#and the more i think about it the more i really really need to think about how that happened just because it's so unlike my vision of him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lauraneedstochill · 1 day ago

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can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included)

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

#the pitt #jack abbot #I’m so nervous about posting this I’m about to have a heart attack #lauraneedstochillinsteadshewrites #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr jack abbot #jack abbott #shawn hatosy #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt imagine #the pitt hbo #abbotjack

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erwinsvow · 3 days ago

Text

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.

pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader

word count: 13.3k

warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.

author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.

you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.

you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever.

but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much.

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies.

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away.

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl.

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.)

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this.

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite.

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep.

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay?

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle).

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words.

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish.

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?”

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room.

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.”

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now.

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said.

“yeah. okay. thanks.”

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.”

“you too, mister cody.”

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own.

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request.

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you.

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future.

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time.

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork.

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do.

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap.

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it.

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car.

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers.

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes.

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account.

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep.

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly.

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside.

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really.

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two.

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around.

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind.

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him.

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says.

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job.

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours.

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you.

“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.”

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that?

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers.

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his.

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.”

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on.

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off.

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough.

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow.

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information.

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you.

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.”

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either.

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real.

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.”

“when did you get up?”

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago.

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday.

“yeah. i had one.”

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up.

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs.

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic.

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.”

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody.

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly.

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door.

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved.

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute.

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you.

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done.

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them.

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.)

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you.

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both.

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching.

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this.

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?”

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.”

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times.

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for.

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him.

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship.

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place.

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing.

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress.

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed.

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm.

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it.

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you.

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.”

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path.

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch.

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him.

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer.

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet.

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him.

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about.

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all.

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out).

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon.

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now.

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh.

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady.

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it.

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.”

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts.

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.)

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you.

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody.

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.)

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend.

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have.

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once.

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state.

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words.

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

♡ thank you for reading

#why am i so nervous about this #pope cody #pope cody x reader #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #babysitter reader

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bishovapls · 3 days ago

Text

I think you both need Daddy, hm?

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Summary: When Carol asks you out in front of Wanda, she snaps. She takes you home, desperate to claim you, to mark you, to own you. But it’s not just her bed you belong in, and when Natasha comes home to find you both absolutely lost in the scene, she makes one thing very clear: if you’re going to be ruined, it’ll be by both of them. Together.

Warnings: 18+, Mommy Kink, Daddy Kink, Age difference, Older WandaNat/Younger Reader, BDSM, Dom/Sub, Strap-on, fingering, Cunnilingus, Punishment (kind of), Safe word/gesture check-ins. Aftercare, but also idk if it counts because it happens, and then they start up again like the feral animals they are.

A/N: There was never meant to be a part two to this, but after a request from @tomy5girls, who am I to say no? I know this isn’t exactly what you asked for, I may have taken a few liberties and run with it a bit, but I hope you still enjoy it!

I think there’s enough context to catch you up on what’s going on, so you don't need to read part one. But if you want to, the first part is here.

As I mentioned last time, smut isn’t something I’ve written too much of before, but the reaction on here to the first part was crazy. Thank you, everyone, for being patient and supportive as I step a bit out of my comfort zone!

Word Count: 10,143

Anywaaays, sorry for the yapping. NSFW below the cut, you can also read on AO3.

The café was warm and quiet, with sunlight streaming through the windows and spilling across the wood-panelled floor. The clink of mugs and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine created a soft, rhythmic background hum, while indie music played quietly from the speakers overhead. You were tucked into your usual corner seat, your laptop open in front of you, a half-empty latte sitting forgotten beside it. Across from you, Carol was scrolling through the shared project document, her brow furrowed in concentration as she absorbed the final bits of the work.

It was your last study session with her. After two months of grafting, revisions, and back-and-forths, this was it. The project was finished. And you were proud of what you’d done together. The project was solid, clean, well-written, even a little brilliant. Maybe even an A.

Carol had been more than tolerable during the process. She was smart, dry in her humour, and easy to get along with. You’d laughed, found a rhythm, and she never made you feel stupid for missing something or needing more time. But that wasn’t what had your skin buzzing, you weren’t thinking about the project. Not really.

What had your attention was Wanda.

She moved around the café with quiet grace, her apron snug around her waist, hair clipped back but a few strands escaping to frame her face. She hadn’t looked directly at you for a while, but you could feel her eyes on you, her presence heavy in the air.

Every time Carol leaned in a little too close, every time she gestured to the screen or shifted in her seat, you felt Wanda’s gaze flicker over to the two of you. You could sense the tension in the room, even without looking up from your work.

Your girlfriends hadn’t approved of the arrangement from the very beginning. You’d tried to be reasonable, explaining how it was strictly academic, that Carol was nothing more than a project partner. You reassured them, over and over, but it never truly landed, not with either of them.

Wanda’s eyes would darken every time Carol’s name passed your lips, her jaw set just a little tighter. Her touch would change, no longer casual or gentle, but possessive. A hand curling firmly around your waist, or fingers digging into the softness of your thigh like a silent warning.

And Natasha? Natasha didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. The shift in her body was enough, the rigid line of her spine, the way her mouth pressed into a tight, unreadable line. You’d catch the flick of her gaze, sharp and calculating, as though she were already cataloguing the best way to make Carol disappear.

You weren’t naïve. You knew what it looked like when they were on edge. And with Carol, they weren’t just on edge, they were poised, barely leashed. Jealousy burned hot in both of them, but it manifested differently. Wanda clung to you like you might slip through her fingers. Natasha watched like a predator, calm and still, but lethal just beneath the surface.

They didn’t trust Carol, not because she had done anything wrong yet, but because they knew how easy you were to be taken. They knew how easy you were to corrupt. After all… they’d done it first. They knew the way you softened under attention, how you craved approval. They knew exactly what it looked like.

And they weren’t about to let anyone else try.

—--

The first night you’d gone to Carol’s to work on the project, they’d summoned you to their place the moment it ended; it didn't matter that it was late, or that you had an early class the next morning. There hadn’t been a choice, and you obeyed, of course, you always did. Because when they gave you an order, it wasn’t a suggestion.

You’d barely stepped through the door before Natasha had you pinned against it, the sharp click of the lock still echoing when her hand curled around your throat.

“Get undressed,” she had commanded, her voice low and steady, like it was taking everything in her not to snarl. “Mommy and Daddy need to see if anything’s been taken from us.”

And they’d checked everything. Every inch of your skin, your scent, your breath, your neck, your breasts…your thighs. Wanda had traced the inside of your legs with her fingers, like she could feel if anyone had dared to touch you. Natasha had knelt before you, her gaze laser-focused on your pussy. She stared as if trying to figure out whether you were still truly hers, before leaning in to taste, just to be certain.

Some might have called it toxic. Obsessive. Overbearing. But you’d discussed the boundaries long ago. This was part of it. You weren’t afraid of their jealousy.

You needed it.

Before them, you had been quiet. Ordinary. Invisible, almost. But now, with them, you were something worth claiming. Protected by two beautiful women who saw the world as full of thieves trying to steal what was theirs. And what was theirs was you.

Three sessions at Carol’s were all it took before they’d reached their limit. Every time you were at her apartment, they were climbing the walls back home, restless, pacing, barely keeping it together until you walked through the door and they could get their hands on you.

You remember that conversation clearly. You were lying in bed, your skin still flushed, marked, every inch of you thoroughly inspected, claimed all over again. Wanda had been the one to speak, her tone deceptively gentle as she tucked herself beside you, fingers dragging slowly over your hip.

You had two options: Natasha could pull strings, lean on her department contacts, and get you reassigned to a new group entirely. Or you could keep working with Carol. But only under Wanda’s roof, in her café, where her eyes could stay on you the entire time.

You’d chosen the café. And now, when you came home, there was no need for the checks. No demand to strip or let them inspect you. Wanda could see everything. Every shift of your body, every glance. She knew, without asking. She always knew.

—--

Your thighs pressed together under the table as you thought about them. About the possessiveness, the way they made you feel like you were something to be desired, something that belonged to them.

Carol was still talking, but you were still only half-listening, lost in the anticipation. Eventually, Carol’s voice broke through your thoughts, her tone softer than before. “Hey, I was wondering… if you wanted to keep seeing each other, even though the project is done?”

You stiffened, but you tried to remain casual. There was no way your girlfriends would allow this. You gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Carol, I don’t think I can. But I’ll see you in Professor Romanoff’s lectures.”

Carol’s expression faltered, the corners of her mouth dipping into a subtle frown before she masked it with a casual, almost cocky smirk. “Why not?” she said, her voice dipping slightly, trying to sound playful. “We have chemistry, don’t we? We click, we laugh… Let me take you out. Just once.”

“I’m taken, you know that, Carol,” you said, keeping your voice steady, even as that familiar flicker of nervous energy crawled up your spine. And she did know, because Natasha and Wanda had made damn sure you’d told her. Had made it clear that you weren’t available. That you weren’t free to be taken.

Carol chuckled, but there was something more confident about her now, a playful lilt in her voice. “Oh, come on, baby. I bet I could treat you better. You haven’t even told me your girlfriend’s name. Can’t be that serious, can it?”

You wished you could’ve told her the truth, that the woman behind the counter was your girlfriend. That Wanda, along with Natasha, loved you in ways you’d never even known to dream about.

That they touched you, ruined you, worshipped you, and made you feel things you didn’t think were possible. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t tell Carol that you belonged to Wanda, because everyone knew Wanda was Natasha’s wife. And if you were with Wanda… then you were with Natasha too. And that was a line you could not admit to crossing. Not without consequences.

The only time you were allowed to blur those lines was when the three of you escaped the city, trips to quiet towns or distant coasts where no one knew your names, where eyes didn’t linger and gossip didn’t follow.

Or on rare nights when they brought you into their private circle, introduced you to the few friends who didn’t flinch at blurred boundaries. Friends who didn’t care that you were sleeping with your professor, only that Natasha’s smile came easier with you beside her, and Wanda’s eyes softened whenever you curled up in her lap like you belonged there.

You’d gone quiet for too long, lost in the swirl of your thoughts, still reeling from Carol’s boldness and the weight of Wanda’s gaze. The sharp crack of glass hitting tile jolted you back to the present. Wanda had dropped the coffee pot, the sound slicing through the café like a warning bell.

You looked up, and the moment your eyes met hers, you knew it hadn’t been an accident. The tightness in her jaw, the deliberate stillness of her posture, this was a message. A command. You scrambled to your feet without thinking, moving to her side as quickly as you could, heart thudding, because you understood exactly what she wanted: your attention, your obedience.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll text you, Carol,” you said quickly, kneeling to help Wanda clean up, the tension in your chest growing tighter.

Carol, unsurprised by your quick retreat, nodded as she picked up her bag. “Think about my offer, darling,” she said, flashing you a small, almost knowing smile before she left.

—--

Wanda was eerily silent as the two of you cleaned up the broken coffee pot, but the sharpness of her breath was impossible to ignore. Her hands trembled ever so slightly, and it was clear she was fighting something. Some dark desire that had taken root inside her, a simmering need she was trying to control.

You glanced quickly around, relief washing over you when you saw the place was clear. No one to witness whatever was about to unfold. You moved to the door, flipping the sign to closed as if marking the boundary between the world outside and whatever was waiting for you inside.

When you returned to kneel beside Wanda, paper towels in hand, the glass was in the bin, but her eyes were still fixed on the spill of coffee. Every inch of her body was taut, coiled, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

You wiped up the mess, taking extra care to get every last drop, even though you knew she wasn’t paying attention to that. She was watching you, studying every movement, every shift in your posture. You hesitated for just a moment, then whispered, "Mommy?"

Your voice came out softer than you intended, trembling slightly, betraying the nervous excitement that rushed through your veins.

You knew exactly what kind of mood she was in. This wasn’t the woman who caressed you to sleep or soothed you with gentle words. This was the side of her that demanded everything and took what was hers with a force you could never deny.

She didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, but you could see it, the tightening of her fist, the tension in her jaw. Wanda was struggling to hold herself together, not to give in to whatever force was swirling inside her. It was both terrifying and… thrilling.

"Mommy… I’m yours. All yours," you said, a little breathless, your words coming out almost like a plea. You needed her to hear you. To feel your devotion, your submission.

She finally looked up at you, and your breath caught in your throat. Her eyes were cold, unrecognisable. There was something in them that made your pulse spike, a jolt of fear curling low in your stomach. For the first time, you felt a rush of real fear, the kind that made your knees weak, and your breath shallow.

"Mommy, please… please," you whispered, your voice barely audible, a tremor in your words as your body reacted to the mix of fear and something else, the something inside you that wanted this, craved this. Loved this.

Wanda’s voice broke the silence, low, smooth, and terrifyingly calm. "Get your things, little girl. We’re going home."

—--

The drive back was consumed by an uncomfortable silence. You didn’t try to make conversation. Wanda’s presence in the driver’s seat seemed almost too quiet, but the energy she radiated spoke volumes.

Her hand said everything. It was firmly planted on your thigh, fingers gripping tight, the pressure almost unbearable. You swore you could feel her nails through the fabric of your jeans, a constant reminder of the simmering tension.

The moment the car stopped and you stepped inside the house, the door barely clicking shut behind you, she was on you. Her body pressed into yours with a heat that knocked the breath from your lungs, pinning you against the door so firmly it rattled in its frame.

Her lips found your neck immediately, and there was nothing soft about it. The first press of her mouth was hungry, almost desperate. She didn’t leave room for you to react, her lips closing around the sensitive skin of your throat, sucking hard, leaving a bruise in its wake.

The sensation shot through your entire body, a mixture of heat and pleasure laced with a sharp twinge of pain that made you tremble.

Her hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, pulling you even closer. She was marking you, claiming you with each kiss, each bite. There was no hesitation, no gentleness, just raw possessiveness.

She moved to the other side of your neck, the pace never slowing, her teeth grazing your skin, her lips locking onto every inch, every vulnerable spot she could find. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t even try.

She was determined to cover you in her marks. And she was succeeding.

Her hands slid up, cupping your face as she angled you just the way she wanted. You felt the sharp pull of her mouth once more, and this time it was even harder. She sucked at your neck until you moaned, the sound strangled as she left another mark, darker than the last.

You couldn’t stop the shudder that wracked your body, couldn’t stop the way your knees threatened to buckle beneath you.

She pulled away for a breath, her eyes narrowing as she studied you, searching for something that only she could see. “You didn’t defend me,” she whispered, her voice low, almost a growl. The words felt like a physical blow, and they twisted your stomach into knots. “She said she could treat you better… and you didn’t tell her otherwise.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of her words sink in. Before you could respond, Wanda’s hands were on your shirt, ripping it from your body with a kind of frantic desperation. You gasped, her actions both shocking and thrilling in their intensity, leaving you breathless in more ways than one. Her lips found your collarbone in an instant, her bites sharp and insistent.

Your heart raced, your thoughts scattered in a whirlwind. “I… I got lost in my thoughts,” you finally managed to stutter, your voice trembling.

She paused, just for a moment, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, and the tension between you crackled in the space that remained. “Oh yeah? What were you thinking about?” she asked, her voice rough and demanding, as though she needed you to confess something.

You swallowed, the fear and excitement mixing into something potent. “You, Mommy,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I was thinking about you.”

“Not her?” she growled, her lips brushing over your skin like she was tasting your response. “Your needy little pussy didn’t get wet at the thought of her taking you? Using you like the little whore you are?”

“No, Mommy,” you breathed, your voice shaky. “I was thinking about you and Daddy, how well you treat me, how good you make me feel.” You could feel the heat of her breath against your chest, her teeth scraping against your skin, each bite pulling you deeper into the tension that threatened to consume you both.

Her lips curled into a dark smile, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she leaned in again, her mouth brushing against the raw, bruised skin.

"You’re mine," she murmured, the words sending a thrill through you. "And I’ll remind you of that every chance I get."

You nodded quickly, your throat dry, the weight of Wanda’s gaze still heavy on you. She stepped back just enough to give you space to pass her, but the moment you moved, she was on you again.

Her hand slid to the back of your neck, firm and unyielding, guiding you forward and up the stairs with a force that left no room for hesitation.

When you finally reached the bedroom, she released her hold on your neck. You felt the absence immediately, the air growing colder without the heat of her touch.

But before you could gather your thoughts, she spoke, her voice low, controlled, but still carrying that dark, possessive edge. “Strip."

The command was simple, but it sent a rush through you, a tight knot forming in your chest as you quickly obeyed.

You could feel her eyes on you, watching every movement as you undressed. And the second you were done, she spoke. "Get on the bed. Arms up, legs spread," she commanded, her voice dark and unwavering as she undressed too.

Once again, you complied, your body responding to her authority as if it had no choice.

She approached with measured steps, a quiet authority in every movement. Her hands were steady as they guided you into position on the bed. She took her time securing your limbs, each secured with practiced precision.

Her fingers brushed over your skin afterward, double-checking each restraint, making sure you were held but never harmed. The care in her touch was unmistakable, control, yes, but wrapped in a kind of reverence.

Even in the grip of her possessive rage, Wanda was measured, deliberate. She ensured your safety with every touch, her care never faltering.

Her eyes, which had burned with jealousy moments before, were now steady, focused, scanning you for any sign of discomfort.

“Colour?” she asked, her voice quieter now, gentler but still laced with the simmering remnants of her earlier fury.

The weight of the scene clung to you, every nerve alight, every sense overwhelmed. But beneath it all was something deeper, trust, safety, the grounding memory of how careful she’d been. How her anger never once translated into recklessness. You loved this. All of it. Especially the way she’d handled you like something precious, even as she claimed you.

“Green, Mommy,” you said, clear and steady, no hesitation in your tone, only devotion.

Her lips curled into a small smile, dark and approving. “Good girl,” she whispered, the praise both soothing and possessive, before her eyes darkened again, the storm of her desires never far from the surface.

When she finally climbed over you, it wasn’t lust that drove her, it was obsession, a force bigger than her body, bigger than her fury, something relentless and consuming that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with possession.

Her fingers skimmed your sides, reverent but firm, her touch dragging goosebumps in its wake, and her eyes locked on yours, dark and unblinking, daring you to look away.

Something about the way she held herself above you, barely restrained, seething with intent, made it impossible to breathe, and yet you didn’t want to move. You wanted this. You needed this.

And then she began again, just like downstairs, her mouth returning to your skin with a single-minded purpose. Her lips pressed against your collarbone, soft at first, almost deceiving, and then her teeth followed.

You gasped, your back arching slightly off the bed, your fingers twitching uselessly against the restraints. Her touch ignited something low in your belly and high in your chest all at once.

Another mark, lower now, then another just beneath it. Wanda was painting a story across your skin, one bruise at a time, and every single one echoed with the same word: Mine .

The heat of her mouth was matched only by the fire burning inside you. When her teeth grazed just beneath your ribs, sharper this time, a heavy moan escaped you before you could stop it.

It trembled out of your throat, like your body was pleading for more even as it trembled under the weight of what it had already been given.

Between every bite that still throbbed and the sting of the one currently being delivered, you could feel yourself cunt begin to ache. Soft whimpers slipped from your lips, your body aching to move, to beg, to chase more. But you didn’t.

