#and then i will just...not work for two weeks | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

neellscapsule · 3 days ago

Text

the sunshine gentleman

summary | after discovering batman's identity, you continue your work as a secretary for bruce, keeping the secret; then, some days before christmas, your brother visits you.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader ; platonic clark kent x reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, jealous bruce, clark being the best big brother ever, mentions of drunk sad bruce

word count | 4.5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past. this can be read as wayne's secretary part 2.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01

YOU WENT BACK TO WORK LIKE NOTHING HAD HAPPENED.

Well… almost like nothing had happened.

Because things had changed, and even if neither of you said a word, you could feel the shift humming beneath the surface like a quiet electrical current. You knew he knew that you knew. And Bruce Wayne—professional, stone-faced, emotionally constipated Bruce Wayne—wasn’t exactly the type to bring up rooftop vigilante confessions or bloody couch collapses during your Monday morning coffee run.

Still, he was watching you differently now.

You’d catch it sometimes—those moments when your head was bent over your keyboard, fingers flying across the calendar updates, only to glance up and find his eyes already on you. Not in that fleeting, distracted way he used to. No. This was different. Intentional. Like he was studying you, trying to memorize something he didn’t realize he’d forgotten.

You never mentioned it.

You didn’t mention the fact that your salary had mysteriously doubled, either. One morning you just… opened your paystub and blinked at the number for a solid five minutes.

You almost choked on your coffee.

Then you laughed—alone, startled, dryly amused.

Not because you weren’t grateful, but because part of you worried what it might look like. You hadn’t told anyone about Bruce’s second identity. Not even Clark. And yet, here you were, getting a suspiciously generous raise right after patching up Gotham’s most elusive vigilante on your couch.

Still, you didn’t say anything to him about the money. Just like he didn’t say anything about the fact that you’d seen him half-dressed and bleeding.

Silence was your shared language now.

Christmas crept closer on the calendar, your week-long vacation to Smallville already approved—and then extended by Mr. Wayne himself without warning or comment. You noticed it on the scheduling software one quiet Wednesday morning and blinked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Two weeks,” you said under your breath, squinting at the screen. “Did I… request two?”

You hadn’t.

He couldn’t say he wanted you to rest. Couldn’t say he wanted you safe, far from rooftops and broken ribs and the kind of darkness Gotham swallowed people in.

You could’ve marched into his office and asked—but you didn’t. You figured this was Bruce’s way of doing something nice without ever being seen doing it.

You let it go.

Instead, you buried yourself in your task list: confirming board meetings, answering endless phone calls, redirecting holiday invitations, scheduling the year-end Wayne Foundation charity appearances, finalizing travel logistics, fixing one of Mr. Wayne’s glaring calendar conflicts that would’ve had him at two galas and a board retreat on the same night.

Currently, you were typing out an email to the Metropolis city hall offices—following up on a donation Wayne Enterprises had pledged—when the phone rang.

You didn’t even glance at the caller ID.

Your hand reached for the receiver automatically, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you continued typing.

“Mr. Wayne’s office,” you said brightly. “This is Y/N.”

There was a slight crackle on the line, followed by Eloise’s chipper voice from the front desk. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry to bother—there’s a man here—”

“Oh, go ahead and send him up,” you said, not really listening, half-focused on the typo correction blinking at you on screen. “He’s probably here for Mr. Wayne.”

“Wait—”

You hung up.

Exactly three seconds later, Bruce’s office door opened.

You didn’t even turn at first.

“Who was it?” he asked, his voice low and casual, but there was something in the tone—something tense, like a wire pulled too tight.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Don’t know. I told Eloise to send him up.”

He stared at you.

You blinked. “What?”

The tension crackled between you like static. Like the moment before lightning splits the sky. And you hated how you couldn’t stop remembering the look on his face when you asked if he wanted to stay. The way he’d looked at you when you called him complicated. The way he hadn’t denied it.

You opened your mouth to ask if he wanted you to bring water or coffee or a distraction, but then—

“Y/N?”

Your head whipped toward the elevator. The voice was warm. Familiar. Deep and smooth and impossibly safe.

Your heart leapt.

“Clark?” you gasped.

And then you were running—faster than you could remember moving in heels—across the office floor, the thick plush carpet muffling the sound of your footsteps.

Your brother stood in the doorway, tall and broad and unmistakable in that sweet, dorky way only he could manage. Thick-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and his soft dark hair flopped gently against his forehead, a few strands damp from the misty Gotham air. He wore a gray pea coat and a warm smile so wide it nearly broke your heart in two.

You threw yourself at him.

He caught you with one arm like you weighed nothing, like you were still six years old and couldn’t reach the cookie jar, spinning you around as you clung to his neck and laughed, genuine and warm and glowing from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” you squealed.

“I’m here,” he laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You didn’t think I’d miss seeing my baby sister before Christmas, did you?”

You beamed, still in his arms, eyes damp with happiness. “You never come to Gotham.”

“Well,” he said with a sheepish grin, “someone had a pretty rough week.”

You pulled back just enough to frown at him, though your eyes sparkled with amusement. “Ma called you.”

He raised his brows in mock innocence.

“Clark.”

“What? She was worried!”

You snorted, finally sliding down to your feet, still holding his forearms as if to make sure he didn’t disappear again. “Unbelievable. She ratted me out.”

“She said you cried.”

You groaned. “I did not cry. I got champagne on my dress.”

“She said you sobbed.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God, I’m never telling her anything again.”

Clark just pulled you into another one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I came to check on you,” he murmured. “Because you’re my girl.”

You blinked back something wet in your lashes.

You’d always been his. His first little sibling. His shadow. His anchor. His soft spot.

“You still have the same glasses,” you muttered.

“They’re iconic.”

“They’re huge.”

Clark laughed again, his smile wide and impossibly bright behind those dorky glasses. His hair was messier than usual, curling faintly from the cold, and his eyes—those soft, sea-colored eyes—shimmered like safety itself.

“You look good,” you said, brushing invisible lint off his jacket. “You’ve been flying more, huh?”

“Trying to,” he admitted, sheepish. “Kara says I’m too slow. Which is offensive.”

You snorted. “You’re a blur. I’ve seen it. Remember when you caught that meteor? Like. Mid-air?”

He grinned. “What, this old thing?” He mimed catching something, flexing obnoxiously. You slapped his arm.

“I missed you,” you said, more softly now.

He smiled at that, the kind of smile that reached all the way into your chest and stayed there.

“I missed you more, bug.”

There was a quiet cough behind you.

You turned and—

Oh.

Right.

Bruce.

You’d forgotten he was standing there. Your boss. Who was watching all of this with an expression so perfectly neutral you would’ve missed the sharp tension in his jaw if you didn’t know exactly where to look.

Oh.

He thought—

You stepped back slightly, placing a hand on Clark’s arm. “Oh! Sorry. Uh. Mr. Wayne—this is my brother.”

Bruce’s shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Clark Kent,” Clark offered warmly, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Reporter. From Metropolis.”

There was the barest flicker in Bruce’s eyes—recognition, maybe?—but it was gone just as fast.

“Bruce Wayne,” he replied coolly, clasping Clark’s hand.

“Pleasure, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce took his hand, shook it once.

“Likewise.”

You didn’t notice how tight Bruce’s jaw was, how his eyes narrowed for just half a second when Clark touched your shoulder again in that brotherly, protective way.

Didn’t notice the split-second flash of relief that flickered across Bruce’s face when you’d said the word brother.

He’d been bracing himself.

You’d never know that.

You didn’t see the look that passed between them—brief, measured, masculine.

Your smile widened, the tension in the room bleeding out like a pulled thread. “I was just finishing an email. Clark, you wanna sit while I wrap it up?”

He nodded, then threw a glance at Bruce. “Unless I’m interrupting?”

Bruce’s face didn’t move, but his eyes—those eyes—lingered on you.

“No,” he said finally. “Not at all.”

You turned toward your desk again, heart beating a little faster.

You didn’t miss the way Bruce looked at you then.

Not as a secretary. Not as an employee.

But as the girl who knew his secret. The girl who’d wrapped gauze around his ribs with shaking hands. The girl who hadn’t said a word—because she didn’t need to.

“Do I get a secretary badge too?”

“No, it's mine only.”

Bruce watched you go—your arm looped with Clark’s, relaxed, the sounds trailing like music behind you.

He stood there, quiet, still, gaze unreadable.

But inside?

Jealousy had come and gone in a blink. And now, it left something softer behind.

He’d seen the way your eyes lit up. He’d watched it all.

And for one agonizing second—before the word brother—he’d hated the thought that someone else could pull that joy from you.

Not because he didn’t want you to have it but because he wanted to be the reason you smiled like that.

And maybe—just maybe—he already was.

The rest of the afternoon went by in a warm blur.

Clark hung around your desk, alternating between leaning on it, teasing you about how fast your typing was, and wandering through the executive suite like it was a museum exhibit. He made small talk with a few assistants from legal—charming as ever, harmlessly polite, somehow looking both like a bumbling reporter and a walking supernova at once.

You finished wrapping up the weekly emails, flagged three reports for follow-up, and cleaned your desk like you always did before a long break. Clark had taken your swivel chair hostage, legs folded in like a grasshopper as he spun slow, lazy circles, absolutely unbothered.

“Clark, people work here,” you said for the third time, nudging his shoulder as you reached to log out of your terminal.

“And I’m helping morale,” he offered brightly, spinning again. “Look at you. All cheered up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, because watching my older brother act like a caffeinated toddler is exactly what my coworkers needed.”

“You’re just mad I didn’t bring you cookies from Ma.”

You stared at him.

His mouth dropped open. “I knew I forgot something.”

You gasped. “Clark Joseph Kent. You monster.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking, your favorite kind of sound in the whole world. That laugh could turn a whole day around. Could mend a broken afternoon in three seconds flat. It’d been that way since you were little.

“Pa had eaten half of them,” he said between chuckles. “Said something about quality control.”

“Ugh.” You folded your arms. “I bet it was the molasses crinkles.”

“Yup.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would’ve killed for those.”

Clark smiled as he leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Well. Guess you’ll just have to come home for the rest of them.”

“I am going home. You knew that. You just didn’t want to share.”

“I’m not denying that.”

You kicked the base of the chair lightly, and he spun again, grinning wide.

The sun had dipped low over Gotham, tinting the skyline in shades of copper and soot. Snow hadn’t started falling yet, but you could feel it in the air—the crisp weight of it just waiting for nightfall. It was almost six. You’d already told Mr. Wayne his schedule was cleared. Everyone else in the suite had trickled out.

You closed your laptop slowly, dragging your fingers along the cool edge. “That’s it,” you murmured. “Last one for the year.”

Clark leaned against your chair, his warm hand tousling the top of your hair like he always did. You swatted him, but not with much force.

“You made it,” he said, all soft pride.

You beamed. “And with minimal trauma.”

That’s how Bruce found you.

You didn’t hear his office door open, but you felt it. That soft shift in the air, that weight of a presence even before a single word was spoken. You looked up instinctively—knew without knowing.

Bruce stood at the threshold of his office, silent and sharp in the dim light of the evening, his expression unreadable as ever. He didn’t look at Clark right away. His eyes were already on you.

And for a breath—just a breath—it was like the room quieted.

Clark noticed it too. The sudden stillness. He sat up straighter, adjusted his glasses, and gave a small, polite smile.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t move for a beat longer. Then, finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Y/N.”

You blinked. “Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

He paused.

Clark stood up beside you, suddenly less playful, picking up on something unspoken in your voice.

“I need a moment,” Bruce said.

You glanced at Clark. He gave you a tiny nod and turned toward the hallway, very obviously not listening.

You stepped over quietly, hands loose at your sides. It felt like stepping into a conversation that neither of you had planned. One that had been waiting in the shadows since that night on your couch.

Bruce’s jaw was set. His eyes flicked to yours, then away again. You waited, patient as ever.

This time, you noticed.

The persona was slipping.

There was no flirty billionaire here. No polished playboy with a champagne flute and a model on his arm. No clever, offhand remarks. No perfectly rehearsed charm.

And he wasn’t Batman either.

This wasn’t the man who bled on your hardwood floors and let you bandage the hidden parts of him.

This was just Bruce.

And somehow, that was even harder to look at. Because he was the one you wanted. Not the mask. Not the myth. The man who looked like he’d spent the last days thinking about something he didn’t know how to say.

You kept your voice soft. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You nodded, waiting.

He studied you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Something tightened behind his eyes.

“I just…” He hesitated. “I realized I hadn’t said anything.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

“About Christmas. Your time off.”

You blinked, surprised.

“Oh.”

Another pause. His voice was gentler this time. “I hope you enjoy the break.”

You smiled slowly. “Thank you.”

He glanced down for a moment, then back up. “You deserve it.”

Your heart twisted.

The words were simple—but coming from him? They struck deep. Like a hand brushing the side of your cheek that never quite touched, but left warmth anyway.

“I wanted to… thank you. For your work this year.”

That caught you a little off guard.

You softened, lips quirking gently. “Thank you for not firing me after I spilled coffee on the Q3 reports.”

That pulled a flicker of a smile from him. The briefest upturn at the corner of his mouth. It made your chest ache.

“You’ve been… indispensable,” he said finally.

You blinked again.

You could count on one hand how many times Bruce Wayne had complimented you. And it had never sounded like that before.

“Wow,” you said softly. “That almost sounded like praise.”

He glanced up at you now. There was something in his eyes. Not softness, exactly. But… honesty. A peeling-back, quiet and raw.

“I’ll be with my family,” you said quietly, watching him. “My Ma and Pa. Clark, obviously. My . . . cousin, Kara. And all the pets in there.”

His eyes softened at that. “Good.”

You hesitated, then added, “There’ll be snow. And pie.”

“You like pie?”

You gave him a look. “Everyone likes pie.”

That earned you the smallest hint of a smile. “Then I hope there’s a lot of it,” he said.

You smiled back, not sure what else to say. A knot sat heavy in your throat.

This felt like goodbye. Not just for Christmas. Like something deeper was trying to end itself before it could bloom into something neither of you could handle.

He took a slow breath.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

Your name in his voice was a quiet thing. Almost reverent.

Your chest tightened.

“Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

It was the first time you’d said it like that. Just his name.

No title. No distance.

Just him.

He didn’t correct you. Didn’t move. Didn’t say another word.

You gave him a tiny nod and stepped back, walking down the hallway with your heart throbbing in your chest.

Clark waited by the elevator, arms crossed, his smile patient.

“You good?” he asked, stepping inside with you as the doors opened.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He watched you press the button. “That was not a professional goodbye.”

You elbowed him gently. “Shut up.”

The elevator ride up was filled with the familiar hum of holiday music through cheap speakers. You leaned against the wall, arms folded, mind still back in the office.

Specifically… in his office.

The words he’d said. The way he’d looked at you. Something unspoken itched at your ribs.

By the time you reached your apartment, the city had gone dark. Snow dusted the sidewalk in soft, fresh layers. The heater hummed as you kicked off your boots, Clark shrugging out of his coat like he lived there.

You gave him a look and then dropped your bag by the couch and flopped down with a sigh. Clark joined you a moment later, settling beside you with two mugs of cocoa he’d made in a blur of super-speed.

“You spoil me,” you muttered, sipping the top layer of whipped cream.

He smiled. “You’re easy to spoil.”

You curled your legs under yourself and leaned your head against the back of the couch.

Clark waited half a beat.

“So.”

You groaned.

“So what?”

He looked sideways at you with the kind of smirk only an older brother could perfect.

“You know what.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting, I’m just observing.”

You turned your face just enough to look at him sideways. “Observing what, exactly?”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Oh, you know. Just the way you turned into a blushing schoolgirl the second Mr. Billionaire said your name.”

“I did not blush.”

“You absolutely did.”

You sat up, grabbing the pillow and whacking him with it.

He took it like a champ. “That’s not denial!”

“I’m not blushing over Bruce Wayne,” you insisted.

Clark grinned. “Bruce Wayne. So we’re on a first-name basis now?”

You glared at him. “You’re infuriating.”

He laughed. “And you’re in love.”

You made a strangled noise and threw another pillow at his face. He caught it easily.

“I’m serious,” he laughed, ducking. “Y/N. You’re in love with your boss.”

“I am not—!” you started, then stopped.

“You’ve got a look,” he said. “You’re doing that pouty-lip, faraway-eyes thing.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I always look like that.”

He arched a brow.

You gave him a pointed glare. “Okay. Maybe.”

Clark grinned. “I knew it.”

You groaned. “Please don’t.”

“What?” he said, grinning wider. “I’m not judging. I think it’s cute.”

“Clark, seriously.”

“Hey, hey—look. I’m just saying. I know that look. You’re soft on him.”

