watchtowerlibrary

[watchtowerlibrary]

He knows you’re not seeing anyone else thanks to a very in the heat of the moment exchange, with him, on the verge of coming, asking you, because he needed to know. When you said no, he pulled out, ripped off his condom, and finished on your stomach with a rough, “Good.” (When you mentioned that he should do that inside next time, he made a sound, slid back in, and came a second time, like the admission had given him some sort of feral, possessive second wind.)

We stan a king. What a move. 😅 I mean, ... both of them.

He finally pulls the gloves off his hands, tosses them into a clinical waste bin and looks at you expectantly as he brushes his fingers through his silvery curls.

Oh shit abort that's the wrong fucking person to have around as a witness 🤣

“Saw Abbot’s shit-eating grin and wanted to get you out of there before he started asking you a million annoying que–” His voice dies down, and you can practically see the penny drop. He puts his hands on his hips, narrows his eyes at you, and swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before demanding, “Tell me.”

Is someone afraid Reader won't show up at Robby's work place in case someone scares her off? 😅

“No one’s gonna see,” he slurs. He sounds wrecked already, and you haven’t even done anything but kiss. “No one fucking comes here, need a badge and they all take the elevator, I swear.” He kisses your neck, scrapes his teeth along that spot that makes you sigh. He’s playing so incredibly dirty– “Just… let me finger my girlfriend.”

Damn, someone's pussy-drunk already 😅

Throw Away The Oars

Michael “Dr. Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader | 6k words | explicit

Summary: You feel like Robby’s distancing himself from you. A slip of the tongue to the wrong person when you visit the pitt feels like it could be the final nail in the coffin of your undefined relationship.

Tags/Warnings: female reader (female anatomy), semi-follow up to Home Again but you can read this as a standalone, semi-established relationship, feelings/angst/fluff, insecurity, miscommunication but like with a fun outcome?, swearing, therapy (mentioned), emergency department horrors (mentioned), blood (mentioned), rats (mentioned), other pitt characters, smut (fingering f receiving, unprotected piv, public sex, dirty talk, creampie, spanking) – let me know if I missed anything!

Notes: Two fics in as many weeks? Unheard of. Genuinely feel like I was possessed when I wrote this, so if it isn’t good or sexy or fun, blame the Demon. I think the song is pretty obvious from the title, but it's mentioned more in the story. Hope you enjoy! Huge thank you to @javier-pena for proofreading, general enthusiasm, and for saying there's a line in this that should get an Academy Award for Hottest Line in a Fic.

– – – – –

Pittsburgh looks sad tonight. It isn’t particularly cold, but it rained all day and there are at least six different dark shades in the sky, like it’s saying, Hey, give me a good enough reason and I’ll have it pouring in no time. 

From the row of red taillights to the left of the sidewalk you’re on, you gather most people are making their way home right now. It’s approaching seven, it makes sense for the time. You find yourself discreetly looking into people’s cars, keeping yourself entertained with all the different characters, imagining what kind of life they have and what plans they made for the night. It’s like the weather knows about yours, because more dark clouds roll in, and you cease your people watching in favour of picking up your pace and getting you to your destination faster. 

You round the corner, the daunting height of that destination appearing in your eyeline. It’s almost like a lighthouse, with nearly every little window having that yellow-white shine to it. A helicopter flies overhead, the sound of the blades whirring making you look up, following it as it approaches the building's roof, and you’re reminded that for some people, the day is only just beginning.

You approach Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center feeling like there’s lead in your shoes for a different reason, and you actually kind of feel like an asshole about it.

This particular feeling should be reserved for people that are genuinely going through something. You know that inside that building, there are patients who are on the brink of death, holding hands with the people they love for the final time. There are patients receiving life altering, devastating diagnosis. Family members gently being guided into quiet rooms, where doctors explain how they did everything they could, but to no avail. It shouldn’t be felt by someone who is borrowing grief from the future over something as trivial as a two month relationship.

Things between you and Robby are different lately - or, well, they feel different anyway.

Admittedly, it’s all circumstantial, in the eye of the beholder, but that’s what’s fucking you up about it the most. First it was the little changes in the inflection in his voice whenever he says your name; last week it was him not wanting to meet up at his place, only yours; two days ago it was him drilling you into the mattress while looking at you like you hung the fucking stars, then leaving afterwards under the bullshit guise of an appointment be had with his fellow attending about rats in the emergency department.

You know Robby’s�� complicated. He has his things going on, but who doesn’t? Plus, he’s actually working on it; you never see him on Wednesdays because that’s his therapy day and he’s focussed–dedicated. And you’re proud of him, but every time it's on the tip of your tongue to voice that, it hits you that you don’t know if you have any right to say it, if the role of supportive… whatever you are, is what he wants from you. No matter how patient you want to be, and you have been very patient, very willing to go at this at whichever pace he liked, it’s kind of like he’s freewheeling. Which is unlike him. Which only fucks you up more.

Safe to say, it’s messing with your head more than you care to admit. 

It’s just that you slipped into a sense of familiarity so fast that you never really had a conversation about where this is all going. You know he isn’t seeing other people, he made that clear a few weeks in, when you asked and he laughed, because where would he find the time for that, and yeah, that was a good point. He knows you’re not seeing anyone else thanks to a very in the heat of the moment exchange, with him, on the verge of coming, asking you, because he needed to know. When you said no, he pulled out, ripped off his condom, and finished on your stomach with a rough, “Good.”

(When you mentioned that he should do that inside next time, he made a sound, slid back in, and came a second time, like the admission had given him some sort of feral, possessive second wind.)

So all things considered, mixed signals. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be here, picking him up like you agreed you would a week ago, when you made plans to go to the movies together. Maybe you should have also made up a stupid excuse, let him figure his shit out, and wait for him to call you once he did. But you’re an adult, who realizes manipulation tactics are futile, and childish. Eventually, for better or for worse, you’re going to have to tell him how you feel about him.

Unfortunately for you, you’ve been known to make choices that aren’t the best for your heart.

You enter PTMC with as much confidence as you can muster up, then make a beeline for the elevator. You wait after calling it, and while you do, you study the plaque above the button you just pressed, eyes lingering at the very bottom of it.

Basement. Emergency department.

The pitt.

The high-pitched ding! comes faster than you thought it would, and you step aside as the elevator doors slide open to let a handful of people step off. You give the people still inside a polite, “Evening,” and a nod as you get on, then press the button for the basement.

Naturally, and for no other reason than to fuck with you personally, the elevator slides up first.

You close your eyes, braving the sensation of the semi-gentle start-stop as you pass each floor going up - then again going down. By the time you reach the basement, it’s just you and a doctor - female, red hair, frizzy bangs, looking tired as all hell. She rushes past you, file in hand, and you make your way down the hall after her. 

The waiting room is packed, and you’re taken aback by the sheer volume of the voices echoing off the walls, making you feel a bit disoriented as you try to find a way to get where you need to be. Several registration nurses are seated behind reinforced glass and your chest tightens over the fact that that is protection health care providers need. You approach a window that one of the patients just walked away from, clear your throat, and say,

“Um, excuse me–”

“Please, fill this out,” the woman says, pushing a clipboard through the slot at the bottom of the window, “and bring it back to me when you’re ready.”

Gently, you push the clipboard back. “I don’t need medical treatment,” debatable after the overthinking from earlier–

“Then what can I do for ya, hon?” she asks, briefly looking over her shoulder when another staff member sails through the doors behind her. He’s wearing the same charcoal coloured scrubs Robby always wears, and is struggling to pull off a very bloodied pair of gloves.

“I’m looking for, um… Doctor Robinavitch?” 

“Why?” The doctor pipes up from behind the nurse. He finally pulls the gloves off his hands, tosses them into a clinical waste bin and looks at you expectantly as he brushes his fingers through his silvery curls.

Before you elaborate, you raise an eyebrow at the confrontational tone. “I’m here to pick him up.”

The man looks at you, narrows his eyes, then juts his chin out. “And how do you know Doctor Robinavitch?”

“Robby,” you find yourself saying like you’re proving some sort of point about how well you know him, “is…” You pause, try to think of how to convey that he is the guy you decided to shoot your shot with in a record shop and who you’ve been sleeping with for the better part of two months in a way that’s acceptable for the workplace. But there’s steady beeping, the wailing of a baby behind you, a distant scream coming out of the emergency department, the two sets of expectant eyes on you from people who clearly have something better to do than wait for you to- Are you sweating? It feels like you’re sweating. “He’s my boyfriend.” 

The doctor’s eyebrows shoot up so far it would’ve made you laugh if the weight of your words hadn’t just hit you like a fucking truck. For the past week, you had been questioning everything about your relationship and you cracked under the slightest bit of pressure and labeled Robby your boyfriend like you’re two teenagers. 

And at his workplace.

“Is he now?” the doctor asks, a lopsided grin appearing on his face afterwards.

“Abbot,” the nurse says sharply. 

The warning makes your stomach twist. This is just great. As if your panicked slip of the tongue alone wasn’t bad enough, it had to be in front of frequently mentioned fellow attending slash close friend Jack Abbot.

“You know what,” you begin, swallowing thickly and jutting your thumb over your shoulder. “I’ll just wait outside–”

“Hey, hey, hey, no,” Abbot says, his voice gone gentle, raising his hands and looking more like he’s calming an escaped horse than an embarrassed human being. “He’s just finishing up with some patients, I’ll go get him for ya.” And as quickly as he arrived, he disappears again.

“Just take a seat, doll,” the nurse says. You think she’s aiming for pity, but the words are dripping with delight at this turn of events at what’s no doubt the very end of her shift. “I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute.”

You thank her and turn around, looking for an empty chair, but are once again confronted with the sheer amount of people waiting to be seen - it’s fine, you’ll just settle for a hole in the ground to disappear into. Before you have time to rethink every course of action you had taken to get you to this point, starting with frequenting a record shop, Robby sails through the flap doors with Abbot in tow. 

One looks cautious. The other looks endlessly amused. 

Robby’s eyes find you in the crowd in a flash, and he reaches you so quickly it seems like he’s floating, taking you by the arm and dragging you along with him.

“Hi,” you manage while you stumble to keep up.

“Let’s leave?” He says it like a question, but his voice leaves no room for discussion. Moving his hand to the small of your back, he leads you down a different path than you came, out a security door that he opens with a swipe of his badge, into a stairwell marked ‘A’, and quickly up the first flight of stairs.

The moment you’re alone with him, you can practically feel the words making their way up your throat, and before you can stop it, you begin explaining yourself, “You’re upset, I get it. I’m sorry I said… that in front of Abbot. Shouldn’t have done it, definitely will not happen again.” 

Robby’s hand flexes and your words seem to stop him dead in his tracks, feet coming to a halt in the middle of the landing between the staircases. He says nothing, and aside from the way his frown deepens, he stays very still. 

“Listen,” you begin, trying and failing to keep your voice steady and void of sadness, “if you’re really that upset about it, maybe we should–”

“I’m not upset,” he says, turning to face you while he shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

You scoff, frustrated. Not upset? Sure. In a sweeping manner, you gesture at him from his feet to his crown, and back again, “Then what’s this?”

“I just worked a 12 hour shift in the emergency department, I think I’m allowed to look a little upset,” he scoffs back. “But this…,” he tries to gesture at himself the way you just did, but mostly just gets his face, which, to his credit, does worry you the most, “...is not because I’m upset with you.”

It makes your shoulders slump, but the short-lived sense of relief quickly makes room for guilt. Christ, he’s right. Today alone he’s probably seen things no other human being would see in a lifetime–should see in a lifetime. You should cut him some slack. Another apology is on the tip of your tongue, but Robby speaks first, 

“Saw Abbot’s shit-eating grin and wanted to get you out of there before he started asking you a million annoying que–” His voice dies down, and you can practically see the penny drop. He puts his hands on his hips, narrows his eyes at you, and swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before demanding, “Tell me.”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. 

Didn’t Abbot tell him? Is Robby messing with you?

You could really use that hole to disappear into right about now…

You shuffle your feet. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me…” Robby takes a step closer so you’re standing toe-to-toe and looks at you expectantly, “…what you told Abbot.”

“I just said I was here to pick you up,” you try to save face, but you can recognize it’s a pathetic attempt; you literally can’t even look at him while you say it.

Robby’s arms cross, his shoulders drawing up as he bows his head and shakes it with an amused huff. “Liar.”

You gasp, “Fuck you, I did say that.”

“Fine,” he’s laughing now, “what else did you say?”

You know you have no choice but to be honest; if you don’t tell him, Abbot will. The mirth on his face helps, maybe he’ll take it as a joke and your crisis of relationship will be averted for the time being. 

“He asked how I knew you. And I… I might have said, ‘He’s… my boyfriend’.” You make your voice go up at the end, purposefully formulating it as a semi-question, like even you don’t remember exactly what you said, then throw in a chuckle for good measure, all in an attempt to take more weight off the revelation.

The silence that follows is deafening; even the emergency department waiting room past the door at the foot of the stairs seems to have gone quiet. A myriad of expressions pass Robby’s face, before it settles on something completely new to you–something completely unreadable. But this time, it’s impossible to look away, not when he swallows thickly, not when his defensive pose falls and his hands ball to fists, clenching and unclenching at his side. Your mind is already formulating its third planned apology of the day, but Robby foils it again. 

“You said that?” His voice is so fucking deep it’s more of a rumble, a slight tremble on the word said.

“Yes.”

“In those words?” he presses. “To Abbot?”

You nod with a sigh, realizing you might as well put all your cards on the table, “And the nur–”

“Am I?” 

Dropping your hands by your side, you sigh. “I don’t know, Robby. You tell me.” Your voice sounds so small, “Are you?”

There’s a sound of heavy fabric hitting the floor - his backpack, you realize - and then he surges forward, a hand anchoring itself at your waist while the other slips behind your head to cushion the way he crashes the both of you into the wall. He kisses you like he never has, with utter desperation, and bite, his teeth closing around your bottom lip before letting his tongue map you out like it’s the first time he gets to do it. Stunned, you clutch onto his arms, try to follow along with him, but he doesn’t give you a chance to catch up. 

“Yeah, I am,” the words come out more like a growl, “I’m your fucking boyfriend.” The ball of anxiety that’s been making a home in your gut explodes, melting into arousal so fast you’d think you did hit your head. It takes you another moment to move with him, moaning at the scrape of his beard against your chin and the flick of his tongue behind your teeth. 

Once your brain finds its connection to your body, all you want is more. So you take, with newfound vigor, a swipe of your tongue along his and a palm cupping the side of his neck, applying pressure in a way that makes him grunt. He pushes you back harder, plastering himself to your front. When he tries to wiggle his hand between your bodies and into your pants, it brings you back to reality for a split second. 

“Robby, fuck, wait–”

“No one’s gonna see,” he slurs. He sounds wrecked already, and you haven’t even done anything but kiss. You would be kind of proud of it if your brain wasn’t melting out of your ears with lust. Spreading your legs to give him more room, you– Wait, shit, focus.

Second split second. 

Closing your hand around his wrist, you start again, “Robby–” 

“No one fucking comes here, need a badge and they all take the elevator, I swear.” He kisses your neck, scrapes his teeth along that spot that makes you sigh. He’s playing so incredibly dirty– “Just… let me finger my girlfriend.”

It’s like you go boneless at the word, the hand he’s been wringing into your jeans slipping under your underwear with ease now that you’ve stopped fighting it. The shriek you let out when his fingers roll roughly over your clit echoes through the empty stairwell before you muffle it by clamping a hand over your mouth. It’s a lot, the emotional whiplash so severe that tears spring into your eyes when a finger dips into your entrance to test the waters.

Robby pulls away, hand and mouth, then brings one to the other. You might actually whine at the loss, and the way he sucks two fingers into his mouth, the thick digits coming back shiny and slick when he pulls them out, all without ever breaking eye contact. Then he’s back to frantic, dry hand pulling at your fly and zipper, and you help him with hurried, awkward moves, all but ripping your pants open to give him more room.

“Do you have any fucking idea how hard it is to hold back around you? When you... say stuff like that to people when I’m not around like it’s fucking… easy?” Robby pushes his middle finger into you as far as it’ll go, grunting like he’s enjoying it more than you are. His head tips down, watching how his hand is stuffed beneath the tight, rigid denim; yours falls back, panting up at the spiralling staircases above you, clutching onto the open ends of Robby’s hoodie for dear life when his finger starts pumping inside of you. “When you look so sweet and then get this wet for me?”

You clench around him, leaking into his palm while a groan rumbles from your chest when he adds a second finger. “Then don’t–” he bends them, finds something that makes you quiver, “Fuck, Robby, that’s good. Stop holding back around me.”

His hand curls around your jaw, pulling until your eyes meet; his are wild, pupils blown so wide his irises appear black even in the bright fluorescent hospital lighting.

You take the jump, your stomach flipping in a way that makes it feel like you’re actually in freefall, the admission somehow taking more vulnerability than letting him finger fuck you here of all places. “Stop holding back,” you say, desperately trying to convey that this is bigger than just this moment between you.

And when his hand stills, and he plants a dizzying kiss on your lips, it feels like he does, like he pours everything he can’t say into the simple, long press. You attempt to return the sentiment, slinging your arm around his neck, palming his nape that’s damp with sweat and holding him to you. You stay like this for a long moment, your heart beating so hard and fast that you wonder if Robby can feel it with how tightly you’re pressed together.

You don’t get time to think about if you can feel his, because his fingers slowly start up again between your legs, and he fucks you on his hand, palm grinding up against your clit until you’re crying out into his open mouth, coming hot, and hard, tears of pleasure spilling over your waterline while you tremble in his hold.

There’s nothing but him, his scent, the heat of his body, the stretch of him inside you coming even easier with your orgasm. You can’t breathe but it feels secondary to everything else when he grinds against your thigh, thick and heavy and fucking pulsing with need, trapped behind those cargo pants, and despite the fact that you just came, you feel like you need him more than air.

“Are you gonna put it in?” you ask, voice a little drowsy. “Please?”

The combination of his lazy grin and the flush along his cheeks makes him look somewhat boyish. “Give her one good orgasm and the fear of getting caught is fucked riiiight out, huh?” Robby says - anything but boyish - gently pulling his hand from between your legs while working his own pants open with his free one.

But it sobers you up a little from the lust you had overdosed on from the moment he crashed you into the wall. You go rigid against it now. “Wait. You said–”

“Relax,” he says, and embarrassingly, it’s enough to make you. Enough that you let him spin you around, yank your hips back and pull your pants and underwear down to mid thigh while your palms find the wall. “Wasn’t lying. No one comes here,” you hear him spit, followed by the unmistakably lewd sound of him spreading it around, “except,” he swipes the head of his cock through your messy folds, “for me.” The final word comes out with a punch of air and an oof! from you when he slides all the way inside in one go. He smiles to himself, pauses in consideration, then adds, “Well, and you.”

You laugh at the double entendre–you actually, properly laugh, when you should be focussing on adjusting to the thick spread of his cock. The soft walls of your cunt flutter around him, the plaster under your palms warming under your touch. “Shut up,” you say, but it lacks any bite or threat when your voice is still vibrating with laughter underneath it all. 

“Hmm, no, I– Jesus, your laugh is making it… tight. This isn’t gonna take long.” Something between a chuckle and a grunt comes out when you clench more at his words, and you swear you can feel him shake with it. 

“Then stop laughing,” you beg, a smile of your own spreading across your face when you look at him over your shoulder. “I had something far hotter planned, something like, Please, Robby, I want to walk out of here with your come dripping out of me.”

That gets him, his expression morphing into something a little more concentrated. It definitely breaks his giggles, because he looks down to where you’re connected and groans instead, a little involuntary stutter of his hips making him slide out just a fraction. 

Using your grip on the wall, you arch your back and push against him. “Yeah? Is that doing it for you?” you ask, continuing the gentle ebb and flow of pulling off and pushing back, reveling in the slow drag of him along your sensitive walls, the way his fingers dig into your heated skin.

Robby scoffs. “The mental image of you walking out of here dripping with my come, knowing I’m gonna think about it each time I walk up and down these goddamn stairs, which is only every fucking time I’m at work?” He grunts when you slowly let him fill you again. “Yeah, sweetheart, that’ll… that’ll do it.” 

Well, that shouldn’t make you feel as gooey as it does, but after everything, that might as well happen. 

Biting your lip, you lean your forearms, temple resting where your wrists cross, head twisted back to watch him. There’s a sliver of his belly visible over the swell off your ass, and you can see it tensing as you keep your rhythm steady. 

When he starts meeting you halfway, you wonder briefly if no one else truly comes here, or if at any moment, someone could sail around the corner and find you bouncing your ass off a doctor’s pelvis. It sends a rush of tingles up your body, and maybe you can admit to yourself that at this point, it really wouldn't faze you. The only thing that matters to you now, in this very moment, is the pulse of his cock and the promise of getting filled.

There’s another rush of wetness between your legs at the idea, and Robby inhales sharply through his nose when it makes him slide just a bit deeper, throat bobbing around a heavy swallow… and then he’s right there, with a curse, a groan that rises in volume and a pull of your hips back against his, where he holds you still. You can’t help but whimper at the warm sensation, at how fucking deep he gets as he comes and comes and comes. Heat spreads through your body, something that isn’t exactly an orgasm, but isn’t far off either, and makes your eyes roll back.

It takes a while for both of you to stop pulsing. With a deep sigh, you let your head fall forward, hanging down to observe the squished-together, naked tops of your thighs, your scrunched up pants, and your shoed feet with Robby’s larger ones planted on the outside of them. His hand has drifted up, tracing soft patterns across your back under your shirt that make goosebumps rise across your skin. There is absolutely no fucking reason for this to be so tender right now, but it is, and you kind of don’t want it to end.

But this is a hospital, and not the safe cocoon of either of your apartments, so it has to.

“C’mon,” Robby encourages softly, patting the small of your back, “we should get out of here.” 

Your pussy protests when he pulls out slowly, and you can’t blame her, especially not when you feel achingly empty after. It starts the slow trickle of his spend out of you, the angle you’re bent over at making it slide over your clit. Your body reacts with a lewd squelch, and it only results in more leaking. 

“Fuck, that’s…” Robby lets out a breath that sounds like a whistle, using his thumb and forefinger to spread you open a little more, “...pretty.”

Something disgustingly wrong with him for settling on that word. And with you for enjoying it so much. 

His fingers slide downward, dangerously close to your clit– “God, do not do that if you don’t want it going everywhere,” you warn.

The sound he makes is fond, and he’s quick to listen, letting you go in favour of helping you pull your underwear back up your hips. “Trusting you to keep it right there,” he says, before giving you a flat-handed tap between your legs that covers your entire pussy, the swat landing with the obscene, soppy sound of wet fabric meeting skin. 

A shock of pleasure shoots through your body, making you gasp and rise to your toes. You want to curse him for doing this to you here, where you can’t beg him to do it again until you come a second time - third? - because you could, you absolutely could. Instead, you’re forced to bend down and pull your pants back up your legs with an indignant little wiggle.

When you twist back around, fumbling with the button of your jeans, Robby’s already waiting, ready, safely tucked back into his cargo pants and with his backpack hanging off one of his shoulders. You sniff, hoping-praying that you look even a fraction as composed as he looks so you can leave the place with some dignity at least. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, before he stretches his hand out to you. His comment makes you heat up, your own hand no doubt clammy when you accept. As you let him lead you up the stairs, you try, and fail, to not think about how the fingers he interlocks with yours were deep inside you just minutes ago.

Practiced, routined steps lead you through hallways and corridors, weaving and bobbing through groups of patients, visitors and colleagues alike, until you reach gold-coloured revolving doors and step out into the evening. 

“Will you promise me something?” you ask as you start your trek, joined hands swinging between your bodies. 

You notice that above you, the skies have cleared.

“Just one thing?” Robby asks. “You’re lowballing, I like it.”

You roll your eyes. Your belly flutters. “One thing now.” 

He hums in affirmation.

“I can handle not seeing you on Wednesdays, I don’t mind seeing you at my place more often than at yours, but next time you want to ditch me for Abbot, make up a better excuse than rats.”

Robby lets out a laugh that’s basically just a punch of air. “Oh, I… Yeah. That was not an excuse. Those bad boys are actually down there.”

“What?” It comes out so much more indignant than you want to sound. “No they’re not.”

“Oh, I really do wish they weren’t,” he says, face scrunching up like he suddenly remembers the rats are in the emergency department, and he’s in charge of the emergency department, and this is a problem for tomorrow-Robby.

“Rats? Plural?”

“Plural.”

Immediately, your mind provides you with the mental image of rats in tiny hospital beds. You shake your head with a chuckle, “No wonder your wait times are insane.” Then, looking at him, you ask, “How does that work? Do they come in with wads of cash or do they have a tiny little insurance card? And why do I feel like rats probably have it better, like in general but definitely insurance wise, than we humans do?”

One corner of Robby’s mouth curls up, and he looks at you like he could kiss you. He doesn’t. He doesn’t answer either. Not that you expected him to. Instead, he says, “I didn’t see Jack just for the rat problem. I also talked to him… about you.”

You can feel yourself straightening up. That explains why the good doctor’s eyebrows nearly flew off. The rush of vindication nearly makes you sing, “Ohhhhh-ho-ho, now this I have to hear.” 

Robby closes his eyes, lips pursing slightly with a small shake of his head.

“C’mon, I had to spill,” you tug him against your side, “now you have to spill.”

“I think I spilled plenty.” He leans in, mouth at your ear, “Can you still feel it?”

You groan, your poor cunt clenching around nothing. Yes, you can still feel it. “You never play fair.”

“You like it,” he says.

“I can recognize that my wants and needs in a blindly horny state are not always most beneficial to my well-being once said horny state subsides.”

He snorts. “If it ever does. I think it’s chronic.”

“Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor Robinavitch?”

“‘fraid so. There’s nothing we can feasibly do except for managing the symptoms to make you more comfortable.”

You give him a playful shove, before pressing yourself back against his arm, “You like that I like it. In fact, you like it so much that you didn’t even have the patience to get out of here before–”

“I like you,” he cuts in quietly.

Oh, what the fuck. Case in point, he does not play fair.

Robby trails out a little ahead from where you’re frozen in place, until your arms are stretched out as far as they can go without letting go of each other. The streetlamp just behind him perfectly accentuates the silhouette of his profile as his head tips down: his little quiff, the point of his nose, the scruff around his lips. He retraces his steps until he can face you.

“Told him that I have feelings for someone, but that I was… scared of it. Scared of fucking it up, because that’s what I always do, and that made me actually fuck it up, and I couldn’t stand seeing how I made you feel, but I couldn’t–”

“Robby, stop.” You shake your head, letting go of him to try and find your bearings. “You think I’m not scared?”

“It’s easy for you. You are,” he lets out a bitter laugh, “so much better at this than I am.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you deadpan. Guess he missed the point spectacularly in the stairwell earlier. How someone, someone who is a doctor, can be so smart and so dumb at the same time, you don’t know. “I almost didn’t show up tonight because I was sure you were about to break things off with me because of how you’ve been acting.”

Robby’s head tilts, his jaw ticking as he looks at you with soft, guilty eyes. “Really?”

It takes everything in you to stay focused, because he looks at you as if you’ve wounded him, like you’ve just kicked him while he’s down. 

“It isn’t easy for me,” you redirect the conversation. “None of this ever is, but… when you find something that’s worth it, you try, and… this thing with you makes me want to try.” Satisfied, you nod firmly at your own words, then add, “You like me, I like you, I think we should be together. Like, officially. But if you don’t, you should tell me now.”

The thin line his lips had formed wobbles, before a smile that’s big enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle in that way you love spreads out across his face. “Look at you, giving me a big speech.”

You deflate with disbelief at how smug he looks. This fucking guy. “Wasn’t that big.”

“You are sooooo better at this than me,” he says, cupping your cheeks with both hands to bring your faces together. The kiss he presses to your lips is soft, so fucking tender that it makes your toes curl in your shoes. “I want to be together,” he says, staying close enough that you can feel his lips brush over yours when he says it. With a teasing lilt that mimics your voice, he adds, “Like, officially.”

“Don’t mock me right now or I’ll break up with you,” you threaten, half-heartedly poking him in the chest, unable to keep the sheer happiness that rockets through your body from creeping into your stern expression.

Robby’s eyes narrow, like he’s considering something. Then he says, “Should we ditch the cinema–?”

You scoff, quickly changing gears, “No.”

“–take a hot shower, order some food–” He kisses you.

“I am never ditching the cinema.”

Another kiss. “–let me eat your pussy until you come at least twice.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “But I think I can make an exception just this once.”

Robby throws his head back and barks out a laugh, “See? Chronic.”

You have to twist your face to the side to keep yourself from laughing, too. Your cheeks already hurt too much from the stupid, happy grin that’s been plastered on your face intermittently throughout this rollercoaster of an evening. Turning your nose up to the sky and closing your eyes like you’re dismissing him, you push past him. 

With a little jog, he catches up to you, slinging an arm around your neck, and using it as leverage to press a kiss to your temple. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know someone very capable of managing your symptoms.”

“Pretty sure he’s my enabler,” you grin, reaching for his hand where it hangs off your shoulder. “Hey, so what’s the big plan you and Abbot came up with to solve the rat problem?”

“Exterminator, once they find the time,” Robby sighs. “Until then, Whitaker, one of the medical students on rotation. He caught a couple of them,” he snickers, “Santos calls him the Pied Piper of Pittsburgh.”

You snort, listening as Robby talks more, about his co-workers, about the curious cases that were wheeled into the emergency department today, and you let him lead you into the opposite direction of the cinema and towards his apartment instead. 

In a quieter alley, you pass one of the street-level apartments, music bleeding from one of the windows and into the street. There’s soft, twinkling sounds, cresting drums and piano parts, an electric guitar that cuts in, 

…and I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might…

Your mouth curves into a smile at the song.

Yeah.

Fitting.

– – – – –

Thanks for reading! Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with! Also, if you have any song suggestions for my Dr. Robby playlist, send them over, I’d love to add them!

[watchtowerlibrary]

hello! your blog is so nice and your fics are so well done! ♥️

cam i request something like: jesse and dina are done and reader has liked him for a long time and they are good friends, she ends up confessing and he says that he is still feeling a little confused over is fresh break up (even tho dina and ellie are already getting it going), so he says like "i am sorry i don't think i'm in the right mindset for a relationship yet" so reader apologizes and leaves, gets some distance between them so that she can heal, but jesse starts noticing her more then he used to: how pretty she is, how kind and all this stuff. he ends up taking to her and says that he is willing to give it a chance and reader goes "after my heartbreak? you will have to work for it" so he tries to charm her again with silly romatic things like flowers gifts a granola bar before her patrol 😭 ending is up to you! i hope you like the prompt and if not you are totally free to ignore it!!!

the distance between us | jesse x reader

author's note : hiii ! please enjoy !! i'm trying to make it through all my requests !! love you all bunches ! drink water and eat well ! <33

summary : after jesse’s breakup with dina, you finally confess your long-hidden feelings—only for him to gently turn you down, unsure of what he wants. but after time apart, he realizes you’re everything he’s been looking for, and slowly, sweetly, he wins your heart back.

word count : 3.4k

it had been a month since jesse and dina broke up. a quiet kind of breakup—no yelling, no slamming doors, no dramatic declarations in the middle of the mess hall. just the kind of ending that felt overdue, like a fire burning low until it finally gave up and flickered out.

you'd been there through it all. the friend he leaned on, the one who sat beside him on the porch of his cabin when he didn’t want to go home, the one who handed him a mug of tea he barely drank. you never asked questions, never pressed. you listened when he talked, and when he didn’t, you filled the silence with anything else. small things. jokes. observations. anything to keep him from sinking too deep into himself.

you’d liked him for a long time—longer than you’d ever admit out loud. maybe since the first time he fixed your patrol pack for you with a sheepish grin and a dumb joke about you being hopeless with straps. maybe before that, when he laughed with his whole chest at something ellie said and it made your heart trip. but jesse had always been with dina, and you respected that. even when it hurt. even when you wished otherwise.

but now he wasn’t. and that hope—the one you’d buried deep, the one you tried to smother every time he smiled at you or brushed his shoulder against yours—started to breathe again.

you didn’t plan to confess. god, no. you weren’t stupid. he was healing. confused. but one night, sitting together on that same porch, shoulder to shoulder in the late spring chill, it just spilled out.

“i like you,” you said quietly, eyes fixed on the dark line of the treetops in the distance. “i’ve liked you for a long time.”

he didn’t speak at first. you felt him tense beside you, just slightly. his hands were resting between his knees, fingers tangled. he looked down at them, and then at you.

“i…” he let out a slow breath. “fuck. i didn’t know. i mean—i didn’t realize.”

you nodded, already regretting it. already wishing you could take it back, shove the words down your throat and pretend like nothing had ever changed. “it’s okay. i just—I thought you should know. you don’t have to say anything.”

he turned toward you more fully, his brows drawn together with that careful, earnest expression he wore when he was trying not to hurt someone. “i don’t want to lead you on,” he said softly. “i think you’re amazing. i do. but i’m still… i’m not sure what i’m feeling. it’s only been a few weeks. i don’t think i’m in the right mindset for anything serious right now.”

you nodded again, harder this time, blinking quickly. “no, i get it. i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have said anything.”

“hey,” he said, reaching out, but you were already standing. already pulling away.

“don’t,” you said gently, forcing a smile. “i need to go. i just… need a little space, okay?”

and you gave it to yourself. you stopped joining him for morning patrol meetups. you avoided the mess hall when you knew he’d be there. you took longer shifts, signed up for watch duty, cleaned weapons in the corner of the armory while pretending not to hear ellie laughing with dina on the other side of the room.

you didn’t hate him. you could never hate him. but being near him made your chest hurt. so you carved out space where you could breathe again.

jesse noticed, of course. at first, he thought you were busy. then he figured you were avoiding him. then, after a week, he felt it—really felt the ache of your absence. he’d gotten used to your presence without realizing it. the way you always made some dumb joke when he was tired. the way you nudged your knee against his under the table. the way you knew when to speak and when to let silence settle between you.

and now you were gone.

jesse saw you again one morning outside the stables. you were saddling up before patrol, fingers working briskly at the leather straps of your horse’s gear. you looked tired but focused, your expression serious in a way he didn’t remember seeing before. and something about it—something about the way your brows furrowed, the way the morning sun hit your cheekbones—made his stomach twist.

you’d always been beautiful. he knew that. kind, too. patient. funny in a quiet, dry sort of way. but now he was seeing it all differently. or maybe just finally seeing it at all.

you didn’t look up when he passed. didn’t say his name. didn’t meet his eyes. and it stung more than he expected.

“hey,” he called softly.

you glanced at him, gave a small nod, and went back to your task. polite. distant.

it unsettled him. all day, through his own patrol, he kept thinking about you. the way your laugh used to catch him off guard. the soft sound of your voice when you asked him how he was. the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

he remembered the confession. remembered the heartbreak in your voice when he told you no. and he hated that he’d been the one to cause it.

dina was already with ellie now. he didn’t blame her—they’d always had something unresolved, something magnetic. and truthfully, he was glad. not because he didn’t care about dina anymore, but because it clarified things. made it easier to admit that the warmth he felt when you were around had never been just friendship.

he wanted to fix it. wanted to try.

so the next morning, he waited outside the stables. when you arrived, a little bleary-eyed, he straightened up and offered a sheepish smile.

you frowned slightly. “jesse.”

“hey,” he said. “uh. i got you something.”

he held out a granola bar. one of the good ones—the kind you always snagged when they were available in the mess.

you stared at it. then at him. “you’re giving me a granola bar.”

“not just any granola bar,” he said, lips twitching. “your favorite.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you bribing me now?”

“i wouldn’t call it a bribe. more like… an offering. like a peace treaty.”

you hesitated. then took it slowly, tucking it into your pack without a word.

he took that as a win.

after the granola bar, he started showing up more.

sometimes he’d leave things where he knew you’d find them—a single wildflower tucked into the straps of your bag, a sketch ellie had drawn of a moose with your name written underneath it (he bribed her with jerky for that one), or an extra water flask on hot days with a crooked little note: “don’t die of dehydration. i like you too much.”

you didn’t acknowledge most of it. you weren’t cold, just... guarded. polite, in the way someone is when trying to stitch themselves back together. and jesse didn’t blame you. not after what he’d said. not after the way he’d turned you down and let you walk away like it didn’t split your chest open.

he just hoped you’d let him fix it.

one evening, you were at the gates helping check incoming patrol teams. the sun was low, casting long gold streaks across the dirt path, and your face was flushed from hours in the heat. jesse walked up with two mugs of cold tea from the kitchen and held one out.

“truce?” he asked gently.

you eyed the mug, then him. “you already declared peace three days ago with a sunflower you found behind the greenhouse.”

“okay, so maybe this is more of a ceasefire. temporary terms.”

you sighed and took the mug. “you’re relentless.”

“you wound me,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “i’m trying to be romantic here.”

“with tea and wildflowers?”

“it’s post-apocalypse chic,” he said seriously. “very in style.”

you huffed a laugh despite yourself. and that was the first time he saw your smile again. not a forced one, not a soft grimace trying to play nice—but a real one. the kind he used to live for.

he stared a second too long. you noticed. your face sobered.

“jesse,” you said carefully. “what is this?”

he set the mug down on the guard’s post beside him and looked at you straight-on.

“i’m sorry,” he said. “for hurting you. i wasn’t ready when you told me how you felt. i was still trying to figure out if it was grief or guilt or something else. but it’s not. i know that now. i don’t want to miss my chance with you.”

you looked away. the breeze kicked up, brushing strands of hair across your cheek. you pushed them back and said quietly, “after my heartbreak?”

he said nothing.

you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. “you’ll have to work for it.”

his heart jumped. “i will,” he said without hesitation. “i’ll do whatever it takes.”

you tilted your head, thoughtful. “i like chocolate bars more than granola bars.”

“noted.”

“and i don’t forgive easily.”

“then i’ll keep asking.”

you nodded slowly and sipped your tea. “good.”

jesse committed to the bit.

he left you chocolate bars wrapped in hand-folded paper hearts. once, he scrawled a dumb pun on the wrapper—“you’re sweet. i’m nuts. we go together.” ellie heckled him for a full day.

he offered to sharpen your blades in the armory, even though you already had a routine. you let him do it once, and he ended up slicing his finger open. still, he grinned through it like an idiot.

he carved your name into a small piece of driftwood and left it on your windowsill. it wasn’t perfect—the letters were uneven and shallow—but it was sweet. something quiet. something careful.

he didn’t press you to talk. didn’t try to kiss you. didn’t demand a timeline. he just kept showing up. with patience. with warmth. with a sincerity you hadn’t seen from him before—not like this.

and the space between you started to shrink.

one morning, he walked you to patrol and you let him.

later, he offered to clean your rifle for you and you said okay.

by the end of the week, you were sitting next to him at dinner again. not touching. not laughing loudly like before. but near. closer than you had been since the night it all broke apart.

and jesse… jesse was in love.

he realized it in the dumbest moment—watching you braid your hair before patrol, your fingers moving with practiced ease, sunlight kissing your shoulders. something about how natural it looked. how quiet and strong you always were. how kind. how fucking brave. it made his chest ache.

he wanted to tell you. but not yet. he’d made you wait once—he wasn’t going to rush you again.

he waited.

jesse didn’t ask for a label or a timeline or a promise. he just stayed close. a quiet presence in your orbit. steady. patient. and somewhere in all that waiting, things shifted between you.

it happened slowly, like snow melting off rooftops in spring—soft and steady until you didn’t notice how different everything looked.

it was in the way you started looking for him in the mornings. how your boots would pause just slightly near the mess hall until you spotted him. how he’d always walk beside you, not ahead.

how you stopped flinching when he brushed your hand. how he started holding open doors again, and this time you didn’t roll your eyes—you smiled.

he caught you humming once while tying your boots, and it stayed in his head the rest of the day.

you gave him half your sandwich on a long patrol, even though it was the only one you had.

he patched your arm up after a sprain, fussing way too much, and you didn’t pull away. you just let him take care of you.

you didn’t talk about what was happening. didn’t name it. but you felt it, humming under your skin—something new, something better.

and jesse knew he was falling.

one night, you sat together by the firepit outside town. most people had gone in already, but you stayed, nursing a mug of tea and stretching your sore legs out toward the flames.

he passed you a blanket. you let him tuck it around your shoulders.

“you okay?” he asked after a while, his voice low.

you didn’t look at him right away. “i think so.”

“you’ve been quiet.”

“i’ve been thinking.”

he nodded. waited.

finally, you turned your face toward him. eyes soft, lit by firelight. “do you mean it? still? all of this?”

jesse leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said it without hesitation.

“yeah,” he said. “i mean it. i like you. i’ve liked you for a long time. and i know i was too blind to see it before, but i’m not anymore. i want this. with you. for real.”

you stared at him a moment longer. like you were weighing every piece of your heart.

then you said, “okay.”

and jesse didn’t breathe for a second.

“okay?” he repeated.

you gave him a soft, shy smile. “okay. but you’re still working for it.”

he grinned. “i wouldn’t want it any other way.”

after that night, things changed—but not all at once.

you still made him earn it.

he kept showing up. left coffee on your windowsill. sketched the ugliest drawing of a horse he’d ever made and labeled it “your steed.” when ellie saw it, she cried laughing.

you teased him more often. bumped his shoulder with yours on patrol. called him out when he got too cocky during target practice. he started calling you trouble, but always with a smile in his voice.

he asked you out on a real date one night. awkward and sweet, stumbling over the words. you blinked in surprise, then smirked.

“what do you think all this has been?” you asked.

he flushed. “well—i mean—i just wanted to be official.”

you pretended to think about it.

“fine,” you said at last. “jesse. i’ll go on a date with you.”

he laughed, relieved, and pulled you into a hug before he remembered himself. but you didn’t pull away. instead, your hands rested lightly on his back, like they’d always belonged there.

jesse wanted to kiss you then. god, he wanted to.

but he waited.

the kiss came later. soft. careful. on your front porch after a walk through town. it was tentative, your fingers curled in his jacket, his breath hitching when your lips brushed his.

you pulled back first. he looked dazed. like his entire life had just clicked into place.

“you’re smiling,” you said, voice low.

“i’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” he murmured.

“then do it again.”

he did.

you never said when exactly you became his. there wasn’t a moment where you grabbed his collar and declared it, or one where he asked you to be his and you said yes. it just happened. the way morning turns to afternoon—you only notice when the sun’s already moved.

but god, the mornings with him.

he’d find any excuse to be near you before patrol. he’d wait outside your house with two mugs, sometimes tea, sometimes shitty coffee, depending on the weather and whatever was left in the mess hall.

“good morning,” he’d always say, like it was a secret just for you.

you started waiting for him, too. brushing your hair faster, tucking your journal away early, not bothering to lace your boots until you saw his shadow outside.

you’d sit on the steps and drink quietly, shoulders touching.

“you sleep okay?” he’d ask.

“you snored again last night,” you’d tease, even though you hadn’t slept over.