This wasn’t about your pleasure, not right now. Wanda needed this. She needed to mark you, to own you, to feel you give yourself over without asking for anything in return. So you offered her your stillness, your obedience, your surrender.

You caught her gaze again, her pupils blown wide, her breathing uneven, and for a flickering second, something shifted in her. Not softness. Not even calm. But relief. A raw, aching flash of gratitude that you were still here, still hers, still letting her claim you like this.

She leaned in again, slower this time, her lips dragging beneath your navel, warm breath ghosting across your skin, shaky, uneven, trembling with the weight of what she was holding back. “Mine,” she whispered, hoarse and low, like the word itself was a vow and a warning wrapped in longing. “Only mine.”

It wasn’t just a claim, it was Wanda pleading with the universe, needing to believe it. Needing to feel that she hadn’t lost you, that even in the wild, blurred aftermath of everything, you were still hers. Her hands gripped tighter, possessive, grounding herself in the feel of your body beneath her.

But beneath the burn of her touch, the worship in her voice, a flicker of something deeper pulled at you. Natasha. You knew you belonged to her, too. And yet Wanda didn’t speak her name. She didn’t leave space for her. Her world had narrowed until you were the only thing in it, and Natasha had been pushed outside it entirely.

You wanted to say it. You wanted to remind her. But the weight of Wanda’s devotion crushed your resistance, the sheer need in her pulling the words out of you before you could stop them.

“Yes, Mommy,” you whispered, voice shaky but sure. “Only yours.” Even as guilt curled warm and quiet in your stomach.

When she finally pulled back just enough to take you in, her eyes swept over her work like a woman on the edge of something unspoken. There was nothing untouched now, your neck, your chest, your hips, your stomach, your thighs, even your arms. Every inch bore her claim. Every inch screamed hers .

“So fucking pretty like this, printsessa (princess), ” she said, her breath hot against your thigh, her lips barely brushing the freshest mark, her voice ragged, torn from somewhere deep inside her chest. “Mine. All mine.”

You nodded instantly, your eyes wide and glassy. You could feel the ache she’d left behind, all over you, and you needed her to know you welcomed it. “I’m yours.”

Her smile returned, that slow, dangerous curl of her mouth that promised she was far from finished. “Say it again,” she murmured, her voice low and breathless, barely even a command this time, it was breathless and hungry, like she needed it to live.

“I’m yours,” you repeated, stronger now, even as your breath hitched, even as you squirmed beneath her.

She tilted her head, assessing, and you knew it wasn’t enough. Not yet. “Louder,” she commanded.

You swallowed, your throat dry and tight, but you forced your voice through the tremble in your chest. “I’m yours, Mommy,” you said, louder now, loud enough to fill the room, to echo off the walls, to blot out everything else. “Only yours. Always.”

She must’ve been at least partially satisfied, because after one final glance at the marks she’d scattered across your body, she shifted, rising off you, and the loss of her weight made you whine, high and broken, a sound pulled from somewhere deep.

Your skin felt too bare without her, your chest too open. Everything in you was aching now, not just with need but with dependency, your senses lit up and stretched tight, every inch of you focused on her.

She had pulled you so far down into a space where nothing existed but her voice, her hands, her mouth, and now, without them, you felt unmoored, trembling. You needed her. You needed her.

Her eyes caught yours, and for a moment, just a flicker, her gaze softened, something quieter slipping through the crack in her control. “Just going to the closet, Little one,” she murmured, her voice dipping into that gentler tone she only used when you were already falling apart. And even though the warmth in her voice was slightly forced, it was enough.

She disappeared into the closet without another word, leaving you alone in the thick, buzzing quiet, your breath shaky, your body still thrumming with heat. When she returned, it was with her strap, a deep scarlet colour, the sight of it enough to make your breath hitch, and your mouth water, the anticipation knotting low and tight in your stomach.

Your thighs shifted instinctively, trying to press together, to find even the smallest flicker of relief, but the restraints didn’t allow it, and your frustration only made the ache worse. Wanda noticed. Of course she noticed. Her eyes dropped to the movement, her gaze catching the way you writhed and failed to hide it.

The smirk that curled across her lips was sharp and knowing, and in an instant, the softness was gone again. The Wanda who looked at you now was all shadow and fire again, dark and certain. The Wanda who would ruin you, just to put you back together again, mark by mark, breath by breath.

She crawled back onto the bed, her eyes locked on yours, hungry and unyielding. She moved between your legs and settled into place without hesitation. “Just stay still and let me use you,” she murmured, her voice low and controlled, but with that same simmering edge that had been there all night, that quiet storm of rage and want and need barely restrained.

And then she buried her strap inside you, hard. No warning, no warm-up with her fingers, not even any gentle licks against your folds to get you ready. Nothing, as if she couldn’t bear to wait another second. As if being inside you is what gave her air to breathe.

The sound that ripped from your throat was sharp, raw, somewhere between a cry and a scream. The stretch hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, pain blooming fast and bright.

For a heartbeat, it was too much. Your breath caught, your muscles tensed. But then, just as quickly as it came, the sharpness blurred, twisted into something hotter, something unbearable in an entirely different way.

Wanda’s thrusts started slow, deliberate, and deep, her movements laced with restraint, but it was a fragile kind.

But you could feel the tension winding tighter in her limbs, in the way her breath hitched, the way her jaw clenched. She was holding back, barely. She was trying to stay composed, to be gentle, or at least gentle enough, but it was written in every shaky inhale, every flicker of heat in her eyes that she was close to losing it, again.

With every thrust, her desperation climbed higher, simmering just beneath her skin until it bled into everything she did. There were no soft praises, playful degradations, or the coaxing, honey-sweet lilt you’d come to expect; just raw, consuming need.

Your body arched beneath her, straining hard against the restraints, every muscle taut, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up. You were gasping now, breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts that never seemed enough, stolen too quickly as she thrusted again, deeper, rougher, like she couldn’t help herself.

“Such a pretty little fuck toy for me. Mine, my pretty whore, Mine,” she whispered the words into the crook of your neck as she sank into you again, barely audible over the thundering of your heartbeat and the rush of sensation unravelling you from the inside out. It didn’t even feel like she was speaking to you, more like a reminder to herself.

You whimpered, your hips twitching helplessly, straining for more. You had heard the word ‘mine’ more today than ever, and it hit something raw inside you, something so deep it felt like your soul reached out for her in response. Yes. You were hers. You wanted to be hers.

And then suddenly her rhythm shifted, less controlled, more frantic, every thrust and motion sharpened by her unraveling restraint. Her mouth was everywhere again, biting, branding, her lips dragging across your neck, your chest, down your stomach, as if she couldn’t decide where to leave the next mark.

Her hands tightened at your hips, fingers digging in with a bruising kind of need, anchoring herself to you like she might fall apart without the contact. She was slipping, further, faster, into that frenzy of need, of fury, of desperate, aching possessiveness that she'd tried so hard to cage since attaching the stap to her hips.

But now with her cock slamming in and out of you, your moans and whines gracing her ears, it surged forward, unfiltered, dragging her under. You could feel it in the way she clung to you, in the way her breath hitched and her nails pressed harder. She wasn’t trying to hold back anymore.

And then she was chanting. “Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.” Over and over again, like it was the only word she remembered, the only thing that mattered. She was barely even present now, barely aware of the room, of anything but you.

Your entire body shook beneath her, your lungs struggling to keep up with the broken sobs and gasps that kept clawing their way out of your throat. Her voice was low, hoarse, and relentless as it poured over you like a spell, dragging you deeper under with every breathless repetition.

And you didn’t fight it. You couldn’t. You just let go, let yourself be hers. Be claimed. Be ruined.

—-

You had no idea how long it had been, but you were both so far gone you didn’t hear the door open, didn’t register the familiar creak of the floorboards or the call of “I’m home” echoing down the hall. Nothing existed beyond the frantic rhythm of Wanda’s body against yours, the relentless chant spilling from her mouth, her teeth grazing your skin, her hands branding you with every touch.

It wasn’t until you heard a sharp, animalistic growl, low and guttural, torn from Wanda’s throat, that your hazy focus shifted. Your eyes blinked sluggishly through the haze, breath catching, and when you managed to look past her, you saw Natasha standing in the doorway.

Her arms hung at her sides, her expression unreadable. But her eyes dragged over you like a blade. Every bruise, every mark Wanda had left behind, every shiver and tremble of your overstimulated body catalogued in a single glance. Her jaw clenched, the muscle ticking once, like she was biting back something sharp.

Wanda didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. She kept chanting under her breath, a broken, breathless litany of “mine, mine, mine” spilling from her lips like it was the only word left. She was lost in it, lost in you. Her hips were steady, relentless, as though Natasha’s presence didn’t even register.

But you felt it. The air went taut, almost brittle. Natasha’s silence carried weight, thick with jealousy, with hunger, with a cold, simmering possessiveness that was entirely her own. She stepped forward, slow and measured, her gaze locked on yours, and something inside you fluttered and clenched all at once. You didn’t know what she was going to do. Punish? Claim? Interrupt? Join?

And yet, even with her rage coiled under her skin, even with her dominance thrumming off her in waves, her first move was exactly what you needed.

She shifted to your side with quiet purpose, her presence grounding as she reached for one of the wrists Wanda had bound. Her fingers ghosted over the edge of the restraint with precision, double-checking its snugness.

The tenderness of it made something flutter deep in your chest, a soft ache blooming in contrast to the intensity you’d been caught in. And then, without a word, she laced her fingers through yours, anchoring you with that simple, intimate gesture: A single squeeze.

Because no matter how tightly jealousy coiled in her gut, no matter how fiercely the hunger flickered in her eyes, Natasha’s instinct was always the same.

Just like Wanda earlier, she put everything else aside, possession, dominance, the sharp edge of being left out, and she checked on you first.

That was who they were. That was what it meant to belong to them. Your safety, your wellbeing, your headspace…All of it came before anything they might want for themselves.

The squeeze said everything she needed to ask: Are you okay? Are you still with us? Do you feel safe?

She didn’t bother to use words. She knew you couldn’t answer like that, not now. Not with your mind fogged and your breath stuttering and your body twitching with every slam of Wanda’s hips. She could read it all, your eyes, your moans, the pitch of your breath. So you squeezed once in return. Green .

She knew what that squeeze meant: Yes. I want this. I want her. I’m safe. And something else, less clear, buried beneath the rest. I want you too. I miss your hands. Your voice.

Her body eased, just barely, the tension rolling back a single inch. But the hunger in her never dimmed. It sharpened instead, focused and precise as she looked back down at you, at the mess Wanda had made of you.

After a beat, Natasha’s focus finally shifted, her eyes dragging away from you and locking onto Wanda, taking in the sheer, unhinged desperation driving every thrust of the strap into your battered pussy. She saw it immediately, the way Wanda had spiralled, and Natasha knew it couldn’t go on like this.

She moved without hesitation, stalking around the bed with quiet authority, climbing on behind Wanda, one hand fisting in her hair and yanking her back just enough to make her spine arch. “Yours, huh?” she bit out, voice low and edged with something dangerous. “Just yours?”

But Wanda didn’t falter. Didn’t even slow. She snarled the word like it was a war cry. “Mine.”

The scene throbbed with tension. Wanda was still pounding into you despite Natasha’s hold, her chant relentless. “What the hell happened?” Natasha asked, voice tight but controlled, like she was clinging to the last shred of calm.

You couldn’t speak, your mouth too slack, your body too gone, and Wanda didn’t answer either, not until Natasha gave another sharp tug, pulling harder, her tone slicing through the fog. “I said,” she growled, “what happened?”

Wanda whimpered, her breath catching like the question had torn through something raw. Her voice came in pieces, ragged and splintered, every word punctuated by a desperate thrust. “Carol. Tried. To. Take. What’s. Mine.”

Natasha’s gaze snapped back to you. It was cold and brimming with something territorial. You braced yourself, expecting her to descend with that same consuming intensity, to tear through Wanda’s marks and press her own into every inch of you until her claim was carved just as deep.

But she didn’t. The sharp edge dulled, tempered by understanding as her eyes swept over you and then her wife.

Wanda wasn’t just fucking you. She was holding on for dear life. Natasha saw it clearly now, recognised it for what it was. Wanda had lost too many people, too many pieces of herself over the years. The fear of losing you had cracked her wide open.

Natasha could’ve taken what she wanted. Could’ve made her own claim in kind. But for now, instead, she exhaled, letting her dominant instinct soften just enough. You needed grounding, and Wanda needed pulling back. And Natasha would be the one to do it. Even if every part of her still ached to take.

She reached around, her hand locking firm around Wanda’s waist, stilling her movement with ease. “What’s ours,” she said evenly, the correction deliberate as her grip tightened. Wanda whined at the restraint, hips twitching against Natasha’s hold, and you whimpered too, aching at the loss of friction.

Wanda’s control began to splinter the moment Natasha kissed her, slow, grounding kisses against her cheek, tender in a way that cut through the haze like a balm.

Her head lolled back against Natasha’s shoulder, her body still tense, but wavering now. “Do you need to safeword, Wands?” Natasha murmured against her skin, the calm, coaxing cadence unmistakable. “You seem... out of control, lyubov' (love). ”

Wanda shook her head, a near-frantic movement, “No! Need to cum, wanna cum!” Neither of you had cum yet despite how long it had gone on, despite the desperate grind and the bruising rhythm.

Hearing that desperate plea fall from Wanda’s lips while she held so much power over you felt dissonant, but it lit a fire in you all the same. She usually took what she wanted, came when she wanted, without a second thought, but now it was clear she was floundering.

The scene had shaken her, and no matter how hard she had been trying, she couldn’t do it alone. That crack in her composure did something to you. It slipped under your skin, tangled in your chest, and before you could stop it, a moan fell from your lips, needy, involuntary, betraying just how much it affected you.

Natasha turned to you at the sound. “If she hasn’t,” she murmured, voice gentle now as her eyes found yours again, “then I’d wager you haven’t either, have you?” You shook your head, breath still coming in shallow bursts.

Something in her expression changed again the moment she realised you’d been holding back this entire time. The flicker of pride came first, swift and searing, lighting her eyes with approval. “Good girl,” she murmured, and the praise landed like a reward you didn’t know you’d been waiting for.

But then her gaze gentled, the pride ebbing into something softer, sadder, closer to regret than triumph. Like she could see how much you’d given, how much you’d endured, and how long you’d waited. “I think you both need Daddy, hm?”

It wasn’t often that Wanda submitted to Natasha, twice, maybe three times since you’d all been together, and only ever when she wasn’t fully in control of her headspace, when she needed grounding but needed to continue. But Wanda nodded slowly, the fight draining out of her body as she leaned back into Natasha’s hold, surrendering.

Natasha’s hands moved, settling on Wanda’s hips, allowing her to move again but slowing her movements with firm, steady pressure. “That’s it,” she murmured low against Wanda’s ear, her voice soft but commanding. “She’s been so good for you, Detka (babe). Took everything you gave her, didn’t she?”

Wanda shuddered, still panting, still half-lost, but she nodded, her body giving into Natasha’s lead without resistance.

Natasha kept her tone gentle, coaxing, like she was taming something raw and shaking. “How about you let her finish now, hm? Let her cum for us.”

Wanda didn’t speak, she didn’t need to. She just followed, pliant under Natasha’s hands, her breath catching as she thrust her hips in rhythm with the guidance she was given. And Natasha, her mouth brushing Wanda’s temple, praised her low and warm, “Good girl.”

Wanda whimpered at the praise, her body trembling and her mind still fogged with the frenzy that had consumed her, but Natasha’s presence gave her something to hold on to, something solid to ground herself against.

You could feel the shift, the difference in how Wanda moved now. Her thrusts lost their wildness and turned into something more intimate, more focused, like she was being taught how to feel again.

And god, you felt it too. Every inch of it. Your breath stuttered, hips jerking involuntarily with each movement, your body already so close to the edge it ached. The pressure coiled tight in your core, a simmering burn that had been denied too long. Natasha’s eyes were on you, catching every flinch, every gasp, every tremble.

“She’s close,” Natasha murmured into Wanda’s hair, her voice rich with heat and reverence. “Can you feel that? I bet her cunt is so tight around your cock.” Wanda let out a broken moan and nodded, her pace faltering for a moment under the weight of Natasha’s words.

Natasha’s hand left Wanda’s and slid up to her throat, not choking, just holding, grounding, a firm reminder of presence, of who was in control.

Her other guided Wanda’s towards your clit, silently reminding her to provide the stimulation you needed, and it shattered you, the added touch stealing your breath as you cried out.

“That’s it,” she purred, low and commanding.. “Let us have it, Little one. Let go.”

And you did. It crashed into you like a wave, hard and fast and all-consuming. Your back arched, the restraints biting into your wrists as your body bowed under the force of your release.

You screamed and whimpered, and they were both there, holding you through it, Wanda clinging to you like she could anchor herself to your pleasure, Natasha murmuring praise that bled into your skin like balm.

With Natasha’s guidance, Wanda stopped thrusting and began to grind, the base of the strap finally giving her the stimulation she needed. She came not long after you with a desperate sob, body trembling violently. Natasha’s voice, a blend of filthy praise and affection, slid into her ear, coaxing her through it. As Wanda’s body went limp, attempting to collapse against you, Natasha caught her effortlessly, aware of the soreness you’d likely feel.

Wanda whimpered at not being able to snuggle into you, and Natasha pressed a kiss to her temple. “She’s right here,” she murmured softly, before gently laying her down beside you. Wanda instinctively curled into you with a sigh, seeking the comfort of your warmth.

Natasha pressed another gentle kiss to the top of Wanda’s head before shifting her attention to you. Her movements were practiced, instinctive, and soft as she moved to unbuckle the restraint on your wrist.

The second the leather came loose, your arm dropped like dead weight, boneless and sore. Natasha caught it gently, guiding it to rest over Wanda’s back. You curled your fingers into her skin instinctively, craving the contact, the reassurance.

The other restraint came next, then your legs, Natasha working with slow, deliberate tenderness, her hands steady and reverent. Every time you winced, she soothed it with a murmur, a stroke over the inflamed area or a kiss.

Wanda wasn’t moving much now. She was pliant, completely surrendered, clinging to you with the last threads of adrenaline. Natasha knew that look, knew Wanda had dropped deep, and you weren’t far behind.

Her voice softened even further as she pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your bare limbs like armour. She leaned down, her hand brushing tenderly over your cheek, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “There’s our girl,” she whispered, her voice low and thick with pride. “You did so fucking well. Mommy really used you, huh?”

Your throat was too raw for words, your mind still floating in that hazy space between pleasure and exhaustion, but you nodded.

Natasha kissed you once more before slipping away from the bed. You assumed she was going to get water, and you were right; she was back within seconds, moving with her usual calm efficiency.

She guided your head gently, coaxing the glass to your lips until you took a few slow sips, then shifted to pry Wanda up just enough to do the same for her. Neither of you drank much, but it was enough to get you at least a bit hydrated.

Wanda exhaled, her breath hitching before she whispered, “Didn’t mean to lose it like that.” A pause, a stillness between you, broken only by her unsteady breathing. “Carol wanted you... said that... that she could... treat you better.”