You slumped onto the couch. “It doesn’t matter.”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

You exhaled slowly, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “Because he’s my boss,” you said quietly. “And because I’m just… me. A girl from a farm. He has models and CEOs on speed dial.”

Clark’s gaze softened.

You didn’t meet it.

“And besides,” you added after a beat, “even if he did know I care… it’d just be gratitude. Or, like, professional respect. Nothing more.”

Clark looked at you for a long, long moment.

You didn’t realize your fingers were twisting the blanket.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Didn’t say the words hovering between your teeth—that you’d seen Bruce Wayne in another light, one only a handful of people would ever witness. That you’d bandaged his wounds. That you knew who he really was beneath all the masks.

Because you hadn’t told him.

And Clark didn’t need to hear it to know your heart was wrapped in something complicated.

“You’re one of the best people I know,” he said gently, nudging your shoulder. “If he doesn’t see that… he’s an idiot.”

The city stretched outside your window, still dark, still sprawling.

You thought about Bruce’s face. The look he’d given you tonight. Like he didn’t have the words. Like maybe, he wished he did.

You pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around your shoulders. Clark reached for the remote, flipping to some holiday cartoon you both knew by heart.

And for the first time all year, your heart didn’t feel so heavy.

The train pulled into Smallville just past dusk on the 22nd, the windows fogged with cold and lined with frost, and for a moment, it felt like the town hadn’t changed at all. As if the moment you stepped off the platform, time folded itself in half and brought you right back to being sixteen with a knit scarf and Clark’s oversized coat hanging off your shoulders.

The Kent Farm was still there. Still white and peeling in some spots, still crowned with snow like whipped cream on top of an apple pie. The big oak out front was bare now, wrapped in tinsel and glowing red-and-green lights Clark must have strung at super-speed. The porch swing creaked like it always had. And from the driveway, you could already smell pie.

The air was so clean it almost made your eyes water.

“Ma’s been baking for three days,” Clark said, tugging both your suitcases out of the car’s trunk like they weighed nothing. “You might have to fight me for the cherry one.”

“Yeah?” you challenged. “Bet she made me my own.”

He groaned. “Favoritism.”

“Younger child advantage.”

“Still unfair.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, racing up the porch. He let you win.

Ma opened the door before you could knock, her arms already out, smile breaking across her face like a sunrise. “My baby.”

“Hi, Ma,” you breathed, hugging her tight. She still smelled like cinnamon and sugar, soft and warm and a little like sunshine.

Behind her, Pa stood in his old flannel, leaning on the doorframe, his expression quiet but fond.

“Well now,” he said, arms open. “There’s our girl.”

You hugged him next, fitting into his arms like you never left. His beard scratched your cheek, and his callused hands were gentle on your back.

“Thought you weren’t showing up ‘til tomorrow,” he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Got lucky with the train,” you replied. “Clark met me in Gotham and drove me the rest of the way.”

“Mm,” Ma said, ushering you inside, “well, lucky us then.”

The house hadn’t changed much. The old quilt on the couch. The fireplace crackling with kindling and soft orange light. The tree in the corner—short, squat, and lovingly cluttered with handmade ornaments, some dating back to your first art class in kindergarten. Clark’s old stocking hung beside yours, both sagging a little under their own weight. The radio hummed with classic carols in the background.

It was perfect.

You spent the first evening in pajamas, curled up with your feet under Ma’s legs while she threaded popcorn garland. Clark lay on the floor with Krypto in his lap, absently petting it while you flipped through old photo albums and teased Pa about his seventies haircut.

You didn’t talk about Gotham.

Didn’t talk about Bruce.

Didn’t talk about the new pay bump or the way your hands had shaken when he said your name that last day. You just breathed.

And it felt like your lungs could finally fill.

Christmas morning broke with the smell of pancakes and the sound of Pa whistling “Jingle Bells” while frying bacon.

Snow had fallen overnight. Heavy, soft, glistening snow that blanketed the entire farm in silence. The barn roof sagged under it. The wind was still. Clark had cleared the driveway before anyone woke up.

You padded downstairs in fuzzy socks and a flannel shirt big enough to swallow you whole. Your hair was messy. Your eyes still carried sleep.

Ma greeted you with a kiss on the temple and a stack of warm flapjacks the size of your face.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Ma.”

Clark sat at the table, already halfway through a second plate. You plopped beside him and stole one of his pancakes with a fork. He glared. You beamed.

“I have super reflexes, you know.”

“You also have super generosity,” you said sweetly.

The day passed in a slow blur of joy.

You opened presents in the morning—socks and books and Clark’s idea of a joke gift (a Gotham travel mug that said “Bat-teries Not Included”). Pa gave you a new flannel, and Ma gave you a hand-knitted blanket in your favorite color.

Clark got a new camera. Ma teared up watching him unwrap it.

After that, there were pies. All kinds. Ma had made you a cherry one just for yourself. You offered Clark half a slice. He acted like you’d handed him gold.

Later, Clark flew out to visit Lois while you helped Ma with the dishes and watched a black-and-white Christmas movie on VHS. You curled up on the couch with the blanket she made you, sipping cider, belly full and warm.

It was the kind of day that didn’t need anything more.

The kind of quiet that healed something.

Even if you still felt the echo of Gotham under your skin. Even if your thoughts still kept wandering back to a cold tower and a lonely office with dark windows. Even if your heart still ached when you remembered the way Bruce had looked at you—soft, almost apologetic, and just a little too late.

It was past midnight when your phone rang.

You were in bed, tucked under layers, the room cold but your limbs warm. You blinked at the screen, expecting a message from Clark—maybe a picture of a food coma from Lois’s house.

But it wasn’t Clark.

The name on your screen just read: Mr. Wayne :p

Your heart stuttered. You answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then a low, familiar voice, quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Y/N.”

You sat up slowly, fingers tightening around the phone.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. You listened to the background noise—nothing but silence. No city hum. No movement.

“Y/N.”

Your heart skipped. He exhaled through his nose, slowly.

“Mr. Wayne?” you said.

Another silence. Then, quieter: “Bruce.”

You blinked. “Bruce. Right. No working hours.”

You could hear him breathing, the faintest rustle of fabric. Something slow, heavy. Like he was lying down.

“Did I wake you?” He asked.

Something in his voice made your throat tighten.

It wasn’t the voice of a billionaire. Not even Batman. It was just him.

Tired. Raw.

“No,” you said. “I… wasn’t sleeping.”

Another pause. You lay back down slowly, pulling the blanket higher.

“Are you alright?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know,” he said, so honestly it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You swallowed.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” he said. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

A faint rustle, like he shifted onto his side.

“It’s quiet here,” he murmured. “Too quiet.”

You hesitated. “You’re alone?”

“…Yeah.”

You bit your lip, thumb brushing the edge of the phone.

“Are you… okay?” you asked again, softer this time.

“I think I drank too much,” he admitted.

There was no bravado to it. No self-deprecation. Just a quiet truth.

You exhaled slowly, curling tighter into the blanket. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

That one word felt like it cracked something open inside you.

“Okay,” you said gently. “I can do that.”

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just breathing. Just… there.

And then:

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice so low it was barely more than breath.

Your eyes burned. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

You didn’t ask what he’d done that day. You didn’t ask if he’d seen anyone or if he’d sat in that big house alone with all those ghosts and memories and shadows.

You didn’t need to.

He’d called you. And that was enough.

You heard him sigh quietly, the sound tugging something deep inside your chest.

“I think I’ll fall asleep,” he whispered.

“Then sleep,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The line went quiet after that.

You didn’t hang up. You didn’t say a word. You just lay there, the phone pressed to your ear, the line still open, listening to Bruce Wayne fall asleep to the sound of your voice.

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #bruce wayne x reader #batmom reader #bruce wayne x you #platonic clark kent x reader #kent!reader

1K notes · View notes

cinnahoons · 3 days ago

Text

✶ 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗦 𝗜𝗡 ── 𝗅𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗀

SYNOPSIS. with heeseung in your bed and a bali vacation for the books, it’s hard to remember why you ever set an alarm.

PAIRING. lee heeseung x fem! reader

WORD COUNT. 3.5k

GENRES. smut (18+, mdni), established relationship, morning sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (naughty), fluff, sleepy hee, reader never gets her smoothie lets kill the man, MY REAL ENHA SMUT TAG DEBUT HELLO

WARNINGS. profanity, explicit sexual content

AUTHOR'S NOTE. so this is officially my first time posting real #actual smut dun dun dun if its terrible dont tell me. glaze me. I BEG!!! i had a time writing this and long live soft dom hee <3 ⊹ BOOKSHELF

"WE'RE GONNA MISS BREAKFAST, BABY."

Heeseung doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his arm tightens around your waist, dragging your half-bare body further against him as he mumbles something incomprehensible into the crook of your neck. His voice is warm and sticky, half-melted by sleep and the balinese heat already creeping in through the slatted windows sitting just off to the side of your bed.

You sigh into his hair, the soft smell of his shampoo bathing your face in familiarity, your fingers tangled in the woven edge of the hotel blanket. One of your legs is thrown over his in a way that speaks more to your restless nighttime habits than to your desire to be close to your boyfriend. Not that the latter is any less appreciated; his warmth, his scent, it’s all achingly sweet. Especially now that the two of you have been traveling together for the last couple of weeks. His face has become the one constant in your life.

“It ends in thirty minutes,” you add, tracing circles on the bare skin of his back. “I want one of those smoothies with the flowers in it.”

A crinkle forms between his brows, and he lifts his head slightly, eyelids still heavy.

“You hate plants in your drinks.”

You snort. If there’s anything Heeseung can claim, it’s that he’s uniquely talented in sniffing straight through your bullshit. Granted, it can be a little disconcerting to be the only one of your friend group who can’t get away with a little white lie to her boyfriend here and there, but you suppose you’d rather this than a man who’s much too aloof.

Heeseung stretches beneath you, his broad palms warm against the skin of your stomach. He’s shirtless, and tanned, and still wearing the shell necklace you’d bought him from a tourist stall two days ago. It had, unfortunately, cost you a day’s lunch and the last withering morsels of your dignity, but at least it has Heeseung looking like every sexy, picturesque summer boyfriend dream you’ve ever had. Except he’s real. And pouting.

“Come on,” you coax, brushing his bangs off his forehead gingerly. “Up. Before I leave you for a banana pancake. Or a stranger with a moped.”

It’s as much a joke as it isn’t. The joke being that you’d leave willingly; but you and Heeseung both know that the possibility of you being snatched off the sidewalk and stuffed into a fruit cart by the various men who continue to whistle at you despite his valiant attempts to shoo them off—I’m literally right here—is shockingly real.

He doesn’t move, though. Barely rolls his eyes, even. He’s in that sweet, sleepy morning-haze he always wakes up in, halfway between fluttering lashes and the watery rising run. He smiles, tilting his head back, his eyes crinkling.

“What if I kiss you instead?”

It’s tempting. His voice is low, that same syrupy, rough quality to it that’s replayed over and over in your dreams. His fingers work gently over the skin of your hips, teasing. You’re not sure if any of it is intentional—if he’s trying to send a rush up to your head, to leave you dizzy and disoriented. But it’s working.

“That would be a distraction,” you mutter, and it’s probably visibly obvious how much he’s affecting you. Heeseung only grins.

Forget probably. It’s definitely obvious.

“You’re easily distracted.”

And he proves his point (really, truly drives it home) by leaning up to press a soft, slow kiss beneath your jaw, where the skin is warm and sensitive. You sigh into it despite yourself, and if the brush of his smile against your neck is anything to go by, he’s noticed. He goes for another right under your ear. Each press of his lips sends a shiver down your spine, which is unfair, really. He’s all lazy and persistent, his mouth brushing yours before you even realize your eyes have fluttered shut.

“Heeseung,” you warn, breath hitching slightly, but your voice is void of any and all conviction. “This isn’t going to get us breakfast.”

He pulls away just enough to whisper conspiratorially.

“We can order room service.”

You push against his shoulder softly, scoffing. It’s firm to the touch, a plane of sinewy muscle that you’re trying very hard to ignore. You’re scolding him, after all.

“We’re not rich.”

“We’re in Bali."

You snort, reaching a hand up to card through his hair.

“That's not a counterpoint, Heeseung.”

But he’s already rolling you onto your back, shifting to hover over you with the gentlest grin playing on his lips. Light filters in behind him; a soft, yellowed halo glowing dimly off his honeyed skin. His necklace swings slightly, your breath catching.

“Fine,” you whisper. It’s hard to say no when you have him like this—pupils blown wide, eyes rich and brown like wet soil; like cocoa. His bangs fall over his forehead, brushing over the thick set of his brows tenderly.

“Fine?”

“Ten minutes. Then we go.”

He hums in agreement, dipping back down to kiss your collarbone like it’s routine. And it is, by now—his hands skimming your sides, your fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck, your legs tangled together under gauzy sheets as the world outside your room glows gold. He pulls you closer, the strap of your sleeping shirt slipping off your shoulder, thin and fairly unnecessary in your current state anyhow.

Heeseung kisses you like you’re water and he’s awoken to a world of rough, arid sand. It’s as sweet and languid as it is desperate, like he’s been dreaming about this. And maybe he has. You feel something hard against your leg, his boxers pressing against the skin of your thighs as he kisses you softly. It’s too much—you can only whimper quietly against his lips, insistent as you wrap your legs around him, pressing his warmth against your body.

He groans quietly, lingering too long in a way that makes you feel like your skin might catch fire under the weight of his mouth. His lips part just enough to drag, soft and deliberate, and you inhale sharply, the sound threading straight through the tension stretched thin between your bodies.

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes lazily tracing your face as his thumb smooths over your hip. There’s a smile at the corner of his mouth, curved with amusement.

“Still want that smoothie?”

You shake your head once, slow. It’s not even a decision anymore. Hasn’t been, not since the moment he touched you. You curl a hand around the back of his neck instead, urging him down again, and he obliges easily, his teeth grazing your throat before sucking lightly just below your jawline. The contact is hot and wet, just this side of sinful.

Your back arches into it.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t sound particularly offended, a smiling lacing his words. “You keep letting me get away with it.”

His hand slips lower, sneaky, warm fingers slipping under the edge of your shorts, brushing the soft skin at your hipbone with maddening gentleness. His eyes flick to yours, watching. You make no move to stop him. You wouldn’t, and you can’t. You’re boneless, completely paralyzed by the sight of him like this; innocent and broad and gorgeous, his hair still messy from sleep, eyes soft and glazed over by desire. Fuck breakfast, frankly.

“You’re wet,” Heeseung says, like it’s a fact he’s still trying to process. “Already?”

You hum, half a whimper. “Told you it was a distraction.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at the state of you, something amused and disbelieving, and dips his head again. Not to your lips this time—he’s pushed the delicate fabric of your shirt up, mouthing lazily at your chest, his tongue flattening over the swell of one breast while his fingers move slowly to position themselves between your legs. It’s torturous, how unhurried he is. How much he seems to enjoy keeping you right at the edge.

Your hips twitch up against his hand, shameless, and he rewards you with a bit more pressure, his middle finger slipping down to tease your entrance.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmur, breath catching in frustration, “where you act like we have all fucking day.”

His smile only grows, sunshine against your skin.

“We do,” he says. “Unless you decide you’re dying for that flower smoothie.”

You roll your eyes, a laugh punched out of you by the way his finger finally sinks in, slow and firm. It curls deliberately inside you, instantly finding the spot that makes your thighs clench around his wrist. You moan quietly, stuttering. But he doesn’t stop. Just watches your face as he adds another finger; the drag of them just right, squelching in the quiet room.

“Heeseung—” your voice breaks around his name.

“I got you,” he murmurs. Quiet. Steady. “Just relax.”

And god, you do. You let your head tip back against the pillow, hands fisting weakly at the sheets while he works you open—gently, but with purpose. He watches the way your body responds, and when his thumb finds your clit again, it’s like a live wire. Your hips jerk, a loud gasp escaping your lips. He shushes you softly, his breath warm against your breast as he mouths at your nipple, wet and slow.

He moves up slowly, eventually reaching your mouth again, where you lift a shaky hand to cup his cheek as he kisses you. Your moans melt into his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers picking up as your hips continue to roll into his hand. His other hand presses firmly against your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your lips, and you feel the words more than you hear them, each syllable low and reverent, like a prayer.

His mouth trails down again, slow and deliberate, like worship. He kisses along your collarbone, down the center of your chest, tongue laving gently as he moves. He has one hand slipped up to cup your breast, thumb brushing slowly over your nipple, his fingers pumping insistently. You can feel the way you suck him in with every thrust, and he looks down to watch it, his eyes hooded and dazed. Your back arches from the sight of his face with a soft gasp, needing more, your hips shifting restlessly against his hand.