“you dreamt about me again,” he’d shoot back, grinning.

and you’d roll your eyes. but your smile always gave you away.

he’d walk you to your post. sometimes he’d carry your rifle. sometimes you let him.

ellie called you two “gross” under her breath once during breakfast. dina elbowed her and said, “they’re just in love, shut up.”

you didn’t say anything. but jesse’s hand brushed your knee under the table and you didn’t move away.

jesse started leaving your porch light on. it wasn’t really a light—it was an old solar lantern someone rigged up above the door. he’d flick it on after late patrols, after he walked you home, after you kissed him goodnight at the gate.

you noticed it one evening after patrol. the sun had dipped low, your shoulders sore, and your hands still smelled like gun oil. you trudged up the steps—and there it was. the soft orange glow above your door. warm. waiting.

you smiled.

“you’re soft now,” ellie said when you told her.

you shrugged. “maybe.”

“he’s good to you,” she added. quieter.

you looked down. “he is.”

jesse noticed things.

how you liked your bread toasted a little too long. how you slept curled toward the wall when you were overwhelmed. how you always rubbed the pad of your thumb when you were nervous.

and you noticed things, too.

how he always stretched before patrol, like an old man. how he talked to the horses like they were people. how he never let anyone carry more weight than him, even if it made his knees sore.

you didn’t talk much about the past anymore. not his with dina. not yours, either.

there was too much of the present to hold.

the night it all clicked for him, it wasn’t dramatic.

there wasn’t thunder or a shootout or some grand declaration. just you, sitting on his couch in one of his old shirts, legs folded under you, a book resting on your knees.

you weren’t doing anything special. just turning the page, your brow furrowed in concentration.

and he looked at you like he’d never seen you before.

like everything in his life—every loud, messy, painful moment—had been leading here. to this. to you in his shirt, on his couch, in his life.

he sat down across from you and said your name.

you looked up. “hmm?”

“i love you,” he said, suddenly.

you blinked.

“what?” you whispered.

“i love you,” he said again. slower. clearer. “i think i’ve been trying not to say it because… because i didn’t think i deserved to. not after how long i made you wait. how badly i handled things before.”

you set your book down.

“jesse—”

“but i do,” he said. “i do love you. and i don’t want to waste any more time pretending like i don’t.”

you were quiet for a long beat. just watching him. breathing him in.

then, finally, you said, “you broke my heart once.”

“i know,” he murmured.

“you made me feel like i wasn’t enough.”

“you were always more than enough.”

your eyes burned. “it took me months to feel like myself again.”

he reached for your hand. didn’t pull—just offered. “and i’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel like that again.”

you stared at him.

then you let him take your hand.

and you whispered, “okay.”

it wasn’t flashy, the way you loved each other.

it was in how he pulled your gloves on for you when your hands were cold. how you always made him take the last bite of whatever you were eating, even if you were still hungry.

it was in the way he reached for your hand without thinking. how your clothes smelled like his now. how his pillow was always on your side of the bed because he liked the way you smelled, too.

he made you laugh. god, he made you laugh.

you called him dramatic. he said you were bossy. you called him predictable. he said you were impossible.

you’d fight over who got the last cookie like it was life or death, and then an hour later he’d be asleep in your lap.

ellie called you “sickening.” dina just smiled and said, “about damn time.”

jesse came back from patrol one day, covered in dirt and sweat and dried blood from a scuffle with infected, and found you in the garden behind your house.

you looked up at him, one hand shielding your eyes from the sun.

he walked right up and kissed you. didn’t even say hi.

you laughed into his mouth.

“what was that for?”

he just smiled. “you’re it for me.”

you flushed. “you already said that.”

“i’m saying it again.”

“jesse,” you whispered, “you’re it for me, too.”

[watchtowerlibrary]

The way I would be so scarred to ever talk to this guy again after being so vulnerable and instead being abandoned in such a fashion 🧐

The only thing he left with was a hefty bar tab after he slid his phone on the bar counter to you, asking for your number. That bell ring is still the most satisfying one you’ve done to date.

Okay, that's hilarious 🤣

“Best best man,” he replies with a wink and you can’t even stop the laugh that comes out of your mouth. His eyes gleam a little brighter. Jake straightens a little, looking almost awkward when he asks, “Are you bringing anyone?”

Someone is behaving very obvious 😏 "The girl I'm into just laughed at my joke."

That’s when you realize– “Are you blushing?” He immediately scoffs, still hiding behind his drink. The ice clinks against the glass as he jerks it up higher. “I don’t blush.”  “Aw, Jake, you don’t have to be so shy about it.” The tips of his ears turn a deeper shade of red as he rolls his eyes at you. “I’m not shy. I just… wasn’t expecting that from you.”

Alarm the press: Jake has been replaced by a doppelgänger who's less of an egomaniac. 🚨

You cannot have him leave you when it feels this good. “I’m fine. I’m clean, are you?” “Yeah, there’s been no one else.”

I'm sorry, beg your pardon? 🫠

Flight Risk

Two years should have been enough for you to move on from a heartbreaking situationship. However, Jake's return to North Island proves that time doesn't necessarily heal all wounds.

▸ PAIRING: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, unprotected sex (she's on the pill), lots of dirty talk, sexual banter, some angst, basically maverick!jake, jealous & possessive!jake (personal fave) ▸ WORD COUNT: 15.1K ▸ A/N: longest work yet and this jake made me frustrated and happy. this is basically if mav and penny started off as fwbs. planning a lot of jake pov scenes from this one because i want to write him as an emotional mess! for now, pls enjoy :)

—

Quiet mornings at The Hard Deck are your favorites. With all the rowdy patrons gone, you’re left in the peace of the bar. It’s just you, the sticky floors, and the sound of waves lapping up against the shore. 

It’s been a few years since you took over for Penny. Her retirement with Maverick is well-deserved. The woman has the patience of a saint for dealing with military chaos for years before they chose to settle down somewhere quieter, somewhere less… government. Now, this is your life. Nothing you should be complaining about.

You like the hands-on work, you like being able to meet new people while also having regulars. The manual labor is almost gratifying. The motions of the day are muscle memory at this point. Restock any necessary bottles behind the bar, ensure you still have sufficient supply in the back, wipe down counters, and do your best to remove the residues from the previous night off the worn wooden floors. The number of people who come this way has increased over the last few months, something about training more and more graduates for air combat. Always preparing for a war that hopefully never comes. 

Some faces are more familiar than others, ones that come much too often. Out of all of them, your mind tends to wander to a certain blonde, and your heart pinches at the thought. Even after years of absence, he never fails to remind you of the things you’ve lost.

You shake his face away from your head. Today is not the day. You haven’t thought about him in a couple of months. There are things here on the island that remind you of him, spots you can never scrub free of traces of him, no matter how many memories you try to put in their place. 

Jake “Hangman” Seresin was a blessing and a curse. Once upon a time, you might’ve even considered him your best friend. The first time you met, he pulled all of his best lines to charm the pants off you. The only thing he left with was a hefty bar tab after he slid his phone on the bar counter to you, asking for your number. That bell ring is still the most satisfying one you’ve done to date. 

He ended up on North Island often, pulled in for special detachments and training. Eventually, he even started training his own batch of recruits. With the amount of confidence and sweet-talking he brought to you, it was no surprise that you ended up in his bed at some point. Well, him in yours mostly because your place had a lot more privacy compared to the apartments he shared with Bradley. 

And that one time turned into two and then three. After a while, you lost count of how many times you’ve come apart in his hands. It wasn’t only his witty remarks or playful banter that won you over. It was the quiet nights you shared when he told you about growing up in Texas, when you told him about what it was like growing up with both your parents in the military, when you both shared your secret fears and desires in the darkness of your room. 

Jake was all hard edges and sharp lines. He was a shameless flirt and an incorrigible asshole. But he was also a devoted son who visited his parents states away every time he had a weekend off, a good friend who apologized for missing a night with you when he had to comfort Javy after a breakup, a man who squeezed your hand through your nightmares and held you close. 

He was a man who was hard to miss in both senses of the phrase. Handsome. Smart. Loud. Loyal. 

Falling for him was inevitable. Even now, as you’re trying to distract yourself with chores for the day, the pain from that night still lingers. Your whispered confession, the flare of panic in his eyes. 

“I love you.” The words come out easily. They are ones that have been trapped in your chest for the longest time, restricting your heart from beating as freely as it should. You’ve known it for a while, choosing to bury them deeper and deeper until the feelings pile up again to the surface. With nowhere else to go, the only way to release it is to say it out loud. But saying it out loud makes it real and that terrifies you more than anything.

You and Jake are no secret to regulars. No official labels, but when he’s on the island, you’re his. Completely. It isn’t as if you’re sleeping around with anyone else, even when he’s gone. He’s rarely gone long enough for you to crave touch from someone else – not that you do. Jake has replaced the memory of every man before him, and spoiled you for every man after. 

The silence speaks volumes. You don’t dare look up, instead opting to withdraw from him in favor of slipping on your shirt. Another barrier between the two of you. A belated protective shield for you. 

When you finally chance a glance his way, there’s a storm of emotions clouding his eyes. You can recognize the ones you anticipate: disappointment, resentment, pity. He doesn’t move where he sits on your bed, still naked beneath your sheets. Your name comes out of his mouth like a scold. Your face crumples into a wince. 

After the first few times, you both agreed that this is meant to be clean. A no-relationship relationship. Just sex whenever he’s in town. It’s a win-win for him who’s constantly on the road and for you who can’t imagine yourself managing anything else beyond the bar. 

But who were you kidding? You never stood a chance with Jake Seresin. Nights with him aren’t just hours spent tangled in each other, chasing the sort of pleasure that only comes from familiar, experienced hands. They are midnight conversations and tender touches. They are your laughs encouraged by his kisses.  

“I know” is all you can muster. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Jake doesn’t. He can’t possibly give you a response that would remedy this situation. This relationship. 

“Look, forget about it. It was a mistake.” 

“You made it complicated, sweetheart. I told you I don’t do complicated.”

“I get it,” you snap back, a little harsher than you intended. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… it came out.” 

Jake licks his lips as his hand reaches up to run through his messy hair. Minutes ago, it was your fingers that rumpled through his blonde hair. It feels like a lifetime away now. His frustration is more palpable now. He grits his teeth when he coldly says, “Why did you have to go on and ruin a good thing?”

It’s like driving a stake through a gaping wound. “I fucked up, I’ll admit. But you don’t need to be an asshole about it. There are probably worse things in life than to have someone tell you they love you.”

A hoarse laugh escapes him. “Really? You think so? Because right now, it doesn’t feel like there is.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” 

“Well, I’m not the one that decided to fall in love with a fucking asshole.”

On some level, you’re probably aware that he doesn’t mean to be this cruel, throwing your feelings back in your face. It’s the heightened emotions and the exhaustion from a long day. However, you’re also the one who got rejected. The least he could do is be decent about it, be gentler. 

“Love isn’t a goddamn decision, prick.”

“Name-calling, darlin’? Not your best attack.” Your humiliation and sorrow are replaced by fury. As someone you once considered a close friend, mocking you in this very moment feels like a bullet straight through you.

You swallow thickly, looking away. Any more from him and you may break down in tears, and the last thing you want to give him is your vulnerability. Clearly, he doesn’t deserve it. Nor did he ever want it. 

“I should go.”

Looking at the darkness outside, you feel your heart soften. You’re pissed, but you’re not a complete monster. You won’t resort to being one like he did. “You should stay the night, it’s late. You can leave in the morning. Take the couch.”

A grunt. “You know that’s no longer a good idea. I’ll be fine.” He shrugs on his clothes quickly. The ticking clock on your wall feels like a bomb that’s about to explode. Only, you feel as if you’re already standing in the aftermath of it all. 

You walk him out quietly, standing a foot away when he opens the front door. The evening breeze chills your hallway and you immediately rub the goosebumps rising on your arms. Jake looks up at you one more time, those three so-easily identifiable feelings still etched onto the lines of his face. 

“I don’t think we should do this again.”

The final nail in the coffin. All you can do is nod in agreement. It hurts. Of course, it fucking hurts. But there’s nothing else you can do – he held up his end of the bargain and you let it fall apart in your hands. 

“Be safe,” you say in response. It feels like the only appropriate one. 

Jake nods and closes the door behind him. With the roar of his bike, he disappears into the night.

Two years. It’s been two years since that fateful night. Jake hasn’t been back since. It’s not just your bar that he avoids, it’s the entire base altogether. While you see some of his friends on occasion, his face is nowhere to be seen in the crowd. There are murmurs on where he’s located, even if people try to whisper it far away from you. But Jake isn’t one to stay under the radar for too long, his exploits are thoroughly discussed by many who pass through your bar. Last you heard, he is deployed in the Middle East somewhere on a long-term operation. 

Part of you is grateful that you don’t have to deal with the awkwardness of being half an ex; it stings even more when you think you’re not even really an ex. However, after months of constant texting and late FaceTime calls even when he’s gone, his absence is noticeable. The ghost of him is apparent in the echo of his laugh by the pool table, the shadow of his broad frame when he leans over your bar and shoots you a wink. 

But it’s been two years and you’ve moved on. Somewhat. You’ve seen other people since then – not only sleeping with them but actually going on dates in what hopefully would turn into something more. 

No such luck. 

The effort is exhausting and you find working at the bar much more rewarding. It’s small talk that is meaningful to you, building new relationships with soon-to-be regulars rather than vetting an unknown man to be your potential boyfriend. At this point, you can almost say for certain that there is not a lot of potential in the crowd you meet. 

After two years, the ground beneath your feet is steadier. You hold nothing against Jake. You knew what you signed up for with him and it was neither your fault nor his that you ended up losing someone close to you. You’re thankful that you were able to tell him your feelings before he disappeared; it’s comforting to you that at least he knows, wherever he is, that he has someone who cares about him. 

With that said, you also have no interest in reliving one of the worst moments of your life. Your embarrassment lives in the deepest corners of your mind. You’ve thought a lot about what you would do if Jake ever came back. 

You would play it cool. You would be friendly. Cordial. But you also have no interest in a fresh start. You and Jake are going to be complete strangers with a lot of mutual friends.

It’ll be fine. It will work. 

At least, that is what you tell yourself when you sense that familiar presence. You hate how attuned you still are to him. The sound of his footsteps, the laugh that the wind carries in, and even the way he opens the door. A slight creak that sounds almost thunderous in the sparse bar. 

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. You continue wiping down your glasses and chatting with Irene, who probably spends too much time here. However, her company in the present is much appreciated. Your back faces the door and you have an excuse to keep your eyes fixated on the woman in front of you, rather than the blonde who’s getting closer and closer. 

Andy – the second bartender you’ve hired since business picked up – is manning the side of the bar closer to the door. He can handle him. Irene’s voice blurs into the background and suddenly your heart is rushing in your ears and the only voice that slices through is Jake Seresin saying your name. 

Fuck.

Two years. Two long years without him and you still can’t get yourself together when it comes to him. 

Andy taps you on the shoulder, tells you someone is asking for you. You wish Irene weren’t so kind, wish that she would tell Andy to take care of the man himself. Instead, she leaves you to your misery with a comforting smile. 

Taking a deep breath, you urge your heart to slow. It’s just Jake. You were friends once. You can be friendly. 

You turn around. 

Nothing could have prepared you to see how much Jake has changed. He’s still undeniably and objectively handsome, those sharp features and bright eyes could appeal to any man and woman in the vicinity. However, the five o’clock shadow along his jaw and the healthy tan on his skin give him that rougher edge that his boyish self never had. He’s older, grown.

Even so, there’s a softness to his eyes that’s new. His gaze has always been hard when he dials up his flirting game. This tenderness – it feels like the work of a woman. 

Could it be? Someone has finally tamed the young and wild Jake Seresin? The thought hurls you with bitterness and annoyance. It’s been a few years. It’s entirely possible that in that time, he’s met someone who changed his mind about love. 

Your mouth dries at the thought and you internally curse your body for reacting this way. Be happy, be nice. You inhale a shaky breath as you make your way towards him, a small smile forced onto your face. 

“Jake Seresin.” Saying his name feels like a prayer and a curse.

He tips his head and then offers you that blinding grin. One that you’ve grown so used to receiving and have missed immensely. “How are you doing, darlin’?”

“Same old.” Your lips quirk up. “What are you doing back on this side of the planet?”

Jake leans over the bar, his large frame coming up too close to your personal space. The temptation to draw the invisible line that he cannot cross is there, but that would be a little too immature, even for you. His arms fold on top of the counter. “Looking for the prettiest girl on the planet.”

“Hm? Any luck?”

“Yeah, think I got it right on the first try.” 

Your heart does a backflip in your chest. Fucking Jake Seresin and his snake charming tendencies. It’s almost painful how easily the two of you fall back into old routines – the banter, the flirting. You neutralize your expression to ensure nothing gives away how difficult this is for you. You’re not giving him the satisfaction of showing him how affected you are by him. Still, even after two goddamn years.

“What do you want, Hangman?”

“Iced tea.” Your eyebrows jump at that. 

“Have I entered the twilight zone in which you don’t get drunk off your ass the moment you walk into this bar?”

That was a mistake, because you’re then rewarded by that full-bellied laugh. The one you grew fond of. Your heart does its thing again. 

“As much as I would love to clean out your stockpile of IPAs – you probably have a surplus at this point, I do have to head to base after this.” 

You take your chance to pull a fresh glass and prepare his drink, your back once again facing him. You run through the list of safe questions in your head. Don’t ask him how long he plans to be here, you’ll sound interested. Don’t ask him what he’s doing here, you’ll sound like you care too much.

You’ve learned the hard way that he hates that. 

Instead, you settle for a simple “got it.” 

Calm, cool, collected. That’s your motto for however long Jake has his fucking feet on this blasted island. 

You turn back around and slide the glass over to him as he hops onto a stool. He tilts it back and takes long gulps, like a parched man in the desert. He cleans out the drink and immediately asks for a refill. You oblige and hand it back to him. 

“How’ve you been?”

There are so many ways you can answer this question. Three C’s. Remember the three C’s. “Good, it’s been busy here. A lot of new faces but some familiar ones. Think Coyote was here a couple of weeks ago so you just missed him.”

“Yeah, he told me. The man’s getting married soon.”

Of course, he still talks to Javy. Why wouldn’t he? Unlike the two of you, they’re actually friends.

You mentally chide yourself for being so petty. On the outside, you nod. “Winter wedding. Good thing he’s doing it in Mexico City. That’ll be a fun trip.” 

“You’re going then?”

“Yeah, winter is actually pretty slow for the bar so think Andy has it covered.”

Jake nods slowly. You observe his thinking face, another question on the tip of his tongue that he decides not to ask. The serious expression disappears as he flashes you another smile. “I’ll catch you then for sure.”

“Best man?”

“Best best man,” he replies with a wink and you can’t even stop the laugh that comes out of your mouth. His eyes gleam a little brighter. Jake straightens a little, looking almost awkward when he asks, “Are you bringing anyone?”

The implicit questions are there. Are you seeing anyone? Are you dating anyone serious enough to bring to a wedding? A wedding where your ex-situationship is the best man?

You think of the limited number of ways you could avoid answering this question. “Thought it was a small wedding, didn’t think I would get a plus one.”

“Javy would definitely let you bring one if you wanted.”

“That would be nice of him.”

“So are you?”

Stupid Jake and his stupid ability to push. You could lie, but that means you would have to find someone by that time to actually bring to this destination wedding. That feels a little much, even if it’s to teach Jake a lesson. 

“Nope,” you shrug and your curiosity wins out, “are you?”

He seems to think about it for a bit, worrying his bottom lip. “No, not right now at least.”

Not right now. It definitely hurts more than it should. 

Jake quickly adds, “I’m not seeing anyone. I just – you know, things can change between now and December.” 

“Right, yeah, of course.” 

When you look at him again, he seems to be contemplating something. The thinking face is back on. “I’ll be here for at least a month,” he starts. You have a bad feeling about where this is going, but you already know your answer. Your resolution stands firm. Thankfully, he keeps it in safe territory. “Teaching a new batch of recruits with Bradshaw, actually.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him around in a bit so that’ll be nice.”

If you say nice one more time, you may actually choke on how nice you’re trying to be. 

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “It’s kind of crazy. To think they would trust me to teach other pilots.”

“Is it that crazy?” His eyes flare with surprise. “I mean, you and Bradley are probably the best aviators. You trained under Mav. Plus, you can be a tough teacher, but your confidence is something that gives other people confidence.” 

Jake lifts his glass to his lips again, saying nothing.

That’s when you realize– “Are you blushing?”

He immediately scoffs, still hiding behind his drink. The ice clinks against the glass as he jerks it up higher. “I don’t blush.” 

“Aw, Jake, you don’t have to be so shy about it.”

The tips of his ears turn a deeper shade of red as he rolls his eyes at you. “I’m not shy. I just… wasn’t expecting that from you.”

“Expecting what?” 

“I don’t know, a compliment?”

“Am I really that mean that you don’t think I could compliment you?”

“It’s not that,” he huffs, curling his fingers together around his cup as he stares down into it. “The way we left things off, I didn’t think–” he pauses, “–I wasn’t sure how you would feel about me being here again.”

Oh. You shift a little where you’re standing. “I’m an adult, Jake. I can take care of myself so you don’t have to worry. My feelings are not your responsibility. It’s also been two years, I’ve moved on. It’s fine.” 

His eyes flicker with something unknown. “I never apologized for—”

“You really don’t have to,” you interrupt, a coarse laugh slipping past your lips. “You definitely do not have to apologize.” 

“No, I do. At least for how I responded. I was a dick. The situation at the time wasn’t ideal, but you deserve better than how I reacted.” 

Your smile softens. “Well, thank you. The apology was unnecessary but appreciated.” 

Jake returns your expression. “I’ll be around. I have to head to base, just wanted to stop by and say hi.” He drops a few bills on the counter. Before he turns, he looks at you again. Those blue eyes that still spark something inside of you. “It’s good seeing you.”

“You too, Seresin.” 

With that, he’s gone and you’ve just survived your first interaction with Jake Seresin. 

–

Jake wasn’t kidding when he said he would be “around.” Without fail, every night, he is back at the bar with the trainees. They are a boisterous crowd, reminding you of the Dagger Squad years back, before you even took over for Penny. Most of them are always by the darts or pool table, bickering about who’s the better player, which apparently translates to who’s the better pilot. There are a few that Bradley drags over to the piano, belting out classic rock songs that he and Mav used to bond over. 

Even as a cocky pain in the ass, Jake has always been good at building connections. The peals of laughter following whatever story Jake tells reverberate across the bar, catching your attention and momentarily distracting you from whatever customer you were serving. 

It’s kind of heart-warming to see Jake with the next generation of fighter pilots. You’ve seen him grow into his skin. From being a thoughtless asshole to a confident, skillful team player, Jake Seresin has created a reputation of his own. Maverick’s name will live on at Top Gun forever, but Jake won’t be too far behind. 

Some nights, Jake would saunter over to the bar himself to grab the next round. He could’ve easily sent off one of his students with his credit card, but you have a sneaking suspicion that he likes showing off in front of you and them. 

“Next round’s on me, darlin’.” 

Before your heart can skyrocket traitorously, you snatch his card and ring him up for two rounds of beers for the entire crew. He doesn’t blink at the doubled amount, signing his check with a wink before whistling them over to grab their drinks. When one of them fails to thank you for the service, Jake will slap them on the back of their head and scold, “Manners.” 

Still polite as ever. 

“How’s your day going?” Jake asks as he slides onto a stool, taking a slow sip of his beer.

God, you know those eyes. That is a look that is all too familiar. That come-hither that has led you to the back room, his bed, a wall, and whatever remotely accessible surface he can press you against.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you really think I wouldn’t know that look on your face after seeing it for years?”

Jake smiles with feigned innocence. “I was actually hoping you would remember.” His eyes drag lazily from your face, down your neck, to your curves, before flying back up. His pupils are blown wide as he wets his lips. You resist the shudder that creeps up on you.  

Shaking your head, you hide your smile as you back up towards the bell. 

Jake’s expression falters fast as he looks down at his hand, where his phone is. “My phone didn’t even touch the counter,” he argues.

“That look you’re giving me is pretty disrespectful, Seresin,” you smirk as you ring it loud enough for the entire place to hear. His phone clattering to the bar should’ve earned him a second ring but you decide to show mercy.  

The room erupts into cheers, people – including his recruits – stopping by to give him a firm pat on the back. Comfort or gratitude, or maybe both. “Rookie mistake,” you pick up his phone and toss it his way. 

Even with a tab that’s slowly mounting, Jake doesn’t lose the smile on his face. “Anything to get you more business, sweetheart.” 

Shaking your head, you click your tongue. “I hope your credit limit has improved since the last time this happened.” Paying for the entire bar and getting thrown overboard was a memorable experience for him. 

“Trust me, sweetheart, I came prepared this time.” 

When the night comes to an end and you pull up Jake’s tab, all he can do is offer a sheepish look. 

“I’ll get you the remainder tomorrow?”

Even if the bar is closing soon, you max out his credit card on the majority of the tab but still have his recruits toss him out onto the beach. When you look at him splayed out, covered in sand, he still has a dopey smile on his face. “Take an economics class and learn about inflation before you come back tomorrow, Seresin.” 

Jake’s magnetism knows no bounds. It’s difficult not to be drawn and trapped into his orbit. Between his chiseled face and toned body (only half of which is visible, mind you), he also has the added appeal of that southern spell. The slight drawl to his syllables and the invisible cowboy hat. And this is all before he starts recounting stories of his adventures in the Navy with an added, “It’s all confidential, of course.” 

Once, you were on the receiving end of all of that. Back when he still needed to talk you into going home with him. Now, you can see the full force of his charisma when even some of your regular girls – ones you know are not the type to fall at the feet of the first hot man to walk in – fall at his feet. 

Even with all the attention on him, you find that his eyes always come back to you. 

There is something incredibly flattering about the way his stare peruses you lazily, the slow stroll of his eyes up your body until your gazes lock. He doesn’t turn away, nor does he even blink. He isn’t awkward about the fact that he has been caught looking. Instead, he flashes you that blinding grin again, the one where his lips stretch wide to reveal his perfect set of pearly whites. 

In another world, Jake probably could’ve been a model, like the ones on the cover of Vogue, with an equally attractive female companion. In this one, he’s a purely cocky and insufferable government asshole.  

You always break your gaze away first. Sometimes he stares at you so intensely with that look in his eyes. A second longer and you may be one of those people falling at his feet and you certainly cannot have that happening.

Again.

When you close up shop for the day, you find him waiting outside, leaning against your car. His arms are crossed over his chest, emphasizing how thick his biceps have gotten since you last saw him. You didn’t even think that was possible. A toothpick flips between his lips as he smiles at you. “Drive you home?”

“I can drive myself home, thanks.”

“Just want you to be safe, darlin’.” You narrow your eyes at him and he holds his hands up in defense, yet that stupid smile never leaves his face. “I’ll be good, scout’s honor.”

“Woe are your fellow men if you were ever a Boy Scout.”

“Don’t disrespect the organization. For your information, I was an Eagle Scout.” He puffs out his chest proudly. “And I did swear an oath to help other people at all times. Hence, here I am tonight. Looking to help.”

“And how will you get home after?”

Jake’s eyes twinkle with something mischievous that you immediately scowl at. He laughs, “I’ll get Bradshaw to come get me. He’s not too far.”

It’s been a long day and you can feel the exhaustion disintegrating deep into your bones. Rather than argue further, having a driver for the night doesn’t seem like the worst idea. You toss your keys over to him and watch as he swings open the passenger door for you. Once you’re settled in, he jogs over to the other side.

You forget how familiar he is with your car. He knows just the right wiggle to get the old thing to start purring, where all the knobs are, and even to avoid the cupholder on the driver’s side where you constantly spill your hot drink for the day. Before long, he is pulling out of the lot and starting the short drive to your place. You make a mental note that Jake still remembers where you live – admittedly, he has driven there many times before. Perhaps too many times. 

Jake always starts the conversation by asking how your day went. With anyone else, you keep it short with a “good” because they usually don’t actually care about your day, they want to get their beer. However, Jake actually does ask follow-up questions. Sometimes he asks you if you’re planning to change your beer selection for the season, or how work with Andy is going, or even if there’s anyone causing you any trouble.

“You let me know and I’ll handle it.”

You shake your head, a smirk tugging on the corners of your lips. “The only trouble in my bar is you, Seresin.”

“Me? Trouble? Never.”

“Isn’t it part of Scout’s honor to never lie?”

He laughs, head tipping back as he does so. “Don’t think they make us swear that oath. How do you think I got away with so much?”

“And again, I say, trouble.”

Jake turns to you for a brief moment, his eyes shrinking as his smile stretches wider. You raise your eyebrow at him in question. He lets out a deep sigh but the delight does not seem to leave his face. “It’s always you,” he murmurs quietly. 

You’re not sure if he intends for you to hear, but it might be best to ignore it. Your stomach is already fluttering uncomfortably, and you can feel your pulse racing, pressing against your skin. When your eyes fly over to his one-handed grip on the wheel, you can’t help yourself from studying the veins that run up his large hand. His other hand holds onto the gear shit, clutching tight. 

The breeze from the open window carries in the memories you’ve tried to bury deep. Long drives on summer evenings when you don’t feel like going home just yet. His hand on your thigh, large and imposing. Parking on the side of a deserted road where he pulls you onto his lap and has you ride him until you’re a whining mess. 

Fuck. 

You mentally bat the thoughts away. The last thing you need is to get turned on in Jake’s presence. You can already feel your thighs pressing involuntarily together and you just hope Jake doesn’t notice. 

Except, when you look up at him, his gaze is already trained on your legs where they are exposed underneath your shorts. It’s heated. There’s a weight to them that you can’t ignore. It only makes you shift even more. Your gaze shifts to his hands, his knuckles now white from how tightly he’s holding onto the wheel. Your eyes meet for a brief second and he follows the movement of your throat as you swallow the saliva that’s gathered on your tongue. 

Luckily, your house is already in sight. You pull your eyes away from him, clearing your throat to look at the road ahead instead. He slows to a stop in front and turns off the engine, leaving you both in the silence, accompanied only by the winds blowing from the shore. 

You pull yourself off the leather seat and get out of the car, hearing Jake do the same. Without giving him another glance, you walk up to your door. Your knees feel wobbly and you curse yourself for being so spineless. 

Two years without him and you were fine. 

Two years and your body still responds to him this way. 

As you unlock your front door, Jake calls out, “Not going to invite me in for a drink?” 

You stare at him from your front porch. He is again propped up against your car, arms crossed. Only this time, he isn’t smiling. He stares at you with that look. The one that reminds you of sex and regret. He looks like a man straight out of the movies. Good thing he never went into Hollywood. 

It’s all too tempting to say yes, tell yourself that one drink can’t hurt. 

But you always know where you end up with Jake.

“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome, Commander.”

Jake’s eyes shine with something dangerous. Desire. Want. He loves it when you call him that. He clenches his jaw. “You’re really going to leave me out here after addressing me like that?”

“Thanks for the ride, sweetheart.” You smile and disappear behind your door, breathing in deeply once you’re safe in the confines of your home.

If you were keeping score, you’d guess you’re at least a point ahead of him. 

–

It’s a gorgeous day. The kind that feels like a nice break before the chaos that will inevitably occur at the bar tonight. You enjoy quiet afternoons like these. The sun sits high in a cloudless sky, and seagulls soar lazily overhead, caws sounding in the distance. A light breeze drifts in from the ocean, salty and soft, just enough to cool the warmth that kisses your skin. 

You’re perched on one of the outdoor tables, your bar ledger in front of you as you’re scribbling down line after line of expenses. Each one makes you wince a little more. A bar is not the most profitable endeavor. While you enjoy the work, you know that you’ll never live a life of luxury running this place. It’s something you’ve come to terms with a long time ago. 

Releasing a deep sigh, you reach your arms up in a stretch. The bar is taking a toll on your savings and your back. Aging isn’t a kind process. 

While you mourn the numbers on your pages, you do have one good thing going for you.

Namely, the hooting and hollering happening down by the water. 

Touch football has become a tradition for the Navy, at least for those who had been part of the Dagger Squad. Maverick’s success lives on through this team bonding activity that the members now pass on to their trainees. It’s become a ritual for them to bring out a new team out here to get more comfortable with each other. You’ve seen a number of them throughout the years and each group is always more enthusiastic than the one before. 

You place your hand above your eyes, blocking out the sun so you can get a better look. Jake and Bradley aren’t difficult to spot. Two tall, muscular men running circles around their recruits. They seem to be enjoying the exercise much more than the people they’re supposed to train. The cheers and yells echo down to where you sit and you find your eyes following the silhouettes chasing after the footballs on the beach. Some of them fall over, rolling around in the wet sand, while others are tackled straight into the sea.

You can admit to yourself that you’re really only paying attention to one man. Since he’s been back, you’ve only seen him in uniform or in casual wear like denims and t-shirts. But it’s been a while since you’ve seen him shirtless. Even from this distance, you can see the shadowed lines of his sculpted six pack, his broad shoulders, and the curves of his structured arms. 

It’s no wonder Penny enjoyed sitting out here. She got a good look at Maverick while she did her accounting, you just inherited the habit from her. Your work is long forgotten now, pen useless in your hands as your eyes continued to follow his form traveling across the sand. 

Biting your lip, you replay all those times you’ve run your hands over that body, how much time you spent watching every muscle flex when he hovers above you. You could practically feel the whisper of his lips against your skin. 

Fuck, you really need to get laid. Soon. 

Not by him. Definitely not him. 

You’re about to bang your head against the table when Jake perks up and waves at you. There’s a shit-eating grin on his face and you can already see that wicked glint in his eyes hidden behind his shades. You force a smile and return the gesture before hunkering down on your work again. 

You curse your past self for thinking that manually keeping track of quantity and dollars would be a better idea than running the whole thing on a spreadsheet. Penny always liked the act of holding a pen and writing all of these digits down, said it made it more tangible. 

More like tangibly painful. As you wrap up the last of your receipts, you make a mental note that it’s time to join the modern world and dump this entire thing into a software that would make your life infinitely easier. 

Just as you’re about to stretch again, a figure steps up and obstructs your exposure to the sweltering sun. The brief reprieve from the afternoon rays is one you welcome, but not when you realize it’s Jake who’s shown up. The sun traces a glow around his figure, an unwelcome ethereal effect that makes him look more than human.

He shifts away and slides into the bench opposite you. A smug smile is still dancing on his lips as his chest and shoulders heave with heavy breaths. “Care to join?”

Your eyes fly to the crowd that’s still running around like headless chickens and back to him. “Absolutely not. Who do you think I am?”

Jake’s eyes begin to dangerously explore you. From your hair pulled away from your neck in a loose bun, strands messily swirling in the wind, to the shape of your smooth, exposed shoulders carrying the thin straps of your tank. His gaze trails down to your chest, where your cleavage peeks out from beneath the flimsy fabric that lifts and falls with the wind. You can’t deny that this top makes your tits look great, and no, of course you didn’t wear this just because you knew Jake was coming to the beach today. 

You definitely did not. 

That would be ridiculous. 

You tell yourself that that’s the truth, and it helps you sleep at night. 

Jake looks at you again, but his gaze has darkened. “Wouldn’t mind seeing you running around in a bathing suit,” he smirks. “Or if you prefer to run around wearing nothing at all, I don’t think I would mind, but let’s keep that for the bedroom.”

Scowling, you fling your pen his way and he easily catches it. Stupid Jake and his stupid military reflexes. “The only thing running around here is your imagination. Keep it in your pants, Seresin,” you snap. 

“That’s not what you said before.”

“Years ago,” you bite back, “I’ve outgrown you, Hangman. You and all your bravado. We all know why they call you that.” 

Jake laughs and you can’t help but drink in his sun-kissed skin. He looks golden. “You know full well I’ve outgrown that definition of my call sign. Now, Hangman just means something else – something you’re intimately familiar with.”

It takes you a second to divert your attention away from his radiant skin. When the realization of his words dawns on you, you involuntarily gag at his comment.

He opens his mouth and you cut him off before he could say a word, “If you even think about dropping a ‘that’s what she said’, I’ll personally ban you from the bar and charge you for every single drink from here on out.”

Jake doesn’t falter. He grins even wider, “Never took you for financial fraud, that’s kind of sexy.” 

You sniff, turning away from him and back to your papers. “Orange isn’t really my color so, again, keep it in your pants.”

“Every color is your color, darlin’. We can both agree on that.”

That’s the first compliment he’s given you in a while. You feel your cheeks warm but you blame it on the blistering afternoon sun. Perhaps it’s time to take your work back indoors. Before you do though, you snipe back, “Well, red isn’t really yours so put on more sunscreen.” You gather up your documents and move towards the entrance.

Of course, you don’t miss the last wink he throws at you and the blatant ogling of your ass as you walk away.

Okay, so maybe his staring can be a little flattering.

–

Ever since Jake came back, you’ve been a little more than sexually frustrated. When you close your eyes at night, the image of him shirtless above you appears. From the way his blonde hair falls over his eyes, mussed up from a workout, to the way his blue eyes glitter deviously. Your imagination – worse yet, your memory – carries you through the whole scene of Jake’s fingers in your hair, his grip around your thigh, his cock—

Fuck, you barely last more than ten minutes most days.

You end up frustrated with your hands between your legs, pleasured but not completely satiated. 

Jake Seresin is a blight you need to purge from your life. 

It certainly doesn’t help that he shows his face night after night, flashing that smile at you from across the room. You have to remind yourself that you’ve done that more than enough times, you can’t do it again. 

Instead, you focus your energy, including your insatiable libido that keeps growing, on your patrons. It’s not the best idea, especially when you start accepting and returning the flirty remarks you receive from men you usually wouldn’t glance twice at – not because they weren’t attractive (because they were), but because you simply had no interest in a full romantic commitment with any of them. 

Being a bartender means you’ve endured a good amount of flattery, some more appropriate than others. You’ve never responded to them. You just take their money and you run with it. If they ever get too disrespectful – well, you know the drill. 

Not tonight, though. You’re enjoying the attention you were getting, and the sources of said attention noticed that. When they flirt, you flirt back. You relish in the fact that you still have a little game left in you. It’s supposed to be fun, light. It helps ease some of the sexual tension that has you all wound up. 

The bar is particularly busy so you have some regulars who are surprised by how welcoming you are and newcomers who are more than happy to oblige. 

This behavior does not go unnoticed by Jake. His eyes are always on you after all. 

When you’re bending over particularly low over the counter or giggling more over silly pickup lines, you could feel his gaze burning into you. You don’t acknowledge him. Instead, you flick your hair over your shoulder and smile at whoever you’re talking to. 

The tip jar gets some much-needed love that night. 

When you do look over at him, his eyes are still stuck on you. He barely pays any mind to whoever’s trying to speak to him. There’s a strange, sick satisfaction in the way his knuckles pale when he grips the cue by the pool table, the way he grits his teeth with a stiff jaw. 

You add another point to your scoreboard. 

With his eyes on you, maybe you do exaggerate your game a little bit. You sashay your hips a little more when you grab a beer. You brush your fingers against theirs. Even Andy shoots curious looks your way, but thinks better than to question it. There is a ninety percent chance that you’ll regret leading on these people tomorrow, but that’s a problem for future you.

Current you enjoys the suggestive looks these men are throwing your way. 

Andy calls your name from the other side and tells you that you’re out of coffee liqueur behind the bar. “I’ll get it, keep these fellas company for me, will you?” You give them one last wink, receiving some excited howls, before heading towards the back. 

The stock room is dimly lit by the sun setting outside. The light has been broken for a while and you make your tenth mental note to get that fixed. One day, you’ll get around to it. 

When you hear the stock room door close behind you, you don’t need to turn around to know that Jake is standing there. His cologne and familiar footsteps reach you before his question does. “Having fun?” His voice slices through the muted rumbles of the outside. 

There’s a heaviness to his question that sends a shiver up your spine. Rather than turn around and look at him, you purposely take your time scanning through the boxes to find the bottle you’re seeking. You bend over low to grip the neck of one before slowly rolling up, pretending to inspect it. 

“What ever do you mean?”

Jake steps into your line of sight. His height towers over you, and you back yourself up against the supply. He leans over, palm pressed against the box near your head. He’s so close that you could smell the mix of beer and mint in his breath. You can feel yourself clench tight between your legs. He presses his tongue against his teeth. “I don’t like to share.”

Irritation pricks at your skin. You glare at him. “Newsflash: I am not yours, Hangman.”

“If you want me to take care of your little problem, you are.”

Your lips part in surprise. Frowning, you snap, “What are you talking about?”

A sour laugh bubbles up his throat. The sound isn’t comforting. It feels almost like a warning. “You think I haven’t noticed you sending me those fuck me eyes. How you press your legs together when you look at me.”

As if on cue, you instinctively press your thighs together. God, there’s always something about Jake when he’s more demanding than usual. The dark shadow across his eyes as he takes you in hungrily. 

You lick your lips, his eyes dropping to them before darting back up. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you simply say. 

“I know you better than you know yourself, sweetheart. You know this. So what is it that you want? Do you want me to take you here in the backroom? Because I could, it wouldn’t be the first time–” you gasped and he continues, “I could bend you over that bar outside, show those guys who you belong to. Who gets you this wet.” 

Air refuses to leave your lungs, but you manage to spit out, “I’m not fucking wet.”

Jake laughs, “You’re telling me that if I stick my hand up your dress right now, you’re not wet? I can smell you from here.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, you’d like that.” 

Your heart stutters in your chest. You refuse to back down but so does he. All your emotions feel heightened in that tiny room. The anger, the wanton need. It feels as if you’re about to combust. You can hear your blood rushing in your ears. 

Taking in a faltering breath, you grit your teeth. “I have a bar to run.” You move to pass him with your trembling knees, but not before he catches your arm. 

He keeps his message short and simple. “Anyone touches you again, I’ll knock their teeth out.”

Your eyes narrow at him. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

“Maybe, but you’d look good on my cock again.”

Fuck. Your breath hitches, and the sound speaks volumes in the quiet room. The fucking audacity of this man. You yank your arm away from him and march to the door, swinging it open. 

“I mean it,” he calls out, “I’ll knock out anyone who even tries with you tonight.”

Jake is a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. He does not bluff. His confidence comes from a rightful place of pure experience and skill, both of which he has with you. Rather than risk a brawl, you decide to heed his warning. 

You no longer find excitement in how some of the men flirt with you, spending the rest of your night ducking away from their grasp and ignoring their teasing. The disappointment and confusion are clear, but all you can do is offer a sheepish look. They can blame the six-foot blonde keeping his eyes on you.

It’s not the fear of Jake starting a fight per se, but rather the way you revel in the way his gaze prowls over you. Constantly present, clear in your periphery. 

When you finally call it a night and shoo the last of your drunk visitors out, you lock up the bar and turn to find him standing there. There’s an air of ease around him, one that’s usually there, but it almost feels like there’s something more brewing. Something a little more sacriligeous. You tense when his eyes pull up from his phone to you. He quickly tucks his phone into his pocket and smiles at you.

“You always were a good listener.”

At that, you scowl. “That wasn’t for you. I just didn’t want to give them the wrong idea.”

His smirk only deepens. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He plucks the keys from your fingers and unlocks the car, swinging open the passenger door before you can protest. “Get in, darlin’. I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”

“That’s a first, you make it seem like it’s your full-time job,” you mutter but slip inside anyway.

He slides into the driver’s seat and turns on the engine. When he backs out of the parking lot, he stretches his arm across the back of your seat and looks over his shoulder, leaning closer towards you. You catch a good whiff of his scent again. 

Fuck him.

He knows exactly what that move does to you.

