never does.

Just presses kisses along your neck, down your shoulder, soft and slow and full of teeth.

“I hated how he looked at you,” he murmurs. “Not because I think you’d want him.”

“Then why?”

“Because I wanted to hurt him for thinking he had a chance.”

You laugh — breathless, ruined. “That’s dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic,” he says, lips brushing your jaw. “Wearing that skirt. Laughing like that.”

You swat at him. He catches your wrist. Pins it gently beside your head.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” you whisper.

He looks at you — long, slow, eyes dark and steady.

Then he kisses you like he’s never going to stop.

And when you come undone beneath him — slowly, quietly, with his name soft on your lips — you realize it’s not about jealousy at all.

It’s about love.

Love that won’t perform for the crowd.

Love that never has to shout to be heard.

Love like a storm — quiet, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

an: feel free to give me ideas in my inbox or comment on ways i can improve my loves🍒!!1

[littlest-w01f]

How about 13 with Sylus👀

a/n: Yes ma'am comin right up, kinda dark Sy hehe. Also not drabble length wise, but I classify drabble as *written from phone*

You're mine

13– rescuing their crush/partner from unwanted advances

Sylus drabble

You can handle advances from people quite well. You are the type to know you are hot, that people will be interested in you.

Especially with the sexy red number you are wearing to this auction, a long slit up your left leg, and a dangling "S" set on your upper thigh. Sweetheart neckline, paired with a fitted corset that pushes your breasts up to give a tantalizing cleavage.

You've received plenty of spared glances the night, especially over the man on your arms.

Sylus' girl. Sylus had a girl. If you didn't know any better about him, you would wonder why it was so shocking.

With a kiss on your head, he whispers, voice low, only for you to hear, "I'll be right back. Keep your claws out, kitten."

You nod, gloved hand squeezing his before he slips off into the crowd, though given his height, it's not too hard to track him.

You sigh, eyes on his back as he walks; the tailored suit does nothing to hide his back; it makes it appear even bigger as if clinging to every sculpted part of him.

You look away when you hear someone clear their throat. It's a man, taller than you by at least half a foot, lathered in gold.

"Who are you?" He asks, leaning closer, "A place like this is no place for a pretty dove like you." He smiles, and you catch the gold on his teeth. He has a cigar in his hand, standing like he owns the place. "Especially tonight."

You straighten subconsciously. He may not know who you are, but you know him. The only person Sylus might consider close to a rival in the N109 zone.

Though he still waves off this man as an inconvenience at best, you know he's not to be messed with. Your hand drops to the side of your dress, feeling the curve and bend of your concealed gun. You had heard things about this criminal even before Sylus.

He'd been all over the news, the horrible things he'd done to people. The fact that he was standing before you had you sick to your stomach

"Oh, I'm no one." You say smoothly, smiling as sweetly as a girl who would claw a man's face for looking at her wrong.

"Nonsense, dear." He puffs out a steam of smoke, aimed at you as he hums, "You're too pretty to be no one. Say you come home with me, I could set you up for life–"

The way he talks is like chalk scratching on a chalkboard. You fight the urge to cringe. His intentions with you are very clear with the way he looks your body up and down.

You have two options, you could deck him—which you want to—or smile, acting like the girl he wants you to be, one that has no idea of the creep he is.

"I leave you for two seconds, kitten, and you've already attracted rodents." You relax at the voice, smiling internally at the hand on your lower back. Sylus returns with a glare on his face that could burn someone.

He doesn't let the man even speak for himself before black and red tendrils rise up, snaking around the man, choking him and making his body go still, "Say to me what you said to her!?" His voice growls, drawing attention from people at the auction, though no one says anything. People fear him.

"I... I..." The man struggles as, with a wave of Sylus' hand, he's lifted up.

Your eyes go wide as more people take notice, and whispering starts. Sylus is making a scene on purpose.

"Sy!" You whisper-shout at him, hand placed on his shoulder. The look in his eyes is murderous; you have seen that look on him before. It didn't end well for the other guy.

Red and black mist wraps around the man, you know his power well enough to know what happened next. A shudder went through your spine, at his power and something darker.

"I should gouge out your eyes for even looking at her." Sylus' eyes narrow before they instantly soften as they look down at you after you call for him again. "Now right now, sweetie. After I've dealt with this moron."

His free hand gently trails down your cheek before his focus turns to the task at hand. With a single close of his fist, the man was nothing but energy, red and black, Sylus' evol.

You shudder in a breath. Sylus had just killed a man for you. Again. Without even a tick of anger on his face, a speck of sweat on his body or strain on his mind.

Everyone else who has been looking turns their heads away as if scared the boss of Onychinus would set his eyes on them next.

"They should know you're mine."