“Heeseung,” you breathe, pleading.

He hums, dragging his lips up the curve of your breast before pulling back to look at you. His hair is even messier now, falling over his eyes, his lips swollen and glistening. You can see the tension in his jaw, in the tight set of his shoulders. He’s holding himself back, barely.

You nod quickly, shaky.

“Please.”

It’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, hard and deep, while his fingers slip from between your thighs only long enough for him to tug your panties down your legs, slow and careful. His eyes don’t leave yours, not even as he discards them to the floor. He sits up slightly, pulling you closer to him with your cunt now completely exposed. It takes everything in you not to try and cover yourself up, but the astonished look in Heeseung’s eyes helps to ease your shyness. His hands roam your thighs slowly before he leans back down, nestling between them. His breathing hitches as he looks at you—really looks at you—spread open for him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast under the soft glow from the windows.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, like he can’t help it, like he can’t believe you’re his. “You’re… Jesus, baby.”

Then he dips his head.

The first press of his tongue against your heat makes your whole body jolt. A gasp tears from your lips, your fingers flying to his hair and grabbing without thought. He groans low in his throat as your hips lift toward him, and he flattens his tongue, licking a slow, heavy stripe up your folds before wrapping his lips around your clit.

You cry out, back arching off the bed. Heeseung is patient, but relentless. He licks and sucks and moans into you, like he’s starved. Every flick of his tongue, every swirl, every kiss against your most sensitive spots has you trembling, babbling his name. Your thighs close in around his head without meaning to, and he just groans, hands gripping your hips tighter to keep you there.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs into you, the words vibrating against your core. “Could stay here forever.”

Your mind is slipping, your thoughts reduced to a melting pot of heat and haze as Heeseung opens his jaw wider, his tongue pushing into you as his hands grip your waist, your ass, your body coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust of his tongue. You’re close, so close you can barely breathe.

“Heeseung—” you mumble, hips twitching. “I’m—I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, looking up at you with dark, glassy eyes. “Come for me, baby.”

And so you do. The orgasm rips through you like a wave; stealing your breath, your voice, your thoughts. Your thighs shake violently, hands clutching at the sheets and his hair, your head thrown back as you cry out. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re squirming, too sensitive, gasping his name like a broken record.

It’s only then that he finally pulls back, his lips and chin slick and glistening. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher again, so tenderly it makes your chest ache. You reach for him blindly, trembling, and he crawls back up your body, pressing soft kisses along your skin until he’s hovering over you again. You’re still trying to catch your breath when his forehead drops against yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice softer now.

You nod slowly, eyes fluttering open, heart still racing.

“More than okay,” you breathe, fingertips brushing over his jaw. But something steals your attention; Heeseung is still hard against your leg, a visible bulge in his boxers that sends a flood of saliva to your mouth. “Heeseung. You—you can fuck me. I don’t want breakfast. I promise.”

He laughs warmly before leaning down to kiss you again. And you let him, tasting yourself on his lips, letting your arms wrap around him and holding him close. There’s that shampoo again, and the necklace that brushes against your cheek, and the strong arms that wrap themselves around your body, firm and warm and safe.

“You drive me crazy,” he whispers against your ear.

You’re barely holding on when he pulls back, his gaze locked on yours as he reaches for the waistband of his boxers. Your stomach flips violently at the sight of him when he pulls his cock out and begins to stroke himself, slow and easy, the tip flushed and leaking. There’s a dreamy haze to his eyes now, low-lidded and dark. His jaw is tight with restraint.

“You want it like this?” he asks, voice raspier than you’re used to hearing. “Slow?”

You nod, maybe a little too fast.

“Yeah?” You’re already spread open, and so he lines himself up easily, cock dragging through your folds once, twice. “Want me to take my time with you?”

“Please,” you beg.

That’s all it takes. He presses in slowly, inch by inch, your breath catching on a groan as he enters you. The stretch is full and perfect, the kind of deep that steals the words right out of your mouth. He watches you the whole time, his hand cupping your jaw like he can anchor you there, ground you while your body wraps tight around him.

“Shit,” he whispers, once he’s all the way in. “You feel so good.”

You do, too. Full to the point of unbearable, all that early morning laziness replaced by a simmering, helpless heat. You tighten your legs around his waist and drag him closer, and when he starts to move—slow, shallow thrusts that drag unbearably against your walls—it’s like you can feel each stroke in your chest. He kisses you messy, open-mouthed and deep, like he doesn’t care if he breathes, if he lives. One hand braces beside your head, the other slipping beneath your thigh to hitch it up higher. The angle changes, and you gasp.

“You okay?” he murmurs, half-groan, lips brushing your temple.

“So okay,” you manage, eyes screwed shut. “Don’t stop.”

His grin flashes, boyish and quick, stopping for a quick moment to ogle the sight of him sheathed deep inside of you, his hand coming down to flick at your clit.

You shift under him, restless, thighs shaking.

“Hee—”

“I know,” he says, almost a whisper.

He moves again. Long strokes, deep and deliberate. Each one makes your breath stutter, has your hands scrambling over his back, his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself to something. The room is warm, too warm, the air thick with sweat and salt and whatever visceral groan just tore out of your throat. He digs his fingers into your thigh, leaning over you. His mouth brushes over your in the most infuriating not-quite kiss.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. He’s smiley, but you can see the restraint in his eyes, the vein that strains on his neck. He’s barely holding on.

“Then do something,” you moan.

That finally breaks something in him. He huffs a soft, ragged laugh and grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while the other braces beside your ribs. His next thrust knocks the breath out of you.

“Oh,” you gasp, and he does it again. Harder, and faster, and sharper.

Your legs curl around him without thinking. His necklace swings against your tits, your wrists still caught in his grip. He’s not smiling anymore; he’s got his eyes closed, his jaw tight as he moans with every thrust, like he needs it-like he’s chasing it now.

“Fuck,” he cries out, kissing your cheek, your temple, blindly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to go anywhere after this.”

You let out a broken laugh. He thrusts deeper then, slower but stronger, and it knocks the breath right out of you. His hand is still closed around your wrists, holding you steady, fingers splayed wide over the sheets.

You arch under him, mouth falling open.

“There—right there—”

“I know,” he pants, and kisses you quiet. “I know, baby.”

You moan, a wanton sound, and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to commit the sound to memory. And then he’s pulling out just enough to thrust back in, hard enough to make the headboard knock softly against the wall.

You gasp loud and unfiltered and Heeseung groans under his breath, his jaw clenched.

“Yeah? That what you want?”

He’s not smiling, or teasing. He’s halfway gone.

“I can take it,” you whisper.

At that, he lets out a low, wrecked laugh—Fuck—and then his mouth is back on yours, hot and messy and insistent. His thrusts start to pick up, deeper now, sharper, every one landing just right. You’re soaked, clenching around him, and he groans when he feels it.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he mutters against your mouth. “So good.”

You nod, eyes barely open, your body moving in the sheets with every thrust.

“You always do this to me.”

His fingers slide up, hooking under your knee to push your leg up, open, wide. He wants to see all of you take him. The angle changes again and he watches your eyes flutter and your head tilt back as a moan rips out of you.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “There it is.”

You can barely speak now, just clinging to his shoulders, nails dragging down the golden skin of his back as his hips smack against yours again and again.

This is definitely a way to start your day, with your name being groaned into the junction of your neck. And still, even now, Heeseung presses a kiss to your cheek in between thrusts. One hand grips your wrists, and the other runs through your hair, like he can’t help touching you everywhere at once.

“I missed you like this,” he pants, voice raw. “Missed this you. All needy.”

“You have me every day,” you gasp, but the words falter. He’s fucking you harder now, rhythm tight and hungry. You can feel the edge coming up fast, sharp and curling in your spine. “Don’t say you missed me—fuck—like that.”

“I do,” he says, and it’s urgent now, a groan twisted into a confession. “I always miss you. Even when you’re right here.”

You’re so close. He knows it. He can feel it.

He brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles, his thrusts still deep and steady. “Come again for me, baby,” he whispers. “Come on. Want to feel it. Want you to soak me.”

It hits you hard, hips jolting, thighs squeezing around him, a cracked moan punched out of your chest as your whole body arches. You hear him groan, feel him rut into you deeper, chasing his own high now.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re perfect—”

You feel him spill inside you with a broken moan, his hips jerking once, twice more before he collapses against you, body shaking, groaning low in your ear.

Neither of you moves for a long moment. Just breathing and skin and sweat and this quiet golden morning.

Then, finally, he lifts his head just enough to catch your eye, giggling.

“How’s that for breakfast?”

tags! @junityy @neo127

744 notes · View notes

fayerie · 2 days ago

Text

you’d been dodging him all day.

a door closed gently in the morning, an excuse at lunch that even you didn’t believe. you drifted through your home like mist, choreographing your disappearance with practiced steps - ducking around corners, shrinking into silence each time you caught the rustle of his newspaper or the soft clink of his watch as he adjusted it for the third time.

you wore invisibility like a cloak, moving as a ghost through the rooms you used to share with ease.

because your skin had betrayed you again - four angry blemishes rising red and bright across your cheek and jaw, blooming like a constellation born to shame you.

it wasn’t the worst you’d had, sure. but it was enough to make you recoil from the mirror, to keep your face turned away, to lower your face when nanami passed too close.

you couldn’t bear to let him see you like this.

not with the wedding two weeks away, not when the final fitting was tomorrow. not when he was the nanami kento - precise, composed, impossibly, effortlessly elegant - and you felt like a child masquerading in grown woman skin, unraveling just when you should have been most beautiful.

you braced for the change, waited for it like rain preparing to ripple through the clouds, for the shift in his gaze, the falter in his tone, for the quiet moment where his warmth would begin to dim as the fading sunset, and the words you’d feared might surface:

this isn’t working, i didn’t sign up for this, maybe we rushed things.

but of course, he never said any of that - instead, he let you vanish until dinner, when you padded back to the bedroom with a bowl of noodles and a bruised kind of shame, closing the door like it could keep your insecurities contained.

half an hour later, it opened.

you were curled cross legged on the bed, hoodie drawn up over your mouth like a veil, the ceramic bowl empty on the nightstand.

nanami stepped inside with the quiet certainty of a man who never needed to raise his voice to be heard, to be seen. he closed the door behind him. the silence shifted.

you stilled, your eyes stayed low: fixed on the wall in front of you. your shame flared redder than your skin.

“i’m only going to ask once,” he said, voice calm accompanied by the kind of steadiness that cuts through any lie you could form. “are you avoiding me because of a breakout?”

your heart stuttered.

you didn’t answer, just sank deeper into the hoodie, into the fabric, into yourself. the sting behind your eyes crept closer to the surface.

he sighed - not with anger, but with weariness. the kind born not of frustration with you, but with the invisible wall you’d built between you both. with the absurd, aching notion that a few angry patches on your skin could shift the foundation of his love for you.

“darling,” he said, the word felt like gravity sucking you into him.

you heard his steps, slow and deliberate, as he crossed the room. felt the bed dip beneath his weight, his hand reached up and gently tugged the hoodie from your face. you turned away of course, instinct as sharp as breath.

but his palm found your jaw, and turned you back, “no,” he murmured. “let me see you.”

you hesitated, then lifted your eyes.

he saw everything - the irritated pink, the heat of humiliation, the unshed tears clinging to your lashes like dew. and in return, gave you no wince. no judgment. just his gaze - gentle, grounded - and his thumb, brushing reverently over the most inflamed of the blemishes.

“i’ve seen you exhausted,” he said. “in pain. crying. afraid. do you really think something as small as this would ever make me hesitate?”

you tried to laugh. it came out watery, brittle.

“kento… don’t say that. it’s not just a breakout. it’s me, i always fall apart before big things happen, and you’re… you. i thought maybe you’d-”

“call it off?” he offered, a brow lifting, eyes calm, you nodded, breath catching, gaze falling.

for a moment, he was quiet.

then, softly, he muttered, “unbelievable.”

you flinched - when he leaned in and pressed his lips to your cheek, to the angriest mark on your face. a kiss - comforting.

“kento -”

“again,” he said, kissing the blemish near your jaw. “and again.”

you squirmed, laughter startled and sharp, pushing at his chest. your face burned now for a different reason.

“stop -!”

“no,” he said, finally brushing his lips against yours. “i’ll stop when you understand this: i didn’t choose you because you were flawless. i chose you because you’re you. skin and all. hormones and all. all of it.”

your heart ached. the kind of ache that cracked you open just enough to breathe as if a weight has been lifted off your chest.

he exhaled, softer now, and pulled you into his arms. folded you beneath his chin, like something precious, something sacred.

“you’re marrying me in two weeks,” he murmured into your hair. “don’t run from me again, sweetheart. i’m not going anywhere.”

you nodded, a sound caught in your throat, small and raw, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like roots into earth.

divider by @/cafekitsune // art by ThisUserIsAngry on twt // not proofread.

780 notes · View notes

firingstars · 2 days ago

Text

passion project

bucky barnes x reader

summary: based on this request — as bucky’s best friend, you had the honor of being subjected to his constant teasing and charms, none of which you thought were truthful. it all comes to a head when he starts distancing himself from you after a night out.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull out game is very strong, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, doll, pretty girl, handsome), alcohol consumption, language, bucky big flirt in this fic, reader is a little dramatic, jealous bucky, you and bucky have an? argument?, no use of y/n

word count: 11.6k

a/n: YIPPPEEE my first request finished <3 (everyone disregard that it took me like two weeks to finish this i got stuck at the argument scene and didn't know how to progress bc i didnt wanna make bucky an asshole)

masterlist

Distance is not something that you know when it comes to Bucky. In fact, your first meeting with him was him pretending to be your boyfriend.

You had a particularly rough day at work. You weren’t with your friends or anyone else– you just wanted to spend a night alone at the bar near your apartment before going home for the night. However, men in New York just didn’t enjoy giving you a chance of peace.

You leaned away from the man that was giving you advances that you didn’t want, trying to deny drinks that you were sure he had tampered with. You gave dry responses to the man that you don’t even remember anymore, but you supposed you have to thank him.

A scent of cedarwood and clean soap filled your nostrils as a warm arm gently slipped over your shoulders. A body was beside yours, standing protectively. Someone that you didn’t know.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small smile. His words were spoken loud, as if he was giving a performance. “Thanks for waiting for me. Who’s your friend?”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. Then, you saw the look in his eyes. He was giving you an out. In a matter of a few seconds, you weighed your options. It was either this man with dangerously striking blue eyes that smelled good, or the drunkard that smelled like throw up and shit. So, you leaned into this stranger’s embrace, gave him a pretty smile, and hummed.

“Didn’t wait for too long, baby,” you sighed. “Missed you.”

You didn’t even answer the question about your “friend,” and the two of you just ignored him until he took the hint, and walked away. Except the hint was your savior glaring at him with murderous intent in his eyes. You didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky was fully capable of committing those kinds of crimes for you.

When the drunkard was far enough away, his arm slid off your shoulders, his hand moving down your back, but not low enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you asked him, grateful. “You kinda saved me back there, handsome.”

He laughed at your words. “I was going to ask you if you wanted a drink since you just went through something traumatizing, pretty girl.”

“I’ll pay for yours, you pay for mine?” you offered.

“Deal,” he grinned.

The two of you introduced yourselves to each other not too long afterwards, toasted, and found out that you were both alone that night. Bucky spent the rest of the night by your side at the bar, the two of you just chatting.

It was the start of a friendship that you weren’t looking for, but welcomed easily with open arms. Bucky was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and he was comfortable for you to be around.

Around the beginning of your friendship, you noticed he would sometimes come to hang out with you with a busted lip or a cut on his face. You were sure there was another injury somewhere under the layers of clothes he was wearing, too. When you finally asked– when you finally felt ready to ask, he was honest with you when he told you what he did for work. At first, you thought he was shitting with you. Then, he told you to look up his name online.

“You’re ancient,” you said, your eyes falling on the birthdate of the man titled as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Unit in World War II. Then, the name of the Winter Soldier came next on the articles you were reading.

“Yes, because every man wants a beautiful woman to call them old, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes at you.

“You look good for being over a century old though, handsome,” you grinned.

“I’m like, ninety-something. Don’t age me up.”

Bucky showed you his metal arm that night. He took off the gloves he wore, and took off the jacket that seemed to be glued to his body. You inspected the dark metal in awe– asked if you could touch it.

He was patient with you. Answered all of your questions. You learned that he could feel sensations on the prosthetic– that his friends in Wakanda made sure of it. He told you it was made of vibranium, which was the same material made of Captain America’s shield– his best friend.