When he finally backs out, there’s a knowing smile dancing on his lips. 

There’s a thrum of anticipation in the car. Soft jazz croons from your crackly speakers and the wind whipping through your hair is barely a distraction. Jake is tapping his finger against the wheel in a consistent beat, his other hand on the seat between the two of you. His fingers are so close to your thigh, but they don’t touch. If you shift even a little bit, you could probably feel him on your skin. 

However, you would not give him that satisfaction. You know that he wants you to do precisely that. To admit that you are as affected by him as he says you are. 

That stupid smile is still on his lips. “Having fun?” You mocked, imitating his question from earlier.

His blue eyes sweep to you. “What ever do you mean?”

A glower mars your features. “You’re such a prick.”

“You fucking love it.”

“Ego the size of goddamn Jupiter, I’m surprised the president hasn’t kicked you off this planet yet.”

Jake chuckles. “Missed that mouth of yours.”

“Give you my fist instead,” you grumble under your breath. 

“Not my thing, darlin’. But if you want to try, you know I always aim to please.”

You balk. “Kinky motherfucker.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Jake parks in front of your house, switching the engine off and drenching the two of you in silence. 

The ride is short, but the stillness stretches for miles. 

A heavy hush coils in the car again, thick with something unspoken. Still, all you can hear is the steady rhythm of Jake’s finger on the wheel,  like a clock counting down to what you both know is inevitable. Your heart pounds loudly in your ears, masking all the white noise around you until all you can focus on is him. 

Then, his hand shifts. Just an inch. Just enough for the edge of his pinky to brush the hem of your skirt. 

You freeze, breath caught halfway in your lungs. Your body wants to lean into the touch, but you hold still. His pinky strokes the bare skin of your thigh – so faint, it could almost be accidental. But it’s not. 

You know it. He knows it. 

When you don’t pull away, his touch turns deliberate. His entire palm glides over your thigh, slow and steady. You could practically feel his pulse against your skin. The sight of his broad hand on your leg makes your stomach flip, and you swallow hard, trying to resist the whimper clawing its way up your throat. 

“Darlin’,” Jake starts, voice rough and low, tinted with a touch of desperation. 

You chance a look his way and catch the tension in his jaw, the heat behind his eyes. Your gaze falls to his lap, and you see the length of him pressing against his jeans, clear and thick even through the denim. 

The sharp ache between your legs is sudden, insistent. This time, the sound that leaves you is impossible to hold back. A soft whimper that fills the car with heat. 

Jake’s tongue swipes across his lips. The movement draws your eyes to them. 

This is a bad idea, you remind yourself. 

But that voice, one that is all too familiar to you, a voice that is soft, sly, and unmistakably yours, whispers back that this might just be the best one you'vel ever had. 

His name is barely out of your mouth before he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and capturing your lips in his. You melt like molten lava into the seat of your car. His hands are fast to slide up your hips to cup your cheek as he presses his lips more insistently against yours. He tastes like bitter beer, sweet mints, and excruciating heartbreak. 

But you relish in the flavors. A recognizable mix that belongs to you and only you. 

The clouds curl between your thoughts, a delicious haze that has you pliant in his hands. He’s kissing you so intently, a determination and hunger that feels like homecoming. Every moan you let out, he swallows like it’s his last breath. 

“Fuck, you taste so good. Missed you,” Jake mumbles against your lips, nipping lightly.

You can’t bring yourself to respond when he begins peppering wet kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His hand slides down to cup your breasts, his thumb dragging lightly over your sensitive nipple over the fabric. “Shit, Jake,” you groan.

“Let me take you inside, sweetheart. Wanna take care of you properly.” 

Jake doesn’t wait for your response and hops out of the car. He circles to open your door and practically drags you out, your feet stumbling to keep up with his long strides. He presses you up against your door, one hand on your waist and the other buried in your hair. He tilts your head and slants his lips over yours again, tongue slipping into your mouth to tangle with yours. 

His grip on you is firm, holding you up even when you feel your foothold go unsteady. You turn to unlock your door and he’s close behind and you can feel the thickness of his erection against your ass. 

The room spins when he finally closes the door behind him and leads you to your bedroom. He scoops you up and tosses you onto the bed before climbing on top of you. He’s shrugging off his shirt in between kisses, flinging it somewhere across the room. Jake kisses you like tomorrow won’t come, like this is the last time he will get to indulge in the taste of you. 

He drags his tongue down your neck and sucks lightly on the skin until you feel the bite of a mark. He loves leaving his traces on you, a territorial seal that tells everyone else that you’re his. You forgot how much you love it when he does that. 

Jake leans back slightly, thumb against the blooming stain on your skin. “Fuckin’ gorgeous. All mine.”

He crawls down between your legs and hikes up your dress to your waist. He curses under his breath about how short these things are, how he could see your ass so clearly. However, his words taper off when he sees his favorite lace panties. 

So sue you, maybe you were expecting something to happen tonight – if not with him, then someone else.

Oh, who were you kidding? There’s no one else. It’s always been him. 

His finger slides down the damp line on your underwear and you clamp your legs together, embarrassed by how wet you are. How wet you’ve been the entire tonight. His large hands splay out on your thighs and pry them open again until he can see and smell you. “Shit, honey, your fucking pussy is dripping for me, isn’t it?” 

The force of his gaze has you twitching underneath him. 

He positions himself on his front between your legs, his mouth huffing hot hair too close to your sensitive skin. You’re so responsive to him, almost too responsive. He knows every little thing that makes you tick, every touch that makes you all too aware of his presence. 

His lips rake kisses up your thighs, and he pauses when you squirm in his hold. 

“You’ve never been shy,” Jake murmurs as he looks at you more closely, hooking his finger on your panties and slowly pulling them down to carelessly toss them aside. 

“It’s been a few years, alright,” you grunt, throwing an arm over your eyes to avoid looking at him in your vulnerable state. 

“A few years–” he stops, “Have you not–not since we last…” He trails off, the question dying in his mouth. 

You roll your eyes, “Of course, I have. Just–I haven’t had anyone go down on me in a while.” 

“Oh, darlin’,” he says it not in pity, but in a way that has your cunt seizing. Like he himself has waited too long for this moment. 

The first touch of Jake’s mouth on your pussy has fireworks exploding behind your eyes. There is no hesitance in his movements, not in the languid way his tongue strokes up your folds, not in how his fingers dig into your legs as he pulls you down closer towards him. Your breath jerks in your lungs as he dips his tongue in and drags it up to your clit. His moans vibrate throughout your body until you’re arching off the bed. 

God, Jake knows exactly where to put pressure, where to tease you. Your fingers cannot compare to the way his mouth moves on you, slow and anchored. He takes his time appreciating your taste and how you whine needily with every caress. Your hands fly to his head as he buries his tongue deeper into your cunt, collecting your juices and spreading it across your skin as he plants more kisses on your thighs. His mouth hones in on your clit as one finger slides into you.

“Fuck,” he groans, “you’re so fucking tight, darlin’. Like a virgin.” 

Your pussy flutters around his fingers as he pushes another one in. It’s been months since your last good fuck. 

You tighten around him again when he says, “God knows I’ve been in this pussy enough times before. Can’t wait to fill you up with my cock. Want to stuff you with my come.” 

“Jake,” you cry out as your eyes slide shut. An expletive leaves your lips as he begins leisurely sliding his fingers in and out of you while he sucks on the sensitive nub. 

It’s been so long. You’re so close. You could practically feel your orgasm clamoring to free itself. It’s so close but Jake doesn’t let you enjoy it that easily. 

He pulls his fingers out and climbs up to slip your dress above your head, using the fabric to keep your hands together as he ducks his head to pull your nipple into his mouth. “No bra, darlin’? You’re trying to get me to kill a man out there.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“All that bending over, you probably had people peeking on these pretty tits, sweetheart,” Jake growls, tightening his hold on your wrists. “Is that what you wanted, hm? Tease strangers just to get me jealous?”

Maybe. You turn your face away in lieu of responding. 

“You don’t need me jealous. You already have me. I would’ve fucked you if you just asked.”

“Go fuck yourself, Seresin.”

He laughs, “Missed this mouth. The things you say. The things you could do.” He kisses you again, and this time, there’s the tart tang of you on his tongue. His soaked fingers push back inside you and he traps every moan that leaves your lips. “So fucking wet for me. Could’ve had you warming my cock at the bar. Show all those guys who you belong to. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The mewls that escape your mouth are answer enough. The thought of him taking you in front of everyone, sitting on his lap with his cock buried inside you, has you clenching around his fingers again.

“Don’t come yet, darlin’. I want you falling apart on my cock. I’ve waited too long for this.” He drags his fingers out along with another protest from your throat. 

Jake finally releases your hands as he moves on top of you again. It’s straight out of your fantasies. This same image has plagued your every thought. When you’re alone at home and all you have are your fingers and this memory of him. You had imagined him pleasuring you so many times before that this feels like a fever dream. 

But Jake reassures you that he’s there with another kiss to your lips. The feeling is jarring, a delicious dose of reality. 

“Don’t think I can wait any more,” Jake pants, as he shoves off his pants. You tuck away a mental note that he goes commando. That’s new. “I’ve been thinking about this pussy for so long, sweetheart.” 

“Yeah?” You smirk, confidence settling back. “How long?”

“Since I walked back into your bar that day and saw you again. All I could think about was kissing you stupid and bending you over the counter. Imagined how wet your pussy would be for me. Then again and again whenever I saw you at the bar, at the beach, driving you home. I’d stop the car and fuck you by the side of the road if you asked.” 

Shit, you bite your lip and stare up at him with hooded eyes. He seems to enjoy that because he drags his tongue across his teeth again. 

“But you’re no different, are you? I can still smell you in these sheets. Been touching yourself? Have you been thinking about me?” 

A scoff that sits on the tip of your tongue falls when he runs his hand through your hair. 

His gaze is loaded, pulling the truth from your lips rather than a poorly concocted lie. “Yes,” you confess, “been thinking about this right here. You on top of me.” 

“Shit, honey, I could’ve been here all along taking care of you.” Jake shakes his head. “I’m here now, going to make sure you feel real good. It’s been so long, I don’t know if I’ll even fit inside of you.”

Before you can tell him off for his cockiness, he’s pushing the tip in. Your breath catches in your throat. He’s big. You forgot how big he is. He pushes in slowly, sweat beading his forehead as his biceps flex as he tries to carefully ease into you. You know he’s doing his best not to hurt you, but all you want is to be full of him. 

You lift your hips up to meet him, legs curling around his torso. “Fuck, darlin’, don’t do that,” Jake groans. “I’m gonna come too fast.”

“Please, Jake,” you whimper. “Just wanna be full of you.”

Another pleased sound escapes him. He pushes all the way in until he can’t fit anymore of himself inside you. It’s mindblowing how big he is. It takes him a few more thrusts before he can bury himself completely inside of you, your pussy stretching to accomodate his length. 

“Fuck, condom,” he pales when he realizes. His cock twitches inside of you. 

Oh. Oh, he likes being inside you without it. 

“I’m on the pill,” you admit.

“But–”

You cannot have him leave you when it feels this good. “I’m fine. I’m clean, are you?”

“Yeah, there’s been no one else.”

Those words catch you off guard but Jake is too distracted with fucking into you slowly. Your brain shortcircuits when he bends your knee so he can fuck into you deeper and harder. Your groans blend into a symphony in the quiet of your room, bouncing off the walls and echoing to amplify your pleasure. 

Jake presses into you, slow at first, like he wants to feel every inch of you around every inch of him. His mouth is everywhere, finding your lips, then trailing hot kisses across your chest. “Fuck, you feel so goddamn good, darlin’. So tight.” 

His voice breaks slightly as he tries to restrain himself from fucking too hard, too fast. He wants this to last, wants this to be as good for you as it is for him. 

“You were made for me,” Jake breathlessly whispers. It isn’t a question. It’s a prayer he speaks into an honest truth. The kind that you say in confessionals, a secret that only one other person knows. 

Your hips meet him greedily, chasing the friction and the stretch. He rocks harder inside of you at an angle that has you curving off the bed, the tip of his cock kissing the deepest parts of you. Every wet, desperate sound between your thighs interweaves with the shared moans and whimpers that fall from both your lips. 

You claw at his back, your nails scratching your own territorial lines down his back, red against his tan skin. The sting yanks another deep groan from his throat. 

“Do that again, sweetheart. Mark me. I’m yours.”

So you do, harder. Your fingers delving into the muscles of his back. He rewards you by snapping his hips forward, plunging himself so deep into you that you gasp. Everything feels like lightning striking the earth. 

“You like that? Like me ruining this pussy? No one else can have you like I do. I’ll ruin you for everyone else.” He says it like a promise, a threat. All you can do is nod, biting his shoulder to keep yourself from screaming.

His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit again with a precision that reminds you how familiar he is with you. Everything that makes you crumble under his touch. 

It’s all too much. You can feel the blood climbing and rushing. His cock is dragging against your walls and his filthy, private thoughts sounding too loud in the cacophony of your moans. 

You feel it building fast. Your orgasm curls tight inside of you. 

“Come for me, darlin’. Make a mess on me. Let go.” 

You obediently listen. Your body trembles, your ass lifting off the mattress in your final chase, as he follows with an urgent groan, hips stuttering with him holding you close. The orgasm crashes over you in waves, dragging you under.

But Jake is quick to breathe more life into you, kissing you deeply as the last of his come paints your insides. You feel the warmth spill into you as he holds you tight, tattered breaths against your lips. 

Your chest heaves as you come down from your high. You’re a sticky mess. Your hair is a frazzled nest on top of your head, your skin feels clammy, and your pussy is dripping the evidence of his pleasure. But you’ve never felt more alive. 

Jake presses a kiss against the side of your head before he slowly pulls out with a groan. He rolls off your bed and wanders into the bathroom, coming back with a warm, damp cloth. You lie there as he litters kisses all over you, drawing a laugh from your lips, as he wipes you down carefully. 

“‘M gonna shower anyway,” you mumble.

“In case you were lazy,” Jake smirks.

You peel yourself off the bed and jump straight into the shower. The hot water cascades down your skin, stripping away the grime from your prior activities. Jake steps in behind you, his lips on the back of your shoulder as he scrubs you down with soap, massaging your tense shoulders and lingering around your breasts. 

His moves are purposeful. When his fingers slip between your legs again, you come apart a second time under his touch. 

By the time you tuck yourself into bed and Jake slides in to spoon you, your eyelids are heavy with a pleasant, sated sort of weariness, the kind you haven’t experienced in a while. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart” is the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under. 

–

Waking up the next morning is easy. You feel sore in all the right places, but you feel satisfied. A sort of peace that you didn’t even realize you were missing. 

However, the regret washes over you all too fast. An overwhelming tide that pulls the rug out from under you. The weight of his arm across your middle and his face nuzzling into your hair as his light snores fill the room are reminders of what transpired. It’s proof of what you’ve just done. 

The one thing you told yourself you would never do again. 

Not after last time. 

You mutter a silent “fuck” to yourself. Calm down. It’s just Jake. This is a one-time thing and it will never happen again. Never. He’s going to leave again and not come back for a while, just like he always does. He’ll disappear from your life just like he did last time. 

Only this time, you won’t be pouring your heart out to him. You won’t be professing your love for him like a blind, lovesick fool. No matter how much your heart demands it of you. 

When you look down at him again, you observe how his long lashes brush against his cheeks. You run your fingers delicately over the stubble on his jaw. God, he’s fucking beautiful. 

The ache that haunts you from two years ago returns in full force. Your heart leaps in your chest as you swallow the realization thickly.

You’re still in love with Jake Seresin.

Two years have done nothing to diminish your feelings. It’s as if you buried them six feet under, only to dig them up again when he comes around. It’s a cycle that erodes the hope within you. 

Jake will leave again and you’ll have your bar in this small town. You’ll continue your life as if he never came back. As if you’ll never see him again. 

Seeing his smile and hearing his laugh in the bar. The echo of his overjoyed calls across the sand. You have just gotten used to having him around again. Not as yours, but almost adjacent. It’s a gut-wrenching thought. One you don’t let yourself dwell on too much as you painstakingly extract yourself from him,

The loss of his warmth is immediate. Your feet touch your cool floors to bring you back to the real world. Reaching for your t-shirt, you tug it on and pad downstairs to start the coffee. He always needs a cup with sugar and a splash of milk before he heads in to the station. 

You go through the motions numbly. Grabbing the instant coffee from the top shelf, filling your kettle with water, and then waiting. Jake never sleeps in too late and the clock on your wall signals that he will likely be up in the next ten to fifteen minutes. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you watch the kettle boil. The slow whistling and the smoke seeping into the air distract your mind from spiraling over what happened last night. You don’t want to think about what’s next for you and him. 

In fact, there is no you and him. 

You have work to get to. Restocking, ordering more supplies, figuring out bills for the end of the month. Then you have to work on Penny’s boat, which means you have to take it out to the yard and–

“Morning.” His voice is a low rumble behind you. That gravelly, break-of-dawn voice you once started your mornings with but now feels like a distant stranger. 

Your eyes flick to the wall again. He’s up earlier than usual.

“Coffee’s almost ready,” you say, opting not to turn around. God knows your resolve will falter the moment you see him. 

Jake doesn’t let your decision last for long as he saunters up to you. A strong arm winds around your waist to pull you close. He tucks your face into his chest and his lips find your temple in a tender kiss. 

He never plays fair.

He disregards your weak attempt to untangle yourself from him. “Missed you in bed,” he mumbles. Luckily, you’re saved from having to respond when the kettle screeches to completion. He moves to prepare his own cup of coffee. The only problem is that he keeps his arm around you as he navigates through your kitchen with too much familiarity. He finds the mug he gifted you a while back on the shelf above the sink, the sugar in your spice rack by the stove, and pulls the milk you always have in the right side of your fridge.

The entire time, he keeps his hold firmly around you. He maneuvers you around the kitchen with him as he works with one free hand. 

“Are you heading to work early?” He asks as he stirs his coffee. “I could drop you off and pick up my bike.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll drop you off at the station, then head to the bar. You can get your bike later.” 

You notice that he’s already dressed in the clothes from yesterday. He’s leaving. You know this already but seeing your worst concerns materialize still hurt. It’s mortifying how you’re still so hurt by something you’re already anticipating. 

Your eyes are glued to the buttons on his shirt, focusing on the one hanging on to a loose stitch. 

“Sweetheart.” There’s that drawl again. You hum in response, your eyes still fixated on his shirt. “Are you going to look at me at all this morning?”

Your throat dries. “Don’t feel like seeing your ugly mug this early,” you mutter with no bite.

Jake laughs and the sound is clear, resonating straight to your core. His chest rises as he does so, stretching the fabric across it even more. “Better sooner than later.” 

There is a split second of silence before you feel his fingers on your chin, drawing your face up to look at him. He searches your eyes for a moment, lips tightening at whatever he sees there, then he dips his head and places a soft kiss on your lips. 

You sigh into his mouth, tucking yourself closer in his hold. Your mouths move leisurely, soft in the early hours of the morning. There is no hurry in his movements, no agitation, nothing like last night. It’s as if you have all the time in the world to drown in each other’s company, quenching the parchness from two years’ worth of distance. He swallows your little whines and presses his fingers deeper into your hips. 

When his phone beeps, it’s like a cold splash of reality. He curses quietly against your mouth, reluctantly drawing away to yank his phone out and look at it. A deep sigh escapes him. “I have to go, darlin’.”

Oh. 

It’s bound to happen. You know this. So you nod quietly. “Yeah, let me get dressed and drive you over.” 

“Rooster’s picking me up.”

Right. “Oh, okay.”

Of course, he wouldn’t want an awkward drive with you, not after last night. His training is probably coming to an end soon, and he’s going to be deployed elsewhere, far away from the island. 

You avoid his eyes as you busy yourself putting things away. You hear him sigh again before he comes creeping back up behind you, his arm slipping around your waist again. There’s the feel of his mouth against the back of your head. “I’ll catch you later at the bar, hm?”

Unlikely. “Yep.”

“We need to talk.”

No, we do not. You do not need to rehash this conversation again. You’re a grown woman and you know when it’s time to let go. This is one of those times. Instead of saying this, you say, “Okay.”

He pauses for a moment, waits for something that never comes. Another sigh. You feel his lips on top of your head before he draws away from you, leaving a chill in his absence. The front door opens and closes, and you hear the crunching of tires on gravel growing distant by the second.

You slump against your kitchen counter, releasing a deep breath. This is fine. You have a lot to do today, so what’s an early start to the day?

Somehow, you keep your mind mostly off that dread that’s sitting in the pit of your stomach. You tell Andy not to come in too early so you have more to do to keep your hands occupied. Your arms are throbbing by the time you finish the prep work, and the real grunt work of running the bar hasn’t even started. 

Right as you’re fixing up the final touches on the bar before you open, the door swings open and you’re about to tell whoever it is that you’re not open for another… 5 minutes. It’s been a long day. However, your words vanish when you see it’s Nat by the door.

She pulls her sunglasses up on top of her head as you round the bar to greet her. 

“Nat! It’s been too long!” You wrap your arms around her in a deep hug. She laughs and returns the embrace. “What are you doing here? Where have you been? Tell me everything.”

Nat left long before Jake did. It’s been years since you properly saw her. She is your favorite person from the crowd of Top Gun graduates so far. Fierce, fearless, and fucking fabulous. 

She grins, “Slow down, crazy. I am here for fun, I have been in a confidential location abroad that I will personally never return to. And yes, I’m doing great, how are you? How was sex with Hangman last night?”

“That’s great! And—” You freeze. “What? How do you—”

“I fucking knew it,” she hisses, laughing and clapping to herself. “I just knew when I saw him and his distracted ass that it was you again. It’s always you, isn’t it?”

You scowl. This reunion is no longer welcome at your bar, at least not with this topic of conversation. “No idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh, come on. I walk into base today and Hangman’s fumbling over a guide he’s been teaching for fucking years? His recruits are convinced that the legendary Hangman is losing it and finally ready to retire.” 

You ignore the pinch in your heart at the mention of him. “I don’t want to talk about him, I want to hear about you.”

Nat offers a sympathetic look and it makes you feel shittier. “Alright, fine. Let’s sit and chat if you have time. I know you’ll get your crowd soon.”

That gets your spirits up as you two settle down. “First of all, who comes here for fun?”

–

Nat decides to abandon you when you can barely get two words out to her before a customer is flagging you down at the bar. The evening rush picked up fast and you can only send her apologetic looks that she waves off. She drifts over to the pool table where the recruits she met earlier are hanging around. 

Surprisingly, you haven’t yet spotted Jake in the crowd. It’s bitter to realize that, but it also comes as a relief because you’re not ready for the “I have to go and leave you again and cannot commit to you” conversation. This would be the third time – fourth if you include the tragic rejected “I love you” two years ago. 

You would think a girl would learn her lesson. 

You’re grateful that the groups keep you busy. Plenty of familiar faces – some coming in from out of town for a new assignment or training, and others, like Nat, who are apparently here for “fun.” You’re still not entirely sure what that entails when there’s barely anything to do around here. 

By the time the last customers leave and you’re wiping down the last table clean, you’re exhausted down to your bones. It is the kind of exhaustion you needed so you wouldn’t wallow in your self-pitying, woe-is-me thoughts before sleeping tonight. You had even sent Andy home early, preferring to do the grunt work yourself. That man’s been having a great week with your misery.

When you hear the front door creak open, you automatically say, “Sorry, we’re closed.”

“Even for a regular like me?”

Your head whips up to see Jake standing there, weariness evident in the shadows under his eyes. “Oh, you’re here late. What are you doing here?”

“Told you we needed to talk.”

Crap. Your heart drops to your feet at the thought. You drop the dishrag on the counter and cross your arms. It’s a small thing, but you feel more protected. A fence that separates the two of you.  “Look, I don’t really want to have this conversation again. It’s fine. I’m an adult, I don’t need you to give me the talk every time you fuck me and leave. I get it.” 

He grits his teeth and sighs. “That’s not why I’m here. I mean, that’s not what I was going to say.”

You tilt your head in question.

“Can you just come over here so we can properly talk?”

Chatting with him from this distance when he’s about to “break up” with you again is safe. Chatting with him with zero space for you to break into an escape between you feels like another incoming regret.

“I’m good.”

He closes his eyes for a second, exasperation radiating off him in waves. “Please don’t be difficult tonight. I just want to talk.” 

Part of you wants to be difficult, just to show him how hard it is to be with him when all he does is push you away. But you see the desperation in his eyes and you cave. You cave so easily. 

You go around the counter, maintaining a good two feet of distance from him. He looks at you, pained again, but lets it slide. 

“I’ve been thinking about us.” 

Frowning, you look at him in confusion. 

Jake stops, seeming to mull over his words. “I’ve been thinking about what to say to you, but I don’t think anything I say could make up for all the time I’ve hurt you.” He swallows thickly. “This time—it’s not like last time. I’m not here to fuck around and leave.”

You take a deep breath. “Jake, you really don’t have to. Look, I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.”

He quickly interjects, “That’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t want you to take care of yourself. I want you to let me take care of you.” 

Uncertainty only sinks deeper into you. 

“I’ve left you behind so many times before, sweetheart. It’s been a fucking miserable two years, you know. I’ve been trying to avoid coming here because it feels like all my mistakes are rooted here—”

Tears prick the corner of your eyes. You’ve always known that he has regrets, but you never thought he’d look at you and see a mistake.

“That came out wrong,” he huffs, running his fingers through his wind-swept hair. “My mistakes are not you. You— you’re the best thing to happen to me. My mistake is that I let you go time and time again. When you told me you loved me two years ago, I ran. When I’m in the air, I feel fucking invincible. But that time, I couldn’t even say the words you wanted me to say back. I was scared shitless. I didn’t want to disappoint you. We had a good thing, I thought that it was the only way I could satisfy you. I couldn’t guarantee that you would be happy with me. So I ran. I ran from what could’ve been a great thing between us. 

“And being back here now, it just made me realize how much I miss all this, you. You’re all I ever wanted, and all I did was push you away because I was a coward. I want you to know that I want to try this time. I want to do right by you. I’m not leaving you again. I want to wake up every morning with you and go to sleep knowing you’re the last thing I see. I want to make you smile and laugh, but I also want to challenge you and tease you. Fucking highlight of my day when I get you all red and annoyed.” 

You roll your eyes at him but can’t help the smile on your lips. That elation that’s been concealed so far deep is climbing up your chest and curling around your heart.  

“When I came back here, I thought you would’ve… found someone else. Someone better. But there you were – same as always. Even after I hurt you all those years ago, you still smiled at me and welcomed me back. I want to say that you’ve always been my better half, but let’s be honest. You’ve always been a whole – you’ve taken up the entirety of my mind all this time.

“I wanted to wait until everything was settled before you know, we slept together again. I wanted to take you out to dinner and treat you right. Court you properly. Then you went ahead and showed me what I was missing, what I could lose when all those guys were flirting with you. God knows I’m a fucking asshole but I’m an asshole that loves you.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat. It was implied in his words, tucked hidden between the vowels and the consonants. But there’s something about hearing it for the first time. The words that you’ve been waiting for so long, words you didn’t think you would ever hear. Your heart is in your throat as he goes on.

“I confirmed my full-time position as an instructor at the station here. It’ll be mostly for special detachments, and I’ll be mostly here. I might be deployed from time to time, but this will be my home base.” 

“You’re saying–”

“I’m saying that I’m staying, darlin’. I’m staying for you.”

All the words you had planned to say remain caught on your tongue. Your mouth is opening and closing, but nothing you say could even begin to express how you feel. 

Jake smirks, “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to give me a kiss? Thank me for all the hard work I did?” 

Even in the most romantic moments, he proves to still be an insufferable piece of shit. But you laugh, roll your eyes, and come up to him. 

“I’ll give you a kiss and a kick to your ass for putting me through all this. God, you owe me a really nice, expensive dinner. I know a good place in the city for that. Actually, maybe a lot expensive dinners for the years you put me through hell.” 

“Whatever your heart desires, sweetheart.” 

“You said you love me?”

“That should come as no surprise to you. You’ve always been the smarter one.”

“Yeah, all that time in the air probably sucked all the oxygen out of your brain.”

He laughs, kissing you deeply. “God, fucking love that smart mouth of yours, even better when it’s wrapped around my–”

Let’s end it there and say that you lived happily ever after. 

Or at least, as happy as you could be with Jake and that unbearable mouth of his. 

The one you love most, of course, when it’s telling you he loves you.

[watchtowerlibrary]

Why do I have such a fetish for joaquin x ex!reader stories? 😅 Am I being weird for thinking that injury on his neck from brave new world had to leave some sensitive scarring behind? 🫠

Light On

summary: when you reach out to joaquin waving the white flag, you realize how broken he's been.

pairing: touch starved!joaquin torres x ex!f!reader

contents: exes to lovers, food and alcohol mention, angst, canon typical trauma/trauma responses, get back together fic, kissing

wc: 1,988

an: i combined my idea for touched starved!joaquin with this request about yearning. sorry it took so long anon and i hope you like it <3

danny ramirez characters masterlist

He’s late to the housewarming. Not by much, but enough that he has to squeeze through a half-shut gate and slip past a crowd already buzzing with drinks and music. His shoulders still feel tight from the last mission—three cities, too many close calls, and not enough sleep. He almost didn’t come.

But when he saw your name at the top of the invite sent only to him, group chat, no passive-aggressive message he could say no to you. 

It read simple and gave him a glimmer of hope:

I hope you can come. it’s not a trap. peace offering. 

He doesn’t deserve the invite or your kindness, not after how he’d withdrawn so abruptly 8 months ago. He thought ending things before he could truly disappoint you or worse— scare you with one of his missions was the right thing to do. But now he can’t convince himself that this invite isn’t some sort of chance to at least make things right. Better.

Inside, the lights are warm, soft, glowing off glasses and muted green walls. There’s someone laughing in the kitchen, someone singing too loud on the patio. He catches a glimpse of you through the open door—perched on the porch bench, the setting sun’s rays on your cheeks, telling a story with your hands. 

Joaquin’s heart stutters.

 Just the sight of you makes him feel like it’s been an eternity. He hadn’t forgotten how beautiful you are but clearly he had let the weight of it slip away to protect himself. 

You look up, like you feel him before you even see him. And when your eyes meet, something in his chest aches. That’s all it takes for everything he’s been trying to outrun to come flooding back. 

How safe and understood he felt when the two of you did nothing but lay under the clouds. How warm his heart got at the sound of your laughter. How easy it was until he got into his head about being right for you. 

You smile at him. 

It’s not the same smile as before, but it’s not cold either. Cautious and familiar, but no less warm. Because you’re happy to see Joaquin, but now in the face of him you’re afraid everything you’ve worked for will come crumbling down. 

“Hey,” you say softly, walking inside from the deck toward him with a drink in hand. Your voice is light but not performative as you try to play it cool. “Llegaste.”

He nods. “Yeah. I couldn’t—yeah.”

You don’t hesitate. You step right up to him and wrap up your arms around his middle. It’s causal, natural and despite your past, you don’t even think about the possible impacts. 

The simplicity of it all hits him like a wave.

He stiffens for just a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. Like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched gently, without purpose or urgency. Or violence. Then his arms come up slowly, almost uncertainly, and he lets himself hold you—just enough so that it’s not awkward. Not enough for everything he wants.

One of your hands slides up his back once, rubbing tenderly. It’s a tiny gesture but he swears he could cry.

“Estas bien?” you ask, pulling back just enough to look at him.

He nods again, softer this time. “Ahora sí.”

You try not to show that his words affect you, simply giving him the best smile you can before untangling yourself from him. Gesturing for him to follow you, you make your way into the kitchen fishing out a beer and handing it to him. “Here.”

He takes it, fingers brushing yours, and his grip tightens on the bottle like it’s an anchor. “Thanks.”

Later, after a few brief hellos and introductions, you sit beside each other on the porch. He’s barely touched his beer but neither of you have noticed. 

There’s easy conversation on your part, starting with how you found the house and decided it was the one you wanted. You tell him about the chaos in the kitchen earlier tonight, a spilled pitcher of sangria. About the neighbor who brought way too many folding chairs.

He barely says anything, he simply listens. Listens like he’s afraid he’ll miss something if he blinks, like he’ll wake up from a dream. 

He watches the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. The way your knee bounces when you’re excited. The way you don’t flinch being this close to him, how you lean closer. You aren’t afraid to touch him, a nudge of shoulders here, a brush of his knee there when you say something funny.

 It seems like it comes easy to you and god, has he  missed this.

“I miss this,” he says quietly, gaze fixed on the beer bottle in his hands. Then, after a breath: “I miss… you.”

There’s several beats of silence. He doesn’t have the heart to look up at you, to see the surprise on your face.

You look at him, cheeks warm, stomach twisting with anticipation. You hadn’t expected him to say something like that when he was the one that ended things the way he did. 

When you speak again your voice is quiet but firm. “Not here.”

Even then, you touch his knee—just a brush of your fingers—but it feels like a jolt. He follows you without thinking.

You lead him down the back steps, past string lights and potted herbs, to the edge of the backyard. There’s a small pond there, still and starting to glow under the emerging moon. 

You’re a ways away from everyone else. It feels like you're a world away, a veil falling between you and Joaquin and the world. Everything else is muffled, distorted. It’s just the two of you. 

You turn to face him, your eyes guarded. “I miss you too,” you say. “I never stopped wanting this. You were the one that…”

His chest tightens, but before he can reach for you, you add—gentle, but unwavering:

“But, I’m not doing that again. I’m not getting close just to watch you disappear when things get hard. If you want me—really want me—then you have to stay. You have to try.”

He swallows hard, the words sitting heavy between you.

You can see, nearly hear the gears turning in his head. There’s conflict, something soft and something so scared in his eyes as he lets your words sink in. You step forward then, and when your arms wrap around his shoulders, he goes completely still. There’s a breath he doesn’t take. A flicker of disbelief in his eyes. Like your touch might vanish if he moves too fast.

This time you notice.

“Què te pasa? Hmm, baby bird?” You ask tenderly and it breaks something open in him. 

Slowly, shakily, he lets go of the tension. He leans in—into you—and his arms finally wrap around your waist. His hold isn’t tight, but you can feel the starved urgency in his fingertips. 

His face presses into your shoulder, and the sound he makes is quiet, but wrecked. A broken exhale like it’s the first breath he’s taken in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I thought I was doing right by you. Letting you go. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You hold him tighter, and his grip flinches like he’s not used to being held back.

“I know,” you say softly, your hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders under your touch and your heart squeezes again. “I know, baby,” you assure him gently.

You brush your lips against his temple, and he tenses just slightly at the contact—like it overwhelms him. His breath hitches, grip tightening around your hips like he’s afraid to let go now that he’s here in your arms.

“Next time,” you murmur, fingers sliding further into his hair, “you just talk to me.”

He nods into you, arms wrapping so tight around you, holding on like this might all slip away.

You stay like that for a while. Wrapped up in each other, warm and quiet. Until the party noise fades into background hum and there’s only moonlight and the hush of the pond.

Eventually, you both sit in the grass, your shoulders brushing. He finally starts to talk to you, to tell you everything he’s endured. Why he pulled away and what plagues him now; months apart and they’re still the same thing.  

He talked about the missions. The pressure. The exhaustion.

About how he didn’t know the full effect of what it was doing to him until he stepped back into your orbit and felt seen again.

Your fingers drift over his hand as he speaks. When he falters, you gently trace one of the faint scars on his knuckles. He goes completely still at the contact—like even that touch is more kindness than he’s used to.

“You have to take better care of yourself,” you say with a half-smile, nudging him gently. “Or I’m calling Sam.”

That finally earns a real laugh—small, tired, but real.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” you tease. “I’d guilt him into dragging your ass back here for a proper nap and a shower.”

He nudges your knee with his, smiling. You both fall quiet; it’s comfortable.The pond glows beside them. The world slows down.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s on borrowed time.

He just feels… held. Seen and understood. Like he’s home, in a way that matters.

—

Later that night, after most of the guests have left and the house is dim and quiet, he helps you carry in the empty bottles and leftover snacks. The porch lights hum low behind them, and the kitchen smells faintly like lime and basil and whatever candle someone brought as a gift.

You’re both barefoot now, toes brushing the tile. He hands you the last bowl and leans against the counter like he doesn’t want to leave.

You sense it immediately, glancing over at him. “You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just… don’t want this to end.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. You step closer, fingers brushing his wrist, and this time he leans into the touch like he needs it to breathe.

“So don’t let it,” you murmur. “Don’t push me away again.”

He swallows. “Would it be too fast if I said I want to see you tomorrow?”

You smile deepens. “Are you asking me on a date, Lieutenant?”

Joaquin grins, soft and sheepish. He finally looks like himself. “Yeah, I am.”

“Well then,” you say, stepping in and tilting your chin up, “you better kiss me goodnight properly.”

You don’t give him time to overthink it. You press your lips to his—soft and warm, lingering just enough to make his breath catch. He kisses you back like he’s still afraid he’ll mess this up, but you thread your fingers through his and holds him close.

When you pull back, he exhales shakily.

You tap your fingers lightly against his chest. “Pick me up at seven. And wear something that says ‘I’ve stopped being emotionally unavailable.’”

He throws his head back with laughter, then groans like that’s going to be a real task. “That narrows my wardrobe down to, like, one shirt.”

Gripping his shirt playfully, you pull him a little closer. “Then wear it.”

Somewhere between getting home and putting his phone on the charger, Joaquin sees the text from Sam. Seems you had followed up on your threat to tell Sam about tonight. 

Sam: I heard you finally stopped being stupid.

Joaquin stares at it for a second before the typing bubble pops up again.

Sam:Bout damn time. You owe me twenty bucks. And a six-pack.

He shakes his head, smiling down at the screen. His reply is simple:

Worth it.

And when he turns off the light and sinks into bed, his heart is full.

let me know if you'd like to be on sfw joaquin torres taglist!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl, @blackwomanchronicles

[watchtowerlibrary]

Dude, Jesse, my guy, you don't talk the morning after? That mess could've been avoided if you'd just try some open communication.

Love Jesse for being the guy you can depend on, like a future father for the kid. Love a guy who just fixes things without having to ask 🥰

following this pregnancy era your blog seems to be having, can i request smth like reader and jesse having a one night stand and a few days later jesse goes back to dina, but them reader finds out she's pregnant and is terrified to tell jesse because of his relationship. ellie and maria finds out and convince her that she has to tell him but she is really scared to ruin things for him

one night, one secret | jesse x reader

author's note : tysm for requesting !! i'm making my way through all my requests rn.. getting through them slowly but surely !

summary : after a one-night stand with jesse, you find out you’re pregnant just days after he gets back together with dina, leaving you terrified to tell him and afraid of ruining his life. with ellie and maria’s help, you finally tell jesse, and through fear, heartbreak, and quiet moments, the two of you slowly build a future together with your daughter.

word count : 3.3k

the morning sun slipped through the thin curtains, painting the wooden walls of your bedroom in hazy gold. your throat felt dry. your limbs, heavy. you didn’t have to open your eyes to know he was still there.

jesse lay next to you, one arm thrown lazily across your stomach, his breath slow and even, warm against the crook of your neck. the smell of cedar and gunpowder clung to him—something about it grounded you and pulled you apart at the same time. you couldn’t believe you’d actually done it.

you’d slept with him.

jesse.

jesse, who everyone in jackson knew had once loved dina more than the stars above this broken world. jesse, who always smiled at you like he knew some joke you didn’t. jesse, who had touched you last night like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

you’d both come back late from patrol. the bar was closing up. one drink turned into three. there’d been laughter, stories, and the way his eyes lingered a little too long on your lips. when he offered to walk you home, your gut told you it wasn’t just a friendly thing.

you hadn’t stopped it. maybe you didn’t want to.

your sheets still held the warmth of his body, the scent of his skin, the quiet desperation in the way he whispered your name like it hurt to say it. but now, in the early light, all of that shimmered like a dream you weren't sure you should’ve had.

you didn’t expect anything after. you weren’t delusional. he hadn’t made promises. hadn’t said sweet nothings. but there had been softness in his eyes. and for one moment, you let yourself believe it might mean something.

until two days later, when you saw him holding dina’s hand again.

you hadn’t meant to see them. it was pure accident. you were helping maria at the community board, organizing the supply rotation lists, when jesse walked past. dina was with him, her head tilted toward his shoulder, her laugh echoing like it belonged there.

your breath caught. maria must’ve noticed because she paused her scribbling and looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly. you dropped the clipboard.

“you okay?” she asked.

“yeah,” you replied too fast. “just… clumsy.”

but your chest had hollowed out, your stomach turned to lead. you hadn’t talked to jesse since that night. he’d gone quiet. distant. and now you understood why.

he’d gone back to her.

you told yourself you didn’t have the right to feel this way. it was one night. he didn’t owe you anything. but you couldn’t stop the ache that clawed at your ribs like guilt or something worse. you curled inward, swallowing the heat rising in your throat.

and then the nausea started.

you thought it was stress. patrol shifts had been long. your body ached constantly, your head pounding most mornings. you didn’t think much of the way food suddenly smelled too strong, how the thought of jerky made you want to gag.

but when you were late—really late—you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

you didn’t say anything to anyone. you snuck into the infirmary when most people were asleep, hands trembling as you pulled open drawers until you found what you needed.

the test sat on the bathroom counter, the little window filling slowly. you refused to look. your legs had gone numb from sitting on the edge of the tub, your heart thudding so hard it felt like it might shake the walls.

when you finally dared to glance over, your entire body froze.

positive.

the world tilted. your breath came shallow. your chest tightened like it was being crushed under the weight of a thousand things you weren’t ready to face.

you were pregnant. and jesse was back with dina.

you didn’t tell anyone.

not at first.

you kept it inside like a dying thing, letting it eat you alive. you stopped going to the bar. you gave excuses to skip patrol. you spent most days in your room, lying still, hand over your stomach like if you pressed hard enough it might all go away.

you didn’t cry. not yet. you just went quiet.

but jackson noticed. dina came knocking once, asking if you were okay. you lied, of course. told her you had a cold. she didn’t push.

jesse didn’t come at all.

you figured he didn’t care.

“what’s going on with you?”

ellie caught you in the greenhouse. you were hunched over a set of dying tomato plants, trying not to throw up from the earthy smell. she leaned against the wooden frame of the door, arms crossed, expression tight.

“nothing,” you mumbled.

“don’t give me that.”

you didn’t answer.

she stepped closer, voice lowering. “you haven’t looked me in the eye in days. everyone thinks you’re sick. maria’s worried. even tommy asked where you’ve been.”

“i’m fine.”

“bullshit.”

you broke then. your eyes burned, and the words came out in a whisper so faint you weren’t sure she heard you.

“i’m pregnant.”

ellie blinked. “what?”

you stood up too fast. the nausea hit you again. you grabbed the edge of the workbench, knuckles white.

“i’m pregnant,” you repeated, voice shaking. “and it’s jesse’s.”

she didn’t say anything for a long time. just stared at you, jaw tightening.

“…does he know?”

you shook your head violently. “no. and he can’t. he’s with dina again. i’m not going to ruin that for him.”

ellie’s eyes darkened. “you didn’t get pregnant on your own.”

“i don’t want to hurt him.”

“he deserves to know.”

you turned your back to her, heart pounding in your throat. “please don’t tell anyone.”

maria showed up at your door the next day.

you didn’t invite her in. she stepped inside anyway, her eyes scanning your pale face, the tired slump of your shoulders.