Her voice cracked slightly, the words filled with vulnerability, and your chest tightened at the pain in them.

Then her tone shifted, rising into a whine, hurt lacing her every syllable as she clung to you tighter. “She tried to take her from us, Nat,” Wanda whimpered, her eyes flicking to Natasha even as she clung to you like you were the only thing keeping her anchored.

Natasha’s jaw tensed, her eyes flicking up for a moment, but she said nothing. Instead, she settled in behind Wanda, wrapping herself around her wife like a shield. Usually, you were in the middle, the one cocooned in their arms, but it was clear Wanda needed that security now.

Natasha began to stroke her hand gently over Wanda’s spine, her touch slow and comforting. She didn’t forget you either, though. Her other hand reached across the space to where your wrist was still faintly marked, fingers brushing the bruised skin in slow, soothing circles.

Time passed in a slow, syrupy kind of stillness, thick with warmth and the quiet hum of three heartbeats finding their way back into sync. Wanda lay curled against your side, her face pressed into your collarbone like she could disappear into you, her breath evening out in slow pulls that softened with each minute.

You felt the shift in her, how the tension bled out of her muscles with every exhale, how her fingers that had clutched you with bruising desperation earlier now merely rested, featherlight and unmoving.

Natasha’s hand never stopped. She trailed her fingers lazily up and down your arm, over Wanda’s spine, keeping you both tethered to the present.

Eventually, Wanda stirred. Not much, just a shift in how her legs tangled with yours, a blink that stretched long enough to signal she’d returned to herself. She looked up at you, her cheeks still pink, her hair tousled from earlier. But her eyes, they were clearer. Worry creeping back in.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice hushed. Her gaze scanned your face like she expected to find something broken.

You gave her a tired, lopsided smile. “Course I am. I don’t break that easily,” you said with a wink, even if your voice was still a bit scratchy from earlier.

She looked relieved. Kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a soft, fluttering press that made you giggle as her breath brushed against your skin. “Good,” she whispered against your mouth, and you could feel the last of her tension ebb as she rested her head against your shoulder again.

“Alright,” Natasha said eventually, propping herself up on one elbow and glancing down at you both, her voice light but edged with unmistakable command. “Time to soothe those marks, you must be sore, hm?”

You groaned immediately, flopping back onto the pillow. “Do we have to?” you whined, dragging out the syllables like a sulking child. “Can’t we just stay here? Forever?”

Wanda let out a sympathetic sound and buried her face back in your chest for a second. “She has a point…”

Natasha raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You two are impossible. Yes, we have to. Wands, you went feral. She's covered in bruises and bites.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you rolled your eyes. “You make it sound like she mauled me.”

Natasha sat up straighter, grabbing the lotion bottle off the nightstand. “She did maul you. Look at this—” She tugged the sheet down just enough to expose your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. The marks were everywhere, hickeys darkening by the minute, deep, vivid bursts of colour in the shape of Wanda’s mouth. “You’re a goddamn work of art. Or a crime scene.”

Wanda peeked down at your skin and let out a low, sheepish laugh. “Oops.”

“‘Oops,’” Natasha repeated dryly, her tone somewhere between fond and chastising. She gave Wanda a light nudge with her shoulder. “You’re lucky she likes being ruined.”

“I love being ruined,” you chimed in helpfully, grinning as both their eyes snapped to you with matching looks of exasperated affection.

Wanda leaned down and nuzzled your jaw, her voice a little lower now, velvet-soft and sincere. “I do still feel bad. I got… swept up. Possessive. Jealous. Like I had to prove something. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said gently. “And you didn’t. I promise.”

Still, she dipped her fingers into the lotion and rubbed them together slowly to warm it, her movements suddenly careful. She started at your wrists, your poor, bruised wrists where the restraints had bitten deep, and touched you like she was handling something sacred. Her fingers glided over your skin in slow circles, whispering apologies into every motion.

Natasha joined in a moment later, taking your other side. She pushed the sheets down further, exposing more of your bruised body to the soft lighting, and began to work the balm into your sore muscles. Their hands moved over you in tandem, smoothing across the worst of the bruises, ghosting over the places that still burned faintly from overstimulation.

And for a while, no one spoke. The only sounds were your soft sighs, the quiet slick of lotion on skin, the muted creak of the bed as they shifted around you.

Once they were done, Natasha glanced down at your neck and snorted. “There is no way you’re going to college looking like this,” she said with a laugh, dragging a fingertip lightly over a particularly brutal hickey under your jaw. “You look like you tried to join a vampire cult.”

You snorted softly, still squirming beneath their slow, soothing touches. “If Wanda were a vampire, I’d definitely let her bite me.”

You thought it was harmless. Wanda certainly looked pleased. Her eyes glinted, teeth flashing as she leaned close again, brushing her lips along your throat. "Careful," she breathed, her voice low and smooth, “I might take you up on that.”

A shiver ran through you at the sound, your breath hitching as her words sank in, stirring something deep inside. Your body responded without hesitation, already aching, already yearning for more despite the evening you’d already had.

And just like that, Natasha froze, her eyes locking onto Wanda, as she once again threatened to claim. But now, as she saw the way you were reacting, the way you were craving more, Natasha’s restraint faltered. It was different from before. You were ready, and that knowledge twisted something deep inside her, making it harder to hold herself back.

“I better be allowed to bite too,” Natasha murmured, her voice low and simmering with tension. It wasn’t loud, but it had a sharp edge to it, a warning wrapped in something darker. “You’re lucky I’m not already. Wanda stole you, made you hers, and hers alone.”

You opened your mouth to speak, to deny it, but she was already moving. Her fingers left your skin only long enough to catch Wanda’s chin in a firm grip, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet her eyes.

“You ever forget that she is ours again,” Natasha said, quiet and razor-sharp, “you will regret it.”

Wanda swallowed hard, the flush on her cheeks deepening, her pupils dilating wide as she whimpered under Natasha’s hold. Her legs squeezed together as if that could do anything to stop the ache building between them. Her body instinctively allowed Natasha to take the lead again, as if it knew that was what Natasha needed. She nodded once, quickly. “Yes, Nat.”

“Good girl,” Natasha praised, brushing her thumb across Wanda’s cheek with maddening softness. But she didn’t let go. “You don’t get to take her like that without me, ever.”

She finally released her chin and turned back to you, eyes darker now, warmer, but hungrier.

“And you,” she murmured, smoothing both palms down your sides, fingers slipping over your hips and between your legs, “you were very good letting Wanda use you, weren’t you? Letting her get drunk on jealousy and ruin your pretty little pussy without even thinking to let me join.”

You gasped as her fingers brushed over your slick again, slow and unhurried. You were soaked already. Every part of you felt raw and needy, but Natasha was in no rush.

“But you are ours,” she said, sliding two fingers through your folds, not yet pressing in, just letting you feel the threat of it, “ Ours .”

Wanda let out a soft, broken noise, eyes fixed on where Natasha’s hand was between your legs. Her hand moved as she was about to reach for you, but Natasha caught the movement without even looking.

“Don’t you dare touch her,” she said, like it wasn’t up for debate. “You don’t get to help until I say so. You had your fun.”

Wanda whimpered, chest rising and falling fast, her cheeks glowing with shame and lust.

Natasha finally slipped a finger inside you, slow and shallow, barely enough to satisfy, but your back still arched up from the mattress. Her other hand splayed across your hip, holding you still.

“You’re so fucking wet,” she murmured with a smirk, leaning down to kiss your inner thigh. “You like this, don’t you? Being good for us. Letting her make a mess of you, and then letting me put you back together.”

Wanda’s breath caught as she watched, her hands fisting in the sheets beside her thighs. “Natasha—”

“Shh,” Natasha interrupted. “You don’t get to speak unless I tell you to either.”

You whimpered at the sound of Wanda’s submission, it added fuel to the fire burning through you. Natasha added a second finger, pressing deep this time, and you cried out, your whole body tensing around her.

“That’s it,” she cooed. “Such a good girl. Ours. Not hers. Never just hers.”

You nodded frantically, brain already fogging under the slow, relentless pace. “Yours, yours, yours. Daddy, please!”

Natasha smiled, pleased, eyes gleaming as she leaned in to kiss your jaw, your ear, her tongue darting out to taste the sweat there.

Wanda’s hands were trembling as she watched, the heat between her thighs unbearable. She couldn’t stand the fact that she had to watch.

Each sob, wail, moan, and sigh that left your lips only deepened the ache in her chest, reminding her of what she had done, of how she had left Natasha out when she should have known better.

It was the perfect punishment, but Wanda couldn’t help but try her luck again. “Please, Nat,” Wanda whispered, her voice thick with need and desperation. “Please let me—”

Natasha turned her head, eyes flashing. “No,” she said simply. “Not yet. You want her? You earn it. You wait.”

And then she curled her fingers just right, again and again, dragging you higher with each pass, her thumb barely brushing your clit until you were trembling, too far gone to do anything but moan.

The room pulsed with the sound of your breathing, with your soft cries and the wet sound of her hand moving in and out of your cunt. Every stroke, every whispered word sent a rush of heat through you, the world narrowing to nothing but the feeling of her fingers inside you.

Even as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, Natasha never let up. Her movements were unrelenting, rhythmic, a steady push and pull that kept you coming without giving you so much as a chance to truly catch your breath.

You didn’t know how many times you’d screamed in release, each one blurred into the next, an unending rhythm that left you gasping, skin slick with sweat, your body trembling under her control.

Eventually her pace slowed, and your eyes fluttered open, the world around you a haze of soft light and warmth. You turned your head slightly, and your gaze found Wanda. Her eyes were wide, her breath equally as erratic. She was flushed and panting like she’d been the one writhing beneath Natasha’s hand.

“God, look at you,” Natasha murmured, eyes still on you, even as she addressed Wanda. “So fucking needy, you only had her an hour ago. Pathetic.”

Wanda whimpered as her hands twitched again, and this time, she couldn’t resist; she reached out, just enough to brush her fingertips against Natasha’s arm. “Please,” she begged again, her voice barely a whisper, but it was a plea nonetheless.

“Fine, but only because I’m generous,” Natasha murmured as she kissed your temple, and then your cheek, her fingers never stopping. “I’m not cruel. I share. ”

She tilted her head, her gaze soft yet commanding as she finally looked over at Wanda. “You want to taste her?” Natasha’s voice was low, deliberate, as if she already knew the answer.

Wanda's breath hitched at the words, her entire body tense with yearning. Her eyes flicked to Natasha, wide and pleading, before they dropped to you.

Your skin was glistening with sweat, your chest rising and falling in the haze of pleasure still swirling through you. She nodded, the movement almost frantic, her voice trembling with need. “Yes, yes, please, Nat! I want to please!”

Natasha’s lips quirked into a small, wicked smile, a brief flicker of satisfaction passing across her face before she leaned down, her kiss slow and deep. It was a kiss that said she was still in control, even if she was letting Wanda in. She pulled away just enough to speak, “Then come here.”

Unlike her usual poised self, Wanda wasn’t graceful as she moved, urgency in her every motion. The moment she reached your legs, her gaze lifted, her eyes locking with Natasha's.

Natasha moved her hand, slowly, so slowly from between your folds, her fingers glistening with your cum. “Open your mouth.”

Wanda obeyed. Natasha pressed two fingers past her lips, watching her take them in eagerly, greedily.

“Good girl,” Natasha praised, eyes softening just a little. “Now you can touch her. You can thank her. And you can show her just how sorry you are.”

She shifted to one side, but not far, not giving up control, just… allowing space. Letting Wanda kneel between your legs, hands shaking as she lowered her head.

Wanda’s tongue slid over your folds and your clit gently before diving in fully, like a woman starved. It was as if the act of watching had only intensified her need, making it raw and undeniable despite the fact that she had already claimed you so thoroughly.

“That’s it,” Natasha murmured, stroking your stomach, watching Wanda devour you. “She’s ours. Not yours. Not mine. Ours.”

Her hand slid up to cup your breast, squeezing gently, her thumb brushing over your nipple, squeezing and teasing in perfect time with Wanda’s mouth.

Every touch sent waves through you, every whisper tangled around your spine. Natasha’s voice wrapped around you, her praise both tender and unrelenting, while Wanda’s lips and hands moved like a vow, her remorse bleeding into every lick and every suck as she drank you dry, bringing you closer and closer.

You couldn’t hold yourself together. The intimacy, the intensity, it was too much. You splintered under it, unravelled into the space between their bodies, between their worship and their claim. And this time, when you broke, it wasn’t just your body giving in. It was your heart, your trust, your submission.

And through it all, Natasha's voice, low and reverent at your ear, became the centre of everything, grounding you even as you soared.

“That’s it, Little one,” she murmured, almost like a prayer. “That’s what you needed. That’s what we give you, together.”

#natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff smut #wanda maximoff smut #mommy wanda #daddy natasha #wlw smut #marvel fanfic #marvel smut #switch wanda

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sceletaflores · 3 days ago

Text

LAYING IT ALL ON THE LINE...

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ inbox ꩜ taglist ꩜ ao3 ꩜

｡꩜°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡꩜°‧➵ WC: 4.1k

｡꩜°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, post-outbreak, hurt/comfort, joel's pov, general violence, minor character injury, jackson!joel, when he picks an unnecessary fight with you because that's all he knows, mentioned age gap, joel miller as a sad old man, joel miller experiences feelings, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty AND his knees are made of steel (but only sometimes), porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡꩜°‧➵ @retrosabers SAYS: thinking about you almost dying on patrol and joel is FUMING, unable to convey just how worried and anxious it makes him. the only way he can even remotely conceptualize his feelings is through a very PASSIONATE rawdogging ♡

｡꩜°‧➵ NAT'S NOTE: everyone say thank you sid for this absolutely luxurious prompt...i'm waiting. i had so much fun with this! i love love love a good semi-angsty, emotionally constipated man having to come to terms with his buried slash repressed feelings in the gritty wake of a near-death experience, like that's my shit. hope y'all love it!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel miller realizes that love isn’t just a four letter word…

"Southeast perimeter’s clear. Heading west by the river bed."

“Wow, you’re finally gonna stop gettin’ us lost out here, sunshine?”

“Lost? Please, you cried when I found that shortcut through the cedar thicket.”

Joel listens to you and Tommy bicker over the radio, a forgotten cup of coffee going cold at his side. That's all he can do when you're out there—patrolling in the snow with a few others. He's not proud of how he just sits by like some anxious house wife, listening to the static between check-ins, but he can't make himself focus on anything other than the way your bright voice filters in and out.

He tries not to hover. Tries not to keep the handheld clutched like it's a goddamn lifeline. But he does, eyes glued to the thing like it might crack open and spill you out if he stares hard enough.

Joel's really not even supposed to be listening in like this. Maria's chewed him out more times than he can count each time she catches him hunched over an old radio that he's never bothered turning in, says it'll do him more harm than good worrying over it.

Besides, these channels aren't meant for civilians sitting on their asses at home. He knows that, because that's exactly what he is now—civilian adjacent. Half-retired.

Tommy jokes about it every once in a while, the way Joel's slowed down, the way his joints complain louder than they used to. A while back, he might've laughed too. Now, every little twinge of pain feels like a reminder of what he used to be.

Joel used to be the one they all looked to out on patrol. He could track better, shoot cleaner, navigate faster than most of the younger guys. That's not the case these days. His patrolling has slowed down over the past few years. He only goes out a few times every couple of months, if even that.

He tells himself it’s by choice.

It’s not, not at all. He’s tired. His knees ache after long rides. His busted shoulder can’t handle the cold without locking up. Jackson’s got a whole rotation now, young joints, faster reflexes, eyes that don’t blur when the wind hits just right. So he doesn’t go out much anymore. Not unless the group is short. Not unless they really need him.

It makes sense. He knows it makes sense.

That doesn’t make it feel right. You out there, miles away in knee-deep snow with a rifle strapped to your back while he’s stuck here. Not out there. Not beside you.

Joel knows you can handle yourself—hell, you’ve proven that a dozen times over. You’re younger. Strong. Fast. Smart as a whip. You can shoot the cap off a beer bottle and you handle a knife better than most people your age.

Knowing all that still doesn’t quiet the feeling of unease that eats away at him each time you strap on your gear and kiss him goodbye with a, See you later, Miller. Strolling out the door like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.

There’s a kind of helpless fury in it. A sick twist in his gut every time he watches you ride out. Like he’s some retired goddamn hunting dog. Trusted to guard the porch, but not sharp enough to run with the pack anymore.

Joel adjusts the volume dial on the radio like it’ll make your voice stay longer.

Tommy’s laugh cuts through the speaker. “Didn’t cry. I got snow in my eye.”

“In July? Sure.”

It comes in grainy and light, full of that same teasing bite you always give Tommy—enough to make Joel’s jaw tighten with a quiet, helpless kind of fondness. He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach past the tight pull in his chest. You’re still picking your way through territory where any tree line might be hiding something.

Joel shifts in his seat, elbows on the table, jaw clenched tight. He tells himself you’re fine. You always are. You have to be.

The channel goes still for a few beats. Then, a crack of static. Some muffled shuffling. And—

“Wait—something’s moving in the trees. Left side, just past the ridge.”

Your voice. Sharper now. Less teasing and pointedly quiet.

“Copy,” Tommy replies, suddenly serious. “Keep eyes on—”

A burst of noise. A flurry of panicked voices overlapping and shouts. The unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Then nothing.

Dead air.

Joel’s heart drops to his boots. “Tommy?” he barks into the receiver. “Come in. What the hell’s happening out there?”

When there’s no answer, Joel shoots to his feet. The chair scrapes across the floor harshly as he crosses the room in two large strides, fumbling for his jacket. “Tommy? Goddammit, someone answer me!”

Nothing.

Joel’s heart thuds violently against his ribcage as he stares at the little black box in his hand like it’s an omen. He feels it rush in all at once—panic, guilt, helpless rage curling cold and mean in his chest. His ears are ringing so loud he doesn’t hear the slam of the door behind him as he tears out of the house and into the cold air.

Something happened. The group was compromised. You were compromised.

And he’s not there.

He should’ve been there.

Joel doesn’t remember the sprint to the stables. Doesn’t remember shouting at Maria when she tried to stop him at the gate. Doesn’t remember half the ride out. All he knows is that his hands won’t stop shaking around the reins and the bile in his throat tastes like ash—a sick, gnawing pit growing in his gut.

When he finds the group what feels like hours later, just as the sun starts to rise behind the ridgeline—you’re nowhere to be found. His eyes scan the way everyone’s spread out, some with minor injuries and the others patching them up.

No sign of you.

Tommy plants himself in front of Joel just as he hauls himself off his horse. He doesn’t even feel the way his knees jolt as his feet hit the ground.

“Where the hell is she?” he rasps, voice so rough it sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel. “Where, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hands are out in front of him like Joel’s a wild animal about to snap. He’s got blood on his hands, but no signs of stab wounds or bullet holes anywhere on him. It’s not his blood. Joel’s stomach turns viciously at the sight, at the thought of whose it might be.

“She’s fine,” Tommy says, eyes wide and placating. “Took a hit, it grazed her side. She wouldn’t fuckin’ stay down.”