You learned a lot about Bucky that night. That night, you became more than just his friend. You became someone important to him. He didn’t know it, but he was already important to you before the confessions of his past.

He asked you if you were scared of him. If you wanted him to leave.

“Where would you go if you left?” you asked, frowning at him. “We’re supposed to watch those shitty reality shows tonight. Are you going to leave me to watch them by myself?”

You’ve never felt more relieved to see that smile come back to his face, to watch the tension leave his shoulders. Bucky shifted on the couch, assuming the same position that you two always did.

Distance was not something that you two were familiar with from the start of your friendship together. Whenever you waited for him at your meeting spots, he would come up behind you like some sort of ghost. You started to get used to it– being randomly held by him.

“Sweetheart,” he would greet you, an arm slipping over your shoulders. “Missed me?”

“Take a lap, Sarge,” you’d tell him, shoving his arm off of you only to loop your arm through his. “Who would miss your face around here?”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, shaking his head at you. “And here I thought– I believed you when you said I was handsome.”

“Oh, you are,” you hummed, tugging him along to get in line for the aquarium– Bucky’s choice for your hangout that day. “I’m trying to keep you humble.”

Most of your time would be spent hanging out in your apartment. The two of you would talk about anything and everything. Well– you were talking. Bucky was listening to you.

“Sounds a little stressful,” he said, patting his lap once you were finished with your long winded tirade about how your girl friends were horrible on night outs, and you weren’t looking forward to next Saturday night.

“Very,” you agreed, and dropped your head on his thigh, just as he was indicating for you to do.

You closed your eyes, sighing deeply as he started to card his hands through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. To comfort you, maybe. You were certain that he had no idea how to navigate the struggles of a friend group of five women– your four friends– that were trying to get laid, while you were desperately trying to make sure none of them ended up kidnapped or dead by the end of the night.

“You gonna find someone to spend the night with on Saturday, too?” he murmured to you, and you opened your eyes.

You raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled teasingly. “Why? You want me to include you in the same girl talk debrief that the other girls get on Sunday mornings?”

“Gross,” he scoffed, clasping his entire hand over your face, making your entire body jolt with surprise.

“You’re the one that asked,” you huffed. You grabbed his wrist, pulling it away from your face and raising it up in the air. Bucky let you, his limb being pliant under your touch as he allowed you to flail it around like it was made of nothing at all. You watched as his fingers moved like noodles in the air, mildly amused for a few moments. “I’d tell you if you’re really interested, y’know.”

“I’m just asking so I know where you’ll be, doll. You’re stressin’ about your friends, so let me stress about you,” he said, his voice going softer for just a moment.

You stopped thrashing his hand around the air, and looked at him. He was looking down at you, eyes never leaving your face. There was something unreadable in his gaze that made you pause. Your lips parted, closed, then you gave him a smile.

“I’ll text you if I go home with someone, handsome. I don’t think I will, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you promised him, dropping his hand to your stomach.

Bucky hummed, a little noncommittally as he patted your abdomen a few times before resting completely. His other hand continued to run through your hair, sending shivers down your spine.

“I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you if you do decide for it,” Bucky said. “Guys flirt with you all the time.”

“That was one time, and I was alone at the worst bar on the street, Buck. It wasn’t even flirting. That was harassment,” you corrected him, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re a little oblivious when people flirt with you, pretty girl.”

The rest of the night was spent arguing over the fact that you were not oblivious towards men flirting with you. Bucky was very adamant that you were. You denied all accusations like a politician that had something to hide.

Neither of you managed to find common ground, and you ended up falling asleep on his lap. Woke up the next morning to find that Bucky didn’t leave. In fact, he didn’t even move you off his lap. He fell asleep, sitting upright, and refused to move in fear of waking you up. He refused to accept any apology from you and swore your couch was comfortable. You disagreed, but quickly shut up when he said that it was better than the hard dirt grounds of World War II.

You hated it when Bucky pulled that shit on you. Bucky loved doing it. He always had a smug grin on his face.

Other times would include quieter moments. Where you both ended up in your bed. By this point in your friendship, Bucky had a drawer in your dresser of spare, comfortable clothes. He would get changed in pajamas for the night, and you two would be laying in bed. Bucky would be reading one of your more raunchy fantasy novels with confusion all over his face as to why you read these books, but still continued to turn the page. He’d have his head against your shoulder, and you’d scroll through your phone watching videos before falling asleep.

Flirting and touching was his default, you believed. Your assumption was only strengthened when he told you stories about the forties, and how he used to try to get Steve to go out on dates with girls that he set him up with. You managed to get him to admit that he was quite the charmer back in the forties.

The only time there wasn’t any flirting was when he opened up about himself– when the conversation went serious on both of your ends. Then, the banter would stop and you both would give each other your undivided attention.

The touching wouldn’t stop, though. Even if he was the one leading the conversation, exposing you to the depths of his mind, he would play with your fingers. Touch your hair. You figured it was to busy himself from the fact that he was being so vulnerable with you. You never brought attention to it, allowed him to do what he needed to get through the words that he was forcing out of his throat– to tell you the things that he wanted you to hear.

You generally assumed that Bucky was just a touch starved man once you learned about his past. Coupled with him returning to the world and coming back to his personality, you figured he was just returning to his roots as a charismatic guy. You never thought anything of it, if you were being honest. Until you did.

You should’ve realized it when you started taking pictures of him during your outings together. Your camera that only shot still life or animals gravitated towards him without even noticing. Your very first photo of him was a candid shot.

Bucky wasn’t looking at you. He was smiling at the cat that you both had taken interest in, that was at the park that you two were strolling through. He had crouched down, holding a hand out for the cat to come to him if it wanted to. And it did. Came and sniffed his palm, then nuzzled the warmth of his hand. Bucky smiled. A soft, gentle smile that took your breath away– and you took the picture without thinking.

It started your collection of photos of Bucky.

Bucky, the only person you had ever taken pictures of. The only person you wanted to take pictures of. He became your subject matter overnight. Your phone camera roll was filled with photos of him from your apartment— pictures of him on your couch, in your kitchen cooking, asleep in your bed.

Your favorite picture of him right now was when the two of you went out to a bookstore together. He was walking down the aisles in front of you, and you meant to take a picture of his back. Another candid photo, another photo where he was unknowing. Except, he turned around. He was going to point out something to you, but stopped when he saw you had your camera in hand. You were caught.

“What are you doing, pretty girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Smile. You’re looking exceptionally handsome right now,” you said, lifting your camera to your eye, so you could see him through the viewfinder.

Bucky let out a small laugh, shaking his head at your words. However, he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight back. His hands found their way naturally into his pockets. He tilted his head at you in a kind of boyish way that reminded you of the old photos you saw at the Smithsonian when the two of you went together.

And just like you asked him to, he smiled. Not at your camera, but at you. Your heart stuttered for a few moments, your finger froze over the button, and you had to remind yourself to take the picture.

You were forever glad that you did.

You stared at the photo for a long time, smiling to yourself– smiling back at Bucky’s face caught in time. You had the picture printed out on a mini Polaroid printer, and attached it to the back of your phone, but turned around so only you would know what was there. That was enough for you. You simply wanted to carry his smile with you wherever you went.

“What does it mean when your closest guy friend is always touching you, but doesn’t seem to like… make a move?” you brought up one day during a Sunday brunch with the girls.

Your friends looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. It was only the three out of the five of your group– you’d known the two of them since the beginning of high school. The three of you were generally closer since the other two had joined your little circle during the last couple years of university.

“Is this about your mysterious best friend that you won’t tell us anything about?” Leah teased you, a fat grin on her face. “What was his name again? Jamie?”

“James,” you corrected, clearing your throat. “And there’s nothing to tell about him. Just answer the question.”

“Well,” Mel hummed, picking up her mimosa. “What kind of touches are we talking about? Like just accidental hand brushing or…?”

You were thankful that Mel was taking you seriously at least.

“Like… Cuddling on the couch during movies. Head on each other’s lap when we talk. He has a drawer at my place because he sleeps over sometimes– not intentionally. It just gets late, and I tell him it’s fine and to just stay over. So I told him to just bring a change of clothes, and I just wash his stuff whenever he uses them.”

“He sleeps… on your couch?” Leah asked slowly.

“No, we sleep in my bed together. Like when you guys come over…” you trailed off, voice dying down, looking down at your breakfast.

“Like when we— when all of us cuddle in your fucking bed? Like when we were in college cramped onto a twin bed?” Leah demanded, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.

You don’t answer her. You stab a fork into your pancakes, and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue awkwardly. You can’t look at either of them in the eyes right now. They’re a little too judgmental for your taste.

“How does he talk to you? Like sweetly or?” Mel asked, frowning at you.

“I mean– he calls me all these pet names. All the time. Calls me pretty and beautiful.”

“So you sleep next to the guy in the same bed, he’s always touching you, calls you all these sweet and cute things– never popped a boner or anything? Never tried to get a little handsy with you?” Leah asked.

“Leah!” you hissed, looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “We are in public. Can you keep your voice down?”

“No, but she’s right though,” Mel said quickly, placing a hand down on the table. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she leans in, “Is he gay?”

You’re taken aback for a moment. “Uh– I… I don’t know. It never came up. I don’t think so? He’s had girlfriends before.”

You’re suddenly brought back to memories of your conversations with Bucky where he talks about Steve and Sam very fondly.

He has plenty of memories with Steve that he speaks of with nostalgia. There are times when he talks about not Captain America, but Steve Rogers with so much pride in his voice that you can’t help but smile. At this point, you were certain that you could meet Steve on the street at any time, and you would know him like he was your own childhood friend.

Then there’s Sam. Bucky swears he hates the man, but you can hear the smile trying to crack through his words. Like he’s trying to hide how he really feels for a long winded bit that he’s doing. Despite all his sharp words, Bucky still talks about Sam. That has to count for something.

“He might swing both ways, maybe leaning towards men,” Leah hummed, leaning back in her seat like the code was just cracked. “I mean, has to be, right? You’ve known him for almost what, an entire year now and nothing’s happened? Men don’t just befriend women at this age just to be friends.”

“I disagree with that last statement, but I do think that you’re reading too much into him,” Mel quickly said, nodding. “Men and women can definitely be friends without expecting anything from each other.”

You drown out the rest of their talk– the debate of whether or not men and women can just be friends. You’re spiraling. The polaroid hidden in the back of your phone case is weighing your purse down exponentially as the realization hits you.

You were in the perpetual friendzone. Bucky didn’t bat an eye at you. He flirted with you, touched you without flinching, and laid down next to you in your own bed without his gaze lingering.

This was a man that was raised in the forties, and if you were correct in the little that you knew about that time period, anything premarital was some sort of sin. People were shamed. Disowned. Stoned. Excommunicated from the church.

And here Bucky was– doing just that. Doing all that and much more.

Yeah.

You were fucked.

A light buzz within your purse caught your attention. You reached for your phone, eyes falling onto the notification of the man you were just talking about.

You read the message over and over again, unable to believe what you were seeing for a few moments.

Handsome [11:32am]: Stark’s throwing a party next Friday night. Do you want to come meet everyone?

The jet landed down, and the sound of the decompressors of the jet doors opening signaled the end of a successful mission.

While the others clambered off with ease, good moods, and joy, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation wash through his body. The mission wasn’t difficult by any means, but the load of missions was what pissed him off.

It’d been two weeks since he last saw you.

Bucky was simply surviving off of stupid images that he learned were called ‘memes’ that you sent him every day. That, and your cute good morning! and sleep well :) text messages which never failed to truly make him have a great morning and a well rested sleep.

Sometimes, if he got lucky, you sent him a picture of yourself. The first time that you did, he had to Google how to save images to his camera roll. After that, it was over for you. It didn’t matter what kind of picture that you sent. Even if you weren’t the full subject, he saved it.

There was a picture where you were only partially in it, and you were trying to show off the matcha lavender drink that you bought. Another photo where your face was cut off at the top because you were cuddling with Mel’s puppy at her house. Some more stupidly angled photos of just your eyes— Bucky learned those ones being sent to him meant you wanted his attention.

He also had pictures that he took of you. None of which, you were aware that he took. It was easy to hide. You often walked ahead of him when you were together, or your attention was focused on something else. It wasn’t difficult for a trained assassin to steal a photo or two.

Besides that, you slept like the dead next to him. Slept on his shoulder, and his lap like you owned the space. Bucky had a collection of you sleeping, though he wouldn’t admit it. It sounds creepy, but he found it endearing.

The first time he was in your bed, and you sleeping beside him— he couldn’t fucking close his eyes.

Were you stupid? That oblivious?

Bucky knew that you were comfortable with him, but to invite him into your bed without assuming anything? Yes, he was your friend, yes he was respectful, but he’d also been flirting with you for months on end waiting for you to pick up on the hints.

Obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything. With each repeated time, it got a little bit easier. He found himself being able to take a small nap beside you in your bed.

It was a comforting feeling— the warmth radiating off of your body. He was surrounded by the smell of your clean sheets, the scent of the laundry detergent that you used mixing with the shampoo you washed your hair with, and the perfume that stuck to your skin.

You moved in your sleep. Towards him. He would wake up to find you curled up beside him, like you would be if the two of you were cuddling on the couch and watching something. Bucky never pushed you away during these moments, but he never pulled you closer.

Part of him felt guilty, if he really thought about it.

You were normal. Someone that trusted him outside of the heroics. You treated him like any other guy on the street. You didn’t expect him to be anything else other than your friend.

And Bucky was. He was a damn good friend to you, and he considered you one of his closest friends, too.

Simply, somewhere along the way… it shifted. He couldn’t tell when. There was no epiphany. Just a quiet realization one day. When he looked at you… he saw peace. A possible future with him, as something more than just a weapon.

Beside you, he felt different. As if the years and the war hadn’t affected him, hadn’t altered his brain in some sort of way that made him headstrong and tough around the edges the way he acted with the rest of his friends.

With you, he felt softer. As if the walls were broken down without any fanfare or gracious ending. There wasn’t anything special that you needed to do or say to him. You just existed, and made breathing easier for him.

Bucky quietly decided that even if you never looked his way, that it was okay. He would stay by your side, simply as another friend of yours if that’s all you’d ever want from him. Your presence alone was all he needed. You, without even realizing it, gave him something that he didn’t know was possible anymore.

You gave him hope.

“We’re gonna meet your so-called friend that you always bail on us tonight?” Sam asked as Bucky came out into the common areas.

The mission was finally showered off of him, and Bucky felt a bit lighter now. He just needed to change into that semi-formal attire that Stark shoved into his hands— the same clothes that were tied with a threat if Bucky didn’t wear it.

“She said she would,” Bucky replied.

“Are we sure she’s even real?” Natasha asked, walking by to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “Pretty sure Barnes is just strolling through New York getting fresh air by himself these days.”

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged, ignoring the chuckles of laughter at Natasha’s half-hearted jab.

Bucky fished his phone out of his pocket, turning it back on. There should be some texts from you, waiting for him after his mission. And he was right.

Pretty Girl [12:03pm]: what do the other girls wear

Pretty Girl [12:05pm]: i googled iron man parties and they look rly fucking fancy sarge WHAT DOES BLACK WIDOW WEAR

Pretty Girl [12:27pm]: i think ur saving the world… save my outfit when ur free pls </3

Bucky couldn’t help the smile that came onto his face, trying to imagine the panicked look on yours as you floated through your closet.

Bucky [6:42pm]: Natasha and Wanda wear dresses.

Your reply comes instantaneously. Bucky still can’t understand how you text so quickly.

Pretty Girl [6:42pm]: like?? floor length???

Bucky [6:45pm]: No. I’m wearing just a button up and slacks, if that makes you feel better.

Pretty Girl [6:45pm]: what color

Bucky [6:46pm]: Black

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: mmm.. very nice. brings out your eyes

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: i’ll see you in a couple hours :)

Bucky hated Stark’s parties with a passion. Despised them. This time? He couldn’t wait for it to come any sooner.

In fact, he turned straight back to his room and got ready like a teenager waiting for his very first date to come. And he sat there, on the edge of his bed, waiting for the time to come.

When the sounds of the party started, he went outside. Slowly but surely, guests started filtering in. Tony put on his best facade, greeting everyone with much vigor. Bucky didn’t understand how he could do it every single time.

“Why are you hanging by the door for?” Sam asked, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’ll come when she comes— and she’ll find you when she does.”

“Just… making sure she gets in safe,” Bucky grunted.

“Ugh. Just drink, dude,” Sam groaned, pushing a glass of amber liquid into his hands as he guided him towards a group of them— Natasha, Clint, and Rhodey. All three of them were sitting together at the conversation pit, chatting together.