“ellie told me,” she said simply.

your stomach dropped.

“i told her not to—”

“and she was right not to listen.”

you collapsed onto the couch, burying your face in your hands.

“i can’t tell him,” you whispered.

“why not?”

“he’s with dina. he looks happy. i’m not going to be the reason that falls apart.”

maria sat beside you, quieter than you expected. after a moment, she spoke.

“you’re not responsible for his choices. you didn’t trick him. you didn’t plan this. but you are responsible for yourself. for that baby. and whatever happens, he deserves to know.”

“he’ll hate me.”

maria gave you a sad smile. “or maybe he’ll surprise you.”

you didn’t sleep that night.

you laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, your hand resting lightly against your belly like that could protect something so small from the storm that was coming. every time you closed your eyes, your thoughts spun into worst-case scenarios. jesse yelling. jesse denying. dina finding out and hating you.

you didn’t want to hurt anyone. you just wanted to breathe again.

by morning, your mouth was dry and your legs felt like lead. but you got up. you pulled on your thickest jacket, your oldest boots, and left your house before the sun could warm the town. you passed a few early risers but didn’t look up. didn’t stop. every step toward the main hall made your chest ache.

jesse was scheduled for a supply run today. if you didn’t catch him now, it might be another week. and you couldn’t wait that long. your body wouldn’t let you. your heart wouldn’t survive it.

you found him near the stables, tying a sack to one of the horses. he looked like he always did—calm, collected, like nothing ever touched him too deep. he was smiling at one of the stablehands, his voice low and friendly. it made your throat burn.

you stopped a few feet away. froze.

jesse turned toward you like he felt you before he saw you. his eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t expected you—like maybe part of him thought you’d disappeared.

“hey,” he said, stepping forward. “you okay?”

you didn’t answer. just stood there, your lips pressed together, your fingers twisting in the hem of your sleeve.

“you... haven’t really been around lately.”

he sounded unsure. like he was trying to gauge if you were angry or hurt or something else entirely. your chest tightened.

“can we talk?” your voice came out small. “somewhere private?”

his brows knit together. he nodded slowly. “yeah. sure.”

you ended up in one of the old storage sheds behind the greenhouse. no one used them anymore—too much broken furniture, too many forgotten things. it was cold, but you welcomed it. at least it numbed your fingers.

jesse stood with his arms crossed, watching you carefully.

“you’re kind of scaring me,” he said softly.

you looked down at your boots. swallowed the lump in your throat.

“i’m pregnant.”

silence.

you didn’t look up. you couldn’t. you felt his body tense. heard his breath catch.

“what?”

your voice was barely a whisper. “it’s yours.”

his hands dropped to his sides. he took a half-step back, like he needed space to breathe.

“you’re… sure?”

you nodded.

more silence. it stretched and stretched until it felt like it might snap in half.

then, quietly—

“fuck.”

you finally looked at him.

he wasn’t angry. not exactly. just stunned. like the ground had shifted underneath him and he hadn’t quite found his balance yet. his mouth was slightly open, brows drawn together like the weight of it was sinking in all at once.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

you blinked, your throat tight.

“because you went back to dina. and you looked happy. i didn’t want to ruin that.”

jesse shook his head, stepping forward.

“you wouldn’t ruin anything.”

“i didn’t want to be some mistake you regretted. i didn’t want to mess things up.”

his eyes softened then, mouth parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“you’re not a mistake.”

he said it like he meant it. like it hurt to even think otherwise.

“i didn’t go back to dina,” he added after a beat.

you blinked.

“but i saw you two—”

“we’ve been talking,” he said, slowly. “trying to be friends. but it’s not like that. we’re not… together.”

your heart skipped.

“you didn’t come see me,” you murmured.

he looked guilty.

“i didn’t know if i should. i didn’t know what that night meant to you. i thought maybe you regretted it.”

you let out a quiet laugh, bitter and sharp.

“seems we’re both really good at avoiding shit.”

jesse stepped closer, his voice gentler now.

“what do you want?”

the question hit harder than anything else.

you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.

“i don’t know.”

he nodded. waited.

“i want… i want to feel like i’m not alone in this,” you finally said, voice cracking. “i don’t want you to stay just because you feel guilty. but i also… i don’t think i can do this by myself.”

jesse exhaled. stepped close enough that you could feel his warmth.

“you’re not by yourself. not anymore.”

and then he reached for your hand, and for the first time in weeks, your body didn’t flinch.

news traveled fast in jackson.

you didn’t mean for it to get out. but people noticed things. jesse walking with you to maria’s office. the way he lingered by your side during meal shifts. the way dina’s smile faltered every time she caught him looking at you like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

and then, ellie told her.

you didn’t ask her to. but part of you was glad she did. because you didn’t have it in you to say the words yourself.

dina showed up on your porch that night.

you didn’t know what to expect. maybe yelling. maybe a slap. maybe a list of every way you’d ruined her life.

instead, dina just stood there, eyes glassy, jaw tight.

“how far along?” she asked.

“seven weeks.”

she nodded. looked down at the porch like it had answers she couldn’t find.

“he’s gonna be a good dad,” she said after a moment. “he was always good at taking care of people.”

you didn’t know what to say. so you said nothing.

“i’m not mad at you,” dina added quietly. “i was… but i’m not. it’s complicated. always has been.”

and then she left, leaving behind nothing but the creak of wood and a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

jesse started showing up more.

he’d bring you hot tea after patrol. fix the squeaky hinge on your back door. leave little jars of peanut butter in your cabinet because you mentioned once that you missed it. he didn’t push, didn’t force himself into your space—but he was always nearby. always steady.

you’d lie in bed some nights, his jacket tucked under your pillow, wondering how it had all gone so wrong and right at the same time.

you still didn’t know what you were to him. not really. but the fear that used to wrap around your ribs like chains was loosening. slowly.

you let yourself start to hope.

just a little.

it started small.

jesse would sit on your porch after patrol, dirt still on his boots, arms crossed over his chest like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come closer. you’d bring him a blanket, sit beside him without saying much, and he’d glance at you like he was trying to memorize your face all over again.

you never talked about that night.

not the way you wanted to. not with all the feelings laid bare. but you didn’t need to—not yet. there was something heavier in the air now. something more important than regret or confusion.

there was a future growing inside you. one that kicked at night when you were half asleep and made you cry over stew that was a little too salty. one that reminded you—this wasn’t just about you or jesse anymore. this was about the tiny heartbeat that pulsed under your skin like a secret trying to get out.

jesse started coming by in the mornings. he’d bring you bread wrapped in a napkin or a peach from the greenhouse. he always smiled when you opened the door, like it surprised him that you kept letting him in.

and every time, your walls chipped a little more.

“you sleep okay?” he’d ask one morning, pouring water into the kettle like he’d done it a hundred times.

“not really,” you’d mumble. “i had a weird dream about a mushroom the size of a horse chasing me.”

jesse laughed, low and warm. “you’re gonna have to stop eating before bed.”

you smiled, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a lie.

ellie came by one afternoon with her guitar strapped across her back.

“i’m not good with babies,” she said without even sitting down. “but i figured i should learn.”

you blinked, startled.

“ellie—”

“maria told me you’ve been trying to do this whole thing on your own for too long. she’s right. so i’m here. whatever you need. diapers, supplies, terrible lullabies, you name it.”

your throat tightened. “thank you.”

she nodded, then pointed at your stomach. “i’m gonna teach that kid how to play the guitar. even if it takes fifteen years.”

you laughed. for real this time.

“deal.”

jesse took you to your first checkup in the clinic, and he didn’t let go of your hand once. even when your fingers were clammy. even when the nurse asked, “dad, you coming in too?”

you saw something shift in his eyes at that—dad—but he didn’t flinch. just nodded and followed you in, squeezing your hand gently like a promise.

the monitor beeped softly as they searched for the heartbeat.

and then—

there it was.

fast. strong. tiny. like a hummingbird’s wings fluttering beneath your ribs.

you stared at the screen, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. jesse leaned forward, watching with the quietest expression you’d ever seen on him—like he was witnessing something holy.

“that’s our kid,” he whispered, his voice rough.

and for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

ours.

you still had bad days.

days when you couldn’t get out of bed. days when the weight of what was coming pressed so hard on your chest it felt like you couldn’t breathe. days when you wondered if jesse would wake up one morning and change his mind.

but he never did.

he showed up every time. arms full of supplies. pockets full of dumb stories. hands steady when yours were shaking.

“we don’t have to have it all figured out,” he’d say, kneeling by your bedside, brushing hair away from your face. “we just have to keep showing up.”

and somehow, that was enough.

one night, near the end of your second trimester, jesse stayed after dinner. the house was quiet, dimly lit by lanterns. rain tapped gently against the roof.

you sat on the floor, legs stretched out in front of you, rubbing the small ache in your back. jesse sat behind you and, without a word, began to massage your shoulders. your eyes started fluttering shut.

he hesitated. “can i ask you something?”

you nodded.

he looked nervous.

“do you think… do you think there’s a chance this could be more than just co-parenting?”

your breath caught.

he wasn’t looking at you—just staring at his hands in his lap like he was afraid of the answer.

“i mean,” he continued, “i know i fucked up. i know the timing’s all wrong. but when i think about you, and the baby, and all the mornings we’ve been spending together… i don’t know. it feels right.”

you turned toward him, heart thudding.

“it does,” you whispered. “feel right.”

his eyes met yours, full of hope and something deeper. something you’d both been avoiding.

you leaned in first. he met you halfway.

the kiss was soft, unhurried. not desperate or messy like that night months ago. it was full of breath and quiet and everything you’d both been too scared to say until now.

when you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“i want this,” he said. “not just the baby. i want you.”

you closed your eyes.

“i want you too.”

when the baby finally came, it was snowing.

the labor was long, painful, terrifying—but jesse was there the whole time, holding your hand, whispering to you through every contraction, every scream, every hour of it.

and then—

you heard the cry.

tiny, sharp, so full of life it knocked the air from your lungs.

“it’s a girl,” the nurse said, gently wrapping the newborn in a blanket before placing her on your chest.

your arms trembled as you held her. her skin was soft and pink, her eyes squeezed shut, her cry loud and strong.

you looked up at jesse. he was crying. completely undone.

“she’s perfect,” he choked out.

you nodded, breathless.

“hi, g/n,” you whispered.

jesse kissed your forehead.

“thank you,” he said. “for not giving up. for letting me be here.”

you leaned into him, exhausted but full in a way you hadn’t known was possible.

“we’re gonna be okay,” you said.

and you meant it.

jackson wasn’t quiet. not ever. but in your little house, with your daughter asleep on your chest and jesse’s arms wrapped gently around you both, there was a calm that felt like peace.

the three of you—messy, scared, brave—somehow fit together.

and for the first time in your life, you weren’t afraid of the future.

you were already living it.

[watchtowerlibrary]

Why am I thinking of Andrew Cody trying to "define the relationship" with you when you introduce him as your friend to someone when they bump into you two in a public setting or something...

You two have been sleeping together for about 3 months, but you wonder...what does that mean in his mind?

He's never called you his girlfriend.

He’s not the kind to gush about feelings or offer clarity where there is none.

He’s protective.

Possessive in ways that don’t always make sense.

But he’s also closed off.

What you don't realize is that navigating abstract ideas like "relationship status" for Andrew is as challenging as deciphering a foreign language...

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you friend walks away, there’s a pause. Maybe he exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tapping against his glass. Then, finally: "Friend?"

He doesn’t say it like he’s upset.

More like he’s genuinely trying to parse it.

Andew has always been a man of few words, one who shows rather than tells. And the way he’s looking at you now—the weight of his stare, the slight furrow of his brow—maybe that says more than anything else ever could.

There’s an awkward pause, the kind where time feels oddly stretched, and you see his knuckles momentarily whiten around the rim of his glass. Then, almost as if he’s rehearsing in his mind before releasing the thought, he adds: "Just so you know. I don't fuck my friends."

Your heart flutters at the admission, and you inhale slowly.

"Good to know," you deliver with a nonchalant air as you hide your excitement behind his words.

"You're mine," he says simple. The statement is not loud or overbearing—just a gentle, almost vulnerable declaration.

"I am?" you whisper.

"Yes."

Andrew craves the clarity of commitment even while he fears that labeling what you share might box him in.

Or worse.

It might expose the tender and unpracticed parts of him.

He unexpectedly draws you closer to him in the bar booth.

His hand is tentative and meets yours as if silently asking a question. Leaning in, his voice lowers into a soft murmur.

A confession.

"I’m yours too?"

"There's no one else," you say. "Only want you."

His mind trembles under the weight of your words—he silently thinks, God, I'm so in love with you.

He tells you a week later.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I’m so deep in my feelings for Pope. Please tag me in any Pope content. Craving this man so badly 🥹

[watchtowerlibrary]

what's ur thoughts on drunk jesse?!

talk to me in the morning | jesse x reader

author's note : my husband looks TOO damn fine. holy moly guacamole. come back home to me, i can't stand being away from you </3. please enjoy! requests are always open ! i'll probably have to wait until tomorrow for the rest of my requests, i'm at school all day tomorrow through thursday unfortunately, but once the weekend hits, i'm sure i'll be putting some out like CRAZY.

summary : jesse’s had a huge crush on you for months, but he’s too scared to say anything — until one night he gets very drunk at the tipsy bison and stumbles over to tell you how much he likes you. you gently tell him to come talk to you again when he’s sober if he really means it, and the next morning — heart pounding — he does.

word count : 1.2k

jesse had a problem. and her name was (y/n).

which was fine. really. lots of people had crushes. it happened. the thing was — jesse’s wasn’t going away. if anything, it got worse every time he saw you.

you’d moved to jackson a year and a half ago. fresh off a supply run from one of the smaller outposts. tommy had vouched for you, and everyone liked you pretty much instantly. friendly, competent, sweet — the kind of person who remembered birthdays and brought extra tea for the guards on cold days.

jesse noticed you right away. he wasn’t proud of that fact — the way he caught himself watching.you had this way of laughing with your whole face, and this habit of tucking your hair behind your ear when you were thinking. sometimes you waved at him from across the market square and it knocked the air out of his lungs.

somewhere along the way, "jesse thinks you’re nice" became "jesse thinks about you constantly and will go out of his way to bump into you like an idiot."

and now he was stuck.

the worst part was that you were nice to him. too nice. which meant he could never quite tell if you liked him back, or if you were just being your usual kind self.

he’d made a thousand excuses not to say anything:

she’s probably not interested.i don’t want to ruin the friendship.i’ll tell her next time. next week. after patrol. maybe when there’s a dance again.

the list grew. so did the weight in his chest.

on a cold night in late october, dina cornered him after shift.

"tipsy bison tonight," she said. "you’re coming."

jesse groaned. "i’m tired."

"nope. we’ve decided."

"we?"

ellie grinned from where she sat sharpening her knife. "you’re way overdue for a night out, man."

jesse sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. the truth was — he didn’t mind the company. he just minded that you might be there, and that every time he saw you lately he felt about this close to blurting everything out.

still — it was better than sitting in his room thinking about you. so he went.

the bison was warm and loud and crowded when they arrived. jesse trailed after dina and ellie, shoving his gloves in his coat pocket.

it wasn’t long before someone bought a round. then another. then jesse found himself drinking faster than he meant to.

the buzz came slow at first. a pleasant warmth in his limbs. a looseness in his shoulders.

but jesse was a lightweight, and he knew it. he was on his third whiskey when dina leaned over and said:

"you okay?"

jesse grinned a little too wide. "fine."

ellie snorted. "sure, man."

jesse’s eyes flicked to the door every so often. part of him hoped you weren’t coming. the other part wanted nothing more than to see you.

his head was foggy now. he was thinking things like: you’ll never know if she likes you if you don’t say anything.and: fuck it, maybe i should just tell her.

bad thoughts. dangerous thoughts. whiskey thoughts.

and then—

the door opened.

you stepped inside, brushing snow from your shoulders. cheeks pink from the cold. hair a little mussed from your hat.

jesse sat bolt upright.

dina clocked it instantly.

"jesus christ," she whispered, grinning. "romeo’s girl just walked in."

ellie snickered. "here we go."

jesse barely heard them. his heart was hammering. he watched you greet a couple friends by the bar. saw your smile. the way you laughed at something they said.

she’s so pretty. the thought crashed through him. she’s so pretty it hurts.

and then: i’m going to tell her.

he slammed back the rest of his drink.

"don’t do anything dumb," dina said quickly, seeing the look in his eyes.

but he was already standing. swaying a little. the room tilted under his boots.

"jesse," ellie warned, but he barely heard her.

he was moving. weaving through the crowd. pulse in his ears. mouth dry. nerves crackling under his skin.

you were just ordering a drink when he reached you.

you felt a presence at your side. turned— and found jesse. flushed, bright-eyed, clearly tipsy.

"hey," he said, voice rough.

"hey." you smiled. "jesse — you okay?"

"yeah," he said. "no. maybe. listen."

he leaned in, a little too close, breath warm.

"why don’t you like me?" he blurted.

you blinked. "what?"

jesse swayed, catching himself on the bar.

"you like everyone," he went on, voice low and raw. "you’re nice to me. but you don’t — you don’t like me. not like that. and i don’t— i don’t get it."

your heart jumped.

"jesse," you said softly.

he shook his head, rambling now. "i think about you all the time. i can’t stop. and you — you’re so pretty. and smart. and nice. and i thought— maybe if i told you drunk it’d be easier. but you don’t — you don’t like me back. do you?"

you reached out, steadying his arm gently.

"jesse," you said again. "you’re really drunk. and you’re not thinking straight."

his face crumpled a little. "so that’s a no."

your chest ached. "it’s not a no."

he blinked. "it’s not?"

you smiled, sad and soft.

"jesse — you need to talk to me in the morning," you said. "if you still feel this way. if you remember this conversation. come find me tomorrow. okay?"

his mouth parted. "but—"

you squeezed his arm. "trust me. okay?"

he stared at you. then, slowly, nodded.

"okay," he whispered. "tomorrow."

"tomorrow," you promised.

you watched him stagger back toward ellie and dina, who looked half horrified and half amused.

your heart was racing. your cheeks burned.

you liked him. god, you’d liked him for months. but you didn’t want this to be some sloppy, drunken mistake he regretted. you wanted it to be real.

so you waited. heart in your throat.

jesse woke up with a splitting headache. mouth dry as hell. memories came in pieces.

the bar. the drinks. the walk— and then—

"fuck."

he sat bolt upright. "fuck fuck fuck."

he remembered. he remembered everything.

the way you looked at him. what you said,

"talk to me in the morning."

he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

"idiot. you fucking idiot."

but, you hadn’t said no.

and he owed you the truth.

jesse found you near the stables later that day. you were brushing down one of the horses, soft winter light catching in your hair.

his heart was pounding so hard he thought he might throw up.

you looked up. smiled. "hey."

he swallowed. "hey."

you straightened, eyes kind. "you remember last night?"

"too well," he admitted, cheeks burning.

"jesse," you said softly.

he took a breath. "i meant it."

your breath caught.

"all of it," he went on. "i like you. more than i know what to do with. and i — i’m sorry i said it like that. but i do. i really do."

you stared at him, eyes wide.

then ,slowly, you smiled.

soft and bright and so full of warmth it knocked the air out of him.

"good," you said gently. "because i like you too."

jesse’s mouth parted. "you— what?"

you laughed—breathless, a little shaky.

"jesse," you said. "i’ve been waiting for you to say something for months."

he stared. "fuck."

you reached out — took his hand, warm and steady.

"talk to me now," you said, voice low and sure. "while you’re sober."

jesse squeezed your hand back. and this time, this time it was real.

"okay," he said, voice shaking. "i’m ready now."

and god — he was.

[watchtowerlibrary]

When you attempt to untangle yourself from him, hissing when your feet make contact with the cold hardwood floors, he makes a grumbling noise and splays his arm out to chase after you.

I kinda love how Jesse's instincts are just to be constantly around Reader 🥰

“You okay?” he mutters, the sleepy rasp of his voice making his chest rumble.

My weakness: sleepy guy voice 🤤

His hips stutter, panting wetly against your neck, and then he says “Fuck, baby, I wish I could come inside of you.”

Hottest thing I ever heard 🥵

But when you crane your neck around the door to welcome him home, the words die in your throat because fuck, he looks so fucking sexy. Wearing a shirt that was probably a size too small that strained against his chest while he shoved off his jacket to throw over the coatrack.

🧐 Okay, Steve Rogers - seconds away from exploding through his shirt with his muscles.

lover's fever

pairing: jesse/fem!reader genre: smut w.c.: 7.3k a/n: requested here, thank you, you genius anon you. i hope you enjoy because i very much did. i need this man BADDD

summary: You make an offhand comment about wishing you could stop having a period. Jesse has an idea.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn w/ some plot, breeding kink !!!!, dirty talk, v fingering, some manhandling, unprotected p in v, mating press, one (1) pussy pronoun, pregnancy and period talk, established relationship, soft!jesse, one mention of plan b, no y/n

read below or on ao3 here <3

The first time you notice Jesse acting strange was on the very first day of your period.

You’re blinking sleep away, sunlight breaking through your tattered curtains and warming your face. The scattered chirp of birdsong filters through your walls, mixing with Jesse’s soft snoring in your ear and ruffling your hair with each exhale.

He’s tucked right behind you, his arms wrapped around your torso and your legs tangled together like you were made for each other. Even with the winter chill permeating through the thin walls of the house and the large comforter twisted between the both of you, you felt the beginning beads of sweat gathering at your hairline from the absolute blast of heat that Jesse was emanating.

He always ran warm, which you greatly appreciated during the winter months as you dragged him into bed every night. You couldn’t count the number of times he wrapped his limbs around you while your teeth chattered from the cold, mountains of blankets nearly suffocating you along with the piney scent of Jesse’s shampoo.

But now? Now, the heat of him was unwelcome. Not only that, but you felt the uncomfortable soreness in your stomach and the telltale wetness between your legs that seeped through the back of your underwear.

When you attempt to untangle yourself from him, hissing when your feet make contact with the cold hardwood floors, he makes a grumbling noise and splays his arm out to chase after you.

“Be right back,” you whisper, smiling at the way Jesse nuzzles his face into the pillow you were just laying on.

When you make it to the restroom, you find yourself to be correct, frowning at the small pool of blood in your underwear. It hadn’t bled through your sleep shorts, which you considered a small victory, but you’re still not happy when you have to scrub at the stain in the sink.

Your fingers are tingling on the edge of numbness from the cold water by the time you get done, yet you muster up the energy to wedge your menstrual cup inside of you and shimmy on a pair of clean underwear.

When you nudge yourself back into bed, you can’t help but giggle when Jesse silently opens his arms back up for you to fall into. Your spot on the bed is still warm, Jesse’s body even warmer, and you immediately wrap your legs around him as you nose along the hollow of his throat and inhale his scent. You adamantly keep your frigid fingers to yourself, knowing that that would throw Jesse into a horrible mood so early in the morning.

“You okay?” he mutters, the sleepy rasp of his voice making his chest rumble.

You nod. “Just started my period.”

He hums, eyes still closed, but his hand traces down your spine, his rough callouses causing you to squirm closer into his embrace. He skims along your flank, your hipbone, until he’s pressing a flat palm to your stomach where the cramps are starting to develop.

Another advantage to having a furnace of a boyfriend was his function as a heating pad every month.

You make a noise, wrapping your fingers around his wrist to press his palm harder against your stomach. Your cramps don’t usually get bad until the second day, when you’re not able to do anything except wallow in your sorrows on the couch, but like hell were you going to pass up on Jesse fawning over you.

“Sorry, baby,” he says, voice clearer as he begins to wake up. He starts rubbing your lower belly in small circles.

“It’s not like I have any other choice,” you breathe, drowsiness starting to tug at your eyelids, soothed by the repetitive motion of his hand on your stomach and the heat of him.

His hand briefly pauses, so brief you almost miss it, but then he’s continuing to draw those gentle circles. He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, knowing you’re a strong opponent of his morning breath, and then impossibly tugs you closer. “I know.”

The second time you start to think something is weighing on Jesse’s mind is when you volunteer yourself to babysit Benji. Tommy and Maria often needed a night out to themselves and you didn’t blame them with how busy they were making sure Jackson didn’t run itself into the ground.

So, you asked to be on their rotating roster of babysitters. You and Jesse were right behind Joel, Ellie, and then Dina, though the three of them technically should have taken one spot since they were always together.

Benji is a good kid—sweet, smart as a whip, and so goddamn cute you never wanted to let him go home.

He’s trailing after you now, rambling about something you couldn’t quite focus on, as you flitted about the house to put laundry away. The light pitter patter of his footsteps and the occasional crash of his robot toy that he kept dropping every couple of minutes filled the house, providing some much-needed warmth and a smile to your face.

Jesse was running late, having had to do some last-minute things for the council meeting tomorrow, so you decided to see if Benji wanted to help you cook dinner.

And he was just like his parents, the way he enthusiastically nodded at the prospect of being involved in a task, in helping someone out, chin tilted up at you so he could stare at you with those big brown eyes.

You don’t hear Jesse come in through the front door, too focused on making sure that Benji didn’t roll over his tiny fingers with the rolling pin and keeping an eye on the sauce on the stovetop. There’s a streak of flour on his cheek, dusting the top of his head that must have accidentally come from your clumsy hand, and you make a mental note to give him a bath after dinner.

Benji shouting a shrill “Uncle Jesse!” makes you jump, flour nearly thrown into the air where you had a handful ready to shake out onto the counter as he attempts to clamber down from the stepstool you got for him.

You help Benji down onto the ground and when you glance up at Jesse, ready to give him a warm smile and ask him how his day was, the look on his face stops you.

He’s leaning against the doorway, thick arms crossed over his broad chest, smiling so softly and affectionately at you that it makes your heart flip. It’s his eyes that catch your attention—the way he’s watching you, studying you with an intense expression painted on his sharp features.

Your ears start to burn at the way he lazily looks you up and down, taking in your bare legs, the faded plaid apron tied around you that was dusted with flour, and the strands of hair escaping from your ponytail and haphazardly sticking to your face. When he meets your gaze, your breath catches, flour sifting between your fingertips like sand.

Because you’re suddenly imagining what it would be like if he came home to you and your child in the kitchen, dancing around each other and filling the decaying house with laughter and warmth.

And then the spell is broken as Jesse leans down to unlace his boots, listening intently to what Benji has to say with hums and nods. Your attention is captured by the tomato sauce threatening to boil over, and then the moment is gone and you three have dinner like usual.

You knew for sure and without an absolute doubt in your mind that something was going on when your legs were thrown over Jesse’s shoulders and his thick cock was fucking so deep inside of your wet pussy you swore you could see stars.

Your bed was creaking ominously with each thrust, but you didn’t care, you didn’t give a flying fuck if the entire town of Jackson was in the middle of burning down because your boyfriend had you nearly bent in half, his hips flush against yours, as he brings you closer and closer to your fourth orgasm of the night.

You choke on a wet gasp, your hands weakly grasping at his biceps as he slows his thrusts with a loud groan. You can feel your pussy clench around him, your walls squeezing the length of him and threatening to take him in further, and your head is starting to melt into that sugar-spun daze of him from his worship.

You can sense his eyes on you, drinking in the flutter of your eyelashes against your cheeks and the way your mouth has dropped open, has been open, with a little trickle of drool threatening to spill out of the corner. Your clit is fucking pulsing, throbbing from overstimulation, but the way Jesse crowds up against you and buries his face into your neck has you ready for one more.

His hips stutter, panting wetly against your neck, and then he says “Fuck, baby, I wish I could come inside of you.”

You let out a breathless laugh that hiccups into a low moan as his thrusts get deeper. “You know you can’t…” you manage to gasp out.

There are no more condoms in the apocalypse, no birth control pills or other methods left, and you really did not want to pay an entire week’s worth of wages for the expired emergency morning after pill they have stockpiled in the pharmacy. So, Jesse has gotten better at pulling out. You weren’t complaining, often reveling in the sensation of his warm come painting your inner thighs, your stomach, or even all over your ass.

He groans, his hands leaving their place from where they were pressing your thighs down, your legs falling open on either side of him, and begins to trail them down your hips until he’s palming your stomach.

And he’s not touching you like he’s done before, dazedly wondering if he could feel the way his cock fucked into you so deep it’d bulge from your stomach, but more reverent. Gentler.

He whispers against your throat, as if speaking quietly would make it less daunting, “You’d look so good, sweetheart, pregnant with my baby.”

And you were already close, tiptoeing along a fraying strand of thread, but the deliciously low timbre of his voice, a particularly hard grind of his hips against your overstimulated clit, and the vivid image of him filling you with his hot come and carrying his child and everyone knowing it was his, that you were his, tips you over the edge.

You’re coming with a weak whine, throat nearly raw from the noises he’s fucked out of you all night. Your pussy squeezes around his cock as your entire body locks, stomach tensing at the intensity of it.

Your eyes are closed, your hands skimming the muscles of Jesse’s back as he fucks harder into you, hips jackhammering against yours as he chases after his own orgasm.

It only takes several more thrusts and then he’s pulling away with a low groan, as if the action pained him, before his hand wraps around his cock to bring himself off. You whimper at the feeling of his warm come covering your inner thighs, the outer lips of your pussy, and even on your lower stomach.

You don’t really talk about it after that. You two go about your daily routine like nothing happened, like he didn’t just say how much he wanted to see you pregnant or how the best orgasm you’ve had in the past several months was from imagining him coming inside of you and walking around town with his possessive hand over your growing stomach.

It’s almost as if you’re tiptoeing around each other, not talking about the elephant in the room, as you both get dressed for the day or when you kiss him on the cheek before he leaves for a meeting. It’s not weird, you’ve each probably said weirder things during sex, but you can’t deny there’s a strange tension dancing in the air whenever you’re in the same room together.

He’s also been watching you, more than usual, studying you when he thinks you’re not looking. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your chest, your lower belly. He seems shy— whipping his head around when you meet his gaze, ears tinged pink as if he got caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

You and Jesse have thrown around having kids eventually—just an off-hand comment over dinner about having a family one day. But that was months ago, and it evidently got tucked into a corner of your mind and has been gathering dust since. Until now.

You’ve been together for years now and you’ve established yourself as part of the backbone of the community. With Jesse being on the council for over a year and you being known for dabbling in each division of the town, be it the garden or at the stables, the two of you have gained a reputation. You have friends, Jesse’s parents, and the entire town to provide support if you needed it. If there was a perfect time to start a family, it would be now.

You also can’t deny the fact that babysitting Benji plucks at your heartstrings and makes your entire week.

So you decide to bring it up to him.

The very first day of your ovulation window was sunny and bright, a perfectly clear blue sky, and contrasting ironically with the anxious clouds rolling through your mind.

Jesse was out all day for patrol and you were busy helping clean up the stables. As much as you were grateful for the distraction, it did nothing to quell the irrational thought of something happening while he was at the lookout and not being able to come home to you.

You have to take a deep breath, shuddering on the exhale, as you bite back the tears threatening to spill over just at the thought of living in a house without Jesse. You know your mood was starting to swing, emotions ticking higher than usual, so you throw yourself in your duties and spend the rest of the afternoon teaching some of the younger kids on how to properly fit on a horseshoe.

You’re heating up dinner, racing thoughts finally having slowed and feeling more at peace with potentially the most serious conversation you’ve ever had with Jesse, when he’s stepping into the doorway.

You’ve psyched yourself up, nearly bursting at the seams with how ready you were to sit down and ask if Jesse was ready to fuck a baby into you.

But when you crane your neck around the door to welcome him home, the words die in your throat because fuck, he looks so fucking sexy.

Wearing a shirt that was probably a size too small that strained against his chest while he shoved off his jacket to throw over the coatrack. There’s a smudge of dirt on his neck and the side of his face, messy hair falling into his eyes. In fact, there’s mud caked all over his jeans and boots, most likely due to the heavy rain you received the day before. He probably reeks of gunpowder and damp forest, but God, did you want to just say fuck it and fall to your knees in front of him.

You stomp down at the hot arousal pooling in your lower belly, where it’s been growing stronger and stronger throughout the day, and give him a smile that he hopefully can’t see right through. “Hey, dinner’s almost done if you want to go ahead and wash up.”

He shoots you a warm smile as he toes off his boots, knowing you despised when he tracked mud into the house. He comes into the kitchen to press his mouth to the corner of yours, his dirt-crusted hand coming to rest lightly on your hip.

He smells like the earth, like sweat, with the faintest whiff of his body wash. It does nothing to quell the wetness gathering in your shorts.

“Thanks, baby,” he says, voice low. He’s tired, nearly exhausted based off of the way his eyes are already starting to droop shut and how he drags his feet a little too dramatically up the stairs to the shower.

It’s a good idea to wait to have this conversation, you think. Jesse has needs that need to be met first, and you can wait.

So you continue heating up dinner while he showers, the pipes in the wall rumbling and the house filling up with the aroma of the hearty stew you had made. The two of you have dinner at the table, Jesse’s damp hair dripping onto his shoulders and bleeding through his shirt, as he tells you about his day.

He tells you about the hike to and from the lookout post, very much uneventful besides Will scaring the shit out of him with a prank. He tells you how delicious the homemade bread you packed for him was, bringing a smile to your face as he raved about how he wished he remembered to bring some butter to go along with it. He tells you about the very boring roster of topics for tomorrow’s council meeting, already giving you a heads up that you probably didn’t need to come.

Jesse finishes his dinner within ten minutes, nearly licking the chipped bowl clean, yet he stays at the dinner table while you finish, having always been a slow eater.

You know he’s tired after spending all day hiking through the forest, now freshly showered and a warm meal settling in his stomach. His voice has turned groggy, yawning every couple of minutes, but you know he’s not going to head up to bed without you, no matter how many times you’ve let him know that you don’t mind cleaning up by yourself.

“You cooked so the least I could do is clean, right?” he would say, bumping his shoulder against yours as he dried the dishes with a faded washcloth.

It’s still not the right time to talk, you think.

By the time you two have crawled into bed, you could tell Jesse was five minutes away from passing out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

But Jesse, sweet and stubborn Jesse, still picks up his notebook to jot down some notes for the meeting tomorrow. He’s yawning even more frequently now, eyes nearly watering as he attempts to shake the drowsiness away. All because he knows you liked spending time with him at the end of the day, even if you weren’t actively doing anything together.

For a moment, you wonder if maybe you procrastinated too hard and it was too late. It’s not even close to midnight but you and Jesse have a long day tomorrow and he definitely needs rest.

However, you don’t think you’d be able to get a wink of sleep with the heat that’s been simmering in your stomach all day at the thought of Jesse coming in you and how it flared when you noticed his muscles shifting underneath his shirt or the droplet of water running down the column of his throat at dinner.

He’s shirtless now, wearing only his briefs to go to bed, and your gaze keeps dropping to his bare chest. If you rubbed your thighs together, you were sure you’d be able to detect the wetness steadily leaking out of you and causing the fabric of your panties to meld to your pussy.

It’s because of your burning desire, your raging horniness, when you clear your throat. Why is he always so fucking distracting? “Hey, can we talk about something?”

Your serious tone piques his interest, making him arch an eyebrow at you before setting aside his notebook on the nightstand. He turns to you, facing you directly, and the warm glow of your bedside lamp casting him in a golden light and bringing out the soft brown in his eyes has you biting the inside of your cheek.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “We’ve been together for years and since you’ve been a member of the council, Jackson has been doing well. We have a good thing going, right?”

He nods, giving you a soft smile. He can tell you’re nervous, on the verge of rambling, and snakes his head underneath the covers to place on your thigh to give it a gentle squeeze. “Yeah?”

The action is supposed to be comforting, but fuck, does it make you want to grab his wrist to push his hand further up the apex of your thighs.

“So I was thinking,” you say, averting your gaze to where you’ve started to wring your fingers together in your lap. “What are your thoughts on having a baby?”

His fingers on your thigh twitch and you think you hear a catch in his breathing. A pause, long enough where your blood is starting to rush through your ears and you think you’ve made a horrible mistake ensues. Your eyes stay firm on where your fingers are still tangled together in your lap.

“A baby?” His voice is steady, not giving you a single hint about what he was feeling. Damn his effortless ability to stay calm.

You let out a nervous laugh that comes out sounding a little strangled. “I’m just, uhm, throwing it around. I know we’ve talked about it, once, barely, and we never said when we would be ready. And I don’t know if you are. But I think I am. Ready, I mean.”

Another heavy pause. You’re five seconds away from backtracking and then jumping out of bed to lock yourself in the bathroom from complete mortification, but then Jesse is cradling a hand on your face and surging in to kiss you.

His mouth is hungry as his mouth moves against yours, swallowing your surprised gasp with ease and tilting your chin until your lips are parting and his tongue brushes against you. You bring your hand up to press against his chest, warm underneath your palm, and you’re not sure if it was his racing heart you were feeling or your own.

He pulls away but then he’s immediately leaning in to kiss you again, and again, mumbling against your lips that have curved into a smile. “Yes, yes, I am so fucking ready.”

You giggle into his mouth, your teeth clicking against his as he continues pressing his mouth against yours like he can’t get enough of you, like you’re going to change your mind if he stopped. “Really?”

“Anything you want,” he mutters, tilting his head to kiss the corner of your lips and your jawline, nosing at your hair. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

You breathe out a sigh when his lips ghost along the column of your throat, shivering when he nips at the sensitive skin of your collarbone.

The bed creaks when he throws the comforter back to throw his leg over yours, effectively kneeling in between your thighs and hovering over you as his large hands grasp at your hips, his thumbs running over the sliver of skin between the waistband of your panties and your sleep shirt riding up.

You squirm at the half-hard line of his cock pressing against your inner thigh, solid even through the fabric of his boxers and stoking the heat gathering in your lower belly. Your entire body feels extra sensitive as he pushes his hands underneath your shirt to run over you—running up your stomach and brushing the undersides of your breasts, your breath hitching at the rough drag of his callouses before he’s wrapping his large palms around your flesh.

Impatient, you quickly grab at the hem of your shirt to lift off of you. Your nipples pebble almost immediately with the rush of the cold that has leaked through the windows, but then Jesse is just as quickly wrapping his lips around one and pinching at the other.

You gasp, arching your back into his mouth as your hands claw at his shoulders. It seemed like every sensation was heightened—the wet warmth of his tongue swirling around your nipple before flicking it, the sharp pain melting with hot pleasure as he pinched with his other hand, and the way the shape of his bulge was nudging against your aching pussy even through the several layers of fabric.

“Jesse,” you keen, your fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck. You’re not sure whether you wanted to tug him off of you or pull him closer.

He pulls away and then quickly leans over to your other nipple to lick it with a flattened tongue. You whimper, your entire body twitching from the sensation now that your nipple was nearly throbbing.

He sits back, massaging your breasts with both of his large hands, almost too firm but pleasurable all the same. His eyes were glued to them, watching how easily your flesh molded to the shape of his hands. “Just imagining how full your tits would look when you’re pregnant,” he says, voice low and raspy. “Fuck, you’d look so pretty, baby.”

Your face heats up at his words, filthy and with a sharp edge of possessiveness. It sends a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, you’d like that?”

He finally meets your gaze and you’re shocked to see how blown his pupils were, face flushed like he had already just fucked your brains out. He’s nearly panting, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, and you can already see how much he’s holding himself back from immediately bending you in half. “Of course I would. You’d be the hottest MILF in town.”

You bark out a laugh at that, rolling your eyes and swatting his annoyingly firm bare shoulder. “Shut up.”

He grins at you, his broad form perfectly framed between your knees and thighs. You’re grateful for the reprieve, a much-needed break from the tension, to take a calming deep breath. Your whole life was about to change, after all.

And if it doesn’t work out this time, then there’s no harm in some practice, right?

He props one arm by your head to lean over and kiss you, soft and gentle, the perfect distraction as he ghosts his hands down your stomach and past your mound to press his fingers against the center of your panties.

Your entire body jolts, jaw dropping at the heat shooting up your spine at the barest amount of pressure he’s giving you.

Jesse tuts, making a faux sympathetic noise that has your breath stuttering and cunt throb. “Christ, look at how fucking wet you are.”

And he’s right; you’ve been so goddamn horny all fucking day just at the mere thought of Jesse coming inside of you, filling you up, and it definitely shows. You’re surprised your panties aren’t completely ruined with your continuous arousal. You can feel it now as Jesse presses the pads of his fingers harder against your center—how the fabric was damp, sticking to the folds of your pussy and rubbing against your inner thighs.

Jesse’s eyes are fixated on your cunt and the way his fingers are able to smear around your slick even through the fabric. You make a choked noise when he brushes over your puffy clit, your hips canting up to chase after his firm touch.

Without preamble, he tucks his fingers into the crotch of your panties and pulls them aside, exposing the way you’re glistening for him to his watchful stare. Jesse hums sympathetically again at the slow drag of the fabric pulling away from you, and you watch with a shudder as he licks his lips.

“So pretty and wet for me, baby,” he rasps, his fingers easily gliding through the folds of your pussy and drinking in the rough exhale you emit. “She’s just begging for me to fill her up, huh?”

He slowly pushes a thick finger into you, watching as your groan breaks off into a whimper, your eyes fluttering shut at finally being filled.

“Fuck,” you pant, throwing your arms over his shoulders as your fingers tangle into the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

You’re nearly dripping onto the sheets from how wet you were yet when he nudges a second finger alongside his first to push into you, you throw your head back from the stretch.

You love his hands, how they fit alongside yours, strong and wide with sturdy fingers that always takes you a second to adjust to. When you briefly glance down, taking in his broad forearm littered with veins and scars in between your thighs, muscles shifting as he slowly thrusts his fingers into you, you want more.

“Just fuck me already,” you exhale, eyes glazed over as you meet his.

He huffs a laugh, his warm breath fanning over your face, but he doesn’t listen to you. His fingers, gorgeous and thick fingers, increase their pace as he fucks into you. He barely curls them, but his fingers are so long he easily hits that spot inside of you that has you moaning without abandon, your hands clawing at his shoulders as heat rapidly forms at the pit of your stomach.

“I heard,” he says, casually, as if he wasn’t knuckle deep inside of you and your pussy wasn’t making the filthiest noises on the planet. “If you come before I fuck you, then there’s a higher chance of conceiving.”

You’re about to tell him that you don’t give a damn and you need his cock now, or that him making you come first was never a problem between you two, but you don’t get a chance to say anything before he’s curling his fingers just so. He hits that spot inside of your cunt dead on, again and again until you’re seeing stars, your nails digging into his shoulders as your back arches into him.

A loud moan is essentially punched out of you, coaxed out by his fingers, as he leans back on his haunches to place his free hand on your lower belly, thumb drifting down to rub circles over your swollen clit.

The first touch, no more fabric as a barrier, has you making a low noise as that familiar pressure builds in your gut, heat that’s been gradually increasing all day finally shooting up your spine so fast it knocks the breath out of you. No longer grounded by his warm body underneath your fingertips, your hands fly down to grasp at his wrist and forearm.

You try to warn him, words on the tip of your tongue that you were about to tip over the edge, but Jesse knows you like the back of his hand. He knows when you’re about to come just from the way your eyes roll back in your head or the clenching of your needy pussy around his fingers, the tensing of your stomach.