Joel knows he won’t feel any relief until he sees you, alive and breathing with his own eyes. “Where.”

Tommy steps aside just before Joel nearly shoves past him, nodding his head toward a rock outcrop a ways away from everyone else.

You’re sitting closest to the makeshift fire, Jesse crouched beside you to clean the gash along your side. You’re bundled in someone else’s coat, hair mussed and blood soaked through your undershirt and spattered across your cheeks.

Visibly shaken. Color drained. Bloody. Alive.

Joel’s throat locks up when your eyes meet his. You give him the smallest, tired smile—like you're trying to reassure him. That look. That stupid, brave little tilt of your mouth like everything's okay even when you're the one bleeding through Tommy's jacket.

It makes something in his chest crack wide open.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t trust himself for it to be anything good.

Joel takes three shaky steps towards you before his knees give out.

He drops hard into the snow. He doesn’t catch himself, doesn’t try. Just falls forward like a penitent man bowing at the altar of a God he doesn’t believe in. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, eyes locked onto the red seeping through your shirt like it's the only color in the whole damn world.

There’s a beat where nobody moves. Jesse freezes, half-done wrapping gauze, and you’re just sitting there, wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf, lips parted like you’re trying to say something—but Joel’s already reaching for you.

He's on you in the next breath. Not rough, not like usual, not with that greedy, hungry touch he normally has after you come back from patrol. His hands are trembling when they find your face, tilting your chin up gently, his fingers brushing away wet blood and dirt.

Tommy glances away. Jesse too, both men busying themselves with helping the others. It feels too private, even out here in the open.

“Goddammit,” he chokes. “God—baby–”

His voice breaks on the last word. Breaks, something sharp and gutted and boyish, nothing like the hardened man who's grown to guard his emotions like they’re classified. Your hands hover uncertainty over his shoulders, the side of his face. You’re worried. He can see it plain as day, written in the wavering line of your mouth.

“Hey—hey, I’m okay,” you say, voice low and urgent. “I’m fine. Look at me, Joel, I’m fine. It just—it just grazed me, okay? I’m fine.”

You’re not fine.

You’re too pale. You’re stone-cold. Your blood is still tacky on your shirt, drying beneath his body's warmth.

Joel presses his forehead to yours and exhales like he’s been kept underwater, and you were the surface he’d been clawing to.

You whisper his name again, quieter this time, and he shushes you. “Don’t—don’t talk, just—let me—” His fingers press to the pulse point at your wrist like he still needs proof. “Let me feel you.”

You don’t say anything else.

You just hold him.

And Joel doesn’t cry. He can’t. Something won’t let him, but he stays there in the snow for a long time, holding you like a man who thought he’d never get the chance to again.

The ride back to Jackson is quiet.

You fell asleep half-way through, head lolling back against Joel’s shoulder as you both sat in the saddle, your body loose with exhaustion and the emergency pain meds Jesse had in his pack. Tommy rides ahead, checking the trail, but Joel barely looks up. He just holds the reins with one hand and holds you tighter with the other.

You’re taken to the infirmary the second everyone files through the gates. Joel sits by your bedside in stormy silence, hands curled into fists and resting on his knees, the only thing keeping him together.

You talk to the nurse on duty. You even joke with her, cracked voice and tired eyes like it’s all part of the routine. Like getting shot is just another part of the job. And Joel sits there while someone else wraps you in new bandages and checks your vitals.

It makes his blood boil.

All he can think about is the way your voice cut out on the radio. The way he didn’t know if you were dead or bleeding out in some field, alone. And now you’re laughing. Now you’re telling the nurse, “I’m fine really, just sore.” And it makes him want to tear the whole fucking clinic apart.

Joel doesn’t say a word until you're cleared to leave.

Not on the short walk back to your house. Not when you’re walking through the door, cleaned up. Patched. Your shirt’s gone, replaced by his coat and a thermal blanket around your shoulders.

Not when you nudge his arm gently like you’re testing the waters. Not when you say his name soft, like it might keep him calm before you’re heading towards the bedroom.

It doesn’t.

The moment the door shuts behind him, Joel erupts.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish?”

You freeze in your spot halfway across the room, turning to face him.

Joel doesn’t move. Just stands there, fists clenched at his sides. His voice is low, shaking with barely concealed rage. “You gonna tell me why you thought playin’ saviour was worth bleedin’ out in the snow?”

You don’t say anything for a few beats, eyebrows drawn together in a hard frown as you look at him. “What was I supposed to do, Joel? Jesse was pinned, Tommy would’ve taken the hit. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice!” Joel grates, stepping towards you. “You could’ve picked you. You could’ve stayed the fuck down like Tommy told you to.”

“I was trying to keep your brother from getting shot in the head,” you snap, the tension finally striking a flint. “I made a judgment call.”

“You made a stupid call,” he spits, voice loud and blistering. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you repeat, your body growing stiff and tense.

“You shoulda fuckin’ stayed down.” Joel growls. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it—just rips his flannel off, tosses it hard at the wall.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even look away from him as his shirt falls and crumples into a heap on the floor. “What?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, turning to look at you again. His eyes are dark, fiery. “Jesus, you—do you even fuckin’ think sometimes? You were hit. You knew you were hit, and you kept goin’. You didn’t stop, didn’t stay down like you were told.”

He steps closer, eyes boring into yours, face twisted with something too furious to be rational. “You fuckin’ chose to be a goddamn hero, huh? Run into gunfire like it ain’t a fuckin’ death sentence? That it?”

He can see the second your expression changes, your own anger rearing its ugly head now, bitter and hot. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about me being reckless when you know I was just trying to keep people alive. I did what I had to do.”

“No!” he snaps, pointing a finger at you, furious and stricken all at once. “What you had to do was come home. That’s it. That’s all.”

You blink at him, breath caught in your throat.

Joel can’t stop, all the emotions he’s been dealt over the past three hours finally boiling over and spilling through his lips before he can think twice about what he’s saying.

“You could’ve died,” he growls, pacing now, hands dragging through his hair roughly like he’s trying to rip the anger out of himself. “Two fuckin’ inches to the left and that bullet would’ve torn straight through your gut. You think you’d’ve made it to town in time for that? Huh?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snarls, spinning on you, voice cracking. “It’s not fuckin’ fair. Nothin’ about this is. You go out there, and I sit at home waitin’ to see if today’s the day I lose you. That the last thing I heard is your voice cuttin’ out in the middle of a fuckin’ ambush. That’s what I got to live with now. That’s what I saw every time I closed my eyes on that ride back.”

You stand there, lost for words. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” Joel says, suddenly quieter, throat thick. He swallows hard, looking down, shaking his head like he’s trying to get a grip. “But I still almost lost you. And I don’t—fuck—I don’t know what the hell I’d do if that ever—”

His voice cuts off, ragged. Then he’s in front of you again, cupping your face with both hands. “You’re not allowed to do that to me again,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that.”

“Joel…” You lean into him, slow. Cautious.

Joel meets you halfway.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat—hot and bruising and pathetically desperate. His big hands frame your face, thumbs dragging down your cheekbones as he licks a wet stripe over the plush seam of your lips.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes the blanket off your shoulders, when his palms skate down your sides to grip your hips hard. Not too rough, not yet, but he’s holding you because he needs you rooted. Anchored. Here.

Joel kisses you like he’s still furious at you, like he hates how much he needs you, like he’s punishing you for making him feel so afraid. It’s not soft, all teeth and tongue as he devours you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with your spit, lips pink and swollen. “Need to taste you,” he mutters. “Need to feel you.”

Joel sinks to his knees before you can respond, breath huffing harshly against your stomach. His fingers tug your zipper down with frantic urgency, hooking his thumbs in your waistband to peel your pants down your legs in one swift motion.

There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just a heavy, sharp hunger carved into his face like stone as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing you to his greedy eyes. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting one over his shoulder as he brings his mouth to you like a man possessed.

The first drag of his tongue is slow. Reverent. Hot and wet as he parts the slick seam of your cunt with deliberate strokes that make your spine arch. He groans like your taste knocks the wind out of him, and then he latches on like he’s got a point to prove—to himself or you, he’s not sure. All he knows is that worshipping you is the only penance that could soothe the panic still clawing at his insides.

“Joel.” Your hands tangle in his hair, chin falling to your chest as you gaze down at him.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue relentless, nose pressed deep against you. You whimper, twisting his hair in your grip, hips twitching—Joel doesn’t let you go anywhere. He’s got you trapped, your body pinned with his mouth buried between your thighs like he plans to die there.

It’s filthy, obscene—the way he devours you. Lips slick, beard growing damper with each swirl of his tongue, eyes half-lidded but still trained on your own.

Your eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide and black as spilled ink. There’s sweat beaded on your brow, lips parted and swollen as you let out small huffs of air.

Your thighs are trembling. You're soaked, arching against him, whimpering his name with tears welling in your eyes. And still—still—he won’t let up. He needs this. Needs to make you fall apart. Needs to prove to himself you’re alive by the way your body sings under his touch.

Joel can’t stop. Not until your thighs shake and you’re moaning that you’re gonna come, gonna come, Joel, please—

And you do. You fall apart on his tongue with a broken sob, legs clenching tight around his ears, hips grinding down into his mouth in weak twitches and shudders. He growls and holds you still, licking you through every last tremor until your body goes limp and threatens to sink to the floor.

Joel doesn’t let you fall—he lowers you down gently, like you’re made of spun glass, even as his hands skirt over the hem of your shirt. When he pulls it up, revealing the bandages wound tight around your side, he pauses. His gaze lingers on the wound. Jaw clenched. Something soft and wrecked flickers in his eyes.

Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face, your thumb running over the scar across his temple so gently it has his heart throbbing in his chest. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “Still here.”

Joel takes your wrist in his hand, lowering it down enough to press it hard over his heart. “You feel that?” he breaths. “That hasn’t stopped hammerin’ since I heard your voice cut out.”

You nod slowly. Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Joel squeezes your wrist, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your forearm.

He climbs up over you, chest to chest—the jut of his cock where it tents the denim of his jeans grinds over the sensitive span of your cunt as he settles himself between your legs. He’s thick, heavy even through all the layers.

Joel’s free hand snakes down his body, making quick work of his belt. He rips his zipper down, freeing his cock from the confines of his soaked boxers and letting it slap up against his stomach.

You moan at the sight of it—hard, straining, the tip a dusty red and wet with pre-come. Your legs widen unconsciously, thighs twitching on either side of Joel’s hips.

Joel takes himself in his hand, fist tight over the base of his cock as he runs himself through your puffy cunt, slicking the skin of his cock with your wetness. “Gonna fuck you,” he breathes, lining himself up between your legs. “Gonna feel you around me, baby, need it so damn bad.”

Joel slides in with one long, smooth stroke, your slick making it easy, and the groan he lets out sounds like pain. Like relief. Like he might lose his mind from the heat of you. Your breath hitches at the stretch, head lolling back against the hardwood as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Mine,” he grits through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, his hips grinding deeper as you cling to him. “You’re mine, baby. Always—always mine.”

You nod, panting, eyes glassy. “All yours,” you whisper. “Only yours, Joel.”

And then he moves.

Hard.

Desperate.

Unrelenting.

He fucks you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, like if he stops, he’ll unravel entirely. One arm hooks under your knee, pushing you open, deeper than before. His hips slap against yours, raw and hopelessly, but it’s not about getting off.

It’s about feeling you.

Every squeeze, every tremble, every gasp that leaves your mouth when he hits that perfect spot.

Joel’s never felt like this before.

So angry.

So scared.

So in love.

He fucks you like he’s trying to imprint himself inside your body. His thrusts stitch you back to him, sealing you inside his chest so you can never leave. A mess of skin-on-skin and heat and slick as the two of you meet again and again and again.

“Could’ve lost you,” he growls against your throat. “Fuck, honey, I could’ve—Jesus—”

You wrap your arms around him. “You didn’t,” you whisper. “I’m here, Joel—I’m yours—”

He groans, hips stuttering, thrusts turning frantic. He can tell he’s close, that he’s been close since he sank to his knees in front of you.

“Say it again,” he pants, slamming into you with a low, wrecked noise. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Always yours—fuck, Joel—”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pulling him closer. Your nails dig into his skin through the thin layer of his undershirt, legs locking around his waist to keep him pressed against you like you’re scared he’ll let go.

Joel doesn’t let go. He’d never let go. Not even when you moan his name like a prayer, not even when your nails rake down his back, not even when you gasp out a warning, your voice thin and needy. “Joel, I—gonna—”

“I know, baby. I got you.” His hand snakes down between you, finding your clit and rubbing quick circles over it, desperate to feel you come. “Wanna feel you. Need to—fuck—need to feel you, sweetheart. Please.”

You shatter in his arms with a broken sob, clenching hard around him as your body jerks, overwhelmed and too raw to hide it. Joel feels you pulse around his cock, the tight warmth of your cunt milking him.

It’s too much, and he’s coming with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his chest. He buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking with every pulse, breath catching in your ear. “Fuck, fuck—” he pants, voice hoarse, “—love you, I love you, I thought I lost you, baby, I can’t…”

You’re both trembling when it ends.

Joel holds you there for a long time, forehead resting against yours, still buried deep inside you. He still won’t let you go. Not yet.

Eventually, when he’s calmed, he pulls back just enough to look at you.

You expect that same look from earlier—rage, fear, guilt—but it’s not there. Just love. Just deep, aching relief.

“I can’t lose you,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

You reach up, trace the curve of his brow, the edge of his jaw. “You won’t have to,” you whisper.

Joel kisses you again. Softer this time. Sweeter. A delicate press of lips against lips. His fingers stroke your cheek, pulling back enough for his eyes to trace along your face. He follows the line of your brows, the shape of your nose, the soft curve of your lips.

He can’t feel anything other than love.

Gentle. Solid. Steady.

It’s only love.

mini nat's note: everyone please send good vibes for my hell sent ch*m final on monday...i literally need all the luck i can get. thank you so much for reading! mwah.

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chuxmy · 2 days ago

Note

Can you do advice 3? I really liked the 1 and 2 and i cant get enough

Advice.. III

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: The guys want to find out who got you smiling like that, but they were way too close to find out.

Warnings: physical violence, unwanted touching, harrasment, strong language

A/N: I’m reallyyyy happy that you like it 💕 Enjoooy

☜︎ Prev Next ☞︎

You were barely hearing anything around you.

The guys were talking, joking, throwing half-hearted punches, nudging each other like usual. You were sitting with Sieun, Juntae, Baku and Gotak outside a small convenience store near school. An empty ramen cup steamed at your side. Someone handed you a drink. You nodded, murmured thanks.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Still back in that quiet corner of the hallway where Geum Seongje had kissed you for the first time.

The memory clung to your skin like static

His hand curled behind your neck, the warm pressure of his lips brushing yours, hesitant for only a second before deepening, as if he’d been holding back for too long.

The way he said , “You make it hard to ignore you.”

You were still feeling it. The flush in your chest, the phantom pressure on your lips. You couldn’t stop biting them, brushing your fingers over your mouth like the kiss had left something visible.

“Yo.”

You blinked.

Gotak was looking at you from across the bench. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been zoning out the whole time. You look like you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not.”

“You smiled at your water bottle just now.”

You froze.

Sieun looked up briefly from his phone. “Is it a guy?”

You nearly choked. “W-What?”

Baku snorted. “It is a guy! Look at her face!”

You covered your mouth with your hand. “It’s not—! No. You’re all seeing things.”

Gotak leaned back with a teasing grin. “Let’s guess who it is. Someone from school?”

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

“Someone we know?”

You stiffened.

Juntae watched you carefully. “Wait… wait a second. Is it… someone you shouldn’t be with?”

You stared straight at the ground, heart pounding.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled it out without thinking.

[Unknown Contact]

Rooftop. 7 PM. Don’t be late.

No name. Just the message. But you knew who it was. Knew that texting you at all was risky for him. Knew that your fingers were already curling tighter around the phone as your stomach twisted with nervous excitement.

You looked up and realized Juntae had seen the screen.

His brow furrowed. “Who’s texting you without a name?”

You locked the phone and slipped it back in your pocket. “Nobody.”

“It’s not nobody if you’re about to pass out blushing.”

You stood abruptly. “I’ve gotta go.”

“All of a sudden?”

“Yeah. Homework.”

“No, you don’t,” Baku said.

But you were already walking away, ignoring their voices behind you, hoping they wouldn’t follow. Hoping they wouldn’t put the pieces together.

Because how could you explain to them that you kissed the last guy in the world you were supposed to?

That Seongje of all people had kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d never done it before.

That your heart still hadn’t slowed down since.

The sky had turned amber, streaked with gold and charcoal as the sun began to set. The air was warm, humming with the lazy energy of a spring evening. You sat beside Geum Seongje on the rooftop of an empty school building, legs dangling over the edge. You’d been there for an hour, just talking. Or more like… he listened to you talk.

Seongje never talked much unless he had something smart to say. But when you were alone with him, he didn’t always need words. Sometimes he just looked at you, his expression softer than the one he wore around others less armor, more curiosity.

You turned your head, catching him watching you again.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked away, lips twitching. “You’ve got something on your face.”

You wiped your cheek instinctively. “Where?”

“There,” he pointed vaguely, then leaned in without warning. He kissed the spot instead light, deliberate his lips brushing just beneath your cheekbone. “Got it.”

You glared at him, blushing. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“I know,” he said smugly, but his voice dropped as he added, “but you still like me.”

You bumped his shoulder. “Barely.”

He chuckled under his breath. But then he leaned back on his elbows, gazing at the sky, his face unreadable again.

You lay back beside him, looking up too. For a moment, you just breathed together. Quiet. Peaceful. Like he didn’t have ties to something dangerous.

Eventually, you sighed and sat up. “I should go. The guys are probably wondering where I went.”

He didn’t move for a beat. Then he stood, brushing off his jeans. “Want me to walk you?”

You smiled. “No. Someone might see.”

He nodded slowly, and you knew what he wasn’t saying It’s not safe. But I won’t risk getting you involved.

So you left alone, the ghost of his kiss still lingering on your skin.

You took a shortcut home, familiar alleyways between apartment blocks, the concrete lit by weak orange streetlamps. You didn’t think twice. Not until you turned the corner and realized you weren’t alone.

A group of older boys stood there. About six of them, leaned casually against crates and stairs, smoking, laughing, whispering too low for you to hear. They didn’t look like strangers. Their uniforms were unbuttoned, slouched. And when one of them turned and made eye contact with you, your stomach dropped.

Oh oh.

You tried to back away, quietly. But your shoe scuffed the pavement.

They all looked up.

One of them stepped forward, dark eyes narrowing. “Yo,” he said. “You lost, little thing?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You felt your throat close.

Another leaned into the circle, amused. “She’s cute. You followin’ someone? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I didn’t know,” you said quickly. “I was just walking home, wrong turn, I’ll go back.”

“Not so fast,” the first one said, stepping in front of you. “You heard anything? Saw anything?”

“I don’t even know who you are—”

Wrong answer.

The boy grabbed your wrist roughly. “Liar. You don’t end up here by accident.”

“I swear—!”