Bucky supposed he could wait here. You would text him if you didn’t find him right away, too. He relaxed beside Sam, though he was still on edge.

He couldn’t focus too much on the conversation in front of him. They were talking about Rhodey’s most recent date, if he was correct. A disaster, by the sounds of it. Bucky let out a chuckle when they all laughed, just to sound like he was absorbed into the conversation just like the rest of them.

“Speaking of dating— looks like Cap’s found someone he’s finally interested in,” Natasha said, a smirk on her face. “She’s cute. Anyone know who she is?”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised. “No way. Steve?”

“Turn around,” Natasha said, pointing behind him. “They’ve been chatting for the past ten minutes.”

Both Bucky and Sam turned to look, only for a pit to form in Bucky’s stomach.

You were there. Absolutely beautiful— dressed so effortlessly stunningly in a way that made the breath get caught in his throat. Then again, you could be in pajamas and an old hoodie, and Bucky would be a fool for you.

You sat at the bar counter, absolutely flushed. Not from drinking too much alcohol, no, the drink in your hand was completely full. The skin of your cheeks are tinted a shade of red from embarrassment and shyness in a way that Bucky had never been able to see before. Your eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as you struggle to maintain eye contact with Bucky’s oldest and longest friend.

Steve stood beside you, so fucking close. He leaned onto the bar counter with an elbow, a small smile on his face as he talked to you. His eyes never left your face, even when you couldn’t look him in the eyes.

The conversation between you two is never ending. You’re both responding in quick succession despite the fluttering party around you, ignoring the noise and the chatter. You two are completely absorbed in each other’s words. It’s like nothing else matters.

You say something that makes Steve chuckle. His head hangs low just for a moment, and he shakes his head. You have a shy smile on your face as you trace the rim of your glass, speaking to him softly. You’re nervous. You’re shy. You look almost a little scared of what he’ll say next.

When he does respond, you let out a soft laugh, pulling your lip between your teeth before shaking your head shyly. Your cheeks are getting redder by the second.

Then, Steve leans in— whispers something in your ear.

You freeze for a second, your lips part, and you stare at Steve. You’re flustered. Steve’s grin goes even wider as he pulls back to look at you, and he finishes the rest of his drink.

Steve looks quite satisfied with himself for your reaction, the pure flushed and embarrassed look on your face. You’re unable to react for a few moments before you’re turning away from him quickly, unable to look him in the eyes— and Steve is laughing at you while you’re fanning your face with your hands.

“Since when has Steve had moves like that?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. “She’s like butter for him.”

Bucky has never seen you like this before. There’s never been a moment where you have ever acted like this for him before. Not once, not ever.

Despite the fact you’re so embarrassed at whatever he had to say to you, you’re still talking to him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, but you’re responding to each and every single thing he’s saying to you. Just like Sam said— you’re melting for his words.

Bucky has a pit of despair in his gut. He has to look away. He can’t watch the scene in front of him anymore. A long breath enters and exits his chest as he slowly tries to think rationally.

Rationality fully leaves when Sam’s voice breaks his meditation.

“There he is!” Sam exclaimed, standing. “Introduce us to your friend, Steve!”

Steve’s walking over, with you. Steve’s hand is on your back, leading you over to the group of them. You look relaxed, the blush is mostly gone from your cheeks, but Bucky can’t focus on anything except for the fact you’re extremely close to Steve.

Sam moves to greet Steve, and two hands clap together before chests hit in a brother hug, their other hands hitting each other’s back.

“Well, I’m not the one who should introduce her,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head.

You give Sam a polite smile before sidestepping both men, going around them, dropping onto the couch beside Bucky. Immediately, he shifted over to give you space. You notice, and Bucky tries not to react to your gaze.

As you settle, you give a nod to Natasha and Rhodey on the opposite couch. Natasha gives you a smile in return, but she looks a bit confused.

You introduce yourself as Bucky’s friend— the one that Bucky goes to see all the time.

“The one that’s not real?” Sam asked, surprised.

“You tell them I’m not real?” you asked, looking at Bucky as you lean back into the cushions.

“They say it on their own,” Bucky muttered. You stared at him for a few moments. You heard the edge to his voice, and he cursed in his head for being so blatant with his irritation.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, your voice softer, only for him to hear. He wanted to scream. Not at you, but at himself.

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Instead, he gets up, handing you his drink before walking away without another word. He can feel your eyes on him, feel the way you straightened on the couch in panic as he left without warning.

He fucking hates this.

Only two tells. He only needed to do one thing, say one thing, and you immediately could tell something was off about him. He hates even more that he just walked away from you without even saying a word, but he needs a second to collect his thoughts.

For the rest of the party, Bucky avoided you like the plague. He felt your eyes on him. He refused to look at you. Even when the crowd thinned out, and the party dwindled down to just the team and you, Bucky avoided you.

Eventually, you took your leave.

It was Steve who saw you to the door. Steve offered to give you a ride home. You rejected, giving him a smile and saying you’ll just call an Uber or something, and wait in the lobby. Steve wasn’t having it. Something about it being too late at night, and he was right.

Bucky could see, out of the corner of his eye, you looking at him. He didn’t look back.

So, you left with Steve, Steve’s jacket on your shoulders to keep you warm for when the night air hit you.

Shortly after, Bucky excused himself to his room, and his phone went off in his pocket. He re-read your text, feeling more and more like a fucking asshole with each read.

He tossed his phone to the side, dragging a hand down his face. Bucky couldn’t answer you. Not tonight.

Pretty Girl [1:32am]: is everything okay?

Just like you thought, you and Steve became extremely good friends right away. You practically knew him and everything about him right away from the very beginning, thanks to Bucky.

You didn’t even mean to approach him first, but your eyes found him when you were looking in the crowd when you arrived. He was attempting to get a drink when you dropped in on the bar, and opened up with—

“Is Bucky gay and not telling me?”

Steve choked on the water he originally had in his hands before looking at you. You belatedly introduced yourself to him, telling him who exactly you were to Bucky before repeating yourself, asking him if he and Bucky were dating or if Bucky and Sam were dating or if all three of them were in some… throuple… situation.

Thankfully, Steve took it like a champ. He laughed so loud it made you grin before he shook his head and confirmed that Bucky is indeed single, and has been since the forties.

Then, he asked you why you even assumed.

Your next question—

“How the hell do I get your dumbass friend to like me then?”

Steve looked intrigued at that point. Leaned against the bar, hooked on your every word. You told him about your situation with him— how touchy Bucky was with you. The cute names he called you. How he was always at your place.

You told him how your friends thought he must not like girls, which is why you even had to ask Steve in the first place.

Then he whispers to you, in your ear for only you to hear—

“I’m certain he’s already in love with you if he’s doing all of that.”

Steve had such a big grin on his face after saying it— and he couldn’t stop telling you how happy he was to meet you. How he’d noticed how Bucky was just a generally brighter guy these days, but wouldn’t say much about you, as if he wanted to keep you to himself.

Steve said he understood why Bucky fell for you, from how you were talking about him.

“My words don’t mean much,” Steve said, smiling at you, “but thank you for looking at Bucky like this. Like he’s a man.”

That first half of the party was almost like a blur for you. You had practically reached enlightenment just by speaking to Captain America. All of your world’s issues had been solved by your conversation with the man, and you could only remember bits and pieces from how scrambled your brain was.

You were so embarrassed from admitting all of it to Bucky’s friend. Your feelings about having to ask for advice on how to get Bucky to look your way to Steve telling you that you already had Bucky wrapped around your finger. All of it had you on a euphoric level that you had never experienced before.

Yet, if Steve’s so fucking certain, then why is Bucky ignoring you?

You remembered the second half of the party better than the first. Bucky moving away from you on the couch. At first, you thought it was because his friends were around. You tried not to let it bother you– the way that he created distance between the both of you.

Despite the fact your heart was racing because you received verbal confirmation from Bucky’s best friend that Bucky had feelings for you, you tried acting normal. The same way that you always acted with him. Touchy. Casual. The same flirting routine that you two always use.

Yet, you don’t think he looked your way once the entire night. You tried. You desperately tried to corner him, to talk to him. You should’ve known better to try to get the former Winter Soldier alone.

Bucky doesn’t know this because you’ve never told him, but he has read receipts on. You know he’s seen every single one of your text messages. You know he’s read every single one of them the second you’ve sent them, which means there’s no mission.

You’ve gone over a week without contact with him. You’ve gone longer without seeing him, but never without any form of communication. There was always some sort of text or call, something to connect the two of you together.

You didn’t have the clearance to go in and out of the Avengers compound. You couldn’t just waltz in there. All you could do was text and attempt to call him, and wait for him to text you back.

But you don’t want to bother him if he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re better than that— you’re not going to chase attention from someone who clearly didn’t want yours. You’re still not sure what you did to offend him, but you’d try one last time.

Feelings aside, you valued him deeply as your friend. You thought he felt the same way. You weren’t sure if you were hurt from feeling a friend breakup, or having to get over your crush over him. Either option fucking sucked.

You call him one more time during your lunch break, only for the phone to go immediately to voicemail. You let out a deep sigh, and wait for the prompt to allow you to record your message.

“I’ll stop calling and texting you now,” you said, your heart beating so wildly in your chest you’re certain that your phone’s microphone can pick it up. “I don’t know what I did, but… Yeah. I’ll leave you alone now. I wish you the best, I guess. Stay safe, handsome.”

You hang up, sending the message. You turn your phone off next. You don’t want to know if he’s texted you or called you back, and you don’t trust yourself by just simply turning on the do not disturb feature on your phone. You’re the type to still look at notifications to see if you were disturbed.

You try to power through the rest of your day on autopilot.

Your plan is to complete your menial work tasks. Tasks that should have been so easy to complete without a single bat of an eye, but no. The universe wanted to make your life harder. As if to just laugh at you, add onto your plate, and make you feel even more miserable.

The emails you received from your team were full of dumpster fires that you needed to put out for your clients. You were pulled into emergency meetings that you didn’t have time for. Those same clients were calling you, frantic and fucking pissed that your company wasn’t delivering what you had promised them.

All at the same time, your upper management was cracking down on your boss, who was then taking it out on all of you— and you had no time to deal with his tantrum. You were one fucking person, dealing with your own meltdown in your own personal life, but expected to deal with everyone else’s.

You didn’t get out of work on time. You couldn’t. It was impossible. You had a mountain of tasks that had no end in sight. You didn’t take your final break at the end of the day. Honestly, your head was pounding.

Still, you didn’t go home right away. Didn’t turn your phone back on. You went to the grocery store instead. You couldn’t handle the thought of sitting in your lonely home, by yourself with your own thoughts.

You should’ve just gone home.

You roamed up and down aisles that you didn’t need to go down, only for a rambunctious child to slam into you with an open container of fruit juice in his hands, spilling all over your clothes before falling backwards. The kid’s parent had the audacity to yell at you.

You barely had half the mind to walk away before breaking down in tears yourself because why is your kid drinking unbought juice in the store and running around unsupervised? while the kid’s mom screamed at you to pay for the juice.

You didn’t even buy anything at the store. Just dropped your basket off at the register and left before you ended up exploding. Apologized to the cashier for the inconvenience before making the walk home.

A soft curse fell from your lips as you shoved your key into the door— it was fucking jammed again. You shook the door, tears prickling in your eyes. You were sticky, uncomfortable, angry, overstimulated, and so fucking sad. You’re about to slam your fist into the door in utter rage and frustration when it opens.

“You really need to tell your landlord to fix your door, doll,” Bucky murmured to you, “Even I had trouble getting in earlier.”

You’re staring at him, like a deer caught in headlights. He looks sheepish, eyes trained on the ground at your feet. For a moment, you wonder how the fuck he’s in your apartment. Then you remember you gave him a key a long time ago for emergencies.

Your silence must’ve alerted him. His eyes finally drag upwards, and widen when he sees the state you’re in. His eyebrows furrowed. He’s quiet, for just a moment. Then, his inner thoughts come forth.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah. Because that’s exactly what I want to fucking hear from you after uncalled for radio silence,” you said dryly, coming to your senses. You watch him cringe at your tone before you push past him, walking into your apartment.

Your work bag is unceremoniously dropped onto the nearest chair, and you shrug off your cardigan next. You can hear Bucky shuffling behind you as you make your way to your bedroom for another change of clothes before you drown yourself in hot water.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, no longer sticky, muscles slightly relaxed from the spray of the water, you find that Bucky had made dinner for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy or extreme– just some pasta and chicken that you definitely didn’t have in your fridge before. You vaguely wondered if he had gone shopping before he even came over.

You want to press him. Tell him to get the fuck out of your house. But God, the food smells good, he looks good in his stupid fucking sweatshirt and jeans that screams boyfriend material, and you’re so tired.

You can feel his eyes on you, cautious. The tension in the air is thick. You could probably eat it for dessert, if you wanted to. For now, you take your time stabbing into the pasta in front of you and bringing it to your lips. You fill your stomach, ignore his stare, and ignore the way that he doesn’t eat his own share of food.

“I got your message,” Bucky finally spoke.

“Great. Why are you here then?” you replied, dropping your fork onto the plate. It clattered loudly against the ceramic, and you finally sat back in your seat. Your arms crossed over your chest as you finally looked at him.

Bucky was still looking at you. His lips were parted, as if he was trying to come up with the words to speak. His fists were clenched on either side of his plate, and then his mouth shut. He took in a deep breath from his nostrils, and shook his head, lowering it as he did.

“Are you here to return my apartment key? Didn’t have to make me dinner to do that. You could’ve slipped it through the mail slot, but whatever. Hand it over,” you said, holding out your hand to him.

His head immediately snapped up, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. He looked hurt– but not in a kicked puppy kind of way. Almost scandalized, like he was offended that you even suggested that to begin with.

“I’m not returning your fuckin’ key,” he responded, voice a little tight.

You frowned, raising your eyebrows at him. You lowered your hand back down, and tilted your head at him as you observed him for a few moments. You were both in a quiet standoff, one that you didn’t fully get.

“I’m sorry, did I misunderstand something between us?” you finally asked, tone clipped. “I’ve texted you. Called you– like an obsessive fucking girlfriend for nearly two weeks now. I can’t even say that you ghosted me because ghosting is a term that you use for people in relationships or people in talking stages, and we clearly aren’t in either of those–”

“What the fuck is ghosting?” he cut you off, exasperated.

“I just fucking told you!” you shouted back, throwing your hands into the air.

Then, you looked at him. Really looked at him. Despite his tone, he was genuine. Confused. He wanted to know, and you were going off on a tangent on him. It wouldn’t be fair to him or you to keep going if he had no clue what you were saying. So, you took in a slow breath of air before you explained.

“It means you ignored me. Fell off the face of the Earth without any explanation– no rhyme or reason. I had no clue what happened to you, or if I did something to hurt you. There was no closure, no understanding. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, so now I’m pissed off at you,” you said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. “And now, you come into my fucking apartment, make me dinner, and try to act like everything is okay? That’s just a load of bullshit, James. I have to get texts from Steve to make sure that you’re alive, and not dead in some random country!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, and he sat back in his own seat. You watched as he sucked on his teeth, and slowly exhaled.

“You and Steve text? How often does that happen?” he asked, his voice low.

“Are you for real?” you asked, a laugh escaping your lips. You couldn’t even try to mask the confusion that was on your face now. You stared at him, blinking. “Out of everything I just said– that’s what you’re going to take away from that? Not that I’m mad– you’re not even going to apologize?”

“Just answer the question, please,” he murmured, his shoulders rising as he took in another, small breath.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. You couldn’t read his face. There was something distant in his eyes. He was guarded, far away, and not the Bucky that you knew.

“I’ve texted him more than you’ve texted me these past couple weeks,” you answered, clenching your jaw. “Which, by the way– you texted me absolutely nothing. So you can guess how often me and Steve text.”

“So you two really hit it off then, huh?” Bucky said, though it sounds more to himself than to you. He’s looking down at this full plate of food now, avoiding your gaze as his tongue is poking at his cheek. He almost looks pissed off.

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

His eyes flickered up. “You and Steve. At the party. That’s where you met, right? He brought you home, didn’t he?”

“He did, since the person that I assumed was going to be my ride home avoided me all night,” you shot back. You could feel your already thinning patience dissolving into nothing at all. “How is this relevant to the conversation that we’re having?”

Silence settled like a stone wall as you stared at each other. The two of you met another dead end to your conversation, with nowhere to go. This was the first time you had ever argued with Bucky like this, and you could feel your relationship with him slipping through your fingertips. You don’t know this side of Bucky. Your agitation was already through the roof, and Bucky was mad about something that you didn’t even understand, but you could see it in his eyes.