He curls his fingers even tighter, rubs your swollen clit even harder, until you’re coming with a shudder, no sound coming out of your pretty mouth until you’ve come down from your high. You whimper, thighs trembling as he slows his fingers, letting you ride the aftershocks.

You’re blinking the daze from your eyes, trying to catch your breath, when you feel Jesse’s fingers pull out of your pussy with an absolutely filthy noise. You jump a little when you feel him swiftly slip your panties off your legs and then he’s prying your thighs apart with his hands, one of them slicker than the other. He hitches them over his hips as he kneels between them to notch his dick against your entrance.

“You ready for my cock, baby?” he asks, voice low and eyes searching into yours.

You know what he’s really asking—if you were ready for him to fuck you, come inside you, give you a baby.

You give him a dazed smile, tilt your hips up in a way where you can feel just the tip of his cock slide into you. “Just fuck a baby into me already, Jesse.”

He groans, taking a hold of his cock and finally, finally pushing into you. “You can’t just say things like that to me.”

Your jaw drops on a breathless sigh. You could feel every thick inch as he slides into you, the walls of your pussy clenching around him, claiming him as yours. Your blood was burning underneath your skin, your entire body lit up from the inside out as he thrusts all the way until he was buried inside of you to the hilt.

“Fuck, your pussy’s always so fucking tight for me,” he bites out, hips stilling, broad hands gripping your hips so hard you desperately hope he leaves bruises. Another mark.

His thick cock inside of you, his possessive hold, and the weight of his solid body between your thighs was overwhelming, adding to the pleasure that was steadily growing in your belly. It felt different this time, as if your body knew exactly what was going to happen in 9 months as you felt your pussy squeeze around him and the throbbing of your swollen clit.

A needy whine falls from your lips as your hands reach out to his strong forearms and then to his neck, pulling him down towards you.

He smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, and warmth blooms in your sternum as he lets himself get pulled down by you. He props himself up with elbows on either side of your head and tucks his face into your neck, leaving wet kisses along your jawline. The new change in angle has his cock driving into you deeper, causing you to gasp and your thighs to tense where you have them wrapped around his waist.

“Can’t wait to fill you up, baby,” Jesse mutters, soft lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck and causing goosebumps to rise. He experimentally pulls his hips back and then forward, barely pulling his cock out of you and then back in, yet it has you mewling, your fingers scrambling at his back.

“Jesus fuck—” are the only words you’re able to gasp before he starts fucking you in earnest, not even bothering to start out slow like how he always does to let you adjust because you were already so fucking wet, your inner thighs nearly covered in your slick.

You’re barely aware of the pathetic noises falling from your mouth, too overwhelmed by how he tries to shuffle closer, not breaking his rhythmic fucking for even one second, as if he could impossibly get closer.

“You’re going to look so fucking sexy carrying my baby” he growls right in your ear, the rasp in his voice making you whine. “Everyone’s going to know this pretty pussy is mine.”

Jesus Christ. You nod frantically, your hands clawing at his broad back. His heavy weight pressing down on you was heady, making you feel completely and utterly consumed by him. “Yes, yes, fuck, all yours.”

The intoxicating smell of sex and something fully Jesse fills the room, the world outside your house, the walls of Jackson, blending into the background as your head lolls against the pillow. Your bed creaks ominously with every hard thrust, nearly jostling you up further and further up the bed until the top of your head was crammed against the headboard.

Suddenly, he lifts off of you and backs up, his cock swiftly leaving your aching pussy. Before you voice your confusion, he grabs you by the hips and yanks you down the bed so you weren’t at risk of getting a concussion and immediately is plunging his cock into you again.

The clear display of strength, of being manhandled in a way that you so desperately craved, had you giggle that immediately melts into a moan at the way your slick walls stretched around him again.

“I’m going to pump this fucking pussy full of my come until it’s dripping out of you, let everyone see who fucks you good.”

And then he’s wrapping his hands around the back of your knees, raising your legs and pushing your knees to your chest and leaning over you. You’re folded in half, feet dangling behind Jesse’s head, and the new change in angle with the brutal pace he picks up as he fucks into you has you crying out, the head of his cock continuously hitting that spot deep inside of you so hard that your vision briefly whites out.

Your desperate moans grow louder each time he drives his cock into you, ears burning at how it sounds like you’ve somehow gotten even wetter as the lewd squelching of your needy pussy fills the room with every thrust.

“Fuck, I’m—” you gasp as you try to snake your hand past your belly and to your aching clit, your heartbeat nearly pulsing through your sensitive bud. “C-close…”

If possible, Jesse increases his thrusts, relentlessly slamming into your wet cunt so frantically you knew you were going to be sore for the rest of the week. His eyes are wild, nearly crazed as he pushes your knees closer to your chest, causing your hips to lift up as he presses in on you.

From this position, you were able to see where you were connected, able to witness every time Jesse’s thick cock fucked back into you, slick and shiny from your sopping cunt. The evidence of your arousal and pleasure on his length, sticking to his lower stomach and the curls at the base of his cock has your head swimming and your vision blurring.

The first touch of your swollen clit has you exhaling sharply, your fingers sliding perfectly through the wetness as you rub tight and desperate circles. The pressure at the pit of your stomach builds fast, twisting your insides until you were breathless.

“You’re going to come all over my cock, baby? And then you’re going to let me fill that pussy up?”

Jesse’s words melt down your spine like sweet honey and your thighs begin to shake from where he’s holding them down to your chest, pressing down on your breasts and brushing against your stiff nipples with each thrust.

It’s the thought of him coming inside of you and letting it leak out, the image of walking around with his spend staining your panties, that finally pushes you over the edge. Your entire body tenses as white-hot pleasure wracks your body, toes curling above his head and your mouth open in a silent scream.

Jesse groans at the way your cunt pulses around him, his hands clenched into fists next to your head as he fucks into you frantically, your body turning loose and pliant with every aftershock. He thrusts into your swollen pussy a handful of times before grinding into you and coming with a ragged breath.

You’ve never had someone come inside you before and you’re not sure how you’ll ever go back to him rushing to pull out of you, wasting his come as it covers your skin. You whimper when his cock twitches inside of you, throbbing with each rope of come filling you up. It’s a strange and warm sensation, but the absolute euphoria etched into his features as he furrows his brow and jaw slackening around his pants, elicits such a deep sense of affection in your chest, in your bones, that you know you will be craving for this every single night.  

Your heart is hammering in your ears, but you’re distantly aware of the sweet praises Jesse whispers, pressing soft kisses along your hairline as you catch your breath. When you blink away the fog in your eyes, Jesse’s already staring at you and wearing a sated smile.

And then he’s squeezing the flesh of your thighs where they’re still pressed to your chest and experimentally grinds his hips against yours, pushing his still hard cock and his come deeper into your sore cunt.

You gasp, hips jolting away from how oversensitive you were despite arousal sparking at the base of your spine, but he shushes you and slowly pulls out.

You wrap your arms around the back of your knees, legs still raised to stay in the same position since you had heard from the ladies around town that it would help. Despite your clenching, you still feel the telltale trickling of his come out of your hole and onto the sheets below you.

Heat blooms on your face when you catch Jesse staring, eyes dark and breathing growing heavy again at the sight of his come bubbling out of you. He squeezes your ass cheek before his thumb drifts to your swollen pussy, spreading your folds open so he could see how you were still glistening for him, your hole clenching around nothing.

He glances at you briefly before he’s pushing his thumb into you, the combined wetness of your arousal and his spend making for a smooth entrance.

You moan brokenly, the vulgar squelching of your pussy mingling with his harsh breaths. You’re so sore, can feel the loose ache blanketing over your entire lower body, yet you tighten your hold on your legs as Jesse catches the pearly fluid leaking from you and pushes it back in. His next words in the form of a husky exhale has your breath catching.

“Don’t want to let it all go to waste, pretty girl.”

You watch as he licks his lips and your thighs start shaking from the mere thought of him leaning down to dip his tongue in between your folds to taste the combination of you two.

Once he’s satisfied that you were filled to the brim, he flops onto the mattress and is immediately curling one arm underneath your pillow and one around your middle to pull you closer into him. You release the hold around your legs to allow yourself to be pushed around by him, letting out a breathless giggle when he’s nosing at base of your neck.

The line of his firm body against yours was warm, almost too warm, transferring his sweat to your back, but then he’s laying his palm flat across your lower belly. You can nearly imagine your swollen belly yourself, stretching your clothes and having to go to the general store to search for used maternity wear.

“You okay?” he mutters, warm breath skittering at your neck. You smile when you can already hear the drowsy tinge to his voice, his breath evening out and can imagine his eyes likely already drooping shut.

You hum and flip onto your side to face him, his arm briefly raising before laying across your hip. Just like you expected, he already has his eyes closed, face so utterly relaxed only an orgasm could truly bring a man.

His arm draped over you grows limp with each second and you’re about to let your own eyes fall close when he sucks in a sharp breath before speaking. “Do you think it’s gonna stick?”

You shuffle closer, scooting down until your nose grazes his collarbone and you’re able to throw your own arm over his side. The scent of him was stronger here, mostly like sweat, but something clean that reminded you of home.

“If it doesn’t this time,” you mumble. “Then I guess we have no choice but to keep practicing.”

Jesse feigns a sigh, fingertips tracing circles at the base of your spine as he kisses the top of your head. You barely can discern his words before you’re drifting to sleep, body going limp.

“As much as it takes.”

[watchtowerlibrary]

“I’m not looking for anything serious at the moment.” Jack Abbot had breathed life into those words with his lips pressed against your neck, their vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure up the length of your spine, and to what felt like every nerve ending in your body.

For now 😏

“Sugar?” He’d rasped. You nodded. “I’m making cookies and I just ran out. The store doesn’t open for another hour and a half.” “What kind of cookies?” You’d felt the blush seep into your cheeks before you murmured oatmeal raisin. He nodded approvingly. “I can spot you the sugar, if you promise to save me a couple of cookies.”

Why did that whole conversation feel so sensual and tense? 😅

“Jesus kid, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last half an hour. Where are you? Are you okay? Are you safe?” His tone was thick with worry and entirely foreign to you, and it made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. “I’m fine, Jack. I’m fine. I’m at home, I just woke up from a nap.” He hesitated a beat before rasping, “you didn’t end up going to Pittfest?” You shook your head. “No, Maggie found a more enthusiastic partner to go with her.” You heard his audible sigh of relief even over the crackling static. “Oh, thank god.”

That rush of relief going through your body after that adrenaline taking root after not knowing? 🥹

home to you {jack abbot}

synopsis: it takes a traumatic event for doctor jack abbot to realize he's through being casual about his next-door neighbour.

no warnings, straight fluff, scattered use of the nickname kid. this is the direct result of thirsting over this HOT old man for the past month.

“I’m not looking for anything serious at the moment.” 

Jack Abbot had breathed life into those words with his lips pressed against your neck, their vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure up the length of your spine, and to what felt like every nerve ending in your body. His hands, and the extraordinarily skilled fingers that belonged to them, roamed every inch of skin you could spare, and the neural pathways that sent signals to your brain to speak were absolutely not firing on all cylinders, because it took you a ridiculous amount of time to murmur, “well that makes two of us then, because neither am I.” 

And yet, while neither of you were actively looking for anything serious, the right side of your bed remained occupied by the weight of his body most mornings.

He held his cards incredibly close to his chest, and most of what you knew about him (which still wasn’t much) was information he had dropped for you like breadcrumbs. He’d been married; and though his wife had fought bravely, she succumbed to the disease which had ravaged her in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. He had done two tours with the military, which had done nothing for him, except to permanently part him from his right leg and to leave him with an intense desire to work in emergency medicine. He was a creature of the night in every sense of the word and had jumped at the chance to take a position as the night shift attending physician at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. This meant that at seven in the morning, when you were debating about getting up and ready for work, he would just be coming off of the night shift. 

When you considered the way in which you first crossed paths with him, you still cringed. Over a year ago, you’d been battling a persistent craving for oatmeal raisin cookies. You had everything set out to make them minus the cup and a half of white sugar needed, and was at a loss for what to do considering the early morning hour. Enter your mysterious, hardly-ever-seen next-door neighbour. You had heard the sound of his key turning in the lock and waited a couple of minutes before plucking up the courage to go over and knock on his door. You doubted you’d ever forget the first time you really got a good look at him. He, in his navy, blood-spattered scrubs, and the black stethoscope still around his neck. His salt and pepper hair which still held traces of its original copper, and the five o’clock shadow that stubbled his devastatingly handsome face. 

“I’m so sorry to bother - I would have asked 708 but she’s on holiday at the moment and I really just need a cup of sugar if you can spare it.” 

He’d cocked his head to the side, mild confusion giving way to mild amusement. 

“Sugar?” He’d rasped.

You nodded. “I’m making cookies and I just ran out. The store doesn’t open for another hour and a half.” 

“What kind of cookies?” 

You’d felt the blush seep into your cheeks before you murmured oatmeal raisin. 

He nodded approvingly. “I can spot you the sugar, if you promise to save me a couple of cookies.” 

“Yeah, I think I can manage that.” You’d grinned. 

“We’ve got ourselves a deal then. Wait here, I’ll be right back.” 

And, the rest was history. 

Jack had exited the elevator just as you were locking up. He propped himself against his door for support and offered you a small, tired smile. 

“Rough night?” you asked, despite the fact that you could tell just by looking at him that his shift had been a brutal one. 

He nodded. “Lost a vet last night.” 

Oh.

He rid the emotion from his throat with a short cough. “Not a single scratch the entire time he'd been over there, and a drunk driver nails him.” 

Your heart sank. 

“I'm so sorry, Jack.” 

He offered you another sad, fleeting smile and shrugged a shoulder. “That's the job, right?” 

“What are you going to do now?” You asked.

He released a breath of warm, pent-up air and shook his head. “Try and sleep. I've got an appointment with Carson in a couple of hours, which I'm looking forward to.” 

The silence lingered on a little while longer before he asked you what your plans for the day were. 

“I’m waiting to hear back from a friend if she needs me to go to Pittfest with her or not.” 

He lifted his eyebrows. “Fun.” 

“Maybe,” you laughed. “But being surrounded by a bunch of drunk, loud, barely legal people isn't exactly my idea of a great time.” 

“That’s fair,” he breathed. “But take care of yourself if you do end up going, yeah? You’d be amazed at how fast dehydration can set in.” 

“Alright, Doc. I'll watch out.” 

He fished his keys from his pocket and turned back to you. Whatever he wanted to stay was still lodged in his throat, as if he were mulling over whether he should say it or not. 

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? Before my shift starts? That is - if you're not slummin’ it with the barely legals all day?” 

You couldn't help the smile that bloomed on your face. 

“Yeah, Jack. I'd like that.” 

He grinned down at the ground before turning back to you and nodding his head. “Alright. I’ll see ya then, kid. Take care.” 

“Yeah, you too, Jack.” 

~

You woke with a start to the incessant sound of your phone ringing and a slick sheen of perspiration covering every square inch of your body. You glanced at the clock beside your bed and cursed the glowing red digits. 4:15 pm. Not much time to get ready before you had to meet up with Jack. You reached for your phone and gasped when you saw the number of missed calls you’d had from him. Taking a deep breath, you pressed his name and leaned back against your headboard for support. 

He picked up on the first ring. 

“Jesus kid, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last half an hour. Where are you? Are you okay? Are you safe?” 

His tone was thick with worry and entirely foreign to you, and it made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. 

“I’m fine, Jack. I’m fine. I’m at home, I just woke up from a nap.” 

He hesitated a beat before rasping, “you didn’t end up going to Pittfest?” 

You shook your head. “No, Maggie found a more enthusiastic partner to go with her.” 

You heard his audible sigh of relief even over the crackling static. 

“Oh, thank god.” 

Swallowing hard, you finally managed to ask him what on earth was going on. 

“There’s an active shooter at the festival. I’m headed back to the hospital to help. Please, please stay home. Don’t leave for anything,” You were too stunned to speak. “I gotta go, kid. Promise me you’ll stay where you are.” 

“Of course, Jack. I promise.”

You’d given up on watching any news about the festival an hour in, the anxiety too much to bear. Maggie had contacted you around six to let you know that she and the person she’d gone with were both safe and back at her house, which was an immediate weight off of your shoulders. To keep your thoughts from turning to Jack, and how his colleagues were faring, you hunkered down in bed with a book you’d been in the middle of for ages. It did not help. Nothing seemed to scratch the surface of your mounting dread, and so for the second time that day, you closed your eyes and willed yourself to sleep. 

When you woke a while later, the sunshine that had been so prevalent before you’d drifted off had vanished entirely, giving way to an inky darkness. It was nine-fifteen PM, and you’d received a single text message from Jack from half an hour before that simply read - on my way home. Your shoulders dropped and you released a breath of air that felt like you’d been holding since the moment you spoke to him on the phone. It didn’t matter if you were up for the rest of the night now, all that mattered was that Jack was alright, and that he was coming home. 

You wandered out into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and as you stood at the stove and waited for your kettle to boil, a knock at your door shook you from your reverie. 

You weren't entirely surprised to find Jack on the other side, and you let him in wordlessly.

Once inside your front hallway, he dropped back against the wall for support and took a long, tight breath. 

“You scared the shit out of me today, kid.” 

In the low, warm light provided by the lamp in your hallway, you could see the blood that spattered his scrubs. The crimson drops that had landed on his shoes, and God only knew where else. 

“I know,” you breathed. “I'm sorry.” 

He hoisted the cammo backpack from his shoulders, cleared his throat, and asked if he could get cleaned up here. There were layers to the question that remained unspoken - can I get cleaned up here because my apartment is so quiet, and so lonely that I can barely stand it. That I've been surrounded by calamity all day and all I need is just a few quiet hours with you. 

“‘Course you can, Jack. There are fresh towels in the cabinet beside the washroom.” 

He emerged a little while later, naked entirely except for a pair of black boxer-briefs. As he stood in the doorway of your bedroom, you watched in unconcealed awe as the water droplets he hadn't managed to towel off raced each other down the smooth planes of his freckled chest. 

“Do you require a formal invitation?” you quipped. 

Jack shook his head wordlessly, and pushed himself from the doorframe to join you. He sat perched on the edge of the bed, removed his prosthetic, and swung himself in beside you. 

“Is this okay?” He whispered, once the dust had settled. 

You turned to face him then, and in the sliver of pale orange light from the crack of the door, you could make out every freckle on his face. Every smile line (there were so many), and every miniscule scar was on spectacular display for you; a frontrow seat to the worlds most wondrous man. In the year that you two had spent dancing around your feelings for one another, you had grown so fond of his face, and of the strong, sure hands that spent so much time repairing, and helping people.

“Yeah, Jack. This is okay.” 

“Can I tell you something?” He whispered.

You swallowed hard. “Yes.” 

“Today made me realize that I have absolutely no interest in being casual about you anymore.” 

Oh, shit.

“There was a period of about five seconds today where I let my thoughts travel to the absolute worst scenario where you were concerned, and to put it plainly- I couldn’t bear it.” He cleared his throat. “And if I’ve learned anything in the past eight years, it’s that I have to be transparent with the people I care about because life is so fucking short.” 

It occured to you that this might all be coming from a place of adrenaline and fear. And while you wanted nothing more than to be with him, you dreaded the possibility of him making a mistake or rushing into anything because of that.

“Jack, I need you to know that this is all okay - that if this is all only ever what it’s going to be between us, I can handle it.” You reached toward him to trace a fingertip down the bridge of his nose. “I know how I feel about you, and if this is all that you’re capable of sparing right now, I'll still happily take it.” 

He shook his head. 

“In the year that you and I have known each other, you’ve never asked for more. You’ve never waivered under the insane hours, or the emotional baggage a guy like me tends to accumulate, and you deserve more.” He reached for your hand and brought it to his lips, deliberately brushing each knuckle. “I want to give you more.” 

“Okay, Jack.” 

He quirked an eyebrow. “Okay?” 

You nodded and leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips.

“You’ve laid it all out on the line for me, and I want it, I want you.” 

And as you watched a slow, sleepy smile tug the edges of lips skyward, happiness warmed inside of you like sunshine through a stained glass window.

[watchtowerlibrary]

Kate shook her head. “You’re not pathetic; don’t talk like that. Do you��like him?” She nearly winced when she said it, like it was a painful idea even for her to swallow.

She was this close to making this 😕 face 😅

On the other side of Kate, Javi hummed. “Hey, maybe they’re loosening up a bit. I don’t remember the last time Scott willing walked into a bar,” he said.

Scott Miller? Having fun? Never heard of her. 🤔

IS IT CASUAL NOW?

pairing. scott miller (twisters) x fem!reader

summary. what happened between you and scott was supposed to be strictly casual, but when you feelings got too involved, you decided to call it quits. But storms and close calls have a way to bringing out true feelings. 

warnings. allusions to smut but no actual smut, suggestive language, a curse or two, injuries, reader gets hurt, medical descriptions. scott is a little bit of an asshole & a sweetheart (he’s complicated, okay?). idk how I feel about this but I’ve been writing it for what felt like forever & I needed to post it so it stops haunting me.

word count. 3.9k || masterlist

Feelings were messy; they always got in the way of things. You weren’t sure when yours changed or why, but they surely were leading you quickly toward disaster. It was supposed to be a casual thing, a no-strings-attached kind of thing. ‘Sleeping with the enemy’ wasn’t supposed to be anything more than meaningless sex in shitty motels after both of your storm-chasing teams went to sleep. And maybe that was a bit dramatic, but the Wranglers had a flare for dramatics and a hatred for Storm Par. You were caught in the mess you made, unsure of what to do. 

Scott was not the kind of man who wanted a serious relationship. He had a bad attitude and was one-track-minded. But he was just as lonely as you were, and that had quickly become a recipe for a delicious disaster. You two found yourself entangled in a strictly sex-only relationship, unknown to your two teams, enjoyed in the sanctity of midwestern motels. And for a while, the thrill of something so casual with no real stakes was exciting. 

You’d only ever had real relationships, partners you took home to meet your parents, and who bought you dinner. Scott was new territory. He was an asshole, but there was a certain charm that kept you coming back when he called you beautiful while fumbling for the zipper of your jeans or pressing soft kisses to your neck. 

Things between you two were good, but at some point, you couldn’t separate sex from feelings. It started to mean something to you. You tried to ignore it, burying it down deep in your gut, but that only worked for so long. 

Scott never stayed long; he didn’t want anyone to catch him sneaking out of your room. But you hardly ever got the chance to catch your breath before he was searching for his clothes strewn across the floor. You rolled your lips into your mouth, chest still rising and falling heavily, and grabbed your t-shirt from where it had been tossed onto the nightstand. 

“Are you guys following the storms up to Arkansas tomorrow?” he asked, falling back into himself the same way he always did. It was like the moment he stood from the bed, he snapped back into himself, stiff and work focused. 

He was a hard man to understand. You supposed you weren’t really supposed to understand him, that was the nature of your relationship. The less you knew about someone, the easier it was to not care. But you cared too much about everything and everyone. 

“Uh, yeah,” you replied, toying the itchy motel blanket between your fingers. Anxiety twisted in your gut like a storm, bringing unruly waves that flooded your chest and made it tight. “Scott?” 

He hummed in response, tugging on his shoes, not looking at you. It was a band-aid you needed to rip off, but you knew the nasty wound underneath it. You were scoffing it; you couldn’t keep it up. 

“I, um, I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” You held your breath after the words fell from your lips. You didn’t want to say it; you didn’t want to mean it, but if you spent another evening with Scott you’d be done for. Feelings for him ached inside your chest, but you had to snuff them out before they grew any more intense and left you heartbroken in the wake. Being heartbroken for someone who didn’t care much for you beyond sleeping together sounded like a nightmare. You wanted to get ahead of it; no hard feelings. 

He paused, standing up right as he put on his second shoe and furrowed his brows. “Do what?” he said, confused. 

You winced. “This,” you said, pointing between the two of you. “Us.” 

“Why?” Scott lingered by the door, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn’t a man of many words, curt and to the point you had learned. 

You sighed, casting your gaze onto your lap. You felt small and a little embarrassed that you couldn’t separate sex from feelings. Scott seemed to do it so easily, but they were too intertwined for you. “What we have is good,” you started. “But I think I need something more…real, I guess.” 

“This isn’t real enough for you?” he asked with a raise of his brows. 

“You don’t want a relationship, right?” 

“Right,” he answered, quickly. 

“But I do.” 

Scott was quiet for a moment, his face swarming with emotions you couldn’t pinpoint before they vanished and fell back into his usual, stoic expression. “With me?” 

You smiled sadly, shaking your head even though it felt wrong, even though you were lying, a little. You knew the idea of you and Scott in a real relationship was purely fictional, completely intangible. You were probably the last person on Earth he’d want to date if he ever found himself able to look past his work. But you were soft-hearted and couldn’t help but think about it, even if it was ridiculous. 

“If we keep this up, maybe,” you tried to joke but it fell flat. “But no, I just meant in general. I don’t think I’m really cut out for this.” 

He pursed his lips, looking for a moment like he wanted to say something but decided against it and, instead, nodded slowly. “If that’s what you want.” Scott turned and grabbed the door handle, hesitating before he opened it. You tried to say goodbye, but he slipped out quickly, leaving the words lost in the quietness of your motel room. 

You sighed, falling back against your pillow and bringing your hands up to your face in frustration. You knew you had done the right thing, and it would have hurt even worse if you waited, but it still sucked. You weren’t cut out for casual. 

“Why are you so mopey?” Kate asked, sliding onto the bar stool beside you at the little dinner. You volunteered to grab everyone dinner while they worked on the truck before tomorrow’s storms. Kate followed you, picking up on the sulky attitude you had been trying to hide all day. 

You sighed, tapping the countertop and avoiding her eyes. “It’s nothin’,” you said, trying to add a hint of cheeriness to your tone but it fell flat. 

“If I tell you something, you promise not to get mad at me?” Confused, you glanced over at her. Kate was too sweet for anyone to be mad at her, you were sure of that. Besides, if anyone got mad at Kate, you were sure Tyler would wreak havoc. “Last night, I left my room to grab my phone charger from the truck and I kind of saw…” she looked over her shoulder at the diner’s company before lowering her voice into a whisper. “Scott leaving your room. That’s not why you’re mopey, is it?” 

Your groan answered her. “No one was supposed to find out.” 

She frowned. “I won’t tell, promise.” 

“It doesn’t really matter anymore, I guess.” You shouldn’t have been sad; you were the one who called it off, but it left a little crater in your chest, a stupid feeling. Scott wasn’t someone you brought home to your parents or who would buy you flowers out of the blue. He was a one-night stand kind of guy; he made snarky comments and called you and your team hillbillies. You should have felt good about your decision, but you just couldn’t. 

“We’re not seeing each other anymore,” you said. 

“Why? Did he do something stupid? Because I’ll kick his ass.” 

You smiled at her offer, tempted to take her up on it for your own sake, but it was unreasonable. “I called it off.” 

“Oh,” she said, patting you gently on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t know why I’m upset about it.” You wished you could just cross it out of your head, said and done, and wipe your hands clean of it. He was just a guy, but he was stuck on you. “We were just sleeping together; that was it. But…but I’m pathetic.” 

Kate shook her head. “You’re not pathetic; don’t talk like that. Do you…like him?” She nearly winced when she said it, like it was a painful idea even for her to swallow. Scott wasn’t some supervillain, but he was a sore spot for her best friend, Javi. The two had started Storm Par together until their butting heads finally cracked. Javi left Storm Par and joined the Wranglers along with Kate, and Scott had to pivot to fill the gap Javi left. 

“I was starting too, that’s why I called it off.” 

Kate hummed in understanding just as the waitress placed your bags of food on the counter. She helped you gather the takeout with a smile and said, “Well, we’ll just have to find you someone new. Tyler wanted to take everyone out to this bar he and team always stop at during the season. Between all of us, we’ll find you someone even better than Mr. Storm Par.” 

That didn’t sound so bad. 

Oh, but it was. You’re not sure what happened, but it seemed like every decent, single person was taken or nowhere near Arkansas. Instead, the bar was filled with couples, oddballs, and creeps. You sipped on your drink and sank down in the booth, feeling defeated. 

Kate joined you with a huff. “Sorry this turned out to be a total failure,” she said. “I don’t know what happened to all of the hot, decent, single people.” From across the booth, Tyler made a noise as he swallowed his beer and put his hands out in an ‘excuse me?’ manner. Kate smiled and shook her head. “For her,” she said, pointing to you. 

Tyler nodded in understanding. “Ah, I didn’t know you were looking.” 

You cleared your throat. “It’s, uh, a new endeavor.” Because you’d been so preoccupied with sleeping with Scott for the last couple of months, you hadn’t even thought about seeking someone else out, a real relationship. To your friends, you were simply content in your singleness, but that wasn’t the truth whatsoever. 

“Well, I don’t think you’re gonna find anyone here,” Boone said, scanning the bar. The front door opened and in poured more people. His face twisted. “Unless you wanna shack up with one of Storm Par,” he laughed and his friends around the table echoed it, aside from Kate and yourself. Instead, your eyes widened as you turned your head to follow Boone’s gaze. Into the bar walked Storm Par, still dressed in their uniforms and looking out of place. Your staring caught Scott’s eye. He held your gaze for a moment, same stoic expression until he blinked and turned his attention onto the bar as they approached it. 

On the other side of Kate, Javi hummed. “Hey, maybe they’re loosening up a bit. I don’t remember the last time Scott willing walked into a bar,” he said. 

You laughed fakely along with your friends while Kate comfortingly squeezed your hand under the table. 

You sat and drank with the Wranglers for a while, sneaking subtle glances at Scott every now and then, only to find his attention glued to the shelves of liquor behind the bar or one of his teammates. It wasn’t until the smell of smoke and the taste of beer became a little overwhelming did you slide out of the booth and excused yourself to grab some air outside. 

The nighttime air filled your lungs the second you stepped outside. You leaned against the brick exterior of the bar, gazing out into the quiet street. People passed in and out of the bar, some laughing alongside their friends, others grumbling under their whiskey-tainted breath. You hardly paid them mind, until you felt someone’s eyes on you. For a moment, a slight worry plagued you, until you turned your head and found a familiar face approaching you. 

“Hey,” you greeted Scott with a tight-lipped smile. 

He looked a little uncomfortable, his hair disheveled and uniform wrinkled from the rowdy company of the bar. He let out a breath before he said, “Hi," and joined you against the building. He left a wide gap like you were a little more than strangers but less than anything else. 

“I’m surprised to see you guys here.” 

Scott sighed, somewhere between disgruntled and mocking amusement. “Wasn’t my idea. It’s ruining my reputation as a stick in the mud.” 

You laughed despite yourself, and he met your gaze. “Oh, somebody’s got jokes now?” 

He half smiled, fixing his gaze out on the street. “I’m full of surprises.” A quiet moment passed between you two. In the fresh spring air, there was still a tension that tugged on you. It felt odd, being so close to him without either hurling jabs back and forth in the company of your teammates or kissing him while your hands roamed.

Scott cleared his throat. “You’re sure about, uh, you know, ending this?” The way he asked sounded casual like you weren’t sharing something intimate. 

You nodded until you realized he wasn’t looking at you. “Yeah,” you answered. 

He peeled himself off of the brick wall and turned toward you. A rock settled in your gut; that was why he came outside, to make sure you didn’t have a change of heart. You didn’t know why, exactly, that irritated you. Maybe a stupidly hopeful part of you thought maybe he had changed his mind and was looking for something less casual and more real. But he wasn’t. 

Then he just left, heading back inside and leaving you to blow air from your cheeks. 

The storm had blown in with a vengeance. The town was supposed to be a pit stop on your team’s and other storm chasers' way toward bigger storms developing further east, but it became the hub of a sneaky but violent front. You stumbled out of the truck and into the powerful winds that nearly knocked you up against the door you struggled to shut. 

The Wranglers looked for cover, helping some unprepared stragglers along into the nearby buildings. You made a move to follow them, but you hesitated when you saw one of Storm Par’s trucks parked alongside a sidewalk a little way down the road. One of the newest members rushed in your direction, towards the shelter, but the other person beside the truck didn’t. Scott stood there with his phone at his ear, struggling against the wind to be heard. 

You sucked in a breath before turning around, bee-lining for the building you saw the rest of the Wrangler rush into. But once you reached the doors, pulling them open for a group of people to run inside, you felt the storm grow stronger, the rain running sideways in the wind that was determined to blow over everything in its path. You weren’t sure what exactly compelled you to spare another look over your shoulder at Scott’s truck, but there was a tug on your gut that you couldn’t ignore. And when you did, your heart dropped violently. 

Scott was on the ground, pressed between the sidewalk and a mess of debris. Though it was difficult to see clearly through the rain, you were close enough to notice him struggle as the tornado loomed closer. 

It was out of instinct that you abandoned the safety of the shelter and hurried across the road. Storm chasing had created a bad habit of putting others first in dangerous weather, a need to be helpful in the wake of a disaster. 

You dodged flying debris as you crossed the distance and arrived to find Scott trying to shove a large metal ladder that must’ve come flying off the top of someone’s van. He looked a little dazed, rain in his eyes and hands cut up from where he probably tried to block the blow that came in too quickly. 

You quickly grabbed a rung and started to pull before he groaned in pain. “Shit!” he hissed, blinking away the water from his eyes to clear up his vision enough to notice you. “W-What are you doing?” he yelled above the howl of the wind. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you said quickly, pulling harder despite your slippery hands. The ladder was heavy, and the conditions only made it ten times harder to get it to budge, but between the two of you, you managed to shove it off of Scott. He rolled onto his side, face contorted in pain as he placed a hand on his ribs where the ladder had been pressed against. “Come on, we’ve gotta go!” You pulled him up by the arm, ignoring his groans of protest. 

The second he was standing upright, he stared at you with wide eyes and chest heaving. Your attention fell onto the sky and storm. Not thinking about much other than getting the hell out of the storm’s way, you grabbed Scott by the hand and pulled him toward the building. You moved quickly, despite whatever injuries he possessed, and were almost there when something hurled through the air. Before you could react, duck out of the way, or even attempt to avoid it, the object sliced across your forehead. 

Pain bloomed across your skin, stopping you in your tracks. You brought your hand up to your forehead. For a moment, you thought it was just rain that coated your skin, but when you pulled your hand back, it was red-coated. 

Scott tugged on your hand, his face twisted in a mix of emotions you were too dazed to read. He pulled you the rest of the way to the building. The world was a blur, a mix of colors that blood seeped into, staining your vision and making panic stretch uncomfortably inside your chest. People were gathered near the back wall, far from the windows. Scott pulled you down, his hand pressed firmly against your forehead. 

Glass exploded as the windows shattered. Everyone gasped and pressed themselves impossibly close to the back wall. The pain in your head battled your increasing panic, making it hard to breathe. 

Scott noticed, using his free hand to grip your shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said, voice unsteady. “You’re all right.” But you did feel like it. The world grew blurrier by the minute. You felt your eyes flutter against your will. The cut across your head must’ve been deep. Little black dots spotted your vision, despite your attempt to fight it. Your head dropped, falling into Scott. He kept his hand pressed against your cut and used his other to wrap around you, his own breath panicked as you fell unconscious. 

The lights were too bright when you woke up, groggy and disoriented. With a disgruntled hum, you lulled your head side to side as your eyes fluttered open. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” a voice filled your ears, light and relived. You blinked and Kate stood hovering over you with a small smile on her lips. 

“You gave us a heart attack,” Tyler said. 

“Sorry,” you managed to say, despite the dryness in your throat. “Everyone okay?” 

Kate nodded, patting the top of your hand. “The team’s all right; you were the only one who took a hit.” You wanted to ask about Scott, but Kate must’ve read your mind because she added, “Storm Par was all right too.” 

“Yeah, I think you short-circuited Mr. Robot. I’ve never seen Scott so bend out of shape after you passed out,” Tyler said, making your gut twist oddly. “He said you saved his ass.” 

You tried to sit up, but pain rippled throughout your head, causing you to wince and sink back down. Kate shot Tyler a look as if to say ‘stop talking’ and he listened. “You got a couple of stitches and a concussion. But the doctor said you should be back to feeling like yourself in a week or so.” 

With a sigh, you replied, “Great.” 

A soft knock sounded from the door. Tyler opened it and looked surprised as it swung open to reveal Scott. He looked surprised himself like he wasn’t sure he should be there. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and offered Tyler a look that was different than his usual scowl. 

“What’d you want?” Tyler asked, but Kate quickly rushed to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder, telling him to stand down. 

“Ty, we should go find the doctor.” She turned her head back to you for confirmation that you were okay with Scott visiting, and you nodded. 

Tyler looked confused. “What-” Kate started to drag him out of the room, side-stepping Scott before she gently nudged him inside. She and Tyler disappeared into the hall, leaving you with Scott. He pulled his hand out from behind his back to reveal a small bouquet of flowers. 

“Hi,” you greeted, offering him a small smile. 

He returned it and moved to your bedside. “Hi,” he said. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I’ve been hit in the head,” you answered honestly. There was a light throbbing behind your eyes, dulled by the medication the doctor must’ve given you while you were out. “But it’s not too bad. How are you?” 

“Besides a couple bruises, not in too bad of shape.” Scott pressed his lips together in a thin line, hesitating for a moment. “Mostly just been worried…about you.” 

A warmness filled your chest, and you were too groggy to fight it off. He was worried about you, which you should have brushed off; you had passed out on him, so it wasn’t a crazy idea. But it felt big. 

“I’m okay.” You didn’t know what else you were supposed to say. 

He placed the bouquet of flowers on the little table beside the bed. “These are for you.” 

“They’re pretty. Thank you.” 

For a moment, there was a still tension that pulled between you, like it was waiting for someone to make a tug. You felt your better judgment slip, replaced by the urge to say something you’d probably regret, but Scott beat you to it. 

“Uh, I-I know this is bad timing but if I don’t say something now, I probably won’t,” he started, much to your surprise and confusion. “I know you said you wanted to call this thing,” he pointed between the two of you. “Off. But I don’t.” 

You sighed, “But-” 

“I know,” he cut you off. “You want something real. A relationship. And I don’t. Or…I thought I didn’t. But the more I’ve been thinking about it, I like being with you. I don’t want to…not be with you. I want to be with you more, actually, not just us sleeping together. If you still want something real, then so do I.” 

You blinked, stunned by his sudden confession. The heat spread from your chest, up your neck, and to your face. “Really?” 

“Really,” he said, his lips quirking upwards in a smile that made the fluorescent lights look dim. “If I hadn’t screwed it up too much already.” 

With a quick shake of your head, you returned his grin, and his body shifted in relief. “I like being with you too.” 

“When you’re feeling better, let me take you on a real date, somewhere a hell of a lot nicer than those motels.” His hand ghosted over yours and you quickly intertwined your fingers with his before you pulled him down to your level. 

“You are full of surprises, huh?” you joked, your cheeks hurting from smiling. 

He shrugged. “I told ‘ya.” 

[watchtowerlibrary]

So, you’re not exactly sure why you’re about to start drooling, heart thudding in your chest and pulsing between your legs, as you watch Jesse lift a sledgehammer to pound a wooden pillar into the ground.

Yummy 🤤👀 Don't mind me objectifying this beefcake.

“You alright?” You startle out of your thoughts, tearing your gaze away from your boyfriend continuing to grunt extremely inappropriately, to Tommy sitting on the sidelines while he waited for his turn. He’s watching you with a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips despite the weariness physically weighing on his shoulders.

A dad just knows 😏

Jesse’s protective, always has been, but even moreso in the past several weeks. He says it’s because he knows you and how you’re a little reckless, impulsive, but you know that’s not entirely true.

My first thought was: wait, is she pregnant? 😅

He didn’t have much dating experience besides Dina, who often took the reins in their relationship, so him making an effort to make time for you despite his busy schedule was new to the both of you.

Oh wow, that's actually really touching. To see Jesse make such an effort.

lunch break

pairing: jesse/fem!reader genre: smut smut smut w.c.: 5.5k a/n: the first scene of 2x03 had me blacking out and then i wrote this in two days. this is my first time writing for jesse, pls be gentle and i hope you enjoy because i had so much fun writing this <3 ty for my dear lover for enabling me. you can also imagine either show or game jesse for this!

summary: You've been distracted by your boyfriend all morning. Jesse knows you better than you expected.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, post 2x02 but joel lives (!), established relationship, jesse is sexy and reader is horny for his arms, oral sex (f receiving), brief fingering, unprotected p in v sex (lets pretend birth control exists ok), fluff, no y/n

read below or on ao3 here <3

You’re starting to wonder if you’ve gone insane.

Jackson has been somber for the past several months—mourning all the losses after the walls were breached and focusing on rebuilding. The makeshift hospital was still as busy as ever, and every time word spread that another person had succumbed to their injuries, the weight that seemed to blanket over the town grew heavier, quieter.

Luckily, you hadn’t lost anybody you were particularly close with. Even then, you’re not sure if you would even have the time to mourn them with how hard the council was pushing any and all able-bodied people to help in the rebuild. Your body was sore and hands were covered in blisters as you helped carry logs of wood to the main street.

So, you’re not exactly sure why you’re about to start drooling, heart thudding in your chest and pulsing between your legs, as you watch Jesse lift a sledgehammer to pound a wooden pillar into the ground.

You stop in your tracks, arms aching despite the small bundle of wood you’re carrying, as you stare, absolutely transfixed.

Jesse always ran warm, warmer than you, so despite the chill in the spring air, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that showcased his broad shoulders and thick arms. You watch as his muscles bulge with every lift of the sledgehammer, the prominent veins running along his forearms drawing your attention. The buttons of his shirt were undone, providing you a delicious peak of his chest, as if he was teasing you.

Sweat was already starting to form along his hairline, causing a few strands to start sticking to his skin. His pants were tight, unfairly hugging his hips, his thick thighs straining through the fabric. If you strain your ears hard enough, now able to discern the low cadence of his voice through a crowd, you could detect the quiet grunts with every lift of the sledgehammer.

You blame the fact that you both have been too busy with the repairs and Jesse being added to the council for the way molten heat begins to pool at your core, fingers twitching with the rampant desire to get your hands on him.

The only time you’ve been able to spend with Jesse lately was when he would crawl into your bed late at night, usually when you were already asleep. Sometimes you were able to wake up before he had to leave and would only have time to press your face into his chest, inhaling and memorizing his clean scent. Other times he’d already be gone, leaving a short and concise note but with a crooked little heart next to his name.

So you’re a little sexually frustrated, okay?

“You alright?”

You startle out of your thoughts, tearing your gaze away from your boyfriend continuing to grunt extremely inappropriately, to Tommy sitting on the sidelines while he waited for his turn.

He’s watching you with a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips despite the weariness physically weighing on his shoulders.

Tommy’s nice, always has been, and seemed to be around you more lately after he found out you and Jesse were a thing. You’re not exactly sure why, but you had found yourself spending more time with him and Maria, Ellie, and even Joel. You were starting to feel like you had an actual group of people that cared about you.

His question seems to have caught Jesse’s attention. He stops working, resting the sledgehammer onto the ground and leaning against it, raising an eyebrow at you.

Jesse’s protective, always has been, but even moreso in the past several weeks. He says it’s because he knows you and how you’re a little reckless, impulsive, but you know that’s not entirely true.