Another boy joined, arms crossed. “Who are you? Say your name.”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter please, just let me go—”

He raised a hand. Not to wave.

To strike.

And it landed.

The slap cracked across your face, hot and loud. Your head snapped sideways, cheek stinging. You stumbled, nearly falling.

The world tilted. Your eyes watered not from the pain, but the fear.

And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

That voice. His voice.

It came like a growl, low and furious.

All heads turned.

And Geum Seongje was there.

He stepped into the circle like he didn’t care there were six of them. Like it didn’t matter if they were Union or not. His eyes were locked on you, and when he saw the red mark blooming across your face, his entire body tensed like a loaded weapon.

The boy who slapped you looked confused for half a second.

“Seongje? She didn’t say who she was we were just—”

Seongje punched him so hard he dropped.

No hesitation. No words.

Just a fist straight to the jaw, the sound of bone on bone, and then the boy was on the ground groaning. Blood smeared his lip.

The rest of the group moved instantly but Seongje turned, face cold as ice.

“Anyone else want to explain why you laid a hand on her?” he said, voice low and deadly.

They froze.

One of them tried to speak. “We didn’t know she was yours—”

“She’s not property,” he snapped. “She’s off-limits. That should’ve been obvious the second you saw her face.”

You stood frozen, still holding your cheek, your breath shallow and quick. Seongje walked straight to you. You saw the change happen in him again the fury draining into something sharp and quiet as he looked you over. His hand came up slowly, carefully, fingers brushing your chin to tilt your face toward the light.

When he saw the red print, he swore under his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, low.

You nodded shakily. “I didn’t mean to come here— I didn’t know—”

“Shhh,” he murmured, stepping in closer. “It’s not your fault.”

Then he turned back to the boy still groaning on the ground.

But you grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t. Please. You’ve already done enough.”

He stilled.

For a second, it looked like he might fight you on it. His hands flexed, still twitching with anger.

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and snapped a photo of the guy’s bloody face.

“You tell the others,” he said to the group. “Anyone touches her, they deal with me. Got it?”

They all nodded, dead silent.

Seongje looked at you again. “Come on.”

He led you out of the alley without another word. You didn’t speak until the lights of the main street hit your face, soft and safe.

He finally stopped, pulling you gently to face him.

His eyes scanned you again checking every inch, like he was trying to make sure you were still whole.

“I told you not to walk alone,” he muttered.

“I didn’t know they’d be there.”

“You shouldn’t have had to worry about that.”

Silence stretched between you.

You whispered, “You were really going to kill him, weren’t you?”

“I still might,” he said darkly. Then softer “No one touches you. Ever.”

You looked up at him. “Why do you care so much?”

He stared at you for a second then pulled you into him suddenly, fiercely. His arms locked around you, his chin resting in your hair. You felt him breathe in slow, steady, like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he whispered. “But I know I can’t lose you.”

You held him tighter.

And for the first time in all the chaos, you felt safe.

#geum seongje x reader #geum seongje #seong je geum #seongje geum x reader #seongje geum #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class two #geum seong je #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class 2 #weak hero class one

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spaceyaemonds · 2 days ago

Text

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: a quiet afternoon with dr. abbot.

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), unplanned pregnancy, jack is divorced, not a widower and mentions of his ex wife, it is mention that reader and her mom talk often. please let me know if i missed anything. minors DNI.

note: more of a filler chapter(i’ll consider this 6.5 instead of 7 LOL)!!! just a little look inside them, and we will definitely be seeing more soon!!! jack and reader will meet each others moms next chapter!! also, thinking about doing more drabbles set in this universe, like the proposal, is there anything specific you guys want to see?? unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 960ish

prev next

Over the past eight weeks, you’ve just about changed Jack Abbot’s entire life.

He goes to a farmers market on Saturday’s, brunch on Sunday’s with your friends, actually eats decent meals and gets a good night's rest at least three nights a week.

Also, he’d never admit it outloud to anyone, but he’s pretty invested in Vanderpump Rules.

Currently, he’s got your feet in his lap while he reads a medical journal, one hand massaging your ankle. Every once in a while, he glances up at you to watch as you knit what he thinks is supposed to be a sweater.

Ever since finding out the gender of the baby almost a month ago, you’d been determined to at least make something for the baby to wear. You got good at knitting surprisingly quickly, and so far have made three hats, two pairs of socks, and started a blanket.

You’ve got your bottom lip tightly tucked into your teeth as you concentrate on the yarn in your hands, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching over and gently thumbing it out from between your teeth.

Finally, he thinks to himself when you’re wide eyes meet his.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He gestures to your swelling bottom lip as you lick it.

“Sorry,” You let out a small giggle, “I didn’t even notice.”

He nods, hand going back to your ankle, “I figured.”

As he starts reading again, you take the time to watch him, head cocking to the side as you smile.

This hasn’t been so bad.

Sure, it’s been an interesting and difficult situation for both of you. But you like to believe that it could be worse.

He could’ve just not cared. Ignored you and went on with his life. Or pressured you into an abortion you didn’t want.

He could’ve done what he could to just take the baby the second she’s here.

But he really surprised you. He’s been so supportive and so good to you. It’s shocking, in all honesty.

You both feel a lot of guilt, though.

You think you’ve stuck him with you. That he’s only here out of obligation.

He thinks he’s ruined your life.

You work through it all, somehow. You talk him off his ledge more than he talks you off of yours, but you can tell when it’s eating at him more than he can with you.

Or so you think.

Jack likes to think he knows you pretty well despite the timeline of things.

He spends as much time as he can with you. Soaking up every moment of something he didn’t even think he ever wanted. Holds your hair back when you get sick. Rubs your back and feet when you ache. Tries some of the most interesting food combinations he’s ever heard of, some of which are better than others.

Fucks you when you’re insatiable and want him more than anything.

He isn’t quite sure it’s love yet, but he knows it’s on its way there.

He’s loved before. Hell he loved someone enough to marry her, but couldn’t love her enough to give her what you’re giving him.

Another source of guilt for him- one that he’s completely bared to you.

You didn’t know what to say, when he told you about what ate at him most. Why he couldn’t figure out what brought on the need, the desire, to do this with you, but he couldn’t even bring himself to try with her.

You just listen, rub his back, and whisper in his ear that some things just happened for a reason.

He appreciates you and the the way you just let him talk. Or just let him sit with you in silence. Whatever he needs, you somehow manage to give him.

One of the more recent favorites of his is when you take a bath. He can sit up against the cabinets under the vanity with a beer in his hand while you sit and talk about your day, things you want to do for the baby, or just read.

Life is more peaceful with you than he thinks it ever has been.

He glances back over at you, and sees the look in your eyes.

A look he knows all too well will result in him doing something he doesn’t exactly want to do.

“Spit it out, honey.”

You smile at the sound of his voice when he calls you honey.

“I was talking to my mom yesterday,” You trail off as he closes the journal he’s been reading and turns his body all toward you.

“Well?”

Jack knew your mom knew the basics, much like his own family did. How you got pregnant. How you met him. His age.

He knew that the last one had her concerned. Extremely.

The two of you talk most days, and she always gets distant when asking about the baby. Something about it makes him slightly uneasy.

“She’s coming to Pittsburgh next week. Wants us all to get together,” You look down, fidgeting with your fingers, “wants to meet you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, making unease crawl up your chest.

It was a bad idea to bring it up.

“How do you feel about that?”

He sounds calm and collected, surprising you yet again.

“I mean, you are the father of her grandchild.”

You finally look back up at him, eyes meeting.

He sighs, shaky, “Is that all I am?”

You tilt your head to the side, “You tell me.”

It’s quiet for another beat before he shakes his head as he brings one of his palms to cradle your jaw.

“It’s only fair if you have to meet my mom, too.”

You laugh, nodding lightly before kissing his palm.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

He lets out a huff as he kisses the side of your head, “It’s a deal, then.”

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt x reader #dr jack abbott x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #ahhhhh #🐝 writes #🐝 writes: the pitt

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moonlit-imagines · 20 hours ago

Text

Headcanons for being the youngest Avenger and joining the Thunderbolts*

Thunderbolts x reader

warnings: spoilers!!! blood and guns and death n such u know the drill

a/n: i gave y/n unspecified powers until about halfway through so i just based the powers on an oc i am weak

prompt:

you’d always been the odd one out in the avengers, being the “young one” was not easy

like, you were teens during the battle of new york

sure, you were respected as a valiant hero, one of earths mightiest, but there was struggle in not having many peers to lean on

when you had wanda around, things were a little different—but that didn’t last long at all

then the blip happened, you survived, your world crumbled, and you got everyone back—but nothing was ever the same and it took its toll on you

the avengers disbanded, everyone left went their separate ways and you realized that the avengers, your family, were all you’d ever known

so you found your footing elsewhere, tried to stay in touch with those who you found comfort in. people you could count on

this included sam, clint, and bruce. rest were either preoccupied, plotting less than ethical things, or you just weren’t close with to begin with

“yeah, this kid—kate—she reminds me of you. she’s a bit more clumsy, awkward, and desperate, but it made me think of you…having another young person aspiring to save the world and all. or at least new york” -clint over the phone

“it’s nice to hear, thanks for checking in. hopefully she doesn’t accidentally destroy any buildings like i did” -you

“well, about that—” -clint

you always really enjoyed when they called you first, but no one was calling for your calling

you didn’t know how to not be a hero, it was really fucking frustrating

you were only made an avenger that early on because you had powers, and you were already a public hero. it’s not like you could get a job at a coffee shop, as entertaining as that would be

that’s when bucky called you one day, and you didn’t get close with bucky until steve died. yeah, you helped him out of a bind in germany, but that was about as far as it went. you were just acquainted because of sam

but bucky knew how it felt to be alone, lost, misguided, all that

and he just decided to run for congress

“y/n, i’d like you to be my advisor. there’s no one i could trust more—that would agree to this, that is” -bucky

“are you serious?” -you

“about running for congress or the advisor thing?” -bucky

“both i guess?” -you

“yeah, i’m serious” -bucky “i heard from a mutual friend you were still trying to find your place after…you know, everything. i am, too. so i’m asking you as a friend if you will join me on this path. it could be good for both of us”

and that it was, bucky won the election and you were now being paid decend money to be bucky’s #2. it felt right

you’d briefly been a government employee as an avenger, but now you were a lot more autonomous in a sense

yes, you had a lot of red tape, but it beat that sense of impending doom you had living with the avengers

you and bucky fought to keep new york safe in a different way. fought for the little guy. tried to clean up the system a bit

that included getting valentina allegra de fontaine impeached from her job as the head of the CIA

if there’s anything bucky and you knew about intelligence agencies, they needed to be as clean as possible. or else you’d have disasters like hydra infiltrating shield and secret human experimentation and super soldiers and child assassins. all that good stuff

you backed it, regardless of what little sway you guys had

you gave him a death glare as he was interviewed about valentina’s impeachment and all he could do was say “worrying” 10 times in a row

“we need to work on your public speaking” -you, immediately following his embarrassing comments

“yeah, i know” -bucky

you and bucky lived nearby each other, you relocated to brooklyn following the new job

so when necessary, you’d lean on each other

let me be clear that this is strictly friendship. lightly professional. the teo of you have seen dark days in your own respective ways. you were both turned into weapons without any say. had a hard time controlling it for a long time. made some terrible mistakes. tried your hardest to move up in the world. carry demons with you. misery loves company.

and right now, being new to the office, not a lot of other government officials were fond of you two. there was a lot of distrust.

first, we have the hydra super soldier who’s ledger is running with blood. his slate was wiped clean, but that doesn’t mean the people see him differently. it was a miracle he was voted into office to begin with

then there’s you, the late-20s, early 30s former avenger who was never quite taken seriously due to your youth in the public eye. you were viewed as dangerous due to your powers, as well, and some people feared you two would use your abilities to influence and intimidate

so you advised taking a very gentle approach to congressman barnes, that way no one felt threatened

that was until you and bucky went rogue to bring in valentina’s covert ops team as a last ditch effort to get her impeached

bucky bombing several CIA vehicles? not very gentle

but fun and refreshing? check!

“it’s been a while since i’ve been able to stretch my legs—the suit’s a little tight, though” -you

“you’re still rocking it” -yelena

“aw, thanks! we’re not letting you go” -you

then the rogue assassins and you guys get into it about a guy named “bob” and then bucky gets a call about “bob” its a whole mess. whatever

“okay, looks like we’re letting you go” -you

“hey, i meant it, your suit still looks good! im not even tied up anymore and i’m still saying it!” -yelena

“she’s right, you look awesome” -ava

“yeah, i need to change. my range of motion is severely limited” -you

you guys got to NYC to go confront valentina…at the old avengers HQ

you got a chill down your spine as you arrived

“you good?” -bucky

“yeah, yeah. just a lot of memories here” -you

this was the moment where it clicked for the rest of the team that you were an AVENGER. a real avenger. you were close with natasha. you knew the real steve rogers. you fought alongside thor and the hulk and wanda maximoff. and here you were kicking it with what alexei was calling “the thunderbolts”

“don’t get all misty eyed, we’ve got work to do” -john

lets note that this interaction took place after bucky crashed a commercial sized truck into the lobby, you’d just beaten everyone’s asses, and valentina invited you all upstairs

and there she was at the bar pouring a drink for herself and for just a small moment you saw a glimpse of tony stark standing in front of you again. giving you a smug smirk and asking for your ID before he made you a shirley temple. even after you were of age.

and a darkness overcame you a moment while you stood there. you were in sokovia standing next to pietro maximoff as he laid facedown on the ground. you were perfectly safe, didn’t even notice he was down. you never even realized he was beside you he was so fast. you heard wanda’s screams and you panicked, froze, didn’t know what to do. you were watching yourself go through these motions again.

and then bucky’s hand touched your back and you snapped back to reality, meeting the infamous “bob” for the first time

or as valentina called him, sentry

and immediately you were disturbed, there was something off about his presence

and immediately the team began to attack

you even hit him with a shock as powerful as thor with mjölnir, but he didn’t even flinch

it was futile, he was knocking you guys around like you were nothing

but he had this strange, kind demeanor about him too

once he ripped bucky’s arm off, it was time to GO

you all evacuated the building, a place you once called home, and wandered down the streets of new york. pathetic

and not even five minutes went by before a new form of this guy was literally turning people into VOIDS

“you know, buck, i’m starting to get real tired of shit like this happening in manhattan. this doesn’t happen in brooklyn AT ALL” -you, beginning to attack once again

you were the only thunderbolt with ranged powers—literal thunderbolts, if you will

but that didn’t seem to be doing much

the rest of them were mostly using guns and that also wasn’t working, so this became more of a rescue op

you liked fighting with bucky, it’d only happened three times before this. in germany, wakanda, and the avengers compound

and yelena reminded you so much of natasha, you knew exactly what the next move would be

alexei was…well, he took some inspiration from cap, you could see it you guess.

john walker was difficult. send tweet

he was trying though. you guess.

ava was more of a loner. she kind of reminded you of wanda. you missed her

when you saw yelena vanish, the LAST thing you wanted to do was to do the same

but bucky assured you that you were in it together

he took your hand and you walked into the darkness together

and ended up facing the worst pain of your life

for him: amputation, brainwashing, brutal torture, murder, losing steve

for you: the accident that gave you powers, sokovia, the blip, loneliness, mistakes that cost lives

but you powered through. you got bob. you saved new york. and for you, it wasn’t the first time!

and the moment valentina introduced you as the new avengers, you clenched your teeth and bucky nearly had to hold you back

you agreed to stick together to keep valentina in check, much to sam wilson’s dismay

“oh, hes gonna kill us” -you

“he’s not the only one” -bucky

“oh, my god. clint’s gonna kill me” -you

“eh, barton sees you as one of his kids, i’m sure he’ll give you a stern talking to” -bucky

he did.

you cried.

he gave you a big hug after and apologized for yelling.

and there you were in avengers tower again

just like you were 15 years ago.

“you used to live here, no?” -alexei

“i did. i did a long, long time ago.” -you, about to have a full on meltdown

“that’s great! you can show me around, then. please, show me your old room!” -alexei

he did know how to lift your spirits, for sure

and then there was yelena, who so desperately wanted to feel closer to natasha

“will you tell me a story, please? it would make me feel closer to her” -yelena

ironically, hanging out with yelena made you feel closer to nat

“well, nat trained me a good bit when we joined the avengers. she taught me how to fight, to not depend on my powers, to be a spy, to use weapons. i would be who i am today without her” -you

“yes, that’s great and all, but give me specifics!” -yelena

“okay, she LOVED desperate housewives. she’d make me sit through HOURS of it when we were off-duty. it was a great distraction. when we came back from sokovia and moved into the new compound, she had me on that couch for three days straight” -you

yelena snorted laughing

she also loved to spar with you

in a way, you felt like a sibling to her these days

in the way she was raised, at least

you laughed everytime you noticed a little “oopsie” val overlooked before the full remodel

“oh, my god. i once shocked the microwave while i was half asleep and i shorted out the whole building. this dark mark in the wall is the explosion of the microwave that led to the power outage” -you

“how long did it take to fix?” -ava

“about 10 minutes. tony was thoroughly embarrassed it took him that long” -you

there were also little dents and dings and bullet holes and such, especially it what was formerly the training room and being revamped for an even better one

“the last time i was here was when ultron booted up and sent the whole iron legion in after a party with the avengers. it was actually quite horrific, i thought the avengers were gonna disband right then and there. i thought i was going to be homeless” -you

“jesus, you sure talk about your past a lot” -john

“oh, sorry, would you rather i talk about yours?” -you, semi-threatening

he backed off

you tried to make as many new memories as you could, but everything seemed to remind you of the past

all you knew is the people needed to look up to something and that had to be the new avengers

and to have a former avenger on it? that was good for optics

did it make you feel stuck from time to time? uh yeah, you never really could escape your past

but the congress thing kind of fizzled out

so this was the next best thing

“alexei is calling me, hold on” -you

“y/n! i need directions” -alexei

“okay, where are you?” -you

“twenty third floor. i do not know how you lived in this maze as long as you did! i cannot find anything around here” -alexei

“hang on. you’re lost inside the building?” -you

you’d go to your favorite restaurant in manhattan with bucky sometimes, just to get out of the tower

“so, be honest with me. is this what you want?” -bucky

“i want to feel like i belong. and i do” -you

“because it’s familiar?” -bucky

“basically” -you

you explained that it still was an adjustment. you felt like you were seeing ghosts in a sense

but it was like a do over too

a chance to be the hero you grew up to be, to make steve, tony, natasha, clint, bruce, and thor proud

sam was still a little pissed about it. rightfully so

but making breakfast with bob, training with yelena, drinking with alexei, having heart to hearts with bucky, shit talking with ava, and ignoring john was not the worst thing to happen to you

you heard over exaggerated war stories, had eventful training, shorted out the microwave again, started to give john a chance, found a friend in bob, and more in this new life

and you were always meant to be an avenger, your calling was to protect the world. thats why you guys formed the avengers 15 years ago. so you did it in the name of the family you’d never forget.

taglist: @locke-writes // @captainshazamerica // @summersimmerus // @prettysbliss // @simp-legend // @wild-rose-35 // @nekoannie-chan // @beth-gallagher22 // @sk1bidi-n1k0-e4ts-people // @deanzboyfriend // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 //

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blythedolly · 2 days ago

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you have me, yeah?