Then, you watch his anger dissipate. It cracks, like he’s conceding. Like he doesn’t want to be mad. He’s fighting an internal battle, struggling with himself in his mind. You don’t know which part of him is winning yet.

Bucky scrubs a hand down his face as he slouches in his seat, and rests his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands for a few moments. He takes two, slow, deep breaths as he tries to compose himself.

“Steve’s a good guy,” he finally spoke through a clenched jaw. “A great guy even. I’m glad you two seem to be getting along.”

Your temper freezes in its place as you stare at him. What?

Bucky lifts his head, lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth. He’s still not looking at you, eyes trained somewhere behind your head.

“I– I haven’t seen someone make him laugh like that in so damn long, and I know you really well, so I don’t doubt that you’ll make him happy either. And I’ve never seen you act so fucking shy in front of guy before, and I’m glad it’s Steve that made you act like that–”

The words are spilling out of Bucky’s mouth faster than you can comprehend. Your mind is trying to keep up with the clusterfuck of information that you’re suddenly receiving from him. You’re doing your best to decipher what he’s saying to you, while sitting in front of you, looking like a sad, lonely, kicked fucking puppy. He looks like you’ve just abandoned him.

“–and God I just wish that it was me that you looked at like that because I’ve been with you this entire time for over a year now, and I’ve been flirting with you every single fucking day that I’m with you and you never seem to notice–”

“You’re jealous?” you finally cut him off, your mind finally catching up with his words. “You’ve been ignoring me because you’re jealous that I was talking to Steve at the party?”

You watch as Bucky’s lips part, and he slowly falls backwards into his seat. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath from the long winded, incoherent rant. He clenches his jaw like he’s about to break his teeth into pieces. Then, he nods once, swallows thickly, and looks you in the eyes. Nervously.

You can't believe what you're hearing. He's jealous. The guy you've been ripping your hair out over, the one you've embarrassed yourself in front of Captain America over is jealous.

You got up from your chair, and went over to your bookshelf. You could feel him watching you as you pulled out one of your photo albums– a black binder. Sleek, inconspicuous, unassuming. You brought it back to the table, dropping it down in front of him before sitting back in your seat, taking a slow breath.

Silently, you gestured for him to open it, looking down at it before looking back at him. You watched as he slowly reached for it, moving his plate away to make more space.

Then, he saw it.

Your possession of candid photos, spanning over the last five months. Just Bucky, and Bucky alone. In nearly all of them, Bucky wasn’t looking at you. You thought that he would have been aware that you were taking the photos, with his assassin senses, but Steve told you otherwise– he trusts you, he said.

You watched as Bucky continued flipping through the photo album, page by page, confusion riddling his features with each turn, each new photo that he saw. There were photos from your excursions together.

The photos taken on your DSLR camera were the ones where he wasn’t facing you. Where he had no clue that you were even pointing the camera at him. These photos were taken outdoors, when you were outside doing something else in the world. At an aquarium. At the park. At a nice cafe that you saw online that you dragged him to. You had made sure the flash was turned off on your camera, made sure that he wouldn’t be able to see you sneaking photos. You always tried to be sure there was something near him that you could pretend to be taking a photo of instead, too.

In some of the recent photos, his face was clearly shown. At some point throughout your process of sneaking photos of him, you realized that he thought you were just tapping away at your screen. It was one of the many benefits that you had from the fact that Bucky didn’t use his phone often, other than to contact you.

These were photos of him in your kitchen when he made dinner or of him on your couch, your legs on his lap. Some photos were of him sleeping on the other side of your bed, completely unaware that you had put your camera to his face

“You don’t take pictures of people,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the photos. “You told me you think people become the fakest version of themselves on camera.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I fucking hate it,” you answered with a shrug. “And they do.”

“Then what’s all this?”

“Photos of you through my eyes– exactly how I see you. An entire collection of it, actually. I hoard those photos. I have more of them that I need to go get developed, and add to that album, actually,” you admitted.

“Why?”

You could only stare at him for a few moments, your heart thumping wildly in your chest, threatening to crawl up your esophagus and show itself to Bucky. He looked like he was putting together the pieces, just as you had done yourself. But he needed the confirmation.

“I asked Steve if you two were dating. That’s what we were talking about at the party.”

You watched as Bucky’s head snapped up towards you, eyebrows raised up to his hairline. You’re certain that if he had water, he would’ve choked like Steve did.

“Sweetheart, what the fuck–”

“And then we kept talking about you,” you cut him off, looking away from him, clearing your throat. “And I asked Steve how I could get you to like me– to notice me– and stop just flirting with me like a friend. He told me that if you were flirting with me at all, there’s a pretty good chance that you already like me. Which is why I got shy.”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck, blossoming under your cheeks, and on either side of your head to your ears. It was your turn to avoid his gaze. You kept your eyes down on your hands, which were folded onto your lap. You could hear your heart in your ears. Your stomach flipped over in your body in unnatural ways, and you wish you didn’t eat any of the food Bucky made.

Then, you saw Bucky’s metal hand on top of yours. You didn’t even hear him stand or get out of his chair. It was moments like this that you forgot how quiet he could be– how he made himself loud for you, how he made his presence known for your own comfort. It was one of the many things that he did for you without you even realizing it.

Your breath hitched as you turned, finding him on one knee beside your chair, looking up at you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gently, comfortingly, sweetly, in a way that made your heart stutter in your chest.

You met his eyes. They were soft. Just like how he had looked at you that day in the bookstore, when you told him to smile for you. A small smile was on his lips as he looked up at you, unguarded and raw.

“I’m really sorry, doll,” he whispered, and you released a soft breath. “I didn’t– I should’ve just talked to you instead of running from you. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I… didn’t want to be rejected by you.”

“So you thought pushing me away completely would be better?” you shot back with a frown, but there was no real anger to your words, and Bucky could tell.

“Can I make it up to you?” he asked. “Take you on a date? An actual date– maybe one where we can take a photo together instead of you taking ones of me like a creep hiding something.”

A laugh fell from your lips as Bucky squeezed your hands. His smile only grows at the sound of your laughter, and you can’t find it in you to be a brat to him. Not when he’s kneeling beside you, holding your hands, and asking so nicely. Then again, you were always soft for him.

Then, you reached for him. You grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him up as you leaned down, meeting him somewhere in the middle. His lips are on yours within seconds, and they’re as soft as you had imagined– as you know they are because you’ve put your lip masks on his lips with your fingers more times than you can count. But God, feeling them directly on yours is a different sense of euphoria that you never would’ve known until now.

You slowly slink out of your chair for comfort, until you’re on the floor with Bucky, body pressed against his. Your hands are on his shoulders, his wrapped around your back to hold you tight against him. You’re breathless against his lips, slotted against him perfectly like he was made for you. You could probably stay like this forever. Kissing him slowly in the dining area of your apartment.

When you finally parted, his forehead pressed against yours. Your breaths mingle, fanning against each other’s faces as you look at each other. The tension is back, but different. You both react at the same time.

Bucky dives back in for another kiss, a hand coming to cradle the back of your neck to support you. You can feel his tongue swipe the seam of your lips, requesting entry that you would never deny him. He immediately takes the chance to explore, while your hands explore underneath his clothes, searching for skin.

A low, guttural groan escapes his throat. “This is backwards, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “We should be going on dates first before all of this.”

“Are you complaining?” you asked, hands moving up his abdomen, and resting on his sides.

“No, but I wanna be a gentleman for you, make it up to you for the bullshit I put you through–”

“Technically, we have been going on dates this entire time,” you reassured, peppering a series of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Bucky lets out a soft sigh, moving his head to the side to allow you space to keep pressing your lips to his skin. “Since we both liked each other, we just never said it out loud.”

You can feel his resolve of being a gentleman breaking with each kiss. His hands tighten around you, and you can feel his pulse quicken under your lips. Gently, you nip onto a soft spot, listening to him let out another groan before you placate the ache with your tongue.

Then, you’re being hoisted off the floor with a shriek falling from your lips. You grab onto Bucky’s shoulders quickly, and you look at his face– there’s determination all over his features as he makes his way down the hall to your bedroom. The resolve has shattered. You’ve broken him.

Bucky’s been in your bedroom before. He’s been in your bed before, been under your sheets, slept comfortably through the night with him on the other side of the bed– but God, this is so much better.

Clothes are thrown off, damn near ripped at the seams, littered all over your floor, and Bucky’s hands are all over you. He’s laid you down onto your pillows, and his head is between your legs before you can come to your senses– and you feel the warmth of his tongue flattening against your aching core.

You both moan into the room at the same time, almost in harmony. You weakly push yourself onto your elbows to look at him, to watch him, and he’s hooking your thighs over his shoulders, pulling you deeper into him to lock you in place. Then, you meet his eyes as he takes another pass.

Bucky doesn’t need to say a single word for you to understand that he’s been waiting to taste you on his tongue for months. He eats like a man that’s been starved, like a man that had spent years in the desert, and you were the first drop of water that he’s had.

You can only fall back against the pillows, reaching for him, grabbing onto his hair– which makes him groan against you. The vibrations alone make your body tremble against him. He’s enjoying every single moment, eyes falling shut. His hand shifts, thumb moving to press against your clit, and your body reacts instantly, thighs clenching around him.

“Bucky– fuck–” you gasped out, and you fall apart instantly. He groans into you, almost in approval as he licks up all of your arousal and juices until there’s nothing left. You’re twitching, sensitive, and pushing on his head– damn near sobbing for him to give you a break.

Reluctantly, he does get up. And he looks like he’s the one who just came. He’s breathless, chest rising and falling, expression fucked out and beautiful. Bucky licks his lips, then wipes the area surrounding his mouth before he slots himself between your legs, lowering himself down to you.

“So good for me, baby,” he praised softly, kissing your forehead as his elbows rested on either side of your head. His kisses moved further down your face until his lips met yours again in a slow, gentle kiss. “So, so good for me. Can you keep going?”

“God, if you don’t fuck me I might kill you.”

You could feel him grin against you as he slowly shifted, and you felt him slowly drag the length of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your slick. A soft gasp fell from your lips as he moaned out your name. He dropped his head into your shoulder, trying to ground himself as he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pushed in.

You can feel him deep– every ridge and vein, pulsing inside of you. He’s thick and girthy, long, stretching you out more than you’d ever been before, and it’s too much, and not enough at the same time. You need him painting the inside of you, staining you, claiming you– you can’t tell him that right now. Not yet. You just got the man.

You know that you’re not much better. You’re wet around him, walls twitching and crying at the feel of him. Your legs are trembling around his hips, fingernails clawing at his shoulders and digging deep as you try to catch your breath. You’re impossibly full, but you need him to move.

And he does.

The first pull back has you seeing the gates of heaven. When he sinks all the way back in, you’re sent straight to hell.

Bucky fucks you into the bed like a man on a mission, full of sin and no regrets. His hands are all over you, grabbing at your waist to hold you in place while his lips are busy marking your chest in places where only you and he will know. When your back arches off the bed, his lips close around a stiff nipple, tongue lapping around the hardened peak and sucking.

You’re sensitive, breaths erratic, and he’s too good.

“I can’t– I can’t–” you whimpered, fingers digging into his chest.

“Oh, but you’re doing so well, baby,” Bucky praised softly.

You can barely open your eyes to look at him, but when you do? There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s coating his skin, and his eyes are on you, watching every single part of you, burning you into his memory– the way you look under him as he fucks you– how your breasts move in correspondence with each thrust of his hips, how fucked out and cock drunk you look, how your body spasms and twitches under his ministrations. He’s compartmentalizing every single detail of you.

“Bucky, please,” you moaned out, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Gimme one more, doll– Can you do that for me?” he groaned, his hips picking up speed, “Need you to cum on my cock, pretty thing.”

There’s a neediness in his voice that makes your walls flutter around him, that shoves you off the edge a second time that night– just like he wanted you to. A curse falls from his lips as his hips stutter against you, and he rides out your orgasm as long as possible before he’s pulling out of you, his own release spilling all over your stomach and chest. Bucky catches himself on his elbows before he collapses on top of you, breathing heavily.

Part of you wants to tell him what a waste. You keep it to yourself for now.

“Kiss, Bucky,” you muttered instead, reaching for his face.

He chuckles, almost breathy, and leans back down to you. He’s careful to avoid the hot, sticky mess that he’s left behind on your body, but he kisses you regardless. A sigh escapes your throat as he meets your lips.

Before long, he’s completely leaving you, muttering something about needing to clean you up. You stay there, boneless and sated, drifting off to sleep. You don’t even realize he’d come back until you feel a warm washcloth on your skin, wiping away the remnants of misdeed that you two had committed just moments prior.

Then, you’re being hoisted into his arms again, and the sheets are pulled over your bodies. His lips press against your forehead as his arms wrap around you, tugging you closer to his chest. Once again, Bucky is in your bed. Like he’s been countless times before, but this is different. It’s changed. You like it better this way.

You’re listening to the steady beat of his heart, allowing it to be your lullaby for the night when he breaks the silence.

“Is this a yes to the date?” Bucky whispered.

A grin breaks out on your face, and you press a kiss to his bare chest. “Yes, handsome. You can take me out on a date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian

676 notes · View notes

dcxdpdabbles · 2 days ago

Text

DCxDP fanfic idea: Farmer's Market Gossip

Bruce Wayne enjoys visiting the farmers' market, especially the one in Smallville. Something was refreshing about wandering stall to stall, looking over fresh fruit, baked goods, and little handmade nicknacks.

One of the best parts was realizing that almost no one recognized him. Maybe in a place like Gotham, where his face and his activities were always splattered on news outlets and gossip rags, it made it hard for him to go unnoticed unless he actively disguised himself.

That wasn't a problem in here.

People didn't follow the rich here in the same way they followed celebrities. Why would they care that Bruce made a fool of himself at a fancy gala in a random street they had never seen or heard of? Why would his donations to charities matter when the charities never reach this far out here? Why would they bother to look deeper in the thought of Don't I know that guy from somewhere? while he browsed the tomatoes.

Smallville was a pleasant, quiet place to retire or raise a family. But it lacked a night life, and to be fair a large amount of entertainment. There wasn't a whole lot to do out here. It was, in every sense of the world, a little rural town in the middle of nowhere.

Oh, Metropolis was a mere hour and a half drive away, or ninety miles, because Americans need to use actual measurements when speaking of distance, as Alfred once put it (Bruce just thought it was funny to see his father-figure get annoyed at the oddest things). It was a relatively easy drive, hardly out of the way, but it still felt like far too much to go for a mere night out, at least a constant one.

Commuting for work was a different matter.

So, really, Smallville had a limit to gossip, not because the neighbors weren't nosy - in fact, Bruce found them far more invested in each other's lives than they should be but because there just weren't enough people to hear new gossip about. They passed along the same story over and over again, until everyone and their mother had heard it, but after a day or two, that would be old news.

Maybe that's why the vendors all knew Bruce's face, and knew that when he strolled through, he would buy almost everything he paused to browse, but knew nothing else about him. He likes it that way.

Oh, there were whispers; however, those speculations were more about the fact that Martha Kent's boy brought around a city boy with him every other weekend. How suspiciously close that Clark fellow was to his friend.

Mr. Parr, who sold a rosemary sourdough bread that Bruce was addicted to, muttered to Miss Davis that he always knew Clark was on the more colorful side. Miss Davis then commented how Clark did well for himself because Bruce always seemed to have enough cash to walk back to his car, bags nearly spilling out of his arms.

Bruce thought it was hilarious and chose not to correct anyone. He knew Clark was aware of the rumors - it was hard not to, given the man's superhearing made him hyper-aware of everything all the time - but his friend had no idea how people got that impression and didn't know how to make them stop.

His parents' neighbors thought Lois was made up, even after Ma and Pa Kent talked about their son's girlfriend.

This week, he actually showed up without Clark. His friend was busy at work, but had been willing to fly him over so he could get his bi-weekly fix of relaxation. The kids knew they were always welcome to join him, but they also knew Bruce liked doing his little Smallville farmer's market alone.

As he was chatting with Mrs. Green, he noticed a new stall had been added to the usual lineup.

"That's Danny Fenton." Mrs. Green revealed after noticing his curiosity. "Sweet thing, just moved into town. He took over Mr. Jackson's old flower farm after Mr. Jackson became ill. You know the poor man is in the early stages of dementia, so his daughters wanted him closer to their houses, a state away. Anyway, Danny makes these excellent natural creams and lotions from his flowers. You should try his ointments too! Why, it helps clear up most of my arthritis aches and pains."

Bruce flashes her a boyish smile. "I'll go over and see his selection. If it's a recommendation from you, he must be fantastic."

"Oh, aren't you a charmer?" Mrs. Green laughs bashfully, swatting Bruce away. "Go now before you make an old lady faint from a severe big head."