You feel heat crawl up your neck at being caught ogling, and you don’t even bother to tiptoe around Tommy like you know other people have been doing after Joel’s near-death experience when you mutter a “shut up” and stalk away.

You hear Tommy laugh. The sound makes you smile, your shoulders loosening up because he’s been so stressed lately with the rebuild and worrying about Joel still in the hospital.

You ignore the weight of Jesse’s gaze digging into your back.

-

You’re unfortunately tasked with clearing out some additional rubble from a nearby building, which means your entire morning is spent with Jesse’s grunting and groaning within earshot as he worked only several feet away.

It’s a cruel form of torture, and you almost drop at least 2 pieces of concrete on your feet because you were too enraptured by the way you could see his muscles shift underneath his shirt.

By the time your group breaks for lunch, you’re shifting uncomfortably due to the wetness gathering in your panties and brushing against your thighs. The ache in your shoulders and hips pales in comparison to the ache in your core as Jesse sidles up next to you silently.

“Ready?” he asks, slightly out of breath and brushing his hair away from his forehead with his wrist. He’s so hot, it’s really unfair.

It was Jesse’s suggestion to take a lunch together whenever you could if he wasn’t busy. Your heart had thumped an erratic and concerning pace when he brought it up, his voice low and tinged with an endearing sort of bashfulness.

It had taken you awhile but you’ve come to find out that Jesse was more affectionate in private than in public. He liked to spend time with you, enjoyed being in your presence and sitting in silence. He didn’t have much dating experience besides Dina, who often took the reins in their relationship, so him making an effort to make time for you despite his busy schedule was new to the both of you.

“Yep,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the rasp in your voice, and steps in time with him as you head to your house only a couple blocks away.

Jesse has only been able to join you for lunch a handful of times, often having to give you a regretful smile before being pulled away for an emergency council meeting or to help another person on the other side of town. You didn’t mind, you knew he was busy, knew that this was what to be expected after he had told you that night that he was talking to Maria about being added to the council.

You admired him and his tenacity for wanting to help the people of Jackson. He was undoubtedly the most responsible person in your age group and it only made sense that he got added since he was friendly, even had a golden boy reputation.

You knew that he couldn’t talk about what happened during their meetings, even to you, and you honestly didn’t have much to talk about besides the fact that your neighbor’s dog slept on your porch last night.

So you two walked in comfortable silence, his bare arm brushing against your sleeve every few paces. Even through your multiple layers, the warmth of him still bled through the sweaters and was doing nothing to quell the building heat underneath your skin. The smell of him and his sweat, mixing with the smoky burning of wood nearby, was starting to make you feel faint.

By the time you two make it to your house, you were one second away from falling to your knees and scrambling to unbuckle his belt to tug his pants down and take him in your mouth.

It’s when the front door closes behind you when Jesse asks “You okay?”

You’re toeing off your boots and tugging off your jacket to throw over the rusty coatrack by the door before making your way to the kitchen, already preoccupied by trying to remember what sandwich ingredients you could scrounge together. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just seemed distracted today.”

You have no idea. “I’m just tired today.”

Jesse hums, and you think you’re off the hook and can focus on rushing to make a sandwich because Tommy does not give you guys enough time for lunch, when he’s suddenly pressing up against you, his large hands resting on your hips and mouth inches from your ear as he mutters “So that’s why you kept staring at me today? Because you were distracted?”

You huff out a laugh, setting down your butter knife, because you’re honestly not surprised. Jesse was possibly the most perceptive person you knew, of course he would notice that you were ogling him all morning. You knew at this point, there was no harm in hiding anymore.

You lean back into his chest, sturdy and warm, as he noses at the nape of your neck. “And what if I was?”

“Just making sure.” And then he’s spinning you around until the edge of the counter digs into the small of your back and pressing his mouth to yours.

He’s gentle, always gentle, his hands skimming up your sides reverently, as if worried you were about to disappear into thin air. His lips are unbearably soft, maybe a little chapped, as you kiss him back and part your lips with a sigh. He tastes like the stale coffee from this morning and it’s the best thing you’ve had all day.

You loop your arms around his broad shoulders, tugging him closer until the hard line of his body was pressed up against yours. You card your fingers through the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck, humming at the sensation of being trapped by his body, and experimentally tug.

Jesse lets out a low groan, muffled against your mouth, and then his large hands slide down to your ass to squeeze once before suddenly lifting you up.

You squeal against his lips, causing him to smile, and your legs instinctually come to wrap around his waist despite already being seated on the counter. The coldness seeping through your jeans shocks you and provides a delicious contrast with Jesse’s heated body against yours.

When you separate from each other, you’re panting into each other’s open mouths. Jesse leans his forehead against yours, hands on your thighs, and from this proximity, you’re mesmerized by the fan of his eyelashes against his cheekbones as he catches his breath and the way his hair tickled your face.

When he opens his eyes to peer into yours, your breath gets stuck in your throat along with something else you can’t name at his hungry gaze, eyes dark and pupils wide.

Jesse has always been able to say so much with just his eyes; a sharp warning that Maria was on her way to give you a stern talking to, warm fondness when you were telling him about what you bartered for today at the market, or primal desire whenever you stripped and crawled into bed with him.

“Are you okay with skipping lunch today?” he asks, voice a low timbre that sends a shiver running down your spine. His hands, rough with the day’s work, knead your thighs through your jeans, and the silent strength in his thick fingers and the flex of the muscles in his biceps has you licking your lips. You could feel the heat of his cock, hard and confined in his jeans, against your inner thigh.

“Are you going to eat something else?”

Jesse rolls his eyes, an exasperated smile tugging at his lips that he tries to hide. It has you beaming. He squeezes your inner thighs a bit harder, as if in a warning. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you love me,” you say, before you could think better of it.

It’s slight, but you can tell he pauses by the way his breath catches and his hands falter. A rush of panic rises up your throat and you say, as nonchalantly as you could, “As long as you sneak me something from the food hall later?”

You hope he can’t tell that you’re holding your breath, nearly praying that he doesn’t point out your slip up.

His eyes soften, causing a sudden weakness in your chest, before he’s reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Deal.”

You give him a shaky smile. You know he sees right through you.

But it doesn’t matter, because he’s leaning in to kiss you again, harder, rougher, as if he can’t find the words he wants to say and lets his desire for you to do the talking for him.

You melt into him, you always do, and when you press your palm against his chest to feel the steady rhythm of his heart, you’ve never felt so safe in your entire life.

“I guess we better hurry up then,” he whispers, giving you a slight smirk, before his hands expertly unbuttons your jeans, tugs down the zipper, and then helps you tug them down all the way off your legs.

You nod rapidly, causing him to chuckle breathily. You reach out for him to grab at his arms, pulling him in to kiss you again.

He obliges, because he always does when you peer up at him with glazed over eyes, as if he’s already fucked you.

You hum against his mouth, the ache in your pussy starting to become unbearable. You’re barely aware of his hands running down your bare thighs, causing goosebumps to rise, before he’s lifting your legs up by the knees to prop your feet up on the counter.

The new position has you spread open and exposed, dimly aware of the way you could feel your panties sticking to your pussy. You’re expecting him to rub his thick fingers alongside your seam through the fabric, coaxing a breathy whimper from your lips, before tugging it aside to thrust a finger inside of your soaking entrance.

You don’t expect him to pull away. You definitely don’t expect him to fall to his knees, face achingly close to your center, while his hands squeeze at the flesh of your thighs before prying them apart.

“Oh,” you exhale, eyes wide, as your hands scramble to the dull edge of the counter as your mind reels at the heady image of Jesse, sweet and courteous, on his knees. His face inches from your pussy.

“Fuck, baby, you’re already so wet,” he whispers, as if in awe. His right hand comes to trace the edge of your panties, a plain baby blue color, while he stares unblinkingly at the definite wet spot at the center.

“I was just kidding, you don’t actually have to—”

“I want to,” he says, and when he looks up at you, your chest aches at the tender affection clear on his face. “Is that okay?”

And it’s not like he hasn’t gone down on you before. In fact, it seems like he tries to eat you out any chance he got, which you were definitely not complaining about. You still shivered when you thought about the first time he ate you out, the first time you ever came from another man’s mouth on you, and how your thighs trembled as you squeezed around his head. You swear you had thought you died and gone to heaven.

Now, however…

“We’ve just had a long morning; you know I sweat a lot…” you trail off. It sounds weak, even to your own ears.

Another exasperated sigh, though this time Jesse doesn’t even bother hiding the fond smile. “You know I don’t care about that.”

But he waits. He stays on his knees, thumbs tracing comforting and distracting circles against your inner thighs, and he just waits. For your permission.

You don’t think your heart can swell any further before it’s bound to burst. “Okay.”

Jesse’s smile grows, making him look utterly sweet and boyish, before leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss on your inner thigh, and then another, and then another.

“Don’t worry,” he mumbles, as his kisses begin moving inwards to your aching cunt.

You exhale unsteadily, thighs already starting to shake from holding this position and the sensation of his mouth on you. The scratch of his slightly chapped lips, the damp kisses he leaves that cool as soon as he moves to the next inch of skin, and his hands that have moved to your thighs and taking some of your weight, has you nearly begging for him to hurry up.

As if he can read your mind, he pauses, his mouth hovering over the crotch of your panties that have undoubtedly melded to your pussy.

“Besides,” Jesse whispers, and the barest brush of his lips against the fabric has you shivering. You resist the urge to card your fingers through his hair to tug his face closer. “I have to take care of my girl, right?”

And then he’s pressing his open mouth to your cunt, deliberately nowhere close to your clit, but the action still wretches a gasp out of you. His mouth and his breath are hot as he takes his time, as if warming you up despite the fact that you two do not have enough time for this.

But he just looks so pretty, you think as you glance down at him. His eyes were shut, savoring you, brow relaxed as if he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world besides between your thighs.

“Jesse..” you sigh, slightly frustrated, as you thread your fingers through his hair to push out of his face. Your hips jolt forward, impatient.

He opens his eyes at that and the heat in his expression has you wanting to scoot forward on the counter until your ass was hanging off, if only to get closer to him. He cocks his eyebrow at you and mutters something suspiciously like you’re lucky that I like you so much.

Before you could question him, he’s parting his lips and then laving his tongue over you, flat and over your clit through the fabric of your panties.

You let out a soft moan, your hand on his hair tightening. The action causes Jesse to groan, muffled between your thighs, and then he’s diving in fully, pressing sloppy wet kisses against your core.

It’s heavenly, especially after not being touched for several weeks, but it’s still not enough as your hips shift forward to chase the feeling of his warm mouth.

His hands on your thighs tighten, another warning, before he’s finally dipping his thumb into the crotch of your panties to pull it aside and exposing your soaking cunt to him.

You don’t even have time to gasp at the rush of cool air against your warm skin before his mouth is on you again, tongue parting your puffy folds as he licks a stripe up your seam.

A shaky moan falls from your lips, sheer ecstasy at finally being touched without some stupid fabric in the way dripping into your veins and making you drop your head back. Your thighs begin to shake from where you still have your feet propped up on the counter, spreading you open further.

Jesse has always taken his time with you, steady and focused and knowing exactly what to do to have you unraveling in his mouth. He gathers the wetness increasingly dripping from your entrance, tasting you and groaning, spurring him on even further to press his face harder against your cunt. His strong nose prods at your clit and it has you choking on a gasp as heat begins to curl up your spine.

He traces along your folds with a firm tongue, the lewd noises from his mouth on you filling your ears, before circling deliberately around your clit.

Your mouth drops open, eyes rolling back, and you blame the fact that it’s been way too long since you’ve had his mouth on you for the way your orgasm rapidly approaches.

“Fuck, Jesse,” you gasp, head lolling over your shoulder as you stare, glassy-eyed, as he meets your gaze from where he’s kneeling in your fucking kitchen with his mouth on your pussy. “I’m—"

He closes his eyes and presses his face further against your core, tongue flicking your clit back and forth at a relentless pace, while one of his hands leaves your thighs to pull your folds apart and circle at your entrance. He immediately pushes it in, easily despite how thick his fingers were due to how slick you were, and the pressure has you letting out a high-pitched whine.

Your thighs were absolutely aching, feet starting to slip from the sweat forming all over your body and getting onto the counter, so you finally let your legs fall forward to place your thighs on his wide shoulders.

Jesse takes it in stride, as he does most things, and begins to suck earnestly at your clit while his finger thrusts into you, working and stretching you open so you were ready for his cock.

The thought of him fucking you, bending you over in the open air of the kitchen, has you squeezing your thighs around Jesse’s head and coming hard into his mouth. You writhe on the counter, hips bucking, but his firm grip on your thigh keeps you steady as he works you through it, tongue gentler as he runs it flat against your clit.

He doesn’t let up, that asshole, when your thighs start twitching around his head from the overstimulation. You let out a strangled noise, brain feeling foggy, as you tug at his hair to pull him up and away from your spent pussy.

When he’s face to face with you, the sight of your slick covering the entire bottom half of his face has you clenching around his finger where he still has it slowly fucking in and out of you. His eyes are tender, if not a little wild, and there’s an unbearably sexy smirk on his swollen lips, his tongue coming out to swipe around his mouth. As if he couldn’t get enough of you.

You’re surging forward, capturing his lips with yours, and the taste of yourself on his tongue has you moaning into his mouth, wrapping your thighs around his hips to pull him closer against you.

He eagerly reciprocates, tongue swiping in your mouth while he ruts against your inner thigh. You could feel the heat of his cock and how hard he was through his jeans, and you’re sure if you looked down, you’d be able to spot where his precum has bled through the fabric.

He begins to trail kisses alongside your jawline until he’s nipping at the spot underneath your ear that has your knees weak. Your own slick on his face, smearing against your cheeks, has your face heating up. “Ready to take my cock, baby?”

“God, yes.” And you’re just about to drop down off the counter so you could bend over and wag your bare ass in his face, before he stops you with a firm hand on your thigh.

Before you could ask him, he’s tugging you forward until your ass was hanging off the counter and begins unbuckling his belt. His eyes find yours, ablaze with hunger, as he rasps in a low voice, “I want to see you.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest. You don’t know what to say, what you could say, so you don’t say anything at all and instead lift the hem of your shirt and off, tossing it haphazardly to the floor.

Jesse groans at that, eyes immediately drawn to your breasts and the way your nipples instantly pebble in the cold air. He mutters an expletive before dropping his head to wrap his plush lips around one, as if he couldn’t help himself.

You let out a soft sigh, arousal already starting to flare up so soon after you came in his mouth, and you bring your arms to wrap around his shoulders, your knees to wrap around his waist. He’s so fucking broad, strong, unbearably handsome, yet his warm mouth on you is gentle as he swirls his tongue around your nipple.

He releases your swollen bud with a lewd pop, sitting up straighter so he could lean his forehead against yours as he shoves his jeans and briefs down until they bunch up around his thighs. His cock springs free, slapping against his black shirt and leaving a trail of sticky precum. Your mouth waters when he wraps a hand around the base of his cock, head flushed a pretty pink that was begging to be tasted.

He swipes the head between your folds, smearing his precum around and mixing with your slick that was steadily leaking out of you, before notching at your entrance and glancing up at you. You give him a slight nod, barely a tilt of your chin, and then he’s pushing into you slowly.

The stretch is immediate, his finger thick but not thick enough, and it’s bordering on too much despite how needy you felt, nearly aching for his cock. Your hands grip his shoulders, his muscles tensing a small comfort as he strains not to immediately fuck into you.

“Fuck,” Jesse groans, once he’s buried all the way inside of you. “Been thinking about this pussy all day.”

You let out a pathetic whine, hoping he would get the message you were trying to convey that you were running out of time but also he needed to hurry up and fuck you already.

“I know, I know,” he mutters, tone nearly condescending enough that had you clenching around him. He huffs a laugh at that, a hand coming to rest at the small of your back where the counter was digging into you and hikes your legs up higher on his hips.

The new angle has his cock pushing in deeper, and the low, drawn-out groan that you emit takes you by surprise.

“There she is,” he coos. He draws his hips back, carefully, and then he’s fucking back into you hard, punching a gasp out of your chest.

He finally starts a steady pace, one that has your body nearly going limp in his arms and your eyes rolling back in your head. The flesh of his skin slapping against yours and the lewd noises of your soaked cunt swallowing his cock with each thrust fills your ears, broken with Jesse’s heavy grunts.

You’re not even aware of the depraved sounds you were making—breathy whines and strangled noises each time he plunges into you, filling you up over and over again.

“Fuck, your pussy feels so,” he grinds into you, barely swiveling his hips yet causing you to gasp wetly as your hand comes down to claw at his chest. “Fucking good.”

He shuffles closer to you, his hips flush against the back of your thighs, and you thank God that you conveniently moved into an old house with low counters as he hovers over you, broad and solid.

Jesse’s hair continuously falls into his eyes, causing him to swipe at it several times in annoyance. When you follow his gaze, you notice with a thrill that he’s staring at where your bodies meet, and you don’t blame him.

The sight of his cock, shiny with your slick, as he continued to pump into you, your walls clenching and unclenching with every thrust, was heady. Filthy, even. It has your skin growing hot, pressure tightly building again despite feeling like you didn’t have the brain capacity to come again.

The hem of his shirt flutters in your eyeline and Jesse swiftly tugs at it until the fabric is bunched around underneath his armpits, exposing his abs and the way they flexed every time his hips snapped against you.

You lick your lips as your hand drops from where you were clutching at the fabric of his shirt to skim along his abs, sensing the way his muscles shifted and tightened.

God, was he sexy. Broad chest, strong arms, and a thick cock that he knew how to use that had you nearly drooling every time he walked by? You’re not sure how you got so fucking lucky.

“Always take my cock so good, baby,” he grunts, eyes meeting yours before dropping down to the way your tits were bouncing with each thrust. His free hand comes to grope at one of your breasts, squeezing and thumbing at your nipple, and drinking in the way you arch your back into his touch as best as you could with his other hand still protecting your back.

“Jesse, fuck—” you gasp as he picks up a desperate pace. You could tell he was close, most likely been on the brink as soon as he pushed himself inside of you and felt your walls clench around him, but he was holding back. Waiting for you.

His hand drops from your breast to snake in between your legs, causing your breath to get caught in your chest. The steady amount of slick dripping from you made his thumb glide easily in between your folds before circling precisely around your clit.

It’s nearly instantaneous the way your body locks up, thighs tightening from where they’re still hitched around his hips and your hand stilling where you were lightly tracing the contours of his stomach. Your mouth falls open, eyes glassy as you meet Jesse’s.

He curses and then he’s maneuvering you closer, grabbing a hold of your thighs and pushing them back until your knees were pressed into your chest. If possible, his cock slides in deeper, the weight of him as he hovers you becoming heavier. It’s all so fucking good, you’re nearly dizzy from how fast that familiar tightness begins to coil in the pit of your stomach.

“I always take care of my girl, don’t I, baby?” he pants into your open mouth, face merely inches away from yours. He’s relentless, fucking you and splitting you open over and over, you have no choice but to take it.

“Yes, yes—” you gasp, mind going foggy. Your arms come up to wrap around the back of your knees, hand grasping weakly at his forearm. You were so fucking close.

“That’s it, come on,” he whispers raggedly. The low timbre of his voice, smooth and breathless, and the intensity of his gaze melts into you. “That’s my pretty girl.”

Something cold and sharp was digging into your lower back, and when you blink down, you notice that Jesse’s jeans were still bunched around his thighs. The sight of him still in his clothes while you were completely bare and exposed on your kitchen counter had squeezing your eyes shut, fire burning underneath your skin.

You cry out as your orgasm finally hits you with a particular hard brush of his thumb against your clit. You feel yourself clench around him, causing him to bite out a curse, as your hips stutter against his and your thighs tremble.

That’s all that Jesse needs as his thrusts falter, turning more erratic before he’s burying his face into your neck, jerking forward and coming into you with a low, broken groan. His cock twitches inside of you, making you let out a whimper as you can feel his hot come fill you up and threaten to drip out of your aching pussy.

Both of you lay there for a moment, catching your breaths, before Jesse tilts his head to brush his lips against your jawline. Your hair flutters with every exhale. “Are you okay?”

You nod, still feeling dazed, as your throat swallows from how dry it was. “Never better.”

“Good.” He snakes his arms around you so you’re sitting up alongside him when he leans back, placing you gently until you were sitting with your bare ass on the counter.

When he steps back, hissing as his softening cock slides out of you, you let out a soft moan at the sudden emptiness. He quickly leans over you to grab a fresh dishrag, tenderly cleaning you up before tossing the rag to the side.

When you blink up at him, there’s a slight flush to his neck, sweat gathering at his hairline. He shakes out his hand that was placed behind you, shielding you from the sharp edge of the countertop, and you feel a surge of affection when you notice the red lines adorning the top of his hand.

You take his hand in yours to rub at, the roughness of his skin contrasting against yours. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Jesse leans in, nosing at your hairline before pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

You flush at the words, feeling a sudden spark of arousal between your thighs.

Jesse feels the way you attempt to clench your thighs together, still on either side of his hips, and he laughs softly. He steps back to get dressed, easily, since he literally only needed to pull up his pants, however you stay rooted to the spot, taking the opportunity to admire him.

When he notices you’re making no move to get dressed, he rolls his eyes fondly. He stretches a hand out to you, helping you jump down from the countertop but also because he knew how weak in the legs you get after he fucks your brains out. And he’s right, as you nearly plant face first onto the floor when your knees buckle as soon as you step down.

Of course he catches you with a hand around your waist, his thick fingers warm against your skin. He tugs you in close, nearly tucking you into his chest, and the fabric of his clothes against your bare skin causes you to shiver. He starts to rub his hand up and down your side, naturally assuming you were cold.

Handsome, strong, protective, and affectionate. You’re going to keep him forever.

“Come on you, I still have to get you something from the mess hall.”

[watchtowerlibrary]

off limits ch1 | jesse x miller!daughter reader

pairing: jesse x miller!daughter reader

summary: as tommy’s daughter and joel’s niece, there is an unspoken rule in jackson that you’re off limits. jesse, someone known for sticking to the rules, breaks this one rule

words: 854 words

warnings: barely there smut

Chapter 1

The early morning sun slips through the gaps in your curtain, scattering warm rays across the room, across the bed. The light catches on the faint scars and toned contours of your lover, painting him in an almost ethereal glow.

You tilt your head back, slightly breathless as you grind your body back and forth. Strong calloused hands grip your waist, guiding your thrusts.

Three sudden knocks on your garage door causes you to halt your movements, your brow furrows in annoyance. A whispered groan escapes from the man tangled in your sheets. “Yeah?” Your voice unsteady and low.

“Just makin’ sure you’re up, you’re patrollin’ with Jesse today. He don’t like tardiness.” Your Dad’s Southern drawl commands from the other side of the door. At the mention of his name, you watch as Jesse lifts his head to the look at the blaring red numbers illuminating from your alarm clock, his hand raking through the mess of his dark hair, his head dropping to the pillow in frustration.

“I’m sure he won’t mind.” You call out, your tone full of mischief as your hands drop to either side of Jesse’s head, caging him in. Your bare breasts brushes against his warm chest as you begin to slightly roll your hips, Jesse still very much hard inside you. You bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning Jesse’s name.

“Get your ass movin’.” Tommy fires back, unimpressed and completely unaware of what is transpiring just behind the wooden door. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ For a moment you wait, listening as your dads footsteps crunch over the snow covered driveway, each step growing fainter.

Jesse shifts beneath you, his hands moving to lift you off him, but you press down firmly on his chest, keeping him in your bed. You press your lips to his, your kiss deepening as you ride him with more urgency than before.

Jesse swings his legs over the edge of the bed, you sit up behind him, still breathless, your fingers faintly ghost over the red scratches across his shoulder blades, vivid against his pale skin. Jesse glances over his shoulder at you, an amused glint in his dark eyes. “Admiring your handiwork?”

You inch even closer until you’re pressing your breasts against the warmth of his back, your arms loosely resting against his torso. Resting your chin on his shoulder, “You know, I seem to recall you enjoying it last night.”

“Oh, I very much enjoyed it.” He turns to face you, his hand comes up to cradle your face as he places his lips against yours in a quick kiss. “We have to get moving.”

You sigh and lovingly roll your eyes at your lover. Jesse has always been a stickler for following the rules, always the one who shows up early, triple checking every route before delegating patrols. Except when it came to being with you. With you, he became a little bit more reckless, a little more free.

Being Tommy’s daughter and Joel’s niece made you off limits, not just to Jesse, but to everyone. If there was an unspoken rule within Jackson, that was it.

Out of the two of you, Jesse had the most to lose. He had earned his place beside Tommy through years of hard work, commitment and dedication to the community of Jackson. He had finally gained a seat on the council, a seat elected by the community.

That’s why you had resorted to sneaking around, the late nights, early mornings, brief glances when they thought no one was looking. All to keep Jesse’s integrity intact.

You glance at the Korean man as you step into your jeans, his eyes already on you, watching you unashamedly. “Stop staring.” A smile tugs on the corner of your lips. “Can’t help it.” Jesse replies, his own smile, the one solely reserved for you etched on his face.

You both dress quickly with almost military precision. No fumbling, no stalling, just practice that came with years of survival.

Both you and Jesse walk to the window at the back of your garage. You ease the frosted glass open, careful and quiet. Jesse braces himself on the frame, one leg already over the sill. His glances back at you one last time. “I’ll see you out there.”

You gently cup his cheek, eyes full of affection. He leans in, brushing one final kiss on your lips, then disappears into the cold morning.

Pulling your jacket over your shoulders, you step out of the garage, the bite of the cold December air not the only thing to send chills through your body.

Maria stands on the patio of the main house, arms tightly crossed, her gaze flicking between you and Jesse, who’s been caught red handed, in the act of slipping away. Neither of you move.

You watch as Maria gently closes the door behind her, before slowly descending down the patio stairs. She stops just a few feet away from the both of you, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the sight before her. She raises an eyebrow, silently gauging both of your reactions. “You’re both lucky it was me… if it was Tommy…”

[watchtowerlibrary]

So you try to shove down the stirring of emotion you get when you notice the way Jesse glances at you from across the table, eyebrows drawn together like he’s not quite sure what to think of you just yet. You ignore the expanse of skin that would reveal itself every time he stretched, the flex of muscles evident even through his shirt.

Damn, these glances 😏 What is it with Jesse wearing those Captain America shirts, with a size too small? 🤣

Then she says something that has the hair on the back of your neck raise. “Jesse said he was looking forward to seeing you there, but, oh well.”

I see your meddling Dina 🧐

He made sure to check up on you at the end of the day, always giving you the last bite of his bread during dinner, and always offering to walk you home after a night out at the bar or even from Ellie’s.

Oh my, what kind of sweetheart is Jesse? 🥰

“The question was,” Dina whispers, nearly conspiratorially and leaning into the table. You and the rest of the table unconsciously follow. “When was the last time you had sex?” Suddenly, Jesse splutters out his drink, spraying the table and all of your hands. Ellie immediately yelps in disgust, swiping her hands on her jeans.

“Don’t tell me… you’re not a virgin, are you?” Blood rushes through your ears, dulling the music and the way Jesse hisses at Dina, most likely a warning. You can’t even be bothered to wonder why he would do that, react like that.

Would you look at that ... 😏 It looks like Jesse and Dina have talked about Reader.

“You know, Jesse’s a great kisser.” It doesn’t process at first, your ears still ringing from anxiety, but then you hear Jesse say a very dumbfounded “What the fuck, Dina?”.

Why was his reaction so hilarious? 🤣

You’re struck with how handsome he looks like this, his hair ruffling from the faint breeze and boyish despite how much more experienced he was than you. The way Jesse’s eyes flits to your lips and then back up has you feeling dazed like you had knocked back five drinks.

Jesse's so cute 💕 I can't take it!

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he whispers against your neck. “Whatever you want.”

The way I would turn feral and wouldn't be able to restrain myself 😅🫠

You try to sit up, your hands pressing on his chest, but the white-hot pleasure running through your veins has you feeling weak and your arms give out immediately. You knew you were getting close, can feel it in the throbbing of your cunt, and you didn’t want it to be over yet. You wanted to see him. “Oh, just like that,” he moans, his thrusts faltering and turning sloppy from how tight your pussy was clenching around him. “That’s my perfect girl.”

Someone's getting pussy-drunk already. I love it 🤪😅

can i be yours?

pairing: jesse/fem!reader genre: fluff + smut w.c.: 10k a/n: i got so carried away with this one but consider it a fix it fic <3

summary: You've been living in Jackson for almost a year, you think you're in love with your best friend, and you're a virgin. Dina meddles.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, friends to lovers, slow burn?, virgin!reader, kinda oblivious!reader, soft!jesse, dellie being nosy, past dina/jesse, oral (f receiving), loss of virginity/first time, p in v, riding, jesse practicing his pull out game, mentions of alcohol, no y/n

read below or on ao3 here <3

You didn’t fit in yet.

You had only arrived at Jackson about 3 months ago, hiding behind a group of 6 people that took pity on you at least 100 miles ago with nothing but a rusty knife and the tattered clothes on your back.

The people of Jackson were kind, hospitable. They fed your entire group and kept you warm. It was frightening—being around so many new different people, in a town that you assumed looked too similar to how it was before the outbreak.

Now that the group was safe, surrounded by towering walls and hot food, it gradually disbanded. You found yourself feeling strangely hollow sitting at a table all by yourself in the food hall, the soup in front of you almost too warm and too good, or in your house, because all of the people you came with grouped off and found others they preferred to stay with.

Similarly to how you were surviving on the outskirts of the state of Wyoming, you were all alone again.

It was almost comforting, strangely reassuring, as you silently agreed to whatever tasks were available by the time you rolled out of bed just after sunrise. The town was already bustling with energy, people shouting good mornings to each other, and it was almost like there was nothing horrifically disturbing happening outside of these walls.

You got tasked with clearing out the stables one sunny day. You didn’t mind—you loved animals. They never judged you and they actually craved to be in your presence. It was nice to be wanted for once.

You were told to ask for a Jesse. When you arrived, there was already a group of three other people around your age; two girls and a guy.

The two girls were huddled around an auburn horse that was nuzzling into their open palms, giggling at the tickling whiskers. You watched as their shoulders bumped together, trying to ignore the ache you felt bloom in your chest at the mere sight of them.

“Hey,” the boy calls out to you, voice deeper and smoother than you expected, and approaches you. “Did Maria send you?”

He was tall, all broad shoulders and thick arms. He was pretty, in a boyish way, with sparkling brown eyes and a polite smile. The cold winter air bit at his face, causing his cheeks to look a bit pink.

You nodded, the instructions that Maria had left you with dying in your throat. He must have been Jesse.

“Dina, Ellie, come on. Let’s get started.” Jesse doesn’t even bother waiting for them, or for you, and makes his way to the storage closet around the corner.

You’ve seen the three of them around Jackson before. Either huddled together in the corner of the mess hall or laughing and shoving at each other when you were walking through the main street. Everyone in town seemed to step aside for them, whispering amongst themselves about Ellie and the rugged man she came with several years ago. You never caught what it was about, but you didn’t really care.

Dina greets you with a warm smile while Ellie gives what you can only describe as a grimace as they pass by.

The rest of the morning is spent in a similar manner. The three of them talk, argue, bicker, and you’re off to the sidelines. You feel awkward, like an outsider. There’s an obvious sense of comfort the three of them bring each other, and you don’t want to ruin that.

And yet, when Dina makes a joke at Jesse’s expense, she looks at you. When you couldn’t find the farrier tools, Ellie appeared at your side and was able to dig them out behind a pair of old boots for you. When you found yourself actively listening to a long-winded story Ellie was telling about a comic book series that she loved, you found Jesse was blatantly staring at you out of the corner of your eye.

When Dina invited you to have dinner with them by time you’ve finished, you found yourself agreeing.

But then you kept getting invited—most of the time by Dina with a friendly shoulder bump, sometimes by Ellie with a nervousness that you found almost endearing, and occasionally by Jesse, wearing that polite smile that eventually continued to thaw away.

The next several months pass like that.

You would wake up alone in your house that was much too large for one person. You would go do your job for that day, either helping out at the store or at the garden, have your meals with the three people that you have suddenly realized you considered friends, and then home again.

You found yourself looking forward to mealtimes, even if you weren’t contributing much to the conversation. They were used to it by now and thankfully didn’t mind. Besides, watching the three of them bicker with each other about the most inane topics was entertaining enough.

You found that ache in your chest slowly dissipating. You were smiling more, talking more, and whenever you laughed, you could’ve sworn the three of them would make eye contact with each other as if having a silent conversation you weren’t privy to.

But you didn’t care. How could you care about what they were thinking when you found yourself looking forward to the day, contributing to the community, and hopeful that you’ll be ready to go out on a patrol.

And then there was Jesse.

You weren’t blind—you and the rest of the girls in Jackson knew he was handsome. Anyone could have told you about the strong cut of his jawline or the broad width of his shoulders as he helped with the construction of the town. He was quiet, not as quiet as you, but appeared to be just as content as you to watch Dina and Ellie squabble.

Often times he would join the conversation, and that’s when you noticed the strange history between him and Dina, though you know they tried to hide it.

So you try to shove down the stirring of emotion you get when you notice the way Jesse glances at you from across the table, eyebrows drawn together like he’s not quite sure what to think of you just yet. You ignore the way his hands would dwarf his handgun while cleaning it when you were hanging out in Ellie’s room and the expanse of skin that would reveal itself every time he stretched, the flex of muscles evident even through his shirt.

It's almost summer when you get invited out to the Tipsy Bison for a couple of drinks.

You usually prefer not to step foot in the dingy bar, instead much rather enjoying laying out on your couch to work through the dusty novels on your bookshelf. And you were about to decline Dina’s offer, citing that exact reason, but then she says something that has the hair on the back of your neck raise.

“Jesse said he was looking forward to seeing you there, but, oh well.”

And that’s how you found yourself huddled in a booth, Jesse brushing up against your left side and Ellie on the other.

It was absolutely packed tonight due to an event that you didn’t even realize the bar even had the capacity to hold. The rancid smell of moonshine and grilled meats permeated through the air, while the live band playing off-key and the animated chatter of the rest of the patrons filled your ears.

The rest of them were in the middle of gossiping, something juicy happening on someone else’s patrol, but you couldn’t even bother to pretend you were paying attention. You were staring holes at the glass of water in front of you, sweating from the bar’s humidity, and trying and failing to not think about what Dina meant when she said that Jesse was wanting you here.

So far, he hadn’t given you any special indication he was waiting for you when you arrived. He just gave you that warm and genuine smile that has been inexplicably making your chest hurt more and more, and stepped out of the booth so you could sit inside rather than out on the edge. Because he knew you didn’t like the chance that someone could bump into you during the night.

You and Jesse were friends, good friends even. He made sure to check up on you at the end of the day, always giving you the last bite of his bread during dinner, and always offering to walk you home after a night out at the bar or even from Ellie’s.

And again, there was that… thing he had with Dina. You could’ve sworn you saw them talking in private the other day, facial expressions open and hopeful. They were clearly dating, or talking, so you weren’t sure why they hadn’t told you yet. Not like it was technically any of your business.

You’re suddenly aware of a lull in the conversation and multiple pairs of eyes on you.

When you glance up from where you were staring at a droplet of water racing down the side of your glass, your assumption was correct. Dina and Ellie were watching you with equal amounts of concern and amusement dancing in their eyes while Jesse was making his way back from the bar with a new drink in hand.

You blink, not even noticing that Jesse had gotten up. “What?”

Ellie’s mouth twists, as if trying to hold back a laugh. “We asked you a question.”

“Sorry, I was thinking about something else.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue, you thought as you tried and failed to glance at Jesse out of the corner of your eye as he settled in next to you while taking a sip from his drink. “What was the question?”

“The question was,” Dina whispers, nearly conspiratorially and leaning into the table. You and the rest of the table unconsciously follow. “When was the last time you had sex?”

Suddenly, Jesse splutters out his drink, spraying the table and all of your hands. Ellie immediately yelps in disgust, swiping her hands on her jeans, while a burning heat crawls up your neck.

“What?” You hiss, yet it embarrassingly comes out like a squeak.

Jesse’s coughing, the corners of his eyes tearing, while Ellie has to stand and lean across the table to try and slap him on the back. It all would’ve been comical if it weren’t for the lazy eyebrow Dina raises and the smirk she’s wearing, as if she can see right through you.

“Don’t tell me… you’re not a virgin, are you?”

Blood rushes through your ears, dulling the music and the way Jesse hisses at Dina, most likely a warning. You can’t even be bothered to wonder why he would do that, react like that, because the hot flare of embarrassment blooms in your chest and up to your face. Your nails dig into your palms from how hard you’re clenching your fists underneath the table and your mouth gapes, opening and closing like a fish.

“Uhm,” is all you can manage out.

You know it’s nothing you technically should be embarrassed about—it was the end of the world. But it’s also been the end of the world for over 20 years now, and you’ve been living in Jackson for almost a year so you’re not sure if that’s an excuse anymore.

You’ve heard the other girls in the town gossiping, talking about sex so casually it was as if they were talking about the weather. And it’s not like you were a complete prude—you’ve seen the dirty magazines that were passed around in the groups you had to join for survival, the noises people would make when they thought everybody else was asleep. Only recently did you start experimenting with your own body, fingers silently dipping underneath your panties and adamantly trying not to think about soft brown eyes and thick biceps.

“You’ve had your first kiss at least, right?” Ellie looks concerned, eyebrows pinching together.

“Of course I have,” you mutter, avoiding everyone else’s eyes. You fail to mention that it only happened as recently as last year and with a boy who barely pressed his mouth to yours, and then had mysteriously disappeared the next day.

There’s silence. When you lift your head, the three of them are still watching you, waiting. They’re being nice, considerate, letting you open up as much as you want to. They’ve been so patient and welcoming, you don’t feel like it’s a chore at all when you heave a sigh, shoulders slumping forward as your eyes fixate on an old scratch on the table. “Yes, I’m a virgin. It’s kind of hard when the world is ending to find the right person.”

It’s a poor attempt at a joke, but you can hear the lack of conviction in your own voice. No one laughs. In fact, no one says anything for several seconds, long enough where you feel your ears start to burn.

You’re wondering why no one is fucking saying anything, not budging from where you’re staring a hole into the table, when Dina seems to take pity on you.

“You know, Jesse’s a great kisser.”

It doesn’t process at first, your ears still ringing from anxiety, but then you hear Jesse say a very dumbfounded “What the fuck, Dina,” and then it’s like time begins moving again. The music rushes through you like someone just raised the volume, you’re suddenly aware of how fast your heart is pounding, and you can feel Jesse’s warm thigh pressed up against yours underneath the table.

You suddenly feel like you’re being excluded from some inside joke as you watch confusedly as Jesse and Dina argue over the table. He looks embarrassed, a flush decorating his neck that you’re starting to wonder if it was due to the alcohol or something else, while Dina is wearing a poorly hidden smirk.

Because why would Dina bring up the fact that Jesse was a great kisser when they were dating? It’s not like she was the type to brag or rub it in people’s faces. In fact, she’s never even told you that they were dating in the first place besides it being a well-known fact throughout the town.

Maria suddenly appears to discuss a patrol-related issue with Jesse, and then it’s like nothing ever happened. The rest of them continue casual conversation as if Dina didn’t drop a nuclear bomb into your brain.

You try not to ruminate over it, not wanting to make the night more awkward than you felt like it already was. You attempt to participate with the group shenanigans and gossip, but it all feels stilted.

By the time you guys call it a night, citing an early patrol for some of them, you’ve come to terms with the fact that Dina had said that because she had already had too many drinks and was just making a poor attempt at flirting.

“You ready?” Jesse asks, throwing his coat over his arm to carry. You ignore the way you can see the flex in his arms as he leans against the booth. He’s stopped asking you whether he can walk you home or not, knowing that you would politely decline anyway, and has just decided for himself that he would whenever he could.

You nod wordlessly, tamping down at the fluttering in your stomach.

The both of you say bye to Dina and Ellie outside the bar. You watch with a slight frown when Dina whispers something in Jesse’s ear, causing him to hiss at her again and elbow her in shoulder. She laughs, loud and full of delight, and you manage to tear your eyes away at something that was clearly a private moment between them.

You were happy it was almost summer—warm enough where the snow has long since melted,  but still a refreshing coolness in the air as you and Jesse walk side by side. The air smelled crisp, the smell of a bonfire starting to become familiar and comforting, and you were looking forward to the summer heat after months of snow.

Despite the late hour, there were still people milling around Jackson, coming to and from the bar or just huddling around a group to joke around. You wonder if this was what it was like before the outbreak—people able to just stand outside without worrying about being heard by clickers or attacked by raiders.

Jesse’s arm continues to brush against yours with every step, the heat from his body nearly burning you from the inside out with every second of silence the passes.

It’s always nice to spend time with Jesse, even if it was only for the five-minute walk to the main street to your house. You’re content to have him all to yourself, even if it was only because your house was along the same route to his. He usually doesn’t bother talking to fill up the silence and you don’t mind, the sounds of your steady breathing and the noises of Jackson being enough.

Except today.

“So,” Jesse says suddenly, nearly causing you to jump. “You seeing anyone?”

The question almost stops you in your tracks, but instead you trip over your feet and nearly fall flat on your face.

His hands reach out, as if to catch you, but you’re able to stabilize yourself before letting out an incredulous laugh, head whipping around to face him. “Are you serious?”

To his credit, he looks embarrassed, looking off to the side and setting his shoulders. He’s been embarrassed a lot tonight. “What? I’m just curious.”

You take his word and assume that he’s right. He’s just being curious, or maybe even a bit protective, but there’s an annoying nagging feeling at the back of your brain that says otherwise. “I think you would notice if I was dating someone since you guys are my only friends.”

You’re grateful that Jesse doesn’t wince like anybody else would. Instead, he laughs, shoulders dropping as if in relief. The sound makes something warm settle in your chest. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t lying about being a virgin.”

The comment makes you flush, the near crudeness making your heart skip a beat. You try not to let it show, but you don’t think you do a very good job with the way Jesse tilts his chin to look at you. His gaze is dark, sending a strange shiver down your spine.

“I’ve barely even had my first kiss, I don’t think you need to worry about that,” and then you’re desperately rushing to change the subject, suddenly able to sense his curiosity. “Well, what about you? Are you and Dina still dating?”

For a moment, Jesse doesn’t say anything, and you start to think that you’ve overstepped a boundary. It makes sense since neither of them have even confirmed they were dating in the first place.

And then he’s chuckling, a low sound that doesn’t help the sharp desire crawling up your throat. “No,” he says. “Dina and I aren’t together.”

You hum, partly because you weren’t quite sure how to respond without giving away the sudden relief you felt but also partly because you’ve made it to your front porch. The stairs creak with every step and you’re glad that you had remembered to turn the porch light on, not confident that you would be able to have steady legs with Jesse at your side.

If him and Dina weren’t dating, what has all the whispering and nudging been about?

Both of you stop in front of the door, quiet besides your soft breaths. It’s awkward, or maybe it feels awkward to you and it’s all in your head, because you don’t think Jesse and the word awkward can even exist in the same sentence.

And yet, as you stand on your front porch to your too-big house, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Jesse like this. A pretty tinge of pink plastered on his neck, thick fingers wringing together, shoulders tense as he shifts in place.

You’re struck with how handsome he looks like this, his hair ruffling from the faint breeze and boyish despite how much more experienced he was then you in probably all aspects—within the community, combat, and even in relationships, romantic or otherwise.