—♡ leon has successfully been able to restrain his desires for you until you bent over in front of him, revealing a part of you that he deeply craved.

—♡ warnings: pervy best friend leon, reader is kinda bimbo coded, feminine reader, dom!leon, manhandling, teasing, oral sex (reader recieving), mentions of rough sex.

“why don’t you like my teddy bears?” you asked, arms crossed with a pout as you stare at your best friend. he stares back at you, his muscled body resting against your white bed frame.

“i don’t hate them i just don’t see why you care about them so much. they’re not rea-”

“leon!” you cut him off, a look of genuine terror on your face. which makes him chuckle.

you were too cute for words. your sweet personality making his heart gush. as it always does.

you captured his heart so effortlessly. you were pure, so delicate. in every possible way. he couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander to the dark side. he felt so disgusting and tried so hard to keep them in check. but oh god, it was so fucking hard. especially when you were prancing around your bedroom in tiny sleep shorts, smooth thigh highs that hugged your soft legs in the most intoxicating way, white tank tops which were borderline see-through. showing the outline of your perky breasts and nipples. and here you were now, you kneeled next to him on the bed. dressed in exactly that. he felt like a fucking animal, wanting to destroy every ounce of purity that radiated from you.

he wasn’t stupid, he knew you liked him more than just a friend. always finding himself enamored by the way your cheeks tinted pink every time he touched you, or called you pretty, or rested his large hand on your soft squishy thighs. just above where your cute little thigh highs sit. he couldn’t possibly help but think how pretty your pussy would be.

fuck leon, quit it. take your time with her. he’d think to himself.

he can’t quite recall when his forbidden feelings had exceeded a platonic level, all he knew is that he wanted you. needed you. the days would go by where he didn’t make a move and felt himself growing more and more sadistic towards you.

“well, you don't need to cuddle this little thing tonight. you've got me, yeah?” he says, carelessly throwing your cute little plushie on the floor. an overly dramatic gasp escaping your mouth.

“leon, that's not funny. you're so mean. you have to be gentle with them,” you say softly as you move down the mattress to retrieve the beloved little bunny, bending your body off the edge of the bed. as the front half of your body disappeared, leon looked. wanting to get a glimpse of as much as he could without you noticing his devious gaze. but what he wasn’t expecting to see was your bare cunt on full display before his eyes. his breath hitched as his thoughts ran wild.

do you always forget to wear underwear when he's around? why hasn't he noticed this before? is this an invitation?

he couldn’t help but stare. you looked so so soft. eyes locked onto your entrance. swearing he could see it glisten. he gulps, saliva filling his hungry mouth at the thought of fucking you open with his tongue.

“fuck…” he mutters a little too loudly, causing you to turn around. still bent over to retrieve your plushie.

“what’s wrong, lee?” you ask, your pretty doe eyes looking into his with wonder. “are you feeling ok?”

god, you really and no fucking idea what you were doing.

“you… you’re a little fuckin’ tease aren’t you?” he hisses, grabbing your hips as if you were a rag doll and forcing you to lay down on your bed. hair splaying across your silky pillows. he was hovering over you now, you felt like you were drowning under his large frame.

“w-what are you talkin about, leon? i-” you attempt.

“‘i-… i-… what are you talking about, leon?’” he mocks, a sadistic smirk on his face. “you’re not fooling me, doll,” he moves his large hand down to your cunt, resting it over your thin sleep shorts. gasping as the warmth of his skin laid against your most precious area. “did you forget to wear your panties today like a silly little dits?”

“n-no, just wanted to be comfy. didn’t do it on purpose,” you look into his eyes as you plead, precious little pout on your lips.

oh god, he was going to fucking ruin you.

“is that right?” he asks, biting his lip. you nod your head. he doesn’t say anything as he moves down your body, forcing your thighs open as he settles between them. his toned stomach resting against your frilly duvet. he then pulls your bottoms to the side, revealing your glistening pussy to his properly. “then why is your needy little cunt dripping for me?”

“i.. leon i just-” you spoke, being cut off by your own gasp as he pulls down your shorts and throws them carelessly to the side. you blush, nobody had ever seen you like this before. your legs instinctively begin to close, but he effortlessly pulls them open again.

“wanted to see this precious little pussy of yours for years, don’t even think about hiding it from me now,” you whimper at his words. recalling the countless nights you spent alone, whining his name into your pillows to the thought of his rough fingers touching you there. and now, it was finally happening.

your head was spinning.

you weren’t naive, you knew about sex. what your sexual preferences were and what you desired, but you’d never actually done anything before. he knew that, he’s your best friend.

of course he knew.

he leans in, pressing his nose to your clit and inhaling your essence deeply. taking in your scent. it was feral, but your pussy clenched around nothing at his action. he hums, saliva filling his mouth as he prepares to taste you for the first time.

he could no longer resist and licked a rough stripe from your hole to your needy clit, the unfamiliar feeling causing a small gasp to escape your lungs. but oh god, did it feel good.

“leon…” you whine as he kisses your clit softly, and then again, and then again. legs trembling pathetically with each kiss. the sound of you whimpering his name sent him into a feral state, his tongue messily tracing along each crevice of your cunt. his pretty nose poking your clit in the most heavenly way.

“oh… oh, leon,” you whimper out, your trembling back arching off the bed. he finally locks his slick soaked lips around your needy bud, aggressively sucking on the delicate bundle of nerves. he rests one of his large hands on your tummy, semi exposed as your little top rode up when he threw you down on the bed.

“taste so pretty and sweet, knew you would,” he speaks against you, thighs trembling softly around his face and head. he contemplated using his fingers, but concluded quickly that it was unexplored territory for you. he didn’t want to overwhelm you too much, so he decided that simply eating your pussy would suffice. for now.

his attention stayed on your puffy clit, sucking and nipping the bundle. anything to hear those desperate whines and pleas of yours. he could tell you were already about to cum based on the way your body shook in his grasp, the way your hips attempted to buck towards his mouth. not to mention all of the pathetic whimpers that fell from your sweet lips.

all it took was for his eyes to meet yours for the band inside of your stomach to snap. your head flew back as the intense pleasure flooded your jolting frame. limbs wildly trembling and sweet cries that only drove him to buck his hips against the mattress himself. leon collected every drop of cum that fell from your slit, groaning at the sweet salty taste that he knew he’d now be addicted to for the rest of his life.

he continued to lick your cunt until he decided it was enough, kissing up your tummy and torso until his face was hovering over yours. you looked so pretty and fucked out, all he could think about was how you’d look after he finally gets to split you open with his cock. like he’s been waiting for, for so damn long.

he couldn’t wait for that day, but he knew that’d be too much. he knew what was best for you.

he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. you whined when he abruptly moved back. not satisfied with the shortness of the kiss. you watched him as he moved off the bed, bending down to pick up your long lost stuffed animal before returning to his previous position.

“here you go, baby doll. think you’re gonna need his after that,” he says, handing you the plushie that he had carelessly tossed onto the floor earlier. that’s when you noticed the way his chin was glistening with your essence. the warm lamps light reflecting on it causing it to sparkle. you blush and clutch your plushie to your chest. you look up at his lips as you bit yours, hoping he’d take the hint and kiss you once again. and he did.

because he knew you so well.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy fanfiction #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #resident evil 4

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abbotsanatomy · 2 days ago

Note

(Desperately) begging for a fic where reader is experiencing Whitaker-levels of a bad day including a stubborn argument with Jack and she just crashes out on the rooftop and he’s just like comforting her 🙏

⨳ REALLY VERY BAD DAY

pairing: jack abbot x chief resident!reader warnings: gross fluids (blood, vomit, etc.), minor injury, severe second hand embarrassment, injections, suicidal ideation, but not rlly. this isn't beta'd. author's note: this man is canonically sooo bad at comfort, so this gets a lil silly!

Your entire shift is exactly 12 hours. Somehow, you managed to have six different catastrophes happen to you in that limited time. That's an average of one every two hours. The odds have got to be completely stacked against you.

You should've known, when the first hour of your shift ended with a kid, who'd come in with a stomachache, throwing up all over your scrubs. It happens all the time, so you weren't too pessimistic about how the rest of the night would go by that point.

Little did you know, that was a sign from the universe. You should've taken it and clocked out instead of using your first scrub credit of the night.

By 11:00, you were slowly losing your optimism. You'd been taking out a patient's IV cannula when you apparently pricked yourself through your gloves. You only realized much later, when the antiseptic sanitizer you were using stung a little too much.

The moment you noticed, you checked the patient's medical record for any blood-borne diseases that might spread to you. And lo and behold, he had HBV.

You found Jack at the nurse's station, picking up some labs for a patient.

“I'm gonna need you to give me an HBV PEP injection. Please,” you'd whispered, as close to him as possible.

“Why would you need that?” he asked casually.

“I have a needle-stick injury.”

He looked over at you, finally. There's a silent disappointment in his eyes. Jack's one of the most composed people you know, but you also know he's a worrier. He won't let it show now, but he'll definitely be all over you the moment you're both back home.

The night shift's charge nurse walked into the station you're both standing at. She let Jack know his patient needed emergency surgery, and would be admitted to general surgery in a few minutes. When he told her he'd be right there, he turned to you again.

“You can't give it to yourself?” you know he isn't asking out of reluctance to do it, just curiosity.

“I need... some comfort.”

It wasn't a complete lie. The night'd already been getting difficult. You just wanted his hands on you for a minute. It'd make you feel better. You're afraid you haven't gotten to that point in the relationship where you could admit all of that out loud, though. But he seems to have gotten it.

“Alright. Go wait in there,” he pointed to a curtained corner of the ER, and then turned to walk away.

The words made you almost kiss him on the mouth. Instead, you walked to sit on the recliner and prepared the shot.

It took three minutes of waiting, before he's walked in and pulled the curtain half closed behind him. You swung your legs, staring down at your feet the entire time he's prepping to get this done.

“You have to be more careful,” he whispered, uncovering the syringe.

His voice was a little tense. You know he doesn't like reprimanding you. It puts you both in an awkward situation, but as your superior, he has to do it. You appreciate the criticism, but Jack happens to think it adds an uncomfortable impersonality to your relationship.

You could only offer a nod back. He let you hold onto his arm the whole time. You pulled his hand onto yours, as he used a plaster to cover the injection site. He pressed a kiss right above it before covering your arm with your sleeve again. The whole affair only took about five minutes, but it was the best part of your night.

When he was done, Jack stepped in front of you, his hand still holding onto yours. He leaned in, the proximity meaning you couldn't possibly look anywhere but his eyes.

“You'll be more careful?” he asked. He wanted you to repeat it.

“Yeah, I'll take care,” you affirmed. There was a thinly veiled promise in the affirmation. You were telling him you won't make any more of these mistakes that are completely beneath you. It was more for his peace of mind than anything else.

He pulled your conjoined hands up to his lips, lowering his lips to the back of yours.

The dull pain in your shoulder from the injection made it infinitely harder to hold your patient's jugular closed with your fingers.

It isn't very common for a patient to come in with a knife to his throat. Needless to say, you've never had to pull a carving knife out of someone's jugular, and then use your fingers to keep it closed.

The blood everywhere is a given, considering the severity of the injury, but the crimson droplets streaking your face and scrub top are all thanks to your unsteady grip.

You were hyperaware of the fact that this guy had been dead. He was dead long before he came into the ER. He'd only still been alive on a technicality. One that was long gone by this point.

He'd lost too much blood on the way to the PTMC, and there's no amount of available blood bags that could replenish it all. You couldn't stop holding onto him, though. Not when the steady stream stopped. Not when his pulse faded into nothing.

Not until Jack slipped behind you and pulled your hands away with a firm grip. He'd whispered meaningless encouragements into your ear, telling you to go take a minute for yourself. He might've offered to help, but you were too out of it to remember exactly what was said.

You were barely there the whole time. Washing the blood out of your hair, and changing your scrubs in the ER bathroom. It all didn't feel real. It took you a good hour to get back to normal. As normal as ‘normal’ gets after whatever the fuck that was.

You were glad when tripped over some spilt saline fluid and fell face-first on the ER's cold floor. Your chin was busted, but you actually felt something. It'd been hours of walking around stitching wounds up, looking over x-rays and blood work results, and feeling like a ghost who floats around the floor with no purpose.

Thankfully, when you looked in the mirror, it appeared like there were no broken bones. Just a scratch on your forehead, and a bleeding chin. No one wants a doctor who looks like they just got beat up, so your number one priority was disinfecting your mess of a face and covering up all of the nastiness.

When you reached for some normal, adult plaster, though, it was all gone. The storage locker wouldn't be open for another few hours, either. You let out the biggest sigh known to mankind when you spotted the children's bandaids.

Looking back into the mirror, you saw how ridiculous it looked to have farm animals plastered on your forehead, and a family of brightly colored elephants on your chin.

You couldn't seem to find it in yourself to care. You do almost snap at Chen when he tries to crack a joke at your expense, though.

The lock on the blood bank refrigerator had been broken for months.

You keep filing complaint after complaint, for the higher-ups to send someone to fix it. You and everyone in the department, in fact. But to no avail. It took you five minutes longer than it should to finally grab a fresh bag of donated blood out of the shelf.

So, you rushed back to Ellis. It's stupid, considering you'd just fell an hour ago. The patient's more important than logic.

The moment you crashed into an intern standing in the middle of the ER played in slow motion. You watched the bag drop to the floor, saw the plastic snap, felt the blood seep into your black work sneakers.

The ‘O-’ label on the bag stared back up at you, as you stood there in shock for a moment. Every muscle in your body started aching. It was suddenly painful to even breathe. You were barely holding yourself together, and this relatively small inconvenience was your very last straw.

“Fuck,” you whispered, not even registering the intern's profuse apologies, aimed at you.

You let out one long sigh, and your shoulders started shaking. Your chin came into contact with your chest, as you felt something painful stir within you. The feeling of helpless disappointment had been gnawing at you for hours. Now, it engulfed you completely. You'd had no idea how long you stood there, your eyes screwed tight, as the rest of the ER kept buzzing around you.

Familiar hands gripping your shoulders and pulling you away is the first thing you felt. Looking down at your feet as they lead you wherever you were being guided was a fatal mistake. You saw the bloodied shoe prints you left behind and felt even worse, if that was possible. So, you let your eyes flutter shut again.

When you were finally sat down on the edge somewhere, your face felt undeniably cold. That's when you realized you'd been shedding tears the entire time. The familiar feeling of embarrassment that bubbled up in your throat when you were vulnerable around big groups of people never arrived. Just a steady numbness.

The heavy breeze on the PTMC's roof made the salty tears on your face feel like tiny pinpricks of despair. You hoped it could also make you fly very far away from this building, never to return again. Alas, not all dreams come true.

“I did so, so badly today,” you confessed, your voice sounding thick and foreign to your own ears.

Jack frowned at you, his eyes scanning your entire face. You noticed his frown deepen almost imperceptibly when he landed on the bandaids covering your face. You were sure he'd make fun of them if today hadn't gone so badly.

He looked like he was calculating his next words very carefully, “That's alright. We have tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.”

Oh boy, that wasn't making you feel any better. In fact, it might've made you want to jump off of the very same roof you sat on right now. You stared off into the distance, calculating the height of the jump.

Apparently, Jack didn't get the memo.

“You'll always have chances to do better. You're still young. The worst day of your life can never define your entire being,” he rambled on. It was starting to seem like he was just trying to find it along the way.

Your eyes screwed shut in an attempt to tune your very sweet, but very misguided, boyfriend out. When it didn't work, you resorted to just blurting out the words on your mind.

Unfortunately, it had come out meaner than intended, “Shut up. Just stop talking, please.”

Jack was just about to talk again when you interrupted him with a plea, “I'll pay you.”

His eyes were sad. You knew he was trying, it just wasn't what you needed at all. You swung your legs, trying to play off the shame you felt at the way you spoke to him earlier. You couldn't apologize just yet though, lest he go on another tangent.

His voice was raw, but not hurt, “Do you need me to leave?”

You shook your head frantically. Just the thought of it hurt your brain.

“No. No. Just stay right here,” you whispered, and pulled his arm close.

You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the scent of his drug-store shampoo filling your nose. It worked wonders for your nerves.

“Just no more talking, please,” you begged, voice growing heavy with exhaustion.

Jack laughed. In that moment, it was like hearing the angels sing. You could listen to the sound for hours.

You could feel him nod against your head, and then press his lips into your hair.

“Alright, honey. Whatever you need.”

You were fully hugging his arm, now. Shamelessly letting yourself snuggle against his body heat. You knew you had to go downstairs and clock out to get home.

But right here, with the first rays of dawn slowly making their way onto your face, and Jack's free hand coming up to stroke your hair, it felt like you were already home.

A thousand horrible motivational speeches couldn't change that.

#jack abbot #jack abbott #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbott #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbott fanfic #dr jack abbott x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot drabble #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot fluff #the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt hbo #the pitt 2025 #the pitt show #the pitt x reader

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rexhya · 2 days ago

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yandere!prince who's 3 months way from becoming king, the citizens and palace have already begun preparing for his coronation

yandere!prince whos more terrifying than his father, nobles bow before him likes he god, his dark violet eyes gleaming with power

yandere!prince who's favorite word is obedience, so it's no surprise when you're accepted as his personal maid he revels in your compliance

"[Name], stand. Now." You're in his chambers holding a bowl of grapes. (he insists you feed him)

you stand.

"spin." You spin.

"lift up your skirt." You blush, giving him an almost disgraced face. As his maid, you were treated better but he'd never been perverted. You should have known better.

you move to set the bowl of grapes down anyways, you'd rather be humiliated for a moment then disobey and be forced to the tortue many servants were subjected to. It wouldn't be so bad anyways, you had a petticoat under and would only lift the first layer.

the prince moved before you could, a pleasant smile taking up his brown cheeks, "God you really are perfect. I was joking, m'lady." he layed back down on his velvet couch, motioning with his hands ro continue feeding him

now you were even more confused, the prince nicknamed "iron of evil" was making a joke. ( and what was m'lady about, you were quite literally a commoner) you set the ruffles back down and continue pricking the grapes from the vine and into his mouth, this was probably your least favorite task he requested you do. not because it was hard but because the prince was completely different from how he presented himself to the public.

moaning and whimpering exaggeratedly as you fed him the fruit, the worst is when he licks at your fingers, even taking one into his mouth, pearly whiteness flicking around the digit.

he always seemed to be smiling around you, it was worse knowing how horrible he could be to others

like that time a noble staying temporarily was caught trying to poison him, usually their sentence to death would be immediate no questions asked but this prince loved to play games

it was in the throne room, two gaurds stood by the captive and the prince stood in front of him ( you standing silently by his side praying they wouldn't behead him in front of you )

and after staring at the man for almost ten minutes without saying a word, he turned to you.