"You big-headed? Never." Bruce laughs taking his fresh set of carrots and apples. "Have a good day, Mrs. Green!"

"You too, Brucie."

Strutting over to the new booth, Bruce made sure to wave at the regular vendors, who all smiled and greeted him back, except for Mr. Martinez, who Bruce had come to know had always had a bit of a hard time with eye contact. He didn't take it to heart.

The man's salsas were far too delicious to be upset over something small like eye contact.

Danny Fenton's booth was much like the others. A large pop-up canopy with a long foldable table was set up. Fenton had some wooden stands displaying randomly sized jars with a ghost-like logo stuck on them. He placed fake flowers around the wooden stands, making it appear as though the jars were sitting in a garden bed, and had soft, classical music playing from a speaker near the back of the booth.

Bruce realized that the closer he got, the more battery-operated fountains were placed around to grab people's attention and create the obvious soft, cottage-core ambiance Fenton was going for. Not only did it pull in customers, but it also let him influence their mood from the get-go for his sales pitch.

The man obviously had some experience in the field.

Fenton kept up his fantasy gimmick by dressing in a peculiar outfit. Bruce couldn't quite name the style at the top of his head, but he was sure that Fenotn wouldn't be out of place in a Renaissance fair among the fairy section that Tim and Damian loved so much. All he was missing was a mushroom-themed hat.

Since Fenton was currently chatting with a few customers, Bruce decided to browse the selections of hand salves. He dipped a spoon in a few of the sample jars and spread the salves on one of his hands, testing out the sensation with a critical eye. His many years of grappling across the city made his hands a bit rough, and it was always nice to find something to soften them again.

He couldn't be a proper gentleman if his hands weren't gentle after all.

Almost instantly, he realized he was going to be walking away with at least three jars: lavender rose, rosemary spearmint, and lavender chamomile. Not only did they feel great, but they smelled divine.

Bruce then truned his attention to some lotions, hoping to find some for Cass who always had a bit of a more pungent nose then the rest of his kids so she tended to look for more natural sents and came face to face with Fenton himself.

The man had finished with his other clients, moving behind the table to stand on the other side directly across from Bruce. He had a few small flowers braided in his hair, letting the rest of it fall loosly around his shoulders and he offered Bruce a smile as gentle and as pretty as the flowers he grew.

Bruce felt his jaw drop.

Never before had he seen such beauty.

"Hi there! Let me know if you have any questions." Fenton chirps, looking so darn happy to have someone standing in of his items that he was almost glowing.

"Um...No...I ...Just these." Bruce coughed, handing over the jars and a random lotion bottle. He didn't break eye contact, as Fenton happily rattles off the price and bags his things for him. But he can't find the will to push words out of his mouth, grunting in thanks and all but fleeing from the man.

Much later, he overhears Mrs. Lee giggling with a few ladies. "Mr. Fenton has to be the most attractive person to ever move to Smallville. I heard he was a supermodel."

"Well, I heard he has some siren blood in him. Miss Jackson said his voice was hypnotic."

"Siren blood? Really?"

"Hey, anything is possible; people like Aquaman are running around."

A siren.

That had to be it. No wonder Bruce had been so struck dumb. A magical creature of the sea had moved to a landlocked town to sell flower-based skin care goods. Not the oddest thing he has faced as Batman.

However, to be safe, Bruce should return next week. Just to make sure Fenton wasn't going to eat anyone.

(Three weeks later, Clark tries his hardest to assure everyone Bruce is not cheating on him with the new Beauty of Smallville because they were never a couple. He gets lots of baked goods to heal his broken heart in response, and Lois laughs.)

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Spirt Halloween ship #Farmers market gossip #Part 1 #Fluff #misunderstandings #For the Smallvile folks #Danny is just really pretty #It's not even Phantom #It's just his mom's good looks blessing him #Bruce felt love at first sight #Danny moves to Smallvile #Clark just wants everyone to stop patting his back and telling him to keep his chin up #No one blames Danny because the man doesn't flirt with bruce

851 notes · View notes

rynwrites4fun · 2 days ago

Text

Across The Hall (12) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You and Michael share a strong, loving connection. You plan a heartfelt surprise that brings you even closer.

Word Count: 3570

Warning: Age Gap (early 20s/early 50s)

Authors Note: Thank you for following along and showing so much love to this fic!!! I’ve truly enjoyed reading your comments and messages. They mean a lot (and some seriously cracked me up lol). I had so much fun writing this. Maybe we’ll see them again in the future...(lol im sad its over) but for now they live happily ever after. Enjoy! -Ryn

(if you're into Animal Kingdom, I wrote a Andrew Cody Fic lol shameless plug)

You come out of your apartment, locking the door behind you, and just as you turn around, you see Michael stepping out of his. His hair is still slightly damp from a shower, his sleeves rolled up casually, coffee mug in hand. You both meet in the middle of the hall, that easy, familiar rhythm between you two already in motion.

“Good morning,” you beam up at him, eyes lighting up the way they always do when you see him.

He smiles down at you, warm and a little sleepy, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers against your cheek for just a second longer than necessary. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, still coated in the softness of morning. He leans down and plants a slow kiss on your lips—gentle, unhurried.

He takes your hand without thinking, fingers intertwined, you walk together toward the elevator, the silence between you filled with quiet contentment. It was like this every week in the morning, just like it was before—but now, instead of being just friends, you were something more.

The elevator doors slide open and you both step inside. He presses the lobby button with hand holding his mug, still holding yours in the other. He glances sideways at you, his mouth tilting into a soft grin. “You sleep okay?”

He watched you for a second longer, then tilted his head slightly.

“How’s the noggin?”

“Sometimes I get dizzy, but mainly headaches now,” you said with a small shrug. “Therapy’s the same, but I’m improving. They’ve got me doing stuff for my coordination—and they showed me some tricks to manage the headaches.”

“Progress is progress,” he said quietly. “Even the small stuff matters.”

You smiled faintly, appreciating how he never made you feel like you had to downplay anything.

Michael was there for you through it all—calm, patient, and steady. He never asked for more than you could give. On the hard days, he gave you quiet comfort. On the good days, he cheered you on like every step forward was something to be proud of.

As you worked on healing and growing, he never rushed you. He just stayed by your side, a constant reminder you weren’t alone.

He loved you the way you always needed—without pressure, without conditions. Not with big gestures, but with quiet care: in how he listened, how he stayed, and how he made you feel like enough, just as you were.

His love was gentle, patient, and safe—and in time, you realized it was the kind of love you’d always deserved.

Michael nodded slowly, taking it all in, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. His expression stayed soft but alert, like he was mentally filing away every word.

His smile softened, though that familiar crease formed between his brows—a flicker of concern he didn’t bother hiding. But, like always, he didn’t push.

Instead, he gave your hand another gentle squeeze. “Let me know if it gets worse today. I’ll check in later.”

You nodded, eyes meeting him for a quiet beat. “I know you will.”

The lobby is cool and quiet when the elevator doors slide open again. You step out together, your footsteps soft against the polished floor.

Outside the morning air is fresh, a little crisp, and the city around you is just waking up.

You both stand on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, pausing like always before going your separate ways for the day. He’s heading toward the hospital, you towards the school. But neither of you moves yet.

“I have a surprise for you tonight,” you said, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder.

“Oh do you now?” Michael asked, arching a brow as he looked down at you with an intrigued grin.

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling to yourself.

“What kind of surprise?” he asked, that familiar teasing edge slipping into his voice as he stepped a little closer. His hands found your waist, fingers tracing slowly along your sides.

You rolled your eyes and nudged his chest lightly with your hand. “None of that,” you said with a soft laugh. “If you’re lucky, there’ll be dessert.”

His smirk deepened, but he didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing this moment, your flushed cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you never fully pulled away after touching him.

The two of you hadn’t officially crossed that line. Not yet. He’d been patient. Always letting you lead. Always stopping where you drew the line.

He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eye.

“Lucky how? Like… dessert or dessert?” he asked, eyebrows raised, voice dipped in playful mischief.

You caught the teasing in his tone instantly—light, warm, and absolutely on purpose.

“Michael Robinavitch!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, giving his chest a little shove.

He just smirked, completely unbothered. “Don’t wear it out now, baby. I mean, if tonight’s the night, you’re gonna be saying it… over and over.”

“Stop it!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands as your whole body flushed with heat. Your cheeks were burning, your ears too, and you were pretty sure your neck was just as red. It felt like your whole body was on fire.

He chuckled, his grin spreading wide, watching you squirm. “Okay, okay. I’m just teasing.” He nudged your foot gently with his. “I like when you get all flustered.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, shaking your head. “I’m hot now, thanks.”

You grabbed the neckline of your dress and fanned yourself dramatically, trying to cool down, but it only made him laugh harder.

“You’re welcome, lil’ inferno,” he said,looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You shot him a look—half warning, half amused—but you couldn’t hold back the smile tugging at your lips.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.

“I try,” he replied smoothly, bumping your shoulder gently with his.

Laughing and moving the conversation you say “Be ready by nine.”

He nodded slowly. “Attire?”

“Dress up, please,” you said

“Alright, you got it”

“Anything else, sweetheart?” His voice dropped just a fraction

“Yes, I need a kiss before we part ways.”

He leaned in without hesitation, giving you a peck.

When he started to pull away, you didn’t let him. Your hand slipped up to his jaw, fingers curling there as you kissed him again—deeper this time, slower, unwilling to let go.

He smiled against your mouth, his voice low between kisses. “Babe, I gotta go. Jack’s gonna light me up if I’m late for shift change. He already gave me the ‘don’t make this a habit’ speech last week.”

“Tell him it’s not your fault,” you said, breathless. “Tell him I made you a little late.”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you. “He knows it’s you. Everyone at work knows it’s you. I’ve stopped even pretending it’s foot traffic.”

You giggled. “Foot traffic? That’s the best you could come up with?”

He shrugged, shameless. “It worked—twice.”

You grinned, fingers gently tracing the edge of his scrub collar. “Well… can you blame me? I love kissing you…”

You murmured it as you leaned in, pressing kisses to his cheek, then his jaw, and finally his lips.

“Sweetheart…” he groaned

His ears were pink. His cheeks, unmistakably flushed.

You blinked, then grinned. “Ha! Look who’s all flustered now.”

His brows shot up. “I’m not flustered,” he said quickly—way too quickly.

“Ohhh, yes you are,” you teased, beaming. “You’re blushing. You’re red as a tomato!”

“It’s the sun,” he muttered. “I’m getting sunburned already. It’s only gonna get worse if I stay here any longer.”

“Okay, okay—one more kiss, and I’ll let you go.”

You lean in and plant a quick peck.

“Alright, go,” you laughed, giving him a gentle push as he started to back away.

But then he paused, sighed like it physically pained him, and stepped right back into your space. His hand slid to the back of your neck as he kissed you again—this time slower, more deliberate. There was weight behind it, warmth, like he was imprinting something into you to last the rest of the day.

When you broke apart, his thumb traced a soft line down your cheek, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured.

“Have a good day, Teach,” he added, still smiling as he walked backward.

“You too, Doc.” You tossed him a playful salute before turning around and heading off.

And finally—reluctantly—you both went your separate ways.

—

“I know. Please don’t start,” Michael muttered, striding past the nurses’ station without slowing down.

Jack barely glanced up from the computer, already smirking. “Didn’t even say anything yet.”

Michael didn’t stop. “Your face said enough.”

Jack chuckled, logging out of the computer and trailing him toward the staff room. “It's hard to keep a straight face when you come waltzing in here looking like a lovesick puppy.”

“I am not a lovesick puppy.”

“Yes, you are,” Princess chimed in from her station as they passed by, not even looking up from her charting.

Michael groaned, while Jack grinned wider. “See? Not just me.”

The majority of the staff had lost the bet made months ago—except for Mateo and Perla.

Mateo had guessed right: Michael didn’t have a girlfriend (at the time.) And Perla? She’d hit the nail on the head when she insisted you weren’t in the medical field.

After your accident and unexpected trip to the ER, Michael finally came clean—shutting down the whole “friend-neighbor-almost something” narrative for good.

But not before ripping everyone a new one for turning his love life into some kind of fantasy draft.

“Gee, thanks,” he muttered now.

Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re whipped. So whipped. It’s actually unbelievable how whipped you are,”

They stepped into the staff room, the door clicking shut behind them. Michael walked over to the lockers, tugged his open, and tossed his bag inside.

Jack leaned against his locker, arms crossed. “I’m just saying—before her, you were all scrubs and sarcasm. Now you’ve got layers. Emotions, loved up—”

Michael didn’t answer right away. He shoved his bag further in, then shut the locker with a quiet click.

Jack watched him, still smirking. “Seriously, though. You’ve changed.”

Michael glanced over, brow raised. “Is that a bad thing?”

Jack shook his head, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “No, man. It’s not.”

He meant it. For all the teasing, all the jokes—Jack was genuinely happy. His best friend was happy. And that was rare enough in their world to be worth holding onto.

“She’s got a surprise for me tonight.”

Jack tried—tried—to look innocent, but the smirk was already creeping in. “Does she now?” he said as he opened his locker and grabbed his bag.

Michael turned, fully facing him. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

Jack shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Nope.”

“Jack.”

“Don’t look at me like that, man. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

“So you do know.”

Jack slung the strap over his shoulder, still pretending to study the inside of his locker. “I may have… helped coordinate something.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You helped her?”

“She needed access to a contact. I made a call. That’s it.”

“So, you do know.”

Jack finally looked at him, the grin breaking through. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Michael gave him a flat look. “You’re the worst.”

Jack laughed, heading for the door. “Tell her that after you see what she planned.”

Jack zipped up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “All I’m saying is… maybe wear something nicer than the hoodie you’ve been living in.”

Michael gave a faint, amused scoff. “She did say to dress up.”

Jack nodded like that confirmed everything. “Then don’t screw it up with that ‘comfort over effort’ routine.”

Michael smirked. “You done?”

Jack was already at the door. “Almost.”

He turned back, backing out of the room with his usual smug ease. “Try not to look too shocked when she blows you away.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Jack grinned. “What can I say? It’s fun watching you fall.”

He disappeared into the hallway, the door swinging closed behind him with a soft click.

Michael stood there a second longer, the room suddenly quieter. Then he exhaled, just once, and started thinking about what the hell he was going to wear.

—-

You met Michael in the middle of the hallway, and for a moment, he just stood there—staring.

“Wow… you look… wow,” he said, a little breathless, eyes sweeping over you. “So beautiful,” he murmured, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

You giggled, cheeks warming under his gaze. “Thank you. You look wow too.”

He stepped closer, hands naturally finding your waist, already drawing you in like it was instinct. But before he could close the distance, you held up a hand—and something else.

He blinked. “Is that… a blindfold?”

You smiled, a little mischievous. “It is.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere special,” you said, stepping behind him.

He let out a quiet laugh, but didn’t argue as you gently slipped the blindfold over his eyes, fingers brushing his hair back before tying it.

“You trust me?” you asked softly, your hands resting on his shoulders.

Michael nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting. “With everything.”

You gently tied the blindfold over Michael’s eyes, your fingers lingering for a moment as you brushed stray hair away from his face.

“Ready?” you whispered.

He nodded, his breath steady despite the darkness behind the fabric.

Taking his hand, you led him softly through the hallway. The subtle click of your footsteps echoed as you guided him toward the elevator.

The doors slid open with a quiet ding, and you stepped inside, still holding his hand firmly but tenderly.

You led him through the lobby and outside, taking a careful step forward onto the sidewalk.

The city felt alive yet hushed—the distant wail of a siren, the soft buzz of neon signs flickering above closed shops, and the rustling of trees in the faint wind. Michael could hear the occasional hum of a car passing by.

“Almost there,” you murmured.

His grip tightened just a little, the only sign he was feeling the anticipation too.

You slowed your pace as you approached the spot you’d picked, the shadows folding gently around you both, mingling with the distant murmur of nighttime traffic.

Your fingers brushed lightly against his palm, grounding him, “Just a few more steps.”

You stopped and gently tilted his chin up, the blindfold still shielding his eyes

“Okay,” you whispered, your fingers brushing his shoulder. “You can take it off now.”

Michael slid the blindfold off, blinking into the warm glow spilling onto the sidewalk. His eyes landed on the familiar sign: Bella Notte

He turned to you, surprise lighting up his face.

“Surprise,” you said softly.

He smiled—partly at the moment, partly at the memory.

Michael's kind gesture, asking if you wanted to come with him. It ended up being the start of something neither of you saw coming.