You’re not sure where you get the surge of confidence from, feeling spectacularly sober, but the way Jesse’s eyes flits to your lips and then back up has you feeling dazed like you had knocked back five drinks.

“Do you want to come inside and help me?”

You know you don’t have to clarify about what when Jesse’s eyes widen, lips parting, before he nods.

As you open the front door, breaths unsteady and hands nearly shaking, you wonder if he could somehow hear the concerningly erratic rate your heart was racing at.

The stale scent of dust and the fire you had burning last night immediately envelops you as you both toe off your shoes. The house was sparsely furnished since you were the only person living in it; an old couch with a cracked coffee table in the living room, a wobbly dining table with only one mismatched chair, and a worn mattress upstairs. There were a couple of bookshelves filled with the dusty novels you've been working on and random knickknacks that you hadn't had the heart to toss out.

The house is still unfamiliar to you, not quite a home yet, so you feel a strange sense of anticipation as you turn to face Jesse, your socks sliding against the hardwood.

You hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on, so the only way you were able to see was due to the street lamps bleeding through your windows and casting the empty living room with a warm glow.

You clearly hadn’t thought this through, not sure what to say or what to do next, and felt suddenly inadequate.

Because what if you do everything wrong and mess it up somehow? Or worse, you don’t even get that far and Jesse changes his mind, not finding you desirable in the same way you find him and avoids you around Jackson for the rest of your life?

Your racing thoughts come to a startingly quick stop at the brush of Jesse’s hand against your cheek, soft and warm. You meet his eyes from where you were staring at your feet, and you find yourself unconsciously holding your breath when you notice how close he suddenly was.

He’s unbearably gentle as he cradles your cheek, your jaw, as if you were a skittish animal. You catch a glimpse of the softness in his brown eyes, honeyed from the light filtering in from the street. His voice is low, raspy in a way that had lightning shoot up your spine, when he asks “Can I kiss you?”

You nod, barely a tilt of your chin, and then he’s leaning in and finally pressing his mouth to yours.

His lips were soft, just like you predicted, and so much better than the boy you had kissed last year. It’s clear Jesse knows what he’s doing too, with the way his large hand tilts your head to kiss you better, his other hand coming up to land on your hip.

He tastes like his drink he had at the bar, spicy and like caramel, incredibly intoxicating and enough for you to place your palms on his sturdy chest. You resist the urge to grab him by the collar and tug him closer.

When he pulls away and you open your eyes, not even realizing you had shut them in the first place, he’s watching you with an expression so fond it steals the breath from your lungs.

“How was that?” he asks, a nervous smile tugging at his lips and drawing your attention to them.

You could feel the erratic thumping of his heart underneath your palm, nearly matching yours, and you’re starting to realize that maybe your feelings weren’t all completely one-sided.

“I think I’m going to need more practice,” you attempt to joke, however the breathiness in your voice gives you away.

He smiles then. “I guess I can’t say no to that.”

You feel less awkward when he kisses you this time, exhilarated at the heady sensation of his mouth against yours, and you’re not even aware you’re stepping in closer into his embrace until your body is pressed up against his.

He hums, his hand tightening on your hip and tugging you even closer, and the sudden onslaught of pleasure that thrums through you when his muscular thigh settles against your core has you gasping in his mouth.

And it’s like a dam breaks. His hand leaves your jaw to grab at your hips, tugging you until your back was pressed up against the wall. He immediately delves into your mouth, deepening the kiss, and the feeling of his tongue lightly brushing against yours was new but not unwelcome. In fact, you fist at the fabric of his sweater, pulling you into him so his chest was pressed against yours.

By the time he pulls away, you’re gasping for air but following his mouth for more. His head dips to press tenderly along your jawline and then up to nip at your earlobe.

It’s nearly ticklish with his warm breaths and his hair brushing against your face, but you can’t help the whimper that escapes when he starts pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. A familiar coil of heat starts at the pit of your stomach, only intensifying with each brush of Jesse’s clothed thigh in between yours.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he whispers against your neck. “Whatever you want.”

It’s sweet, and so earnestly like him to make sure that you were comfortable that it makes you smile.

You don’t think you’ve ever trusted anyone more than you trusted Jesse. The few times that you went on a practice patrol with him, just barely on the outskirts of town, you knew you were safe. He always treated you with kindness, more than you ever deserved, and you knew this was no exception.

“Can we go upstairs?”

He presses one last kiss on your bare shoulder, the collar of your shirt skewed, and pulls back to lean his forehead against yours, eyes squeezing shut as if he needed a second to breathe.

When he opens his eyes, arousal runs hot through you when you notice the way his pupils were blown and nearly swallowing the honey brown of his eyes. Lips parted with heavy breaths, he searches your gaze.

You’re not sure what he finds or what he was looking for, but he swallows and nods. “Okay.”

When he steps away, leaving your body significantly colder than before, you take a hold of his hand to intertwine your fingers with his to pull him upstairs and into your bedroom. You think you notice him try to hide a smile.

If your living room was sparse, your bedroom was even worse—an old twin bed tucked in the corner, an empty desk, and all of your clothes spilling out of your backpack instead of hung up in the empty closet. Even though it’s been several months since you’ve been in Jackson, you weren’t quite ready to hang your clothes up.

If Jesse notices, he doesn’t say anything, instead crowding against you with large hands on your hips until the back of your knees collide against the edge of the bed. He captures your giggle with a chaste kiss, and then another, and tugs you close until you were flushed against him.

You feel him fidget with the hem of your shirt and it causes a sudden spike of anxiety in your stomach, overpowering the steady hum of arousal.

Jesse must notice because he pulls back, pausing. “Is this okay?”

Now you were crossing into unknown territory, but rather than being scared, the tenderness in Jesse’s eyes did nothing but comfort you, your nervousness slowly ebbing away.

You nod and move your hands to grasp at the edge of his shirt, his fingers still ghosting over the hem of your sweater. “You first.”

He huffs a laugh at that, rolling his eyes fondly, and then lifts his shirt off to throw in the far corner of your room.

Any words you were going to say die in your throat. You knew Jesse was in shape, evident by how often he was called on for construction duty, but seeing it in person with no clothes and in the privacy of your bedroom was a whole different story.

Fair skin riddled with scars dusting over his chest and his stomach, the muscles of his abdomen jumping out at you. Before you could stop yourself, you brush your fingers across his chest to trace a predominant scar before trailing down. You watch, entranced, as he shivers, stomach tensing and goosebumps rising along his skin.

He sucks in a sharp breath, breaking you out of your reverie, and when you glance up at him, he looks nearly dazed, eyes wide and searching.

When you lift the hem of your shirt off and over your head, you jump at his hands suddenly coming to run along your ribcage, fingers brushing against the stiff underwire of your old bra. He deftly unclasps it, letting it fall away, as he mutters a curse under his breath at the sight of your breasts.

“On the bed,” he rasps, eyes still fixated on your chest.

It makes you want to giggle, maybe preen a little, because he’s being such a boy, but then he steps away to unbuckle his belt and you spot the noticeable bulge pressing through the crotch of his jeans. Your breath stutters, fingers twitching with curiosity, before eventually obeying and climbing up your bed until you were laying with your head on your flat pillow.

He’s on you a moment later, crawling up the length of your body until he’s hovering over you. His arms are on either side of your head, his warm breath fanning over your face. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, finally allowing yourself to run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He makes a noise, almost akin to a purr, and nudges his nose against yours, causing a grin to form on your face.

He studies you for a moment, eyes wide as if in awe despite the clear arousal swimming in them. He reaches up to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind your ear, the pad of his finger brushing along your cheekbone. The action sends your heart flipping in your chest.

“You know this is more than me doing you a favor, right?” he whispers, as if worried that speaking any louder would break the daze you felt.

If possible, your heart nearly seizes. You had your suspicions, having difficulty justifying the plain affection Jesse wore as soon as he stepped through your doorway. It explained the deliberate way he sought you out in the food hall or how he seemed to always find you when you were on your way back from the store, silently falling in step with you.

It certainly explained the now obvious way Dina was trying to set you two up.

The revelation has you grinning, fondness for the friends you’ve made here in your new home fluttering in your stomach. Maybe Jackson wasn’t too bad after all.

Jesse’s brows furrow in confusion, and before he can climb off of you thinking you were hesitating, you tug at his hair. A thrill runs up your spine at the way his eyes flutter shut, a rough groan tumbling out of his mouth that sends molten arousal between your thighs before you say, “I know.”

You tug him down to kiss you, this time your lips parting easily as if to convey just how sure you were.

You think he can tell, knows, by the way he hums into your mouth, tongue brushing against yours briefly before making his way down your jaw again, your neck. His warm breaths and the way his teeth skims along the column of your throat, the dip of your collarbone, has you feeling dizzy and distantly wondering if he’ll leave a mark if you ask for it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, muffled against the base of your throat, the low hum of his voice causing you to press your thighs together. His hands splay along your sides, thumbs brushing along the underside of your breasts. “You’re so pretty.”

His words warm you from the inside out despite the way you want to immediately shake your head and adamantly deny it. He doesn’t give you the chance to before he’s kneading your breasts, groaning under his breath again, and then dipping his head to wrap his plush lips around your nipple.

A broken gasp escapes you as you arch your back to push your chest further against him. The ache between your thighs flares further as the hard heat of his cock straining his jeans presses against your inner thigh. He swirls his tongue around the nub before flicking it with the tip before moving to your other breast and giving it the same amount of meticulous attention.

“Jesse…” you breath, mind muddled with the amount of pleasure humming through your veins. You’re not sure what you’re trying to tell him, whether to keep going because it feels so good or to stop because you’ve only just started but it feels like he’s been touching you for hours.

He pulls away with a lewd pop. “What is it, baby?” he murmurs, his lips faintly brushing against your nipple and causing you to whine. “Use your words, tell me how you feel.”

The pet name nearly sends you into a heart attack. Your hands move to grab onto his broad shoulders, the firmness of him somewhat grounding and giving you enough strength to answer him. “Feels good…”

“Yeah,” Jesse whispers before pressing a brief open-mouthed kiss to your nipple that has you sharply exhaling. “I always want to make you feel good.”

He kisses down your stomach, the warmth of his hands following, and then his lips stop at the waistband of your jeans. He glances up at you then, pretty brown eyes wide, and you’re not sure how you suddenly found yourself in your shitty bed with your best friend peering up at you between your thighs but you’re certainly not complaining.

“You don’t have to…” you whisper, a sharp edge of insecurity digging into your chest again. You’ve never had someone go down on you before.

He presses a chaste kiss to the skin right below your navel, sincerity dripping from his voice as he says “Of course I want to.”

But he’s still gentle, cautious as if you were on the verge of running out of the room, as he unbuttons your jeans and slides them and your panties off. You balk at the obvious spot of wetness in the crotch of them, nearly sticking to your pussy, but Jesse doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it spurs him on even further, watching the way your slick leaves behind a string of your arousal.

And then he’s laying in between your legs, head perfectly framed between your thighs and mouth so achingly close to your core. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your pussy, your inner thighs, and a whine threatens to come out of your throat at the way his hands dig into them.

“Just tell me if there’s anything you don’t like, okay?” He’s staring at your pussy, the way your puffy folds glisten even in the darkness of your room, but eventually peers up at you for your answer.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and shakily nod. Jesse gives you a grin so nonchalant, carefree, as if he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world except for in between your legs.

He starts by kissing your inner thighs, open-mouthed and gentle, and it already has you slightly arching your back. Your hand reaches out to take a hold of his where he has it wrapped around your thigh. The immediate way he threads your fingers together over your lower stomach has your heart threatening to burst.

You know he’s not trying to tease you, most likely wanting to take his time with you, but fuck if you aren’t impatient, aching like you’ve been teetering on the edge all day.

He spares you, most likely just as impatient, and leans in to slowly swipe his flattened tongue up your seam and against your clit.

Your reaction is immediate—a shiver running through you and your mouth falling open as a low sound comes out of you. Your elbows give out, your head falling back onto your pillow.

That must have been what Jesse was waiting for because his grip on your thigh tightens and then he’s delving in, deliberately parting your folds with his tongue to gather your wetness and tasting you. He groans, the sound muffled in between your thighs, as he dips his tongue briefly in your entrance before coming up to circle around your clit.

It feels like fucking heaven and you’re not sure how you’re going to go about your day, your life, without the feeling of Jesse taking his time with you between your thighs imprinted in your brain. The warmth of his wet mouth, the eagerness and expertise of his tongue, and the way he’s pressing his face into you, like he can’t get enough of you, has you lightheaded.

He’s slow, unhurried, but you can tell he’s holding back from immediately fucking you with his tongue, eating you like he was a man starved. He’s trying to make it good for you, and he was, but the thought of him ravenously devouring your pussy until he had to hold you down by your hips to take it has you bucking your hips and whimpering into the open air.

Jesse makes an approving noise against your cunt, the vibrations sending heat curling up your spine, and then he’s trailing the tip of his tongue through your folds before flicking against your clit.

It feels like he just started, but already you feel the unfamiliar coil of your orgasm forming at the pit of your stomach. It’s been nearly months since you had your first orgasm, wretched out of you in your half-asleep daze with your blankets wrapped around your thighs and pressing against your pussy, and the way you were throbbing like how it was then has you breathless and dizzy.

“Jesse,” you gasp, eyes squeezed shut and your grip on his hand tightening. Your hips jerk up, chasing the heat and expertise of his mouth, and he just lets you. “I think I’m—”

His resolve fractures, because he doesn’t hold back as he essentially makes out with your needy pussy—suckling onto your clit before leaning down to fuck you with his pointed tongue, his hand that was gripping your thigh coming to rub firm circles around your clit, slick with the combined wetness of your arousal and his spit.

When you peer down at him, he’s already staring back at you. A particularly well-timed thrust of his tongue against your entrance has you coming with a shout, the tension in you snapping harder than you’ve ever thought possible. You felt your hips grind down unashamedly against his face as you cry out, your pussy desperately clenching around nothing.

He works you through it, tongue gently running over your folds as you catch your breath. Your thighs are still trembling when he crawls up your body to hover over you.

The entire bottom half of his face was covered in your slick and the sight sent something hot zinging through your body, your arousal now reduced to a soft hum between your legs. He was smirking and the scent of yourself on his face, so close to yours, was new. But then he’s licking his lips, tongue flicking out to capture the rest of you, and he looks so fucking sexy.

You surge up to capture his mouth in a kiss and the taste of yourself has you whimpering, kissing him harder as if he could tamp down the flare of all-consuming desire that was starting to overwhelm you.

When you pull away, you snake your hand down between your bodies to wrap a hand around his cock. He’s thick, velvety smooth, and weighs deliciously heavy in your hand as you curiously stroke him once.

Jesse grunts in surprise, hips jerking forward involuntarily and thrusting his cock into your fist. “Fuck, that feels good.”

The sound of his voice, already low and smooth like molasses, rasping in your ear because of you had you craving for more.

You attempt to wiggle your hips down the bed, hitching your legs around his waist and blindly trying to aim his hard cock against your entrance when Jesse stops you with a large hand on your wrist.

Before you could anxiously ask whether you were going too fast or coming on too strong, he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth and gives you a soft smile despite the sticky trail the head of his cock leaves against your inner thigh. “Sit up for me?”

Curious, you sit up and maneuver around so he could take your spot in the center of the bed, propped up and leaning back against the headboard. He was broad, taking up nearly all the room on your ratty twin mattress, and you stare at the flex of his thighs as he spreads them a bit and the pearly string of precum his cock leaves against the hard planes of his stomach.

“Come here,” he whispers, tapping his bare thigh.

You swallow, throat dry as you watch the bob of his cock and wonder what he would taste like, but you listen. You crawl up the bed until you’re straddling him, hovering your pussy over his cock with your knees on either side of his hips and your hands holding onto his shoulders.

You release a breathy sigh when you drop down briefly and feel the smooth skin of his cock against your aching pussy. You’re tempted to just move your hips back and forth, allowing your slick to coat his cock as he rubs against your seam.

And you think, why the fuck not, and lower yourself down to rub your pussy against his length. You gasp at the way his shaft rubs along your clit and how the continuous slick leaking out of you easily coats him and allows him to glide against you seamlessly.

Jesse groans at that, dick twitching against you, and his head falls forward until his forehead was pressed against yours. His hands fly out to clutch at your hips, torn between pulling you back and forth against his cock or up so he could fuck into you. “Fuck, baby, you’re killing me here.”

You bite back a smile. The thought of you, inexperienced and eager, causing Jesse to feel overwhelmed made you feel a bit smug, even a little prideful. It was flattering to know that Jesse was as hopelessly head over heels for you as you were for him.

Your smile is wiped off your face when you feel the head of Jesse’s cock slide along your entrance, dipping in quickly before sliding through your pussy and nudging against your clit.

It’s overwhelming, the heat underneath your skin nearly burning you from the inside out, so you lean forward until you’re panting, lips brushing against the shell of Jesse’s ear. His breath hitches, hands tightening on you, and then you whisper, “Please fuck me?”

He releases a strangled noise that sends heat straight between your thighs before he’s grabbing the base of his cock and notching the tip against your entrance. He stills, the muscles in his stomach tensing as you slowly bring yourself down on.

You bite your lip, face scrunching up at the initial stretch. It’s uncomfortable, burning just a little, but the barest hints of pleasure were there just out of reach.

“Breathe,” he says, voice strained from holding himself back from fucking into you immediately. When you open your eyes, eyebrows still furrowed as you slide down his cock, Jesse’s watching your face with such open concern and affection it has your heart thudding painfully.

You release a shaky breath that you didn’t even realize you were holding, nodding as you take a deep breath. You feel your lungs expanding, concentrating on the cool air filling them, as you lower yourself fully onto his cock until he was buried all the way inside of you.

He throws his head back against the headboard with a light thud, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, and you’re able to see the thudding of his pulse in his neck. His hands are clenched into fists against your hips, biceps flexing with the effort of holding himself back from running his hands all over your body.

And that won’t do, you think, craving his touch so much that your chest ached.

So you circle your fingers around his wrist, catching his attention as he lifts his head up to look at you curiously. You raise his hand until his palm is on your breast, and you smile when he instinctively molds his hand around you, fingers squeezing around your flesh. “You can touch me, you know.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he rasps. His eyes run over your entire body, drinking you in and lingering on where he could see his cock disappearing in your cunt.

“More than okay,” you whisper before leaning in to kiss him.

The slight change in angle nudges his cock deeper inside of you, causing your lips to part against his in a sigh, and he takes that opportunity to kiss you deeper with a hand cradling your cheek. The plushness of his lips and his harsh breaths fanning over your face was a nice distraction, allowing your tight pussy to adjust to him.

After several minutes, you experimentally rock your hips forward. The action immediately causes you to moan into Jesse’s open mouth, heat fizzling up your spine.

“Yeah?” He whispers, allowing you to continue moving your hips back and forth. The sensation of his cock rubbing against your walls, nudging against spots that you didn’t think were possible, made your head fall back. He takes the opportunity to dip his head forward and lick and nip at the delicate skin of your neck. “That feel good, baby?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak without rambling. The stretch has faded to a dull ache, blending into the one you felt at the pit of your stomach. The coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbed against your sensitive clit, just on the border of being too much, so you straighten up a bit on your knees.

You lift yourself up with your hands on his shoulders, moaning at the delicious friction of his cock dragging out of you, before dropping yourself back down. It’s a little graceless, clumsy even, but fuck does it feel good. You repeat it, pulling yourself off and then back down on his cock with your knees pressed against your flimsy mattress until you were riding him at a steady pace.

Your knees and thighs were already starting to ache, possibly due to the fact that you haven’t been as physically active since you arrived at Jackson, but the strangled noises Jesse was making with each thrust made you think that it didn’t even matter.

His hands were all over you now—fingers tracing every freckle and palms running over your curves. His hips have started moving alongside yours, timing his thrusts perfectly to make sure his cock was driving into you as deep as it could get each time you dropped down onto his thighs.

He was staring at you again, eyes flickering all over your face and your body, catching on your breasts every time they bounced or when you licked your lips. He was vocal, which you appreciated—groaning deep from his chest every time you decided to grind against him or whispering praises about how good your pussy felt squeezing around him that made your face heat up.

It hits you then, as Jesse rubs his thumbs back and forth along your nipples, that he must have chosen this position for you.

He wants to make it good for you, not caring if he gets off at all or if you’d return the favor. Realizing the extent of how much he cares about you and making sure the first time you were physical with someone was pleasurable and exciting made you smile from feeling a little giddy.

“What are you giggling about?” he asks, an amused smile playing at his lips. He’s not even out of breath the same way you are, clearly more in shape than you based off the thickness of his arms and the deliberate way he was rutting his hips into you without so much as a sweat.

“Nothing,” you say, smile growing wider for some inexplicable reason. Maybe it was because you’re realizing that Jesse, seemingly unobtainable Jesse, has shown you more kindness than you thought was possible to exist in a person. Or maybe it was because the reason he always offered to walk you home was so he could spend more time with you.

Or maybe it was from the way he was rolling his hips up, making sure the thick head of his cock was nudging against a spot inside of you that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head and your hands to squeeze his shoulders “Oh, fuck.”

His grin widens, dark eyes glinting underneath the moonlight, and then he’s pulling you down until you were laying on his chest and your face was nestled into his neck. He grabs you by your hips and manages to scoot himself down until he was lying flat on the bed, not once letting you off his dick. He takes a hold of your thighs and lifts you up an inch, and then he’s driving his cock back into you.

You have to bite back your moan, aware of how close you were to Jesse’s ear, but you can’t hold back the high pitched whimpers seamlessly leaving your throat out of your own accord.

He fucks up into you, relentlessly, hips snapping against yours in a frantic rhythm that belies how on edge he’s been the entire night. “Fuck, you take my cock so pretty, baby.”

And the filth of his words, so sudden, has you shuddering, moaning softly as heat crawls up your spine and your walls clench around his length.

You try to sit up, your hands pressing on his chest, but the white-hot pleasure running through your veins has you feeling weak and your arms give out immediately. You knew you were getting close, can feel it in the throbbing of your cunt, and you didn’t want it to be over yet. You wanted to see him.

“Oh, just like that,” he moans, his thrusts faltering and turning sloppy from how tight your pussy was clenching around him. “That’s my perfect girl.”

The possessive edge in his words lights you up, stoking at the fire burning under your skin and in your stomach. You groan directly in his ear, your breath fanning against the side of his neck, as he somehow fucks you harder, faster.

You’re distantly aware of your poor bedframe, already on its last legs, creaking forebodingly, the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, but your orgasm is creeping up the length of your spine, just barely out of reach.

You manage to straighten up, gathering enough strength in your arms until you were sitting up, your knees pressing into the mattress next to his hips and his cock deep inside of you. His rhythm doesn’t stop, doesn’t even falter, and you’re dazedly snaking a hand between your legs to rub your clit.

You don’t get the chance to as Jesse bats your hand away, replacing it with the pad of his thumb. You’d feel embarrassed at how wet you were, your slick coating the insides of your thighs, if it weren’t for the fact that it allowed him to glide effortlessly through your folds until he was dragging careful circles around your clit.

Your entire body jerks at the sensation, muscles tensing and your cunt clenching around his cock impossibly tighter. Blood roared in your ears as you reached out to grab his wrist, as if to stabilize yourself. “Jesse, fuck—”

His dark eyes don’t stray from your face, his thumb expertly dissolving you into nothing but a moaning, shaking mess. His lips are parted, face flushed and only now slightly out of breath as he continues fucking into you so hard your breasts jolt with every thrust. “You gonna come for me, baby? Let me feel that pretty pussy come on my cock.”

When your orgasm finally takes a hold of you, it’s stronger than the one coaxed from Jesse’s mouth. Your breath catches, jaw dropping open in a silent scream, your grip on his wrist tightening into a near death grip as you pulse around him.

Jesse curses, biting out your name as your pussy clenches around him, nearly pulling him in even deeper. He still makes sure to slow down the motions of his thumb, helping you ride it out until you were twitching and shuddering on top of him, but his thrusts quicken, turning almost sloppy.

You could tell he was close based off the deep grunts accompanying each thrust and whispers mixed with curses and your name. You try to blink away the daze in your eyes, wanting to watch the way he fell apart right below you—needed to witness it, as if you wouldn’t be able to believe this whole night even happened if you didn’t.

His hips stutter, exhaling like his breaths have been punched out of him, and then he’s thrusting into you once, twice, before scrambling back. You gasp wetly when his thick cock slips out of you, but your mouth snaps shut and your eyes widen when his large hand wraps around his cock, turning into a blur as he strokes himself.

And then he’s coming with a guttural groan, voice so deep it sends another shiver through you. You watch as ropes of his come shoot out, landing on the puffy folds of your pussy and dripping down your thighs, landing on his stomach and thighs.

Your legs are trembling from where you’re still kneeling above him, nearly screaming out at you until you finally sit down on Jesse’s thick thighs, your knees still on either side of his hips. The entire lower half of your body was sore, your pussy deliciously so, and you’re ready to just pass out while nestled into a certain man’s strong arms.

You’re still catching your breath when Jesse leans over the edge of the bed to grab his shirt and then he’s diligently wiping away his release from your skin, eyebrows furrowed as he makes sure he’s gentle with you.

He balls up his shirt and then tosses it aside before suddenly leaning over to wrap his arms around your midsection and pulling you up to him. You squeal, giggling as he manhandles you until you were lying on your side and he was flushed up behind you, his softening cock nestled at the base of your spine.

“You need to get a bigger bed,” Jesse mutters, face buried at the nape of your neck. The combination of his arms still wrapped around your midsection, giving you a gentle squeeze as he tries to get impossibly closer to you, as well as his warm breath against your skin has the beginning seeds of arousal sparking in your stomach again.

“You going to get me one?”

“If it means I can cuddle you without the threat of falling off the side of the bed, then yes.”

You smile, wrestling your arms free from where he’s essentially got them pinned at your sides so you could intertwine your fingers with his. He presses a kiss behind your ear, his lips soft, and the action causes your eyes to droop shut.

“As long as you’re the one paying for it.”

You feel Jesse’s laugh before you hear it, his chest shaking against your back, as the heat emanating from him and the low hum of chatter outside your window lulls you to sleep.

-

You wake up before him the next morning, beginning streaks of sunlight breaking through your curtains and shining into your face.

He’s still pressed right up against you, spooning you with his face tucked into your neck as if neither of you had moved an inch throughout the night. However, your thin comforter was thrown over the both of you, and combined with Jesse being an absolute furnace, you were nearly sweating through the sheets.

You’re blinking the sleep from your eyes, anxiety already curling around your heart and mind beginning to race that maybe this was a mistake or that Jesse didn’t want anything to do with you anymore.

You don’t have any friends besides essentially his friends, everyone in town seems to steer clear from you, and you’ve never been in a relationship before. Hell, you’ve been here for several months now and you still can’t think about actually being assigned for patrol and picking up a gun without your hand shaking.

You’re about to untangle yourself from him, suddenly craving the cold tile of the bathroom against your skin in an attempt to calm your pulse, but then he’s exhaling softly and squeezing his arms around you. He stretches his legs out, ankles popping, and then he’s mumbling something you can’t quite hear.

“What?” you say, heart nearly jumping in your throat.

He lifts his head, just enough so his words weren’t muffled against your neck as he says “Stop overthinking. Go back to sleep.” He nuzzles his face against your skin again, pressing his chapped lips to the curve of your throat that sends your pulse flying down to settle in between your thighs, and then he’s falling back asleep.

His soft snores right in your ear comfort you in a way that you never thought was possible before, warmth floating in your chest as his breath deepens.

So you fall back asleep.

-

It’s past afternoon by the time you two crawl out of bed. It wasn’t your fault that Jesse was particularly handsy and needy in the mornings.

Your knees are knocking together underneath the table as you eat your late lunch in silence, the bustle of the dying lunch rush filling your ears. You’re trying to keep your smile off your face, nearly giddy with excitement and affection, but you don’t think you do a very good job based off the way Jesse continues to glance over at you with a similar expression.

When Dina and Ellie arrive, already in the middle of a conversation, you don’t pay them much mind and instead focus on the last remnants of your stew sticking to the edges of your bowl.

But then Dina takes one good look at you, eyes roving up and down and taking in the oversized sweater that swallowed you up and smelled faintly like pine. Her gaze lingers somewhere above your chest before her face splits into a wide grin.

“I see you got to experience how good of a kisser Jesse is.”

Your heart drops, because you think Dina’s going to be mad, but then she’s cackling so loud it echoes through the building, and Ellie is snickering behind her hand, and Jesse leans over to swat at her shoulder, pretending to look irritated but instead appearing endearingly sheepish.

“Dina,” he warns, voice low.

“Relax, I’m just teasing,” she says, eyes comically jumping between you two. “Pass the salt?”

And just like that, conversation flows like nothing even happened. Like it was any other day where Dina and Ellie would touch each other more than usual, you would take advantage of the sunny weather and spend your day at the stables, and Jesse would pretend that he was assigned at the same station that day anyway.

Warmth settles deep within your bones as you throw around the fact that if your friends didn’t take you in like they did, you’re not sure how you would’ve survived the deep-seated loneliness that threatened you every time you walked through your front door.

Jesse places a broad hand on your thigh, essentially breaking you out of your thoughts. He’s studying you curiously, concerned.

You give him a soft smile, place your hand over his to intertwine your fingers together, and think about how maybe staying in Jackson doesn’t sound too bad.

[watchtowerlibrary]

He’d also given Jesse the talk about keeping you safe. The sort of protect her with your life or it was his ass type deal.

Oh I just love Tommy's protective dad side.

“You’re gonna rip that thing and then whine about it the whole ride back,” you break the silence, staring at him until his eyes drop to his leg, stopping in place as you’re already dropping to your knees in front of him without waiting for permission, “do you have any tape left? I know we stopped using it for marking but Joel likes to keep it in his pack and—”

The way I knew what would go through Jesse's head 😅🫠

Every muscle in his body goes tight, locked up like you’ve got a knife to him instead of the gentleness of your touch. He’s breathing slow and shallow, willing himself to stay still as you lean in, tilt your head as you secure the holster in place properly, nearly eye level with his groin and focused entirely on fixing him.

That Oh moment 😏

You slap his chest lightly as he stares, attempting to break him out of his strange stupor and it takes everything in Jesse to not grab your hand, curl his fist around your wrist, and drag you back into the building where your other supplies lay dormant in wait for the night to come.

Oh wow, Mister Cool, Calm and Collected.

“You were just lookin’ at me,” he says finally, looking at you with a sudden weariness you’ve never seen with him, “Touchin’ me. And I—” Oh. Oh.

Hey! High five! 🙌🏻

“I can’t even,” Jesse shakes his head in disbelief, “I don’t know—”

Someone really broke Jesse 😅

You squeal at the quickness with which he moves, snatching your backpack with quick thinking as he lays you out on the cold ground.

I love a desperation like this 🥵

“Tommy’s so gonna know,” Jesse speaks after a while, “Dude’s a fuckin’ knower.” “No,” you snort softly, “you’re just a terrible liar. Just keep shit simple.”

I can totally see this! 🤣👀 Their faces are gonna be hilarious.

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 | Jesse (TLOU) x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | During a tense moment, Jesse has a devastating realization.

author's note | built around this request - this fit with an idea i already had sorta half outlined a couple weeks ago. this is unbeta'd, so if there's any mistakes just let me know!

content warning | 18+ MDNI, established friendship, loss of parents mention, tommy/joel being a father figure to reader, angst, unrequited feelings come to the surface, teasing, reader taking care of jesse in small ways, protected piv, very earnest dirty talk lmao, mentions of past relationships - can be pictured as either game or show jesse, i just adore young.

word count — 4.3k

He’s witnessed the best and worst of you.

And you, him.

The worst being when you parents died during a night attack on Jackson, a group of clickers hitting a weak point of Jackson’s bordering walls—you were lucky enough to survive because you were staying at Tommy and Maria’s that night, watching Benjamin while they used the freed up time to treat themselves to some normalcy, a date.

Jesse had held you in his arms while you cried, ordered by Tommy to stick close with you and Benjamin while he and a few other patrolmen dealt with the bodies, gave them a proper burial.

Tommy hadn’t meant to take you in so quickly, but you often drifted to his home for comfort.

Maria sensed the deep abandonment you felt, also realizing how much Benjamin clung to your presence. It helped relieve some of their worry knowing you had something to distract yourself and that they could catch up with more of the repairs around Jackson while you kept their son busy.

Eventually, you’re old enough for patrol.

Tommy starts you out with Joel, similar to his brother, he treats you with a soft, but firm guiding hand and after six months of consistent patrolling, Tommy pairs you up with Jesse.

Though, with minor hesitation.

He’s your leader for group patrols, but as you show more interest in wanting to go out in pairs, he was the safest bet—Tommy was also quick to pick up on the spark of friendship you had with him.

Shy and quiet, but there was trust.

He’d also given Jesse the talk about keeping you safe.

The sort of protect her with your life or it was his ass type deal.

Jesse isn’t surprised to see how well you handle patrol, killing infected without even a flinch, rolling with any punches thrown your way—you’ve always been strong.

He’s only surprised by how easily you’ve become the closest thing to family outside of his own, and Dina, who he seemed to have a tumultuous relationship with most of the time.

You never judged, only listened, joked with him about their unsteadiness on occasion.

Were they on? Were they off? It was always a gamble.

Based on the way his head was bowed, trudging around the snowy property without speaking a word, they were off—like…off off. Usually it lasted a couple days, sometimes a week, but he’s been this way for a month, looking increasingly more somber as time went on.

He never went into his and Dina’s fights—what they were about or who, why he often distanced himself from you when they were together despite his habit of sneaking in a few patrols with you just for the ease of it.

Everything was easy with you.

You’re always checking on him, fussing over him—Jesse doesn’t seem to mind, almost expecting it with how much he’s received from his mother or Dina, but with you, it was less about undermining him.

He felt reassured, knowing you didn’t worry about him in the same way they did, fearful of his fearless nature, carrying some of that yourself, you just wanted to keep him sharp and let him know that you had his back.

That’s why you spot it first—the fraying strap on his thigh holster, one good tug away from snapping in half.

"You’re gonna rip that thing and then whine about it the whole ride back," you break the silence, staring at him until his eyes drop to his leg, stopping in place as you’re already dropping to your knees in front of him without waiting for permission, “do you have any tape left? I know we stopped using it for marking but Joel likes to keep it in his pack and—”

Jesse chuckles low in his throat, his stomach doing a strange flip as you settle into the cold, wet snow without a care. "I’m not a whiner,”

"You are absolutely a whiner," you fire back easily, fingers working the strap loose from the buckle. Your gloves slip awkwardly against the leather, so you peel them off and toss them aside, “a goddamn cry baby, actually.”

Bare fingers are quicker, more precise.

Jesse swings his pack over his shoulder and digs through it quietly, pulling out an unpleasantly colored green role of tape and hands it to you, finding amusement in the scrunch of your nose in disgust as you spot the shade, “Gross,” you mutter, ripping it apart with your teeth as you situate the holster until it feels secure enough and tape it excessively.

“What a great thing to say while you’re down there,” Jesse jokes, shaking his head with a furrow in his brow as he slips his backpack back on, “really boosts egos, you know?”

“Who’s boosting your ego?” you ask accusatory, the slick smirk following like clockwork.

You don't even realize you’ve braced your free hand on the inside of his thigh for balance, fingertips pressing lightly into the warm, solid muscle there, even through the fabric of his cargo pants, peering up at him in question, “S’not me.”

Jesse does realize, though.

It was a strange feeling, fleeting, a glimpse of you he’s never seen before.

Every muscle in his body goes tight, locked up like you’ve got a knife to him instead of the gentleness of your touch. He’s breathing slow and shallow, willing himself to stay still as you lean in, tilt your head as you secure the holster in place properly, nearly eye level with his groin and focused entirely on fixing him.

Like you always do.

For a moment, he forces himself to look away, hands settled into his jacket pockets as he squints under the bright winter sky, praying the snow would blind him for a brief moment.

When his eyes do finally flick down, he catches the way your brows draw together in concentration, the way your mouth tugs into a little frown, your teeth biting into your bottom lip. 

And for a moment, so briefly Jesse thinks he’s gone insane, he imagines you making that face for him in a specific way that he blames on the frustration that has built within him the past few weeks and immediately hates himself for it.

"Almost done," you say softly, tugging at the wrinkled fabric of his pants until the holster is fit properly again, glancing up curiously.

That's when it hits him like a pile of fucking bricks.

You're looking up at him from between his knees, face soft despite the harsh breeze of snow, hands finding purchase with confidence on his body, almost surgical. Calculated.

There's nothing flirty about it. Nothing intentional. Nothing sexual.

Yet still, he can’t breathe.

You make a small noise of satisfaction, a squeak that Jesse wouldn’t have heard had he not been so tuned in to your every move, smiling as you stand, additionally fixing his beanie on his head for good measure and only a small attempt to tease him.

You slap his chest lightly as he stares, attempting to break him out of his strange stupor and it takes everything in Jesse to not grab your hand, curl his fist around your wrist, and drag you back into the building where your other supplies lay dormant in wait for the night to come.

Instead, he stays frozen. You're already shifting to stand, brushing snow from your knees, acting as if nothing was wrong—because for you, there wasn’t. But, you notice Jesse’s silent gaze as he follows your movement and you pause, waving a playful hand in front of his face.

"You good?" you ask, cocking your head at him.

"Yeah," Jesse says after a moment of hesitation, almost as if he had to force it out. He clears his throat, forces his eyes away from your mouth as you notice his gaze linger there. "Yeah. Thank you.”

Weird, you think. 

But, Jesse had a strange sense of humor on occasion, assuming this was just a ploy to fuck with you, unsettle you a bit. 

Though, something lingers as you step away, feeling his gaze return as you turn your back.

It seemed better to be left unspoken.

–

The fire crackles as you feed it a few more broken twigs, coaxing the flames higher to battle the cold. You shiver, pushing aside your dirty plates from dinner, pulling your sleeves over your hands as you sit back on your heels and cross your legs, sitting snug beside him against the wall.

And Jesse’s quiet.

He’s been quiet.

Strained quiet, not cautious like there was an impending sense of danger looming.

It was the kind of quiet that screamed avoidance.

"Careful, stare too long and you’re gonna scare the fire out," you tease him, nudging his foot with your boot, his hands curling into fists against his knees at the totally and completely normal gesture on your end.

Jesse snorts— but it isn’t him, a little too forced. "I’m just thinking…bored, you know?"

This was ridiculous—and unfortunately for Jesse, you had always been a straight shooter.

Plainly, you confront him, turning slightly in place to face him, "You’ve been acting weird ever since I fixed your thigh holster. Did I make you uncomfortable? Because, if you’re ever bothered by it, you can tell me—"

Jesse glances at you once, then down, and guiltily back up at you.

He doesn’t even have a response. He’s locked up, cornered.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Jesse offers eventually.

“Well, something is—you’re never this quiet with me,” you point out, resisting the urge to nudge him with a finger, scared he might scurry away.

“It’s really fuckin’ stupid, actually,” Jesse decides, forcing out an awkward, quiet laugh.

“Hey, tell me,” you urge him gently, your eyes widening with earnestness and Jesse hates that look—it is impossible to counter, seeing the creeping sense of emotion in your eyes.

Jesse avoids your gaze and shifts where he sits, propping his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers as he stared into the fire like it might spare him from answering and cause him to burst into flames.

"It wasn't anything you did," he says after a minute, voice low. "You were just—"

He cuts himself off, huffing out a breath of disbelief that he was having to admit this to you.

You lean in a little closer without thinking, hand curling around his forearm thoughtlessly, chasing after the words he won't give you.

"Jesse, just spit it out," you prod, a laugh mixed in with your sincerity.

Jesse lets out a slow, rough exhale, the kind that sounds like it's been sitting in his chest all day. 

"You were just lookin' at me," he says finally, looking at you with a sudden weariness you’ve never seen with him, "Touchin' me. And I—"

Oh.

Oh.

But, Jesse would be lying if he said this was just a lapse of judgment.

There had been hints for a while, sprinkled throughout your friendship.

Both of you cared a little more than just friends, but left the heaviness of that unspoken.

“I touch you a lot,” you joke lightly, hoping to ease his worry and maybe even convince yourself of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face; deep down, there was always that flutter in your stomach when Jesse smiled at you, but you often brushed it off.

He was your best friend—it was natural.

“Someone’s gotta take care of your shit,” you continue, pointing at the tattered strap of his backpack, “this shit is a damn hazard.”

He almost laughs.

But Jesse’s still tense, jaw working like he's fighting a war inside his mind. 

You see the exact moment he gives up trying to hide it too—when he turns to look at you fully, really looks at you, and there’s nothing friendly about it.

You reach for him instinctively, your hand scratching over his cheek with blunt nails, gentle as you feel him lean into the caress, “Jesse,” you say quietly, his name loaded with emotion.

Respect, trust, fear, admiration.

“Tommy would fuckin’ kill me,” Jesse jokes, “Shit, Joel, too.”

“I’m not their kid,” you counter, “I’m not a kid. S’that what you’re worried about? Them?”

“I’m not really worried about them,” he says quietly, his voice tight, but it’s a half-truth.

Tommy did scare him on occasion, knowing how protective he had grown over you, “I’m worried about this,” He pauses, swallowing hard. "We’re friends, I like that. I’d die without it, I think."

He pauses for a moment, then suddenly, it flows out.

“I saw you, looking up at me,” Jesse shakes his head, ���on your knees—”

You snicker softly, “O-kay,” you’re beginning to understand now.

You’re not sure why, but you move. 

Not to him, rather in front of him, stripped of your jacket and the front of your top droops slightly as you shift to your knees and offers a full view of your chest, hands curling around his boots.

“What are you thinking now?” you ask curiously, hands curling over his knees as you move in closer, his legs spreading to accommodate you as you scoot forward on your knees.

“This isn’t funny,” Jesse retorts, sinking as far back into the wall as physically possible before you’re settled back on your legs, spread out underneath his, his feet planted as you rest your hands against his knees.

“I’m not laughing, am I?” you challenge him, “Seriously, what are you thinking right now?

“I can’t even,” Jesse shakes his head in disbelief, “I don’t know—”

“I’m trying to test temporary insanity as an option,” you offer, though it was mostly a joke—you were just fishing, curious of how often he thought about you in such a way, “it could have just been a lapse in judgement, so let me hear it,” you lean into his space, tilting your head to meet his as he turns away, “what are you thinking about?”

There’s a subtle glance at your face that leads to your chest and Jesse, if you would let him, would have you spread out over his lap without a moment of hesitation—but there is hesitation.

“Jesse,” you tease, singsong in the way you say his name.

And then he moves.

It’s fast—so fast that you barely register it until his hand is gripping your wrists and pulling you toward him. The movement is fierce, raw, acting purely on feeling, without thinking.

His grip on your wrist is firm, possessive, as he leans in close, pulling you to him as you settle in his lap without needing to be directed, his lips so close that you can feel them even before they touch you, breathing hot against your mouth.

The moment he gives in, it isn’t gentle or kind. It’s a collision of everything that’s been building between you two, all the unspoken emotions, the buried desires that neither of you have acknowledged until now, laying dormant.