"pick a number between 1 and 1,000"

you jumped, eyes flickering between the man and the prince, "don't look at him, look at me. number quickly." he graps your jaw within seconds. you gasp, there was no arguing with the prince.

you stared directly into his eyes, sputtering out a number, "o-one"

"hmm." his grip doesn't falter, instead he turns your face side to side peering at all your features. "would you look at this, you actually have a desireable face."

you didn't know wether to take it as a compliment or an insult.

he finally lets go, "okay, have him drawn in quarterd. i want him out of my sight."

you gulped, guilt shredding at your heart as the man screamed. now you felt responsible for his punishment, though you suspect he would have done anything he liked anyways.

as usual.

the prince kisses your palm brining you back to the present, he's been likey this lately too. becoming affectionate in private spaces ( and in public spaces ), insisting you dote on him, care for him and play good girl all while you face the consequences ( many people think you're secretly sleeping with him, though hes met his suitor many times )

"what are you thinking of, tell me your thoughts love."

you gulped, "well honestly my prince i was thinking this is highly inappropriate and that your should stop so that the both of us will avoid trouble, and also—"

the prince stops kissing you, darkened eyes glaring at you viciously. "[Name]" he said suddenly.

you gulp, regretting your decision to speak up immediately.

"you're perfect, okay? i need you to continue being perfect so that everyone here stays happy alright?" you nod. "and i told you to stop calling me that."

"i-i apologize my-sorry um, Anul."

Anul grins and shifts his body to sit upwards, "Good, now come here." he motions to his lap and you sigh, as of the past few weeks this was common as well. he pats his thigh impatiently and you smooth down your skirt to move towards him. his arms are around you before you can even make it on him, his nose grazing your neck, "mm, perfect, all mine, so perfect."

you sigh again and fold your hands over your lap, you wouldn't deny this prince was comfortable to sit on but it was not only highly unprofessional but horribly nerve racking.

you were just glad nobody was in here to see it.

and just then a knock came from the door. you scramble to move but Anul hold on fast, "come in." his voice was like murky water compared to how he was speaking to you before.

another servant maid opens the door, looking at your turned down face for a moment before adressing her reason for being here. "uhm, [Name] has been requested in the chambers by Ms. Jalei just for a quick meeting." Ms. Jalei was the head of all thr maids in the palacez

Anul looks bored at her. "She's busy." and quickly turns back to you, but the maid hasnt left yet.

she clears her throat again, "it's umh, it's urgent." she say looking at you and the man, his arms tighten around your waist. "[Name]? what should i do? seems likes there another pest trying to disturb our peace. number, 1-1,000" the maid freezes up, even she knew was this meant.

your eyes went wide as you looked at him, god that this again. "I-I don't want her to get hurt."

"Oh how sweet. Don't worry she won't feel a thing." Anul smiles devilishly. The maid looks ready to cry.

You turned between them, you hears what happened with the other guy, you didn't know who this was but yiu certianly didn't want her to get hurt, not because she f you anyways.

"w-what can i do? to fix it, i don't think she deserves such a punishment. it's me there asking for anyways, so what should i do?" you pleaded.

that caught his attention, "What you can do...?" He thought for a moment, "You. Get out."

The door was such in seconds.

"ya' know ver since i've met you [Name] i've just been so much better, i'd really love it if you gave me a kiss. I think i deserve it dont you?"

you gulped, you saw something like this coming, you were prepared. you gave a small okay and Anul shift so you were sitting on his crotch rather than his lap. "okay here i go." and placed the tiniest contact on his lips he almost missed it. he blinked,

"what was that."

"well, i just kisses you my prince. as you requested."

"that wasn't a kiss."

"well—" you don't get a chance to answer as he cups your mouth with his, your tounge sliding on the roof of hus mouth, by the time he's finished you can barkey breath. his hands had someway crawled themselves onto your side and he found himself craving yiu, neeedimg you carnally and more than ever. he lets go.

"that was a kiss, and don't make me teach you again."

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cameronsbabydoll · 2 days ago

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what kinks do you think sexist rafe would have? for one i think he would be heavy on the daddy kink

daddy kink

rafe would be all over this. the classic "daddy" vibe, but with a dominant edge. he likes being the one who’s in charge—making decisions for you, telling you what to do, and having you look to him for approval. you’d feel small when he calls you his "little girl" or "his baby."

“you’re gonna listen to me, right, princess? just like you always do. be a good girl and do what daddy says.”

and in public, he's always hovering over you, hands possessively on your waist or low on your back, like he’s marking you as his—making sure no one else forgets you’re his responsibility.

housewife kink

rafe has this specific idea of what a housewife should be, and you’re expected to meet every single one of his standards. he’d want you in cute, domestic outfits—aprons, sundresses, stuff that screams stay-at-home wife. and when you’re doing chores?

"that’s right. put your hands to work, baby. a woman’s place is at home, making sure i’ve got everything i need."

he’d be the type to expect a full home-cooked meal waiting for him when he gets back, with a drink in hand and dressed in a sundress. if he didn’t get that? he'd let you know.

"don’t make me repeat myself, sweetheart. you want to be treated like a princess, then act like one. my princess knows how to keep a clean house."

ddlg (daddy dom/little girl)

this one would be his favorite, hands down. he’d love the idea of being your protector but also seeing you as someone who needs to be “taken care of” in every sense. he’d be into the soft, nurturing side of it too, though he’d use it to keep control over you. like, when you’re acting “sweet” or “innocent,” he’d take advantage of that, pushing your limits while still keeping you in check.

“who’s my good little girl? you’re so cute when you play dumb, princess. you really think you can run the show?”

he’d spoil you with treats, but it’s always a trade-off for how he expects you to act. there’d be rules for everything—from when you’re allowed to speak, to what you wear, to how you behave. and if you don’t listen?

“what happens when you don’t follow daddy’s rules, sweetheart? you know better.”

he'd get so much satisfaction from keeping you in that little “submissive” headspace where you want to please him, but also feel like you’re under his total control.

humiliation kink

rafe would also love using humiliation as a way to keep you “in check.” not in a brutal way necessarily, but he gets off on making you feel small, showing his power over you.

“that’s what you get for being a dumb little girl. you really think you can have a voice? you can’t even dress yourself right.”

he’d also love calling you names that reinforce his views about women—terms like “baby,” “princess,” “doll,” “sweetheart”—but used in a way that makes you feel dependent on him. he’s constantly reminding you how much better he is at everything.

praise kink

though rafe’s got his more dominant side, he also gets off on telling you how good you are when you follow his rules. he’d get so much satisfaction from seeing you act the way he expects, so he’d reward you with praise—but only when he feels like you deserve it.

“that’s right, baby. you’re such a good girl for me. just keep doing what i tell you, and you’ll get what you want.”

#anons ♡⸝⸝#sexist!rafe #rafe cameron #rafe cameron headcanons #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x yn #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe obx #rafe cameron smut #mean!rafe #dark!rafe #dark rafe cameron #rafe cameron yandere #yandere rafe cameron

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mistchievous · 2 days ago

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Most people tend to agree that Ao3 is the go-to fanfiction site nowadays, but some of you really need to remember that older fandoms (and fandoms up through the early 2010's even) have a LOT of content on places like FF.net, Livejournal, Wordpress, etc. Some people even still post there and elsewhere exclusively. Like, you're truly missing out in those cases if you think Ao3 is the end all and be all of fandom content. I was still actively using LJ communities to find and share fics until around 2020.

I've even been reading for an old fandom of mine on FF.net this past week. Y'all don't even know. There are literally FAR more fics there than can be found on Ao3 simply because of when this fandom began.

Ao3 is easier to use and superior in almost every way, but too many people think that all "quality" fic or all fic in general is on Ao3 without considering what was available beforehand. Too many people think all fanfiction on fanfiction.net is bad just because it's on fanfiction.net. They don't even think about the older blogging sites.

I'm just saying. Y'all are missing out by not being open to navigating the fandom archives and spaces that dominated before Ao3 got here.

#fandom #fanfiction #ao3 #mist speaks

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ninisdollie · 3 days ago

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party 4 you - nishimura riki 𓈒ིུ

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

“In which reader bumps into her ex in a party, and suddenly all the heartbreak and feelings come to life again.”

Content: fem! reader x ni-ki, exes to lovers, cursing, a little bit of angst, a lot of emotions, suggestive but no smut, drinking, fluff, both ni-ki and reader are pretty criers lmao

Notes: party on you party on you party on party on you party on you part of you knew

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

You stared at the glowing message on your phone screen for the third time that hour.

“It’s just a party, babe. You need this.”

Maybe you did. Or maybe you just needed to stop thinking about him.

Your finger hovered over the RSVP like it might burn you. You already knew he’d be there. Ni-ki always showed up to these things — along with his friends, like the social butterfly he was, charming everyone in the room like he didn’t carry a single piece of you in his pockets anymore.

You shifted in your bed, knees curled to your chest, blanket tucked under your chin like armor. The room was quiet, but your mind wasn’t. It hadn't been quiet in a long time, not since the day you left him standing in his living room, jaw clenched, eyes glassy, silence stretching between you like it could snap.

It had been a year.

A year of no texts. No accidental likes. No closure.

He wasn’t a stranger. That was what made it worse.

You’d known Nishimura Riki since you were fifteen. High school sweethearts — the kind people thought would get married someday. He walked you home when it rained, held your hand under the lunch table, memorized your coffee order before you even knew it yourself. He called you "his future" once — whispered it in your ear after prom, his mouth warm against your skin like a promise. You had spent years with him. Built routines and futures and secret traditions. Shared playlists and toothbrushes. Argued over which marvel movie was better and made up with forehead kisses on his bedroom floor.

He felt like home once, he was home to you. Your longest relationship, and your worst breakup.

You couldn’t even remember the last thing he said before the silence swallowed you whole. Something about needing space, something about how he was tired. Or maybe it was you who said it. You had both been tired, bruised from trying too hard to fix something that didn’t want to stay whole.

Still, loving him never stopped.

That was the part you couldn’t explain to anyone. How even now, a year later, the thought of bumping into him felt like pressing on a wound just to make sure it still hurt. How even now, you'd still dreamt about his hands, his smell, his smile, the way he teased you, the way he touched you, the way he made you feel.

“You’re not dressed,” your friend said from your doorway, arms crossed and eyes already rolling. “Don’t make me drag you out of bed.”

You blinked up at her, biting your lip, unsure.

“I don’t know if I should go.”

She sighed, walking in and tossing something slinky and black onto your sheets.

“You should. You need to. It’s been a year. You might not even see him, the house is huge.”

You nodded like you believed her. It was true, in part, Jake's house was really big and it would probably be packed of people from all campus, but still, the universe had a history of being cruel to you. And if you even got a sight of Ni-ki you didn't know how you would react, the thought only made your stomach twist.

She disappeared to finish getting ready, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You looked at yourself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the girl staring back. She was a little older now. A little more tired. A little less hopeful.

Some part of you wanted to see him.

Even if it was just to know he still existed in the same world as you.

You pulled on the dress. Did your makeup with shaky fingers. Told yourself this was just another night. Just another party.

The house was loud. Too loud.

Bass thumped through the walls, vibrating in your ribs as you stepped past the threshold, eyes already scanning the crowd on instinct. Your friend disappeared within minutes, swallowed by music, bodies, and a red solo cup. You didn’t follow her. You couldn’t.

You hovered near the kitchen instead, fingers wrapped tightly around a half-melted drink, heart beating too fast for someone standing still.

It smelled like perfume, sweat, and faint memories.

This was his best friend's house, every corner of the place felt like a landmine. The hallway where he used to press you against the wall, kissing you breathless. The back porch where he once told you, “I’ve never loved anyone this much.” The upstairs bathroom door, still chipped from the time you had a stupid argument and he accidentally slammed it shut too hard and came back ten minutes later with a shaky apology and a bag of gummy bears.

You should’ve left. You still could.

But your friends were right, you needed this. Not only for him, but for yourself, to prove yourself that you could live with this, that someday, it would all pass.

The music thumped, deep and heavy, reverberating through the floor and vibrating in your chest as you moved around the house. The party was in full swing now — people laughing, dancing, talking in tight groups. It should have been easy to get lost in the noise. To forget. To let yourself feel something that wasn’t this heavy, suffocating ache.

But it wasn’t easy.

Your friend, Rei, pulled you toward the kitchen with a grin, passing a new drink into your hand as if it was supposed to fix everything.

"You’re not going to stand around looking like a ghost all night, right?"

“Just… let me be, okay?” you muttered, forcing a smile, hoping it was convincing.

Rei didn’t seem to buy it but didn’t push either.

"Alright, alright. Just don’t go hiding in a corner again. Let’s at least pretend we’re having fun tonight."

You let yourself be dragged, but your heart wasn’t in it. You tried to lose yourself in the beat, in the movement, in the rhythm of the crowd. You swayed your hips, let your hands move through the air, pretending you weren't still thinking about him, about the inevitable.

But just as you turned to keep doing exactly that, you froze.

He was there.

Ni-ki.

Across the room, laughing at something someone said. Cup in hand. The same silver chain resting at the base of his throat — the one you gave him for your anniversary. He looked good, too good. Taller, maybe. A little broader. His hair was black now, you always used to tell him that was your favorite color on him, it was a bit shorter too. Like time had been kind to him while it only made you softer around the edges. He looked different, but it was still him. The boy who had loved you with everything he had. The boy who had torn your heart out when it all crumbled.

Your breath caught in your throat. He hadn’t seen you yet. But you saw him. And everything inside you went still.

It wasn’t dramatic. No slow-motion moment. No spotlight cutting through the dark. He didn’t even look in your direction. He was just… there, across the room, half-shadowed by the gold-tinted lights strung across the ceiling.

You turned your back to him and forced yourself to laugh at something your friend said. You fixed the strap of your dress. Took another sip of your drink. You focused on the ice melting between your fingers, the way it stung just enough to distract you.

You didn’t dare look again.

But you felt him.

Like gravity. Like pressure in your chest that hadn’t existed moments ago.

You tried to play it cool, smile the way you used to before everything fell apart. You leaned against the counter like you belonged here. Like you weren't unraveling slowly beneath the surface. You kept telling yourself you wouldn’t look. That he didn’t matter anymore. That the ache in your chest was just old muscle memory.

But then a familiar laugh floated across the room, his laugh, and it cracked something open inside you.

You knew that sound. You used to be the reason for it.

Your breath hitched.

A hand brushed your arm, pulling you back into the moment, asking if you were okay. You nodded too quickly, smiled too wide.

“Just gonna… find the bathroom,” you said, your voice too light. “Be right back.”

You didn’t glance back as you slipped down the hallway, heart pounding like you'd just run a race.

You hated that you still felt this way.

That after everything — after all the nights you'd forced yourself not to cry, after pretending for so long that you were okay — seeing him for five seconds could still shake you to your core.

You took a deep breath. Then another.

You’re fine, you told yourself. It’s just a party. It’s just a boy. You don’t love him anymore.

The apartment was cold — painfully so.

A stillness had crept in like a fog, dense and unmoving, wrapping around your chest until breathing started to feel like effort. You sat on one end of the couch, legs folded beneath you, cradling a mug that had long since gone cold. Across from you, Ni-ki sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it held some kind of answer.

You just had an argument, the third that week, and it was only thursday. It had been like this for months, he was distant, you were sensitive, it didn't feel the same anymore, and you knew he was avoiding talking about it, but you also knew he felt it too. He responded late, he stood in the field practicing more than he should've, he made excuses for your weekly dates. And you, you were always defensive, mean even, you didn't ask him anymore about his practice, you didn't even go to his last game.

The silence had already said everything.

But you broke it. Your voice came out cracked, barely above a whisper.

“We’re not okay, are we?”

He didn’t look up. Just clenched his hands together a little tighter, eyes fixed on the carpet. After a moment, he gave the smallest shake of his head.

“No.”

That one word still managed to sting more than you'd expected.

You nodded slowly, not because you accepted it, but because you’d known. You’d known for a while now, in the way his touches had grown hesitant, in the tired tone of his voice, in the endless nights where you both turned away in bed instead of toward each other.

“I thought love would be enough,” you whispered.

“I did too,” he said. And it sounded like regret. Not the sharp kind — the quiet kind that eats away at you, slowly.

You looked at him then. The dark circles under his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way his mouth was pressed in a hard line, like he was holding something in.

“Do you still love me?”

The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

His head finally lifted, and his eyes met yours.

“God, I love you so much it makes me feel sick sometimes.”

You let out a soft, hollow laugh. He was like this, even in these moments, he made you laugh. And that made the pain even worse.

“Then why does it still feel like we’re losing each other?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Because loving each other isn’t fixing us anymore.”

That broke something inside you. Not in a dramatic, shattering way. Just a slow, internal collapse. A piece of your chest folding in on itself.

“So what do we do?” you asked.

He stood, slowly, like the weight of the moment made his movements heavier, and crossed the room. When he sank to the floor in front of you, kneeling like he used to when you’d come home upset from school or work, it almost felt like the past was reaching for you.

Almost.

“We let go,” he whispered. “Before we ruin the good we had.”

You blinked hard. Your throat burned.

“I don’t want to let go of you.”

“I don’t want to either,” he admitted, and his voice was shaking now. “But I think we have to.”

You put the mug down, and slid off the couch to the floor beside him. His hands were there, right in front of you, shaking. You reached for them — familiar, warm, still his — and he didn’t pull away.

“I thought we’d be forever,” you said.

“We were, for a while,” he murmured. “We grew up together. We made each other who we are. But maybe we can’t carry each other anymore.”

Tears finally spilled down your cheeks. Quiet. Steady.

“I don’t hate you,” you whispered. “Even after this.”

“Don’t say that,” he replied, voice cracking. “You’re making this harder.”

“It’s already hard.”

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. His hands gripped yours like lifelines. You both sat there, shaking and quiet, breathing the same air like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“I’ll love you for the rest of my life,” you whispered.

He didn’t say it back.

Not out loud.

Because if he had, if he gave that truth shape, neither of you would’ve had the strength to end it.

Eventually, you pulled back. Stood up. Grabbed your bag with trembling fingers. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, so soft it barely lingered, and you whispered goodbye.

Then you walked out.

And the door closed.

You didn’t look back.

You couldn’t.

And inside that quiet apartment, Ni-ki stayed exactly where you left him — knees to the floor, hands clenched tight, eyes fixed on nothing at all.

He didn’t cry.

Ni-ki told himself he was fine.

He smiled at the jokes, laughed at the right moments, nodded along as his friends passed around drinks and shouted over the music like the world was still spinning normally. He told himself this was what he needed — noise, people, distractions. He hadn’t been to a party like this in a long time. Maybe not since… well. Since you.

He even tried to date other girls, a lot of them, but it never worked, it didn't feel right.

And yeah, maybe his chest felt a little tight when he walked through the door and remembered that you might be here too. But the house was big. There were too many rooms, too many bodies. He could avoid you.

He could be normal.

So he leaned into the chaos. Let himself be pulled into a circle of friends, let Jake drape a lazy arm around his shoulders. He threw back a drink even though it didn’t taste like anything. His cheeks flushed from the heat of the room, from the music vibrating under his shoes, from the lie in his throat that kept repeating: I’m over it. I’m over her.

You hadn’t spoken in a year. A whole year. You’d both agreed, it was mutual. Grown-up, mature, clean, at least on the outside.