His kiss is hungry, demanding, and when you try to pull back, his other hand comes up to cup the back of your head, keeping you there, gasping softly into his mouth. Your entire world spins at a dizzying speed as you exhale a breathless laugh of disbelief into the kiss.

When you finally pull away, it’s only enough to catch your breath, face close enough for your nose to bump against his cheek, the closeness almost sending you reeling again. 

He’s still holding your wrists, this time with one hand as the other squeezed tenderly at the back of your head, yearning to pull you in close again, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

He’s ready to mutter an apology or excuse, but you don’t let him.

You move quickly, shifting slightly as you lean back, tugging at his wrists, guiding his hands down your chest and over your stomach, under the fabric of your shirt until his hands make contact with bare skin.

Jesse swears he’s going to die from the simplicity of it all—again, how easy things felt with you—the soft skin there, the way you settle back into his legs, the curve of your ass grazing his lap, aware of how hard his cock was against you.

You smirk at the way his gaze heats with his explorative touches, it was clear that he only needed the push and reassurance, his lips parting to release a long sigh.

“Say it,” you urge him, knowing exactly what he looked like when he was keeping something to himself, itching to speak his mind.

Jesse groans, a low, needy sound that makes your stomach flip, “Shit,” he says, “you’re gonna tease me for sayin’ it, I just know—”

“No, no,” you assure him, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips that quickly heats, shoving his beanie aside as you toss it to the floor, running your fingers into his hair, “I won’t.”

“I’m thinkin’,” He begins, chasing your lips as you pull away, “about how bad I want to fuck you right now—jus’ right here, it might fuckin’ kill me.”

You grin, satisfied with his answer and the hoarse, raw way he delivers it, “Then maybe you should,” you breathe, “ya know, fuck me.”

Jesse pulls you in further, his hands sliding over your hips and up the center of your back, between your shoulder blades as he lifts your top over your head, giggling at how quickly his face presses between your breasts, mouthing gently at the swell of skin, so soft and supple.

Within his distraction, you reach for your bag, unzipping the small pocket in the front to reach for the small roll of foil squares you kept squared away—it was a long story, actually.

Jesse doesn’t let it slide either, hearing the sound and pausing immediately as he looks over his shoulder. His face a mix of amusement and disbelief.

“Oh, don’t fucking look at me like that,” you go on the defense immediately with a playful smile, “I know you have some in your bag, too.”

Jesse knew briefly of a small stint you had with one of the men who filtered through patrol and watchtower patrol through the seasons, having found you in an awkward situation or two that didn’t give away much, always finding you after.

Either way, you were both guilty.

Jesse opens his mouth to speak, but you slap your hand to muffle any noise.

“Stop talking,” you order as he peels your bra off without trouble, swatting your hand away as his mouth latches immediately to your chest, tongue slick against your nipple, “and oh—fuck me—”

He can’t tell whether it was a demand or a pleading moment of desperation, it didn't really matter.

You’re already pulling at his coat, fumbling with the zipper as he drags you closer into his lap, his mouth never lulling in the attention he’s giving you, his teeth dragging over the tender skin of your chest as he lets out a desperate groan when your hips rub impatiently down against him.

It’s urgent, now, how he moves, almost frantic as he paws at the button of his jeans, the rasp of his zipper loud above the sound of your sharp breaths and the crackle of fire—you work in tandem, standing to slip your jeans and underwear down your hip, both of you too caught up to let the moment breathe as you settle back over him, stripped naked and vulnerable despite his state of dress, but you’ve never felt more secure.

You watch with a quiet smile as he fumbles to rip the packet open with shaky, adrenaline fueled hands, slipping the latex over his hardened cock, gripping himself at the base as you rise higher on your knees and extend your palm out in front of your mouth and spit into it with a lingering eye contact that could undo Jesse on the spot, bringing your hand to your cunt to smear the saliva between your folds, aching for the stretch of him, underestimating the stretch until the head of his cock is pressed against you, both of you releasing a slow breath as his hand searches for your hip, squeezing gently as you sink down onto his length.

You still suddenly, adjusting to the way he fills you.

It’s overwhelming how quickly the two of you had gotten here.

Jesse grips your hips tightly, distracting your fleeting thoughts, lifting you off of him with a strong grip before dragging you back down with a low moan of his own when your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt.

He holds you with a sudden possessiveness that leaves you crying out softly against his cheek, rocking his hips up to meet your rhythm as you bounce over him, his eyes barely leaving your face as he watches you fall apart on his cock, eyes wide and wondrous as earlier that day, the subtle twitches to your face when he brushes a spot so sensitive inside of you, gasping sharply.

The pace is desperate, both of you burning hot with the urgency of a handful of years building up like a house that finally caught fire, crumbling down to nothing but this moment, and the slide of him inside you is so slick, his body molding against your own, hands fitting perfectly against your body as he moans softly into the shared space between you, head lulling back against the wall as you follow, yearning for closeness.

"Jesus," he breathes, almost awed, the warmth of you wrapped around him, the tightness, the way you're taking the reins when he finds himself distracted, your hips dragging in slow, languid rolls over him. "jesus fuckin' christ, baby," 

The drag of his cock inside you is intense and fulfilling, your hands planted firmly against his chest, twitching into the fabric of his shirt to brace yourself as you ride him, his wandering and squeezing grasps to pull you impossibly closer indicative of how close he was.

“You like me fussing over you” you tell him breathlessly, fingers twisting into his hair to tilt it back, his eyes landing on you through a heavy, heated gaze as he huffs a laugh through his nose, “don’t you?”

He nods without a moment of hesitation.

“I take such good care of you, huh?”

You aren’t expecting the words to set him off, but they do.

You squeal at the quickness with which he moves, snatching your backpack with quick thinking as he lays you out on the cold ground, your gasp melting into a loud as he quickly, smoothly situations himself between your legs again and pushes inside of you, his hand curling around the back of your neck to tilt your chin up, jeans hanging low around his legs as he settles on his knees to create a mind-numbing angle as he thrusts into you.

“I feel it,” he whispers cockily, your cunt squeezing around him at his words, “you feel it?”

You nod dumbly as he continues to speak, “She loves me,” he tells you, “god—she’s squeezing me so tight,”

There’s something about it that breaks the line of reality, feeling as if this was all some dream, that there was no way Jesse knew your body this well, like it hadn’t been craving him from the start.

“Show me how you touch yourself,” Jesse orders, though it was more pleading, ultimately followed by the simple word, “please—fuck, please—”

He’s locked on the quick work of your hands, legs spread around and locked behind his back, his cock sinking inside of your greedy cunt with needy thrusts, chasing a high that he didn’t want to end.

When it did, it was slow.

You come apart with a cry, his mouth hot against your neck as he groaned into you, your cunt squeezing him like a vice as your body worked through the aching pulses of pleasure and it was few more long, sharp thrusts before he followed, fingers digging harshly into the skin of your thigh as he slowed himself to a gentle rock of his hips as he spilled into the condom.

When the high settles, you can’t help but laugh, feeling his head slump against your chest as he echoes your elation, “I think we fucked through your patrol slot,” he says through a heavy sigh, pulling out of you with a slight wince.

You grab at his wrist, glancing at his watch.

Sure enough.

“Oh no, we’re going to be devoured by clickers,” you say jokingly, a grin spreading across your face, pausing for a moment to shrug, “worth it.”

Jesse helps you redress with an unspoken protectiveness when you’ve both let the moment settle and pass, painfully reminiscent of the way you’ve cared for him before under entirely different circumstances, realizing how easily it was for your mind to wander like Jesse’s had.

“Tommy’s so gonna know,” Jesse speaks after a while, “Dude’s a fuckin’ knower.”

“No,” you snort softly, “you’re just a terrible liar. Just keep shit simple.”

“Dina was right,” he says quietly, reaching for the rifle leaning against the wall to take watch for his turn, “We were both never fully invested with what we had, she never really said why, but—”

“It isn’t something we have to dive into right now, Jesse,” you assure him, “or, ever.”

You bend down to grab Jesse’s beanie before handing it over.

“We’re still friends, that doesn’t have to change,”

Unfortunately, for Jesse, he knew that wasn’t possible.

He’d been missing something for a while, he just hadn’t realized it was something that had been with him the entire time.

You.

[watchtowerlibrary]

Michael Robinavitch nearly dropped his phone, which could have been a disastrous fumble, given he was presently stepping into the elevator of his apartment building.  It was nearly 7 a.m. and far too early for a text like that.

Okay, who sends a nude that early? 🤣 Way to wake someone up. That reaction pic is hilarious though. 😅🤌🏼

You snuck a sideways glance at him, your eyes darting away as soon as you realized he was watching you. You felt certain your skin would catch fire beneath his gaze.

That silent stare already 👀

“I am,” Samira said. “Everyone down here in the ER thinks he’s down bad for you.” “You cannot be serious.” “Think about it,” Samira said matter-of-factly. “He’s always going on about how brilliant you are, and how he wishes you would have considered emergency med. And he’s always eyeing you with that sad, wistful stare. Plus you know more about football than him, and I think that secretly turns him on.”

Haha, he loves a smart woman kicking his ass.

As you disappeared behind the elevator doors, Michael disappeared into the bathroom.  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered after splashing cold water on his face. He wasn’t even halfway through his shift and that image of you had him in a chokehold. Michael gripped the edge of the sink and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to ground himself and banish the vision away. Instead, he found himself imagining you in even greater detail. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he hissed as he shook his head. 

Love this 😏

You checked your phone first, expecting to see a reply from Rodney after you sent him the photo, but instead found a message from your best friend from college. “Check Instagram,” was all her text said.

The way I was so scared that he shared the nude on social media 😬

Instead, he lowered himself until his knees met the floorboards and his arms were hooked around your thighs. The moan you’d been desperately trying to suppress finally made itself known, breathy and short as Michael’s tongue met your clit. It sent a surge of arousal through your nerve endings until you were whimpering in submission.

Damn, that's hot - right on the stairs? 🥵

Left On Read

Michael Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader

Rating: Explicit / MDNI (language & smut) Word count: ~4,200 Tags: reader insert, no use of y/n, colleagues to lovers, mutual pining, slight age gap (29F and 50M), smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (F receiving), no beta

Summary: You accidentally send Dr. Robby a nude photo. You both spend the day spiraling out over it — and then you spend the night together.

Notes: This is literally just an excuse for some shameless smut. I am not a health care professional, so please forgive any medical inaccuracies.

Read on AO3 or under the cut.

Michael Robinavitch nearly dropped his phone, which could have been a disastrous fumble, given he was presently stepping into the elevator of his apartment building. 

It was nearly 7 a.m. and far too early for a text like that. Especially from you, the fifth-year surgical resident he had grown to know quite well; the one who was sharp and witty, poised and composed, always one of the smartest in the room. Though you were two decades younger than him, he viewed you as a colleague worthy of admiration and respect. 

He certainly did not view you as someone who sent 7 a.m. nudes accompanied by the caption, “You coming tonight?”

Michael stared in disbelief at the text thread, void of any coherent response. His brain seemed to stutter over the erotic image of you, posing in your bedroom mirror, fresh out of the shower with nothing on, your lips curved in a sly smirk as if you knew you were going to inflict absolute chaos that day. Of course, you didn’t know that the senior attending of the ER would be on the receiving end of that chaotic missile you casually dropped with one tap of the Send button. 

Michael blinked in disbelief as the elevator reached the bottom floor, its doors gliding open while his eyes remained glued to the sexuality splayed across his phone screen. It wasn’t until someone stepped into the elevator that Michael snapped from his trance. 

He scrambled to swipe the image from his screen in a clash of guilt and shame before he scurried from the elevator to head to work. 

A sudden tightness surged within his throat as the shame snowballed. Something felt morally wrong about seeing you that way. Sure, Michael had pictured how you looked beneath your scrubs on countless occasions, but that was a secret meant only for the filthiest depths of his private mind. This vision was now a mutual thread between the two of you — one he hadn’t asked for. Not that he was complaining. 

The truth was Michael had a painful attraction to you, and seeing you in your most intimate form wasn’t going to help him overcome it.

But clearly that picture had been meant for someone else, right? The previous texts before you sent that dastardly photo were your brags about beating Michael in your fantasy football league that week. There had been no exchange to prompt such an obscene display of intimacy, no indication of any attraction or desire – though it certainly existed.

Michael dragged a hand over his face as he pocketed his phone with no response. What could he possibly say to that, especially when he couldn’t be sure that photo was meant for him? 

Meanwhile, you strolled into the surgical floor of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center none the wiser to your little mishap. Once you removed your jacket and put your purse in your locker, you decided to check your phone one final time before the start of your shift.

You frowned in disappointment at the blank screen. Surely Rodney, your six-week situationship, would have at least replied to your risqué text with a heart-eyes emoji.

When you opened up your message threads, your stomach sank — and you wanted to sink to your knees, or perhaps all the way into the earth.

“Fuuuuuck,” you hissed as you realized your mistake. The worst part was the “Read 6:55 AM” below your message, sent to the hot senior attending of the ER you’d likely have to face before the day’s end. “No no no,” you groaned as the fear and mortification bloomed throughout your body.

You considered marching up to the roof of the hospital and flinging yourself to the streets below. But the worst part was, if you somehow managed to survive such a fall, Michael would be one of the first people you’d see when they inevitably scraped you off the sidewalk and hauled you into the ER. And then he would have seen you naked and brain dead all in the same day. 

You decided to avoid the ER at all costs.

Of course, that vow was short-lived as soon as Dr. Walsh sent you down there for a consult. You held your breath the entire elevator ride down, your heart rattling within your ribcage as you silently prayed Dr. Robby had the day off. You exhaled and thanked every higher power you didn’t believe in when you didn’t see him at the nurses’ station.

That gratitude was fleeting. Two steps into Room 2 and you damn near stopped dead in your tracks when you spotted Dr. Robby standing behind Dr. Mohan. You locked eyes before you could avert your gaze and the mutual realization of your shared situation sent your nervous system into overdrive. You couldn’t read him, which unnerved you even more. 

What if he thought that photo had been meant for him? What if he thought you were some kind of sexual deviant? What if he’d lost all respect for you? What if he’d shown that photo to your colleagues? 

All of your anxieties mingled until you became acutely aware that there was a wounded patient in front of you.

“What have we got?” you croaked, tearing your eyes from Dr. Robby.

“Gerard Milligan,” Samira answered. “Coworker says he fell about 10 feet off a roof and landed on a fence post. Vitals are good.”

You examined poor Gerard Milligan and ordered the team to take him up for surgery, but it was painfully clear you were distracted. So was Dr. Robby.

You snuck a sideways glance at him, your eyes darting away as soon as you realized he was watching you. You felt certain your skin would catch fire beneath his gaze. Part of you wished it would.

“You alright?” Samira asked with worried eyes as the room cleared out. You watched Dr. Robby return to the desk to chat with Dana before you sucked your top row of teeth.

“I fucked up,” you said quietly, your lips thinning as you tried to decide how to reveal to your friend that you’d mistakenly sent a nude photo to her boss.

“With the patient?”

“No. With Dr. Robby.”

“How so?” Samira studied you with curious eyes.

“I accidentally sent him something,” you continued carefully. “Something he wasn’t meant to see.”

“What are you talking about?”

You heaved a sigh. “I accidentally sent Dr. Robby a nude.”

Samira’s eyes doubled in size. “What?!”

“I meant to send it to Rodney – that guy I told you about – the one I’ve hooked up with a few times,” you explained. “But I accidentally sent it to Dr. Robby this morning.”

“What’d he say?”

“He left me on read – no response!” You could tell Samira was fighting a laugh. “Don’t laugh, this is serious!”

“You probably left the poor guy speechless,” Samira mused. “He probably doesn’t know what to do with all that.”

“It’s not funny! What if he thinks I meant to send it to him?”

“Well, would that be the worst thing?” Samira asked with a pointed stare. You’d been close friends for four years and she’d picked up on your crush on Michael ages ago, not that you ever discussed it.

“Yes!” you hissed. “Because it’s not like he’s into me! He probably thinks I’m a freak.”

“Maybe he’s into freaky shit.”

“Be for real!”

“I am,” Samira said. “Everyone down here in the ER thinks he’s down bad for you.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Think about it,” Samira said matter-of-factly. “He’s always going on about how brilliant you are, and how he wishes you would have considered emergency med. And he’s always eyeing you with that sad, wistful stare. Plus you know more about football than him, and I think that secretly turns him on.”

“Oh, stop!”

 “I’m just saying,” Samira laughed. “I’m sure he’s not upset about receiving that photo.”

“I want to die,” you groaned as you followed Samira from the room.

“Well, what are you going to do?” she asked.

“Avoid the ER for the rest of my life.”

“Or maybe you should just talk to him about it.”

“Or maybe I could quit my job and move across the country.”

“Hey, sweetheart!” Dana called toward you. You swore under your breath before turning to offer Dana a smile, your eyes determined to avoid Dr. Robby. “How you been? Had a good a weekend?”

“It was good,” you offered casually as you strode toward the nurses’ station. “Uneventful.”

“Heard you kicked Dr. Robby’s ass in fantasy football.”

Jesus fucking Christ. “Yeah,” you managed with a breathy laugh. “Not like it was hard.”

You could feel Dr. Robby’s eyes fixated on you. Was he thinking about that photo right now? Was he disturbed or disgusted? Was he disappointed in you? Or was there a chance he was turned on?

“Pretty easy to rack up a win when you’ve got Saquon Barkley on your roster,” Michael said. You shrugged a nonchalant shoulder and finally dared to meet his eyes. Their intensity made your breath hitch.

“Draft better next year,” you said simply, praying you could keep your cool. Meanwhile, Dana and Samira were watching your exchange as if it were live theatre.

“I’m okay with you beating me as long as it means you beat Langdon,” Michael said. “I can’t stand another year of his insufferable bragging.”

“I’m sure I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m sure you will.” Something flickered in his eyes as he spoke, rendering you immobile. You couldn’t decipher it, and you didn’t dare provoke it in front of your colleagues.

“Well, I’d better get upstairs,” you finally said, tearing your gaze from Michael to smile at Dana. “Catch up with you later, okay?”

As you disappeared behind the elevator doors, Michael disappeared into the bathroom. 

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered after splashing cold water on his face. He wasn’t even halfway through his shift and that image of you had him in a chokehold. Michael gripped the edge of the sink and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to ground himself and banish the vision away. Instead, he found himself imagining you in even greater detail.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he hissed as he shook his head. 

He couldn’t continue to work like this, but he also couldn’t possibly broach the subject with you. What would he do, waltz up to you and declare, “Hey, nice photo!” That was a sure trip to human resources. 

He had no choice, he decided, but to continue to pretend as if it hadn’t happened. Eventually, you’d both forget about it, right?

But Michael knew damn well he couldn’t forget about that picture if he tried.

Dr. Walsh didn’t help matters. Despite your protests, she ordered you back down to the ER for another consult in the afternoon. You checked your phone first, expecting to see a reply from Rodney after you sent him the photo, but instead found a message from your best friend from college.

“Check Instagram,” was all her text said. Your heart sank as you opened the app and scrolled through your feed, unsure what you were supposed to be looking for. You stopped mid-scroll when Rodney’s face popped up, your throat tightening as you realized he’d been tagged in a photo by a woman. He stood, smiling with an arm hooked around her waist as she kissed him on the cheek. The caption said, “Celebrating one year with the love of my life!”

“What the fuck,” you groaned in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

You tossed your phone into your locker and headed for the ER.

“What have we here?” you asked with feigned composure as you walked into the chaos unfolding within Room 1.

“Two-car MVA,” Samira responded. “The dashboard folded inward and pinned his legs.”

The patient hurled a string of obscenities in pain as he flailed, arms shooting upward. One caught you on the cheek with a closed fist, forcing you backward.

Michael was on you before you could even taste the blood in your mouth. 

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly, a hand finding the small of your back. You felt that more than the sting in your jaw.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you sighed, wincing at the raw cut inside your mouth, where your tooth connected with your inner cheek. “I hate the taste of blood, though.”

“Well, that clears up the vampire rumors,” Michael quipped. Your colleagues vacated the room and wheeled the patient out, leaving just the two of you. You offered him an exasperated smile and he leaned in closer to peer at your cheek.

“I’m fine,” you insisted quietly. “Just a small cut in my mouth.”

“Do you need some gauze? You didn’t bite your tongue, did you?”

“For once, no,” you joked. Michael flashed a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, and you knew exactly what he was thinking about.

“Listen,” you sighed before you could stop yourself. “About that text…” Michael held his breath. “That was… a really unfortunate and horrifying mistake.”

“It was… certainly an interesting start to my morning,” Michael said carefully. There was a hint of lighthearted jest in his tone, and while you were grateful for his attempt at softening the situation, you were still humiliated.

“I can’t even imagine,” you continued, a flush settling across your features. “I mean, I really am so, so sorry. It was so completely inappropriate and I swear I never would try to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine,” Michael cut in gently. “Really. Forget it happened.”

You paused to catch your breath, your nerves still screaming in despair. “Okay,” you said with a long exhale. “Thanks for, you know, understanding. And I promise to double-check before sending any more texts like that.”

“Good idea,” Michael replied. “I’m sure your boyfriend would appreciate that.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you responded stupidly, before you could stop yourself. “He’s just a guy I was… seeing.”

“Ah, I see.”

“To be honest, this was all for naught. I found out today he has a girlfriend.”

“Ouch. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You breathed a fake laugh, in disbelief at how your day had managed to devolve into such absurdity as you moved to leave the room. “I’d only been seeing him a few weeks. Not a big deal. Anyway, I apologize if I’ve left you permanently scarred for life.”

“Like I said, forget it happened,” Michael said reassuringly as he held the door open for you.

But any chance of him forgetting evaporated when you’d mentioned you didn’t have a boyfriend, and that things had fallen apart with Rodney. Though it was now clear that picture wasn’t intended for him, Michael realized he’d never look at you the same.

He decided he could either be plagued by the omnipresent vision of you looking like absolute sin incarnate, or he could make an effort to put years of distant, desperate desire to bed.

When he ended up loitering on the front steps of your townhouse, you nearly tripped over your own feet.

“Dr. Robby?” you asked, slowing your pace as you approached with caution – not because you were fearful of him, but because you were stunned he’d seek you out after you’d essentially sexually harassed him via phone.

“Hey,” was his response.

“What are you-”

“I, uh, just wanted to check and make sure you’re okay. You seemed to have had a rough day.”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright,” you answered carefully, your dry mouth a stark contrast to your sweaty palms. “Nothing I won’t get over. You know, beyond the lifetime of embarrassment.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” There was a glitch in his tone; much more confident and dominant than you’d expected. It matched his gaze, which was starting to suffocate you with its intensity. Michael no longer felt like the senior attending of the ER or your colleague. He felt like a man you desperately needed to discover at a much deeper level. 

“Do you… do you want to come inside, have a beer?” you asked, silently willing your nerves to develop some semblance of confidence. You wanted to be the fun, sexy version of yourself you’d shown in that photo. But Michael already saw you that way, and he wanted to match it.

“Yeah, alright,” he responded, his voice turning raspier than usual. He stood behind you as you unlocked your front door. You felt idiotic as you nearly fumbled your keys. You were a fucking surgeon, known for your steady hands, and you couldn’t even unlock your goddamn door.

But once inside, Michael gazed at you through heavy lids. You stared back with bedroom eyes and gathered the courage to pull the trigger. 

“You know, that photo was meant for someone else,” you started steadily as you kicked your sneakers off and slid out of your jacket. “But I’m curious to know what you thought.”

You watched the muscles shift inside Michael’s throat as he swallowed. “I thought about it all day,” he rasped. “And I’ll probably think about it for a long time.”

“But what did you think?”

“I think that the guy it was meant for is a fucking fool.”

“Oh yeah? To be honest, I’m not thinking about him at all.”

You stepped toward Michael, and the low embers that smoldered between you surged, igniting in an inferno as you kissed him. Your lips crashed hard and his hands grasped at your waist until he was forcing you backward. The backs of your calves met the staircase and you ended up seated on the third step with Michael on top of you. His cock stirred inside his pants.

His lips found your neck and the ache between your thighs became a scalding heat that left you desperate for relief. You helped Michael out of his hoodie and tugged the hem of his shirt overhead, your greedy hands dragging over his torso. But he was even greedier.

He lifted up your own top and you could feel his hands snaking up your back to unhook your bra. He didn’t hesitate to palm your right breast, his left arm supporting himself above you. You were already shifting beneath him, your hips begging his for more.

Robby’s lips planted a stream of kisses from your collarbone to the swell of your breast until his tongue flattened against your nipple. A low hiss escaped your lips as he sucked against your flesh.

You believed this would go quickly; that years of unspoken lust would culminate in the form of something quick, unsophisticated and needy. But Michael didn’t want this to be a fleeting, singular act. He wanted it to become more permanent, more lasting than that fucking photograph.

His hands curled around the waistband of your pants until you were kicking them off, your panties right behind.

Suddenly, the photo from that morning was forgotten. This was far better than pixels on a screen.

Your own hands moved to help Michael from his pants, but he caught them to stop you. Panic mounted in your chest and your brain, convincing you that he changed his mind. Instead, he lowered himself until his knees met the floorboards and his arms were hooked around your thighs.

The moan you’d been desperately trying to suppress finally made itself known, breathy and short as Michael’s tongue met your clit. It sent a surge of arousal through your nerve endings until you were whimpering in submission.

“Robby,” was all you could manage through pitiful panting. He hummed in response, his eyes drifting upward until they were staring in yours. Your fingers gripped the edge of the step.

More moans left your throat as Michael’s tongue flattened itself against your swollen clit, rolling in waves until you could feel the mounting tension in your nerve endings threatening to collapse. Your nails scraped against the wood step, threatening to snap like the taut string of your climax. It strained tighter and tighter, your hips grinding your cunt against Michael’s tongue until you were on the cusp of your reward. 

You let out a string of curses as the string snapped, your orgasm rippling over your cunt until your back arched and your legs were fully draped over Michael’s shoulders. He continued the pressure until you were pushing him away, your core too sensitive for any more assault.

Michael placed a swift kiss to your thigh and sat back on his heels as he watched your chest rise and fall in recovery. He couldn’t help but palm the bulge in his pants in arousal.

“Let me,” you croaked as you reached for his belt and helped him shed his remaining clothing. 

The wood step was narrow, awkward and painful against Michael’s knees as he settled between your thighs, but he’d rather die than wait another moment to discover how it felt to bury himself within you.

“I can flip over-” you started to offer, but Michael shook his head.

“No,” he commanded. “I want to see you.” You sure as hell weren’t going to protest. “Fuck,” he groaned against your neck as the tip of his cock sank into your slick walls. “Fuck, you’re so good.”

The pressure was dizzying as your walls stretched to accommodate him. You could swear you felt every ridge of his cock until he reached the hilt, igniting your nerve endings into overdrive. You couldn’t help but squeeze your cunt tighter around him, drawing a groan from Michael.

His hips retreated and rocked forward, threatening to send your eyes rolling back into your head. You clamped them shut as you focused on the friction within your core and Michael’s shaft dragged through your walls, his tip pressing into the deepest part of you. He gritted his teeth at your tight heat, his cock nudging you closer to the edge with each snap of his hips. 

“Fuck, Robby, don’t stop.” You didn’t like to beg, but you were far too drunk on Michael for any grace or dignity. You’d ask him to drag you through Hell if that’s where he was going, just so you could follow him. 

The way you pleaded, the way your flushed face strained in desperation, the whines that chorused from your lips – it left Michael in a dilemma straight from his dreams; the need to prolong this to commit it to memory, and the desperation to discover how it’d feel to make you fall apart. 

Michael’s rhythm increased, his jaw clenched as he fucked you into the stairs, the step's ledge gouging into your back. It knocked the wind from you and left you gasping and sputtering between broken moans. Michael set a fervid pace, desperate to claim every inch of your inner core. You drove your hips upward until the sounds of smacking skin chorused around you.

“Robby,” you choked again – half plea and half warning. Your nails raked over his shoulders, clawing desperately at a release. His hips drove upward until he was damn near lifting you off the stairs. Your legs locked tighter around Michael as if they were demanding he grant you an orgasm.

He buried his face in your neck. The stairs creaked with each movement in harmonic tandem with the whines from your throat. 

“Don’t hold back,” Michael ordered. “Come for me.”

Your walls began to flutter and you bit down hard on your bottom lip. Your whines became strained and painful as control slipped from your grasp and your core. Finally, you unleashed a resounding wail as your climax sent you trembling around Michael’s cock in euphoric waves.

The adrenaline from your high surged through Michael and pulsed through his cock as it throbbed. He barked a sharp grunt as he spilled himself inside you, his hips ending their assault.

Michael’s body went slack. He used the scant remnants of his energy to prop himself up above you, his eyes scanning yours. Their quiet hunger had been replaced with tender affection as you both caught your breaths.

“You okay?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“Good.” Your unwieldy and uncomfortable position on the stairs settled with more clarity when Michael winced from the pain in his knees. “I’m getting too old for this,” he groaned as he shifted himself to sit next to you. You lifted an amused eyebrow at him and he chuckled softly. “Not that I’m complaining,” he added. He pressed a kiss to your temple for emphasis.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally asked curiously.

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you reply to me earlier? You left me on read.”

Michael offered you a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted. “I mean, I assumed that picture wasn’t for me. And I was afraid if I responded, you’d think I was being a creep.”

“So you instead chose to say nothing and leave me to spiral out all day?”

Michael laughed and rested a hand on your thigh. “If you keep sending me photos like that, I promise I’ll never leave you on read again.”

[watchtowerlibrary]

Hey hey!! Just read your Kai fic and oh my god it was so so good.

I was wondering if maybe you can write a part two of it? Something where it’s a little time that’s past after they had their little moment and Reader is feeling very mixed emotions about the whole ordeal?

Kai confronts them about it and it happens again? He’s all cocky about it and ends up seducing the reader again?

Idk if you write smut but 👀

Thank you 🫶

thank youu! and i do write smut but it's not very good and apparently i can't write a summary to save my life. anyways i hope i did it justice :)

Chemistry part two

Summary: after being a shut-in at your own house to avoid someone, and he shows up, the very reason you haven't left your house in a couple of days. It escalates further than expected.

Kai Parker x fem!reader

Warnings: smut (18+) little power kink 

WC: 2821

You hadn’t seen him in three days.

Not that you were counting.

You told yourself it didn't matter. That the kiss, the disaster, was a fluke, a byproduct of adrenaline, emotional overload, and being locked in close proximity with a magical sociopath who knew exactly which buttons to push.

And push them, he had. Right up until your back hit the bookcase and your mouth found his like it was instinct.

Now every time you close your eyes, it was there, heat and teeth, and the feel of his hands curling into your hips like he couldn't decide whether to pull you closer or burn the whole place down. You’d pull away eventually. Shoved him off. Called him every name you could think of.

He’d just smirked. Like he knew. 

And the worst part? You haven't stopped thinking about it since.

You slammed a kitchen drawer shut, harder than necessary, and muttered a curse under your breath. The sun had already gone down. You were supposed to be working on a spell for Bonnie with the help of many grimoires and long days, but your focus was garbage. Your head wasn't in it.

Your head was across the room, metaphorically, making out with Kai Parker like your hormones had a death wish.

You turned around, and nearly screamed. There he was sitting on your kitchen counter like he belonged there, legs dangling, eyes glittering in the low light with that same crooked smile that had haunted you every night since that day. The same smile that had crept uninvited into your dreams, unbuttoning your self-control one layer at a time.

“Miss me?” he asked casually.

You stared at him, heart lurching in your chest. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to look that good, barefoot, shirt wrinkled like hed teleported straight from bed, or someone's bed, hair just tousled enough to make you wonder if he planned it that way

“What the hell-” you paused.

“Kai,” you said flatly. “Get out.”

He tilted his head, sliding off the counter and closing the distance in three causal steps. “You didn't answer the question.”

“I wasn't planning to.”

You hated how good he looked in your kitchen. Like he belonged there. Relaxed, like he hadn't been absent for seventy-two hours leaving you to spiral through every possible interpretation of that kiss.

You crossed your arms. “What do you want, Parker?”

His smile dipped into something smug. “You.” 

You should've walked away. Should've hexed him. Should've kicked him out and warded the place until the end of time. But you didn't.

You let him step closer. Let the room shrink around the fear in his eyes and the tilt of his mouth and the way your body responded before your brain had caught up. He wasn't touching you yet, but it felt like he was. Every nerve alive with anticipation, every breath caught halfway between a decision and a disaster.

“You've been avoiding me.” he said, voice lower now.

“You think one kiss means you own me now? I should've killed you by now.” you asked, low.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then dragged slowly back up. “But you didn't. Because you liked it.”

“That's not-”

“You loved it.” his tone was sin wrapped in velvet, a purr at your ear. “And I bet you've thought about it since. Over and over again. The way i pressed you into that bookcase-” 

Your pulse spiked. You hated that he was right. Hated it more that he knew he was right. You opened your mouth to deny it, again, but he took one step forward and you didn't move. Your hand shot out and shoved him back, but he caught your wrist mid-motion.

He didn't hold tight. Just kept his grip warm, casual, his eyes locked on yours. “Say it wasn't the best kiss of your life. Say it, and I'll leave.”

You hated him. Hated that you couldn’t say it. Hated that your body was already betraying you, heart racing, breath shallow, heat rising like a tide in your chest. You didn't answer.

His smirk returned, wolfish and victorious. “Didn't think so.”

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

This one was different. Not like the first time, not a collison.

Not rushed. Not messy and reactive like last time. 

This one was slow.

Purposeful.

His lips molded to yours like he had something to prove, like he knew he had you, and he was going to make sure you knew it too. His hands slid over your waist, patient, teasing, pulling you into him without a single ounce of hesitation, until there wasn't a sliver of space between your bodies. His mouth moved against yours with practiced, devastating confidence, like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how this would end.

You broke the kiss once, just barely. “This is a bad idea.”

His lips brushed your jaw, then your neck. “So stop me.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer instead.

You melted into it. Just for a second. Just long enough to give in to everything you had not admitted out loud.

He kissed you again, quicker now, teeth dragging your bottom lip into his mouth, tongue teasing in a way that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He backed you into the couch, kissing you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin. You didn't fall. He guided you down with infuriating gentleness, like he wanted you to know he could be soft, but only when it suited him. His fingers tangled in your hair, the other hand anchoring you by the hip as he settled you beneath him. Your thighs parted instinctively and his hips slotted between yours, the contact electric.

He pressed you back against the cushions, half on top of you, the heat of his body impossible to ignore. The moment dragged. Your mouths meeting and parting in a rhythm that is teased, stoked, built.

His mouth trailed down your throat, lingering at your pulse point.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered against your skin.

“I'm furious.”

He grinned against your collarbone. “Even better.”

His hands slid under your shirt, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the edge of your ribs with maddening restraint. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You didn't.

Not when his mouth found yours again. Not when his hips slotted perfectly between your legs, not when your hands roamed under his shirt and he groaned like you were undoing him just by touching him.

The world narrowed to breath and heat and whispered curses between kisses.

“Are you still mad?” he murmured, his nose brushing yours.

“I haven't decided yet if I'm going to hex you.” you replied, breathless, fingers sliding further beneath the hem of his shirt.

His grin was pure wickedness. “Just so we're clear- I'm into that.”

Your hands ran over his stomach, nails grazing across the plains of muscle you haven't seen but had definitely imagined. His skin was warm, twitching slightly under your touch.  His breath caught when you pushed his shirt up and off entirely, tossing it aside without taking your eyes off him. Your eyes dragged over the expanse of bare skin in front of you, toned but not polished, not perfect. Real. warm. Human in a way he rarely let himself be.

He didn't waste time either. His hands slipped under the back of your shirt, splayed wide across your spine like he wanted to memorize every inch of you by feel alone.

“You've been driving me insane,” he said, softer this time.

You reached up, curling a hand into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him inhale sharply. “That's my line.”

He chuckled. “Do you want me to stop?”

You pulled him closer. “Do I look like I want you to stop?”

That was all the answer he needed. 

He kissed you again, deeper now, hungrier, his body pressing flush against yours as he rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate. The friction made you gasp, and he groaned low in his throat, as if the sound alone was enough to drive him wild.

You arched into him, hands roaming shamelessly across his bare chest, down his back, nails dragging just hard enough to leave a mark. He responded in kind, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it without a glance. His eyes dropped to your chest, pupils blown wide, lips parting slightly at the sight of you. Then his mouth was back on your skin, your collarbone, your chest, kissing down like you were something sacred. He worshipped you with lips, teeth, and tongue, and you were helpless under the weight of it.

“God, you're unreal.” he muttered, almost like he didn't mean to say it out loud.

“Less talking.” you said, pulling him back in.

And when your hips lifted, seeking friction, he gave it to you. A slow grind that lit every nerve and forced a gasp from your throat.

“You're so responsive,” he said. “Like I could set you off with just my mouth.”

“Then do it.” you challenged, half-gasped.

He laughed-moaned-and met your mouth again, hands already mapping the rest of you. His mouth moved lower, down your jaw, your neck, trailing kisses that turned into nips, then soothing licks as he went. He took his time, learning the way your body reacted, how your breath hitched when his tongue traced the curve of your collarbone, how your fingers tightened in his hair when he kissed the swell of your chest.

He flicked his tongue against your skin, grinning when you whimpered. “You always this responsive, or is it just me?”

You dragged his mouth back to yours in answer, your kiss bruising, impatient. Your hips rolled up against his without conscious thought, chasing the friction you didn't dare beg for yet. He groaned, hands slipping down to grip your thighs and hitch one leg around his waist.

“You're killing me,” he growled against your mouth.

“Then shut up and die happy.” you snapped.

Clothes disappeared in fragments, his jeans first, then yours, both of you fumbling and desperate, more skin revealed with each passing second. Your bodies tangled, heat and tension ratcheting higher, the kind of desperate urgency that came from pretending it didn't matter, when it mattered too much. 

He kissed like he fought, ruthless, relentless, consuming. But there was tenderness beneath the fire. His touch slowed just when you thought you couldn't take any more, his mouth trailing revenant kisses along the curve of your hip, the inside of your thigh. He worshipped like he wanted to ruin you and make you remember it every time you close your eyes.

You pulled him back to you, anchoring him with your legs, your hands, your mouth. The look in his eyes when he finally settled over you, naked, breathless, eyes full of heat and something close to awe, made your heart stutter.

He brushed hair from your face and leaned in, lips hovering just over yours. “This changes everything, you know.”

“Shut up, Parker.” you whispered, “and kiss me again.”

He did. Slow, sensual, devastating.

His body moved with yours, every shift perfectly matched, every grind of hips sending new waves of pleasure through you until it was impossible to think. You felt everything, his breath on your cheek, the twitch of his fingers, the low, reverent curses spilling from his mouth as he lost himself in you.

The world narrowed to this, sweat damp skin, kisses that broke and reformed, every second more overwhelming than the last. 

He didn't move at first. His body hovered over yours, his weight braced on his forearms, eyes locked on yours with a heat that bordered on reverent. The shadows between you seemed to still, thick with a kind of unspoken electricity that either of you dared to break.

His breath mingled with yours, warm, unsteady, tasting faintly of whiskey and want. Your chest rose and fell in tandem, both of you straining to stay still while every nerve screamed for contact. His eyes dropped to your lips. You didn't speak. You didn't need to. You just leaned in, barely enough to brush your mouth against his. He made a soft, strained sound, half groan, half sigh, and it was like that was all he needed to snap.

Then he kissed you like he was making a claim.

He pressed into you, hips rolling slowly, a devastating grind of bare skin that stole the breath from your lungs. His body was hot against yours, every muscle taut, the tension in him barely restrained. His mouth moved over yours with purpose, like he wanted to drown in you, drag you under, and take his time doing it.

You arched up against him instantly, your thighs tightening around his waist, back bowing with a shiver when his fingers traced up your sides, slow, possessive, hot. Hecursed into your mouth, like even touching you like this was more than he’d prepared for.

“Still so mad at me,” he murmured, against your lips, voice low and rough as gravel, “but you let me in anyway.”

His hand slid down, gripping your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his hips until your bodies aligned perfectly. He pressed into you again, deeper, slower, drawing a gasp from your lips. The friction was blinding. You grabbed at his shoulders, digging your nails in, and he hissed, shuddering above you.

“You're not real,” he whispered into your throat. “You can’t be.”

You barely registered it, too lost in the feel of him moving with you, each motion more maddening than the last, like he knew exactly how to make you unravel. The rhythm he set was controlled, methodical, a deliberate tease designed to push you right to the edge and keep you there.

“Faster,” you gasped, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

He smiled, dark and slow, but he obeyed.

His paced shifted, hips thrusting harder now, slower still, draggin every movement out until your whole body tightened around him. You were breathless, dizzy, a mess of heat and need and something deeper clawing at the edge of your chest, something you didn't want to name.

He leaned back enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, jaw clenched, brow furrowed like he was barely holding on. One hand came up to your face, brushing your hair away, and he stared at you like the world could fall apart around him and he’d still only see you. 

“You feel like fire,” he said, voice wrecked. “Like you were made to burn me.”

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your body was already winding tighter, hips chasing his with increasing desperation, every thrust igniting sparks in your blood. Your hands gripped his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could reach, holding on like the crash was inevitable.

And it was.

You shattered first, gasping his name like a confession, your entire body seizing in a rush of heat and release so intense it brought tears to your eyes. The wave hit you hard and kept going, crashing again and again, and Kai didn't let you go.

He held you through it, moving with you, chasing his own edge until he followed, hips jerking, mouth breaking from yours with a raw, ragged sound that echoed in your chest like a promise.

He collapsed onto you, arms bracketing your head, breath shuddering against your neck. The heat between your bodies was unbearable, and yet you didn't move. You didn't want to.

His skin was damp, his hair curling slightly with sweat. Your fingers traced lazy circles on his back, the pads of your fingertips memorizing the lines of muscle and scar, the rise and fall of each breath.

Neither of you spoke. Not because there was nothing to say, because there was too much.

You felt him shift slightly, one hand sliding down your side, over your hip, anchoring you to him like he didn't want to rush you slipping away now that he’d finally gotten this close.

“Still want to hex me?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost boyish.

You gave a tired laugh and turned your head just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“More than ever.”

He grinned, slow and lazy, resting his forehead against yours. “Then I'll consider it foreplay.”

You didn't bother to reply. You just lay there, tangled together in the mess of sweat-dampened limbs and cooling magic, heart pounding as if it knew everything had just changed.

And there was no undoing it now.

[watchtowerlibrary]

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just… I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and…” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

Damn it 🥹

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten. “Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

Talk about familiar comfort 🫂

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his. Your heart stutters.

It's the yearning 🤌🏼

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking. "Me morí."

Dude, I'm all in for the drama 🙌🏻

"Hi." Your breath catches. "Hi," you whisper back. His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory. Like he’s afraid you might disappear. "Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Damn, that's cute.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?" Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you. There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

He doesn't want Reader to leave awwwww 🥺

Joaquín is watching you. His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting. You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare. The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

That silent stare 👀

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

A drowsy Joaquin with no filter would've been ... interesting. 😏 He's such a yapper when he's not lying in a hospital bed already. 😅

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—" "I miss you." Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate. “I know, I do too,” you admit, “Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

Never underestimate a man in a hospital bed, sometimes they just go for the gut punch you don't see coming 😅🫠

forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”