He never told anyone how many times he almost texted you. How many times he saw your old hoodie in the back of his closet and sat on the floor for hours, just holding it. How he couldn't had been able to delete your pictures from his phone, how he still heard your voice, your laughter, how even when some nights his friends insisted to him to find a casual hookup, he still wished the girl he kissed was you instead, how he missed your skin, your smell, everything.

And now here he was, dancing, joking, breathing. Existing without you.

He was fine.

Until he saw you.

You were across the room, bathed in purple lights, laughing at something your friend said. You moved with the music in that way you always did — like you weren’t thinking about it, like it was just instinct. Your body knew rhythm like your heart used to know his.

You looked beautiful.

You always did. But tonight you looked like you’d healed. Like you’d finally started to live again. And maybe you had. Maybe you had moved on. Maybe that smile was real. Maybe your shoulders weren’t heavy with memories anymore.

And Ni-ki’s heart twisted violently in his chest.

The room blurred around you, sound dampened by the roar in his ears. That lie in his throat, the one he’d been chanting all night — I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine — suddenly felt so small. So pathetic.

Because the truth was: seeing you, dancing like you’d never broken, like he wasn’t still holding pieces of you deep inside his ribs… it made him ache.

So he swallowed hard, turned his face away, and tried to laugh again at whatever joke his friend made.

But it didn’t convince this time.

You weren’t even sure how you ended up in the bathroom without passing out. One minute you were clutching your drink too tightly, laughing with your friend, pretending not to feel the way you were feeling just from seeing him. And the next, your legs were moving on their own, taking you down the hallway, slipping into the first open door you could find.

You exhaled sharply, fingers trembling as you tried to breathe past the knot in your throat. You didn’t want to cry. You hadn’t cried in months. Not since the night you left his apartment and didn’t look back.

You told yourself you were over it. That time had dulled the edges. That the ache had turned into something distant, something manageable.

But then you saw him tonight.

Even if just for a second.

And suddenly everything hurt again.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror — all mascara, glossed lips, and shaky composure. You looked pretty. You looked hot. You looked like you were doing okay. And somehow that made it worse.

Because underneath it, you weren’t okay at all.

Not with the music thumping downstairs. Not with the memory of his eyes on you. Not with the echo of his voice in your head — low, soft, saying your name the way no one else ever had. Not with that ugly, dirty, pain that was creeping inside of your chest.

Your breath caught. You squeezed your eyes shut.

God, just stop. Get it together.

But it was already too late.

A sob tore through your chest, sudden and violent, catching you off guard.

And then you were sinking to the edge of the tub, hands covering your face, shoulders trembling as everything you’d kept buried clawed its way out. The kind of crying that didn’t come with neat tears, this was messy, raw, gasping for air.

The pain, the longing, the regret, it all spilled out at once.

You missed him.

You missed the way things used to be — late-night phone calls, tangled limbs on lazy mornings, the way he knew you without words. You missed his teasing, his laugh, the way he looked at you, the way he kissed you. You missed how you two owned every room you walked into, because everybody said how powerful you looked together, and he would always smile proudly and kiss your cheek. You missed your best friend. You missed feeling understood.

And you hated that you still wanted him.

You hated that even now, after all the silence, he still had this power over you.

“…Y/N?”

His voice made your stomach drop.

For a moment, all you could hear was the thudding of the music through the floor and the sound of your own uneven breathing. Then slowly, you looked up, eyes still glassy and lashes wet, and there he was — standing in the doorway like a ghost you hadn’t meant to summon.

Ni-ki.

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest.

He looked startled, like he hadn’t meant to walk in, like he was just looking for a break from the noise and accidentally stepped straight into a minefield. His hand stayed on the door, fingers curled tightly around the handle as if ready to bolt.

His eyes flicked across the room, the light still on, your body slumped near the tub, the flush on your cheeks that had nothing to do with alcohol.

“Oh—shit,” he stammered. "Sorry, i didn’t know anyone was in here.”

You flinched, quickly turning your face away, swiping at your cheeks in a panic. You couldn't let him see you like this, not when this was literally the first time he saw you in a year.

“It’s—fine. Whatever. Just go.”

You couldn’t even look at him.

He didn’t move. And then he noticed.

He noticed the trembling of your hands, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way your eyes were rimmed red and glassy — not from drinking. Not even close.

“Are you…” His voice softened, but it cracked at the end. “Are you crying?”

“No,” you bit out too fast, scrambling to stand up. You faced the mirror instead of him, avoiding your own reflection just as much. “I’m just...drunk. That’s all. I’m fine.”

You reached for a paper towel, wiping under your eyes as if you could erase everything, the tears, the pain, the year that had cracked you open and left you raw. You didn’t want him to see this. Not like this. Not when you’d worked so hard to pretend like you were okay.

God, this was the worst-case scenario. Out of all the people to see you like this, it had to be him.

He didn’t move. He just stood there in the doorway, looking at you like he didn’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth.

You hated that.

You hated how well he still knew you.

“You’re not drunk,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I am.” You let out a shaky, fake laugh, pushing your hair back. “I’m totally wasted. That drink was—like, way too strong.”

“Y/N.”

You looked up.

His eyes met yours — soft, hesitant, breaking at the edges. You felt it like a wave crashing over both of you. The weight of everything unsaid. The months of silence. The way this bathroom felt like the only place in the world right now.

You swallowed hard, backing up a step toward the sink.

His brows were drawn together, his mouth parted, unsure. You hated how much you still remembered the way that mouth felt on your skin. You hated that even now, with all this space between you, his presence still made your stomach twist and your heart ache in places you swore had healed.

“I said I’m fine,” you lied again, sharper this time, but your voice shook at the edges, betraying you.

And still, he didn’t leave. Instead, Ni-ki stepped fully into the room and quietly shut the door behind him.

You blinked.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, and for a second, something flickered across his face — panic, maybe. Or guilt. “I just… I couldn’t walk away. Not when you’re like this.”

The silence after that was suffocating.

You stood facing the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink, your knuckles white. You felt him behind you. Close. Not touching, but there. And suddenly it was all too much — the scent of his cologne that hadn’t changed, the gentle thud of the music behind the walls, the ghost of his name still ringing in your chest.

“I didn’t want to see you tonight,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, barely audible. “Me neither.”

You felt him take another step forward, slow and hesitant, like he was afraid you might break again if he came too close, and you flinched slightly, tears starting to fall again down your cheeks, you wiped them fast as he talked again, his voice was barely a breath.

“Y/N… can I—?”

“No,” you said sharply, pulling away before he could reach you.

His hand hovered uselessly in the air for a moment before falling back to his side. You couldn’t even look at him now. You were afraid if you did, you’d fall apart all over again. And you knew he hated to see you like this, because he hated when you cried, but he hated even more when he knew he was the reason.

“I’m just trying to—”

“To what, Ni-ki?” you snapped, your voice brittle. “Make me feel better? Fix it? You can’t. You can’t just walk in here after a year and—what—play concerned ex-boyfriend while I’m falling apart?”

“I never stopped caring about you,” he said quietly, and it hurt more than you thought it would.

The silence between you stretched like a tight wire, humming with everything unsaid. You could feel him watching you, not just with his eyes, but with everything in him, like he didn’t know whether to reach out or run.

You knew you should just walk away, but you couldn't. It was too much, too much and you needed to say it, for once and for all. Because it wasn't the breakup itself, it was the fact that, after months of distance from him, he still let you walk away that day, he still didn't fight, he still didn't care.

You tried to keep your breathing steady, tried to blink away the burning in your eyes. But the second you opened your mouth, your voice trembled.

“You let me walk away.”

Ni-ki froze.

Your throat closed up. You swallowed hard, your chest aching, your hands shaking, the memory of that day a year ago still fresh and burning in your mind.

“I waited for you. For a day. A week. A month. I kept thinking you’d come back. That you’d knock on my door. Say you changed your mind. But you didn’t.”

He stepped forward, but you held up a hand — not touching him, just keeping him at that same unbearable distance. Close enough to feel, but not to hold.

“You didn’t even try, Ni-ki,” you whispered. “You didn’t chase me. You didn’t stop me that night. I was waiting for you to say something, anything, to make me stay.”

He looked gutted.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he said, his voice breaking like glass. “I was scared I’d say the wrong thing again.”

“So you said nothing?” you snapped. “You let everything we built just… end? We were together for years. Since we were kids. I loved you so much it scared me. And when things got hard, I thought we were supposed to fight for each other. I thought you would fight for me.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. His eyes were shining now.

“I wanted to,” he rasped. “You think I didn’t want to? Every night, I would stare at my phone. I’d go to your street and just sit there, not knowing if I’d have the courage to knock.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I thought I broke you,” he said, his voice cracking fully now. “I thought I wasn’t enough. And I knew you deserved better than a guy who kept shutting down. Who didn’t know how to fix things without making it worse.”

You blinked, a tear slipping free.

“I didn’t need you to fix everything. I needed you to try. I was willing to hold on through anything. But you let go first.”

He looked like he couldn’t breathe. His chest was rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

“I punished myself every day for that.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The ache in your chest was growing too loud to speak over.

“I still dream about it,” he whispered. “The way you looked at me before you left. You were waiting for me to stop you. And I just stood there, like a coward. I should’ve said something. I should’ve begged.”

You let out a broken sound — something between a sob and a laugh.

“I kept wondering if you ever missed me,” you said. “If you were out there forgetting me while I was remembering every piece of you. I would’ve taken you back, you know. Even after everything. You just had to say you wanted me.”

Ni-ki took another step toward you, slower this time. His eyes were glassy, a tear slipping down his cheek, unbothered and unhidden.

“I never stopped wanting you.”

His voice was hoarse, strangled, like it cost him everything to say it.

“I just didn’t think I deserved you anymore.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs.

“Then you never really knew me,” you whispered, eyes blurring. “Because I wasn’t asking you to be perfect. I just needed you to be there. To not give up on me.”

He let out a soft, broken sound and finally, finally his face cracked. His shoulders curled inward like they were folding under the weight of everything he’d buried, and the tears came hard now, slipping past his lashes in streaks down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve fought. I should’ve followed you that night. I was scared and selfish and so, so wrong—”

You covered your mouth with your hand, a sob ripping through you as your body shook.

The bathroom felt too small for the pain in both your chests.

Ni-ki took one more step, close now, barely a breath away, but still not touching you. His hands hovered, trembling at his sides.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to hold on without breaking you more.”

You shook your head, tears running freely now.

“You broke me because you let go.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

And there it was — both of you standing in the ruins of what could’ve been, hearts cracked wide open, trying to figure out if love was still enough.

For a moment, the only sound in the bathroom was your breathing — shallow, uneven — and Ni-ki’s quiet sniffle as he dragged the back of his hand under his nose. The silence didn’t feel awkward anymore. It felt sacred. Heavy. Like you were standing in the middle of something fragile and precious, even if it was painful.

You looked up at him, and god, he looked beautiful in the saddest way possible.

His dark lashes were damp, clumped together from tears. His eyes were glassy, swollen around the edges, and red like he’d been holding everything in for too long. A tear still lingered on his cheekbone, catching the light, and his lips were parted just slightly — like he wanted to say something but couldn’t trust his voice not to crack again. His hair was a little messy, falling into his eyes, and his chest rose and fell like every breath physically hurt.

You had never seen him like this. And still, even with tear tracks down his face and his hands trembling, he was heartbreakingly beautiful. He always had been. Even more so now, undone like this, human, soft, real.

And then his eyes met yours again.

You felt the burn of emotion rise again in your chest as you realized how you must’ve looked — mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen from biting down to stop yourself from sobbing, your dress wrinkled where your hands had clutched it too tightly. Your cheeks were damp, and your nose was red, and your shoulders shook with every shaky inhale.

But Ni-ki looked at you like you were still the only person in the world.

Like you hadn’t changed at all, like you were still his.

His gaze dragged over your features slowly, memorizing them like he hadn’t been doing that all night from afar.

“You’re still so…” he started, but the words caught in his throat. His voice cracked, softer this time. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

It was breathless. Honest. And it shattered something deep in your chest.

You let out a shaky breath, your bottom lip trembling.

“You too,” you whispered.

And somehow, even though you were both crying — both a mess, standing there in your sadness — you’d never looked at each other with more love.

Tears rolled silently down Ni-ki’s cheeks again, but he didn’t look away. Neither did you.

It was like time froze for a second. Just long enough to remember: this was the same boy you used to wake up next to, who used to trace your face with the tip of his finger just because he liked how you looked in the morning. And you were the same girl who used to kiss him just because he blinked too slowly when he was tired.

You were still them. Maybe older. Maybe a little more broken. But still you.

And god, even now, even in this , you were beautiful to each other.

He stepped forward.

You didn’t move. You should have — should’ve stepped back, should’ve put space between you, should’ve remembered that there were reasons why you’d walked away in the first place. But your feet stayed rooted, breath caught in your throat as his hand hovered just beside your face. Not touching, just waiting.

You could feel the warmth of his palm in the air, trembling.

And when his eyes dropped to your lips for just a second, you whispered, barely a sound, almost a breath.

“Ni-ki…”

“I know,” he said softly. “You don’t have to… I just—” His voice cracked again. “I missed you so much it fucking ruined me. I haven't seen you in a year, and i missed you.”

Your chest squeezed.

“I missed your voice,” he whispered, inching closer, heart in his throat. “Your laugh. Your hands. Your body. I couldn’t touch anyone else — I couldn’t even look at anyone else without seeing you.”

A whimper broke from your throat before you could stop it.

Your hands found his chest, not to pull him closer — not yet — but to push. You pressed against him with weak palms, shaking your head even as your tears fell faster.

“No,” you murmured. “This is a bad idea. We're in the bathroom and we're—”

“—not over each other,” he finished, voice shaking. “And we both know it.”

You opened your mouth, but he was already leaning in, slow, giving you every second to stop him. And still, you didn’t move. You wanted to push him away — your fingers flexed against his chest, trying, pleading with yourself — but the second his lips brushed yours, all of that fight melted into ache.

You gasped. And in that gasp, something in you broke.

You leaned in.

The kiss was nothing like how you remembered it — not soft, not sweet. It was hungry. Shaky. A collision of breath and tears and aching mouths trying to say everything they never got to. His hands cupped your jaw like you’d slip away if he let go. You gripped his shirt with trembling fists, pulling him closer until your bodies were flush, and your kiss deepened with a sob caught between your teeth.

You could taste the salt of your tears. His too.

You kissed him like you needed it to breathe. He kissed you like he never thought he’d get to again.

It was clumsy, noses bumping, lips trembling. He sighed into your mouth when your hands slid into his hair, and you felt him shudder as you pressed closer. The kiss felt like a cry, like mourning, like longing, like every what if that had haunted you since that night.

When you finally pulled away, barely a breath between you, his forehead dropped to yours.

Neither of you said anything.

Your tears had stopped, but your eyes still burned. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, tender, reverent, like he didn’t know how to hold you anymore but was desperate to remember.

Your breathing was still shaky, but his lips were still so close, warm, trembling, parted like he was caught between apology and need. His hands hadn’t left your face, his thumb still brushing over your cheek, tender like he was scared you’d disappear if he touched you too hard.

But when your eyes fluttered open and met his again, something shifted.

You didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him. But suddenly, your mouths collided again, harder this time, not rushed, but desperate. Desperate to feel something real. To drown in it. To let it hurt and heal at the same time.

This kiss wasn’t careful.

His hand slipped into your hair, gripping gently but firmly, angling your face to deepen it. Your fingers clutched his shoulders, sliding around his neck, dragging him impossibly closer as you parted your lips for him. And when his tongue brushed yours — soft, tentative, like he didn’t want to push too far too fast — you whimpered into his mouth, and he groaned quietly like the sound broke something inside him.

He tasted like salt and need, like everything you missed.

Your bodies pressed flush, your chest heaving against his, his fingers trailing down to your waist where they held you like he couldn’t bear to let go again. You tilted your head, kissing him deeper, slower, your hips shifting just slightly and making him suck in a sharp breath.

“God,” he whispered against your lips, voice wrecked. “You still feel the same.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

The way your nails grazed the back of his neck, the way your mouth clung to his like it was the last thing tethering you to the earth, it said everything.

Ni-ki’s kisses turned rougher with every second — still emotional, still laced with that aching kind of sadness, but growing hotter, heavier. He kissed you like he didn’t know where to put all of his grief, like this was the only way to survive it. And you gave into it just the same, kissed him with all the pain you never let yourself feel, every soft thing you buried just to get through the days without him.

Your tears had dried, but the emotion was still there, in the way you gasped when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, in the quiet moan you choked down when his hand gripped your waist tighter.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was everything you hadn’t said. Everything you’d swallowed. Every lonely night. Every almost-text. Every time you saw his name and looked away.

And for the first time in a year, you felt alive.

When you finally pulled back, gasping for air, his forehead dropped against yours again, both of you dizzy and breathless.

He was staring at you like you were a miracle.

His hands roamed gently, tracing over your back like he was trying to relearn you with his palms — not rushing, not pushing, just feeling. Every inch he touched sent warmth spreading through your skin, not from lust, but from the way it was him. The only person who ever made you feel this full and this fragile at once.

Your mouths found each other again, slower now, deeper, like you were sinking into him, like the ache wasn’t enough unless it lingered.

He kissed down the corner of your mouth, over your jaw, his lips brushing your skin like a secret. Your breath hitched when he reached the spot just beneath your ear, his voice low and raw, full of things he hadn’t dared say before now.

“I used to dream about this,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin with every word. “Touching you again. Kissing you like this. You have no idea what it did to me—wanting you and not being allowed to have you.”

You shivered under his touch, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. He kissed your neck, just once, slow and hot, then dragged his lips back to yours, softer this time, but no less desperate.

“You’re still the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered against your mouth. “Even when you’re crying.”

You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob, kissing him harder just to shut him up, because your heart couldn’t take it.

“You were always mine,” he breathed, kissing you again. “Even when I had to pretend you weren’t.”

His hands gripped your waist now, sliding beneath your dress just resting there, his thumbs stroking your skin lightly, reverently.

“I missed your skin,” he said, voice ragged. “Missed the way you’d melt the second I touched you. Missed the way you’d whisper my name.”

You pulled back, just an inch, just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him. His eyes were glassy, lips red and swollen, and he looked like a boy on the edge of a cliff, waiting for you to tell him whether to jump or step back.

“I’m not drunk,” you whispered, as if admitting it made it more real. “I know what this is.”

“So do I,” he replied softly. “I’m not touching you because I’m drunk. I’m touching you because I still love you.”

And then he kissed you again, deep, slow, filled with everything he couldn’t say all at once. His hand slid up your back, the other cupping your jaw like you were made of glass and he was terrified of breaking you. But he needed to hold you — to feel you — to convince himself this wasn’t another dream.

Every brush of his fingers was light, meaningful, the kind of touch that said he remembered everything. The way you liked to be held. The spots that made you breathe harder. The pace that made your knees weak.

His lips returned to your ear, voice so low it barely reached over the sound of your own heartbeat.

“I want to make you feel good again,” he whispered. “Like I used to. Just… let me have you for a little while.”

You shivered, but not from the cold.

Because you already had.

You never stopped being his.

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