You’d order takeout—cacio e pepe, bruschetta, mozzarella and prosciutto, and of course, tiramisu. Then back at your apartment, you’d sit across from each other at the island table, eating and talking like you’d done it a hundred times. It was quiet. Easy. The kind of night that stayed with you long after it ended.

“It’s closed” you told him now, voice soft. “Just for us.”

He looked back at the glowing windows. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“I had help from Jack, actually,” you admitted, glancing at Michael as you both stood outside Bella Notte. The soft glow of string lights spilled from the restaurant’s windows, casting a warm, romantic hue across the cobblestone sidewalk. “The owner came into the ER a few weeks ago with a burned hand. Jack treated him, and the guy said he owed him a free dinner.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, amused. “So Jack cashed it in for us?”

You nodded, smiling. “Yes.”

Michael shook his head with a soft laugh. “That sneaky bastard.”

You bit your lip, hesitating for just a second. “I was telling him about Bella Notte… how we went there together that night. He mentioned the free dinner, and—”

Michael’s expression shifted—barely. Not hurt, but something softer, more reflective, settled in his eyes.

“He thought it’d be romantic,” you added quickly, fingers fidgeting at your side. “You know, a full-circle kind of thing.”

Michael looked at the restaurant, then back at you, his eyes lingering.

“It is,” he said simply, voice low and sincere.

You searched his face, suddenly nervous under the weight of the moment. “Is this okay? If not, we can—”

But he didn’t let you finish. He closed the space between you and kissed you—gentle, but certain. His hand slid along your jaw, anchoring you in place as his lips pressed against yours, warm and full of quiet affection.

When he finally pulled back, he kept you close, his forehead brushing yours.

“This,” he murmured, breath warm against your lips, “is perfect.”

—-

The two of you ended up trying the majority of the menu—half out of curiosity, half because neither of you could decide on just one thing.

It started with the bruschetta—crispy, warm slices of bread topped with bright tomato, garlic, and fresh basil. Michael took one bite and immediately pushed the plate toward you. From there, it spiraled.

You shared bowls of creamy fettuccine alfredo and rich, red-sauced rigatoni that left both of you shamelessly mopping up the last bits with warm focaccia. The waiter barely had time to clear each plate before the next round arrived—crab-stuffed ravioli, garlicky shrimp scampi, a perfectly blistered Margherita pizza with fresh mozzarella and basil.

At some point, Michael leaned back with a groan, hand on his stomach, and said, “Okay, I’m officially full. But also, we’re sharing the tiramisu.”

You laughed, cheeks aching from smiling so much. “We’re going to roll out of here.”

You sat across from him, legs brushing under the table, sharing bites between laughs and stories. The flicker of candlelight danced in his eyes, and your heart felt impossibly full.

You weren’t just eating dinner. You were making a memory—layered and warm, like the food, like the company. One that neither of you would forget.

You glanced at him across the candlelit table, your fork idly pushing the last bite of tiramisu. Your heart thudded softly, nerves prickling at the edge of your calm. You took a breath, reached for your water, then set it down again.

“I have to ask you something,” you said, your voice quieter than before.

Michael looked up immediately, eyes warm and attentive, the same way he always looked at you when you had something important to say.

You looked up at him, a little nervous but smiling, heart fluttering as you finally let the words leave your lips.

“May I be your girlfriend?”

His expression softened instantly, the corners of his mouth tugging into the smallest, most tender smile. His eyes, warm and steady, never left yours.

There were no expectations, no pressure—just the quiet honesty between two people who already knew. There had been no labels, no formal declaration before now. But still, it had always been there. You knew how he felt. And he knew how you did, too. You were his, and he was yours.

“Honey,” he said gently, voice full of affection, “what do you think we’ve been doing all this time? I’ve seen you as my girl from the start. I’ve just been letting you set the pace. I’ve been yours, and you’ve been mine. We both know that.”

“I know,” you murmured, cheeks warm. “But I wanted to make it official, you know… say it out loud. Make it real. You’ve been so patient with me.”

He leaned in slightly, thumb brushing your cheek in the softest stroke. “It’s real. It’s always been real.”

The air between you felt electric but calm, like something solid settling into place.

His eyes never left yours. “Well then—yes,” he said softly. “I’d love it if you were my girlfriend… but I may be your boyfriend?”

Your smile deepened, your heart fluttering at his words, the warmth in his tone.

“Yes,” you whispered, breath catching.

“Okay then, it’s settled—out loud and in the air,” he chuckled, his voice low and full of something rich and steady. He leaned in and kissed you, soft and sure, sealing the promise between you.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, your voice steady.

He paused, pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze deep and unwavering.

“Is that too fast? I know we just officially started dating and all,” you joked, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you tried to ease the nerves that still fluttered under the surface.

He laughed softly, the sound warm and full of affection. “Too fast? No way. Just right.”

He leaned in again, resting his forehead gently against yours. “I love you too.”

And just like that, everything felt still and full all at once—this moment, this love.

This was the love you deserved. Him. And though you never expected it, somehow, you found it—right across the hall.

Thank you again for the love!!!

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13@qardasngan@silas-aeiou@k3ndallroy@ohmystrawberrycheesecake@ay0nha@404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin@capj-1437@airgoddess@nah2991@interestellarprincess@laurensfilm@peachjellyy@aj3684@sorryimstupidrn@escapingjune@robbyslittlelamb@nicisthename92@littlezee80@lucidanne@spooky-librarian-ghost@the-salty-asian@lonelyheartsm@lovelyjulieee @memoriesat30 @glamorizethechaos@guiltypleassure243@princessjayll@teapartydreams

#acrossthehall #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #dr robby #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #noah wyle

489 notes · View notes

ninguitar · 3 days ago

Text

　　　꣑ৎ　　　　𝓛OVE YOU ANYWAY　♱.　MM.B 　　　────　i'll keep your picture upon the wall 𓈒𓈒𓈒

🦇　( 𝓢 ) ﹕ 　word flew by through your school almost immediately that it girl manon bannerman—also your reclaimed public number one enemy—was publicly cheated on, making her world take a nosedive. using her popularity as leverage, she ropes you into a fake relationship to avoid any more public humiliation. at least, just for a few weeks. originally. who knew manon was in love with you and your sharp tongue?

𝓹airing. popular girl!meret manon bannerman x hockey player!reader　genre. ⓘ. fluff. rich kids au. fake dating trope. skinship ✦ 7547wc 　　notes 📼 ! 　 inspo. tatbilb series & the oc. hello… i finally locked in enough for this fic💔💔 if this is butt sorry love u guys (MASTERLIST)

now playing ⋆ i'm not in love by 10cc / crush by ethel cain / sugar! honey! love! by kali uchis / super rich kids by frank ocean / p.u.n.k. girl by heavenly / somethin' stupid by frank sinatra

THE RULES WERE AS SIMPLE AS THEY COULD BE to sell the lie and to make it convincing enough. no kissing (unless needed), no snitching on one-another, inside jokes, learning the little details that real couples would know of each other—all that stuff. most importantly, you have to attend all her parties and gala events, and she has to attend all your games.

"so, deal or no deal, yn?" manon barely glances up at you, tilting her head to the side. she watches you with a bored expression, sighing dramatically to taunt you, "time's ticking."

in the last two years of attending the same academy never has manon ever willingly talked to you, or spared you a glance in any way; it was the rare occasions where you two were grouped together for a class work assignment. and even then, she barely acknowledged you, merely passing snide remarks about you to her friends in the hallways. you had your world, and she had hers.

she didn't belong in your world for a myriad of reasons. hers consisted of oceans of bodies, with girls in bikinis, guys in linen, plaid shirts; everyone sun-kissed and high off of god-knows-what; rich-kids wrapped in luxury, diamonds, and joy rides in daddy's jaguar; and bodies bruised by designer clothing. bad decisions and ivy leagues were what her world revolves around, but that was just the life she was born into—super rich kids with nothing but loose ends. always the life of the party, always taking a new guy or girl home.

you shoot her a glare, finding it frustrating how overly-casual she was, especially when this new arrangement meant having to see each other daily for the next few weeks.

the same girl who, while at your first party, recorded and posted you vomiting your guts out from the spiked booze on one of the biggest school gossip accounts, wanted you to be her fake girlfriend? and all because she wanted to recover from being publicly humiliated, in her words.

you cross your arms and set your jaw, eyes narrowing, as you slightly grimace at picturing all the ways you'd waste your time with manon as her fake girlfriend. "what would i even get from this?" you eye her down, indignation rushing to the surface.

"you would be seen with me, and we both know how much that would help you," she mutters, almost like it was the most obvious thing in the world. you thought her arrogance was beyond insane, especially when she was the one who had to corner you to get you to talk to her.

"no," you mutter, crossing your arms against your chest.

"excuse me?"

"i'm not being your fake girlfriend."

manon's jaw clenches slightly, an incredulous expression washing over her features, "seriously? you're rejecting me?" she scoffs, shaking her head.

"you should be honored i was even asking you—not everybody gets to be my arm candy." she barely spares you a glance, as she adjusts her diamond bracelet.

and it wasn't like she was wrong necessarily; walking into a room with manon bannerman on your arm alone earns whispers, envy, and definitely more than a few stares.

you roll your eyes, collecting your books from the benches you two sat on, before her hand brushes over your wrist, preventing you from getting up. she quickly mutters out, "please, you're the only person who i wouldn't be so-disgusted to be seen with." and truth be told, manon was serious; she had her friends search for anybody who she could date that would piss her ex off.

"i need to find someone who pisses my ex off asap," manon declared, as she laid down on the lawn chair, sunglasses crooked on her face. she exhaled towards the sky, placing the glass of lemonade onto the table.

"if that helps you move on from him, sure," lara joked, leaning back in her lawn chair. she sighed, her gaze flickering to manon's face for a fleeting moment, "oh shit, you're serious about this?"

"i am not letting myself be played by that asshole," manon groaned out, rubbing her temple.

the smile on lara's face faltered due to disbelief, "don't you think that's too much? i mean, maybe your break up was a sign to take a break off dating. you can't really be with someone until you can be by yourself."

"i can be by myself if i wanted to," manon argued, rolling her eyes, "i just can't be humiliated by a man like that."

"so what, you already have somebody in mind? and don't tell me it's one of the guys on the basketball team."

"ew, no!" the ghanaian girl grimaced, "none of them are even tolerable, not even a little bit. way to ruin my mood, lara. plus, it has to be a girl."

a cunning smile tugged the corners of lara's face, "you could try the girl's hockey team. i know the captain."

dumbfounded, manon muttered, "we have a hockey team?" she lifted the prada sunglasses onto the top of her head, looking to her side. "hockey, really?" the ghanaian girl mumbled under her breath.

"give it a chance, some of them are cute," lara shrugged, "keyword though, some. a lot of them are uptight."

manon groaned, "only because it's my last resort." she grabbed her phone from the coffee table, swiping through the girls hockey team's instagram. her perfectly manicured fingers trailed through, her teeth gritted, "what about player 4?"

the indian girl glared at manon, her eyebrows furrowing slightly, as she peeked over at the latter's phone, "that's the girl you recorded vomiting," she mumbled through her teeth. lara tapped the tagged user, scrolling through your posts, the tapping of her nails audible. "i doubt she would forget that."

"oh, i will make sure she forgets it."

"fine."

manon's eyes practically bulge out of her eye sockets, "really?"

you huff out a bit of air, "yes, really. just don't expect me to go all out for your black-tie events." she gives you a pointed look, and you glare at her back, making her sigh.

"cool, works for me." manon watches you collect your books from the bench, strutting away from her. and oddly enough, she watches your figure become farther and farther away, her gaze fixated on you.

lararaj: girl that was quick

manonbannerman: i'm js a girl who knows what she wants and gets it.

meganskiendiel: shes kinda cute tbh

manonbannerman: whatever. u can have her when im done w her.

lararaj: jealous much

"you so owe me for this, bannerman."

tonight was your debut—well, your debut as manon bannerman's girlfriend.

manon sends you a glare, as she quickly file her nails down, her reflection scrutinized under the flickering lights of the limo. "oh, please," she drawls, rolling her eyes, "you clean up better than i thought you would."

you scoff, straightening your tie, "how sweet." you flash a faux, exaggerated smile at the ghanaian girl, before it falters quickly at the sight of the grand ballroom. "jesus christ," you mumble under your breath.

the moment you stepped into it, the air shifts; chandeliers glow above the crowd of only california's most elite, their conversations growing quieter, as they take in the sight of manon bannerman… and you?

you hoped for this to simple, for you to just smile, hold her close to you, and to charm the rest of her friends to stay in their good graces. and you thought it could go your way, but it doesn't—not when manon's arms slip around your neck almost perfectly, locking her eyes with yours. a gentle yet faux smile tugs the corners of her lips during the first waltz, and she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear.

"i didn't think you'd suck this badly at the waltz," she teases, a tinge of affection laced in her tone. and really, in the back of her mind—far, far back—she wanted to tell you that you looked good tonight.

and luckily for manon, you don't notice the way her touch lingers slightly more than it should, the way her gaze is almost always drawn to your lips unconsciously, or the way her hand settles on the back of your neck, more naturally than it should.

this was just a game, she thought—a ploy to make her ex pissed off.

she was effortlessly graceful with the way she laughs at your horrible dad-jokes, her head tilting, and making sure every eye was on you two. only for a fleeting moment does manon remember her ex, noticing the way he watched from across the room, jaw clenched, and drinking swirling in his hand.

"go fetch me a drink, yeah?" she murmurs, her lips mere inches away from yours, and you reluctantly oblige, finding your way to the mini-bar. her gaze lingers on you a little too long, watching you try to avoid the questions from other guests bombarded in your face.

ordering two glasses of club soda, you tap your foot against the ground, leaning against the counter. you try to suppress a groan when you immediately spot lara skipping over, a grin on her face.

"you and manon."

lara's voice breaks through the loud, blaring chatter of the crowd, your head snapping towards her. you raise your eyebrow, as she repeats with a cheeky raise of her brows.

"lara." you mutter, knowing how much snarky remarks would fall from her lips, despite her being the most cordial with you out of manon's clique. tilting your head, you ask flatly, "what about manon and i?"

"dating, right?" she asks playfully.

your face grimaces slightly at the mention, and 'no, ew' parts your lips before you suddenly remember that you two were technically dating. a sigh falls from your lips shortly at her words, as you nod, clutching the two glasses of club soda in your hands tightly.

"yes," you mutter through your lips tightly, "we are dating."

"well, you don't seem so happy you two are," the dark-headed girl quips, a chuckle escaping her breath. she raises a brow, watching you tense slightly.

"i was just joking. lighten up." she playfully shoves past you, walking to the restroom.

you roll your eyes before walking away, finding your way back to manon like a puppy on a leash. you smile a bit as you approach the girl, handing her glass to her. and god does your smile make the ghanaian girl's heart pick up slightly. get a fucking grip.

she sets the glasses down onto a nearby table, grinning widely, and musing, "you sure took a while. hope you didn't hook up with someone in the mean time." her arm slips around your neck, while her other hand intertwines with yours.

you shoot manon a mocking look, as you raise your brows, "what, you jealous?"

"ew! no, you wish, freak."

"come on, not even a little?" your hand pokes her side to emphasize your words.

"god, i really did choose the wrong person to be in a fake relationship with," she glares at you, her lips pressed into a thin line. letting out an exasperated groan, she pinches your side playfully.

"shut up," you snap, unable to stop the look of irritation on your face, "and for the record, i only agreed because i felt bad for you."

her voice takes on a teasing tone, "really?" her eyes narrow, a grin forming on her lips. "so am i hearing that you like me?" she drawls, leaning lazily against you.

you blink at her, caught off guard, "no way, bannerman."

"whatever you say then," a faint smirk ghosts manon's lips, "just don't fall in love with me now, yn." her hand curls around the back of your neck, while the other slightly tugs on your collar, as if to challenge you.

"as if."

hongseunghan: when tf was yn dating manon hongseunghan: im so lost?

zhouxinyu: WDYM YN TAPPED A BAD BITCH BEFORE ME

ln-yn: how do u guys even know wtf

choijisung: girl vids and pics of u w manon r all around the skls ig ???

hongseunghan: i didnt even know ur type was snobby rich kids dude

zhouxinyu: i thought wbk that… her fav character from gossip girl was blair 💔💔

ln-yn: ur so funny xinyu. watch ur back at 11:59 pm july 9th 2025.

choijisung: didnt manon film u vomiting freshman year LOL major aura loss there

zhouxinyu: that was her?? and ur still dating manon yn??

ln-yn: shes changed. i promise. ln-yn: i wouldnt have dated her if she didnt

hongseunghan: dickriding this hard 😭

"you know that kid, sunghoon, in our calc class," xinyu whistles, "crashed his jaguar." her gaze narrows, as she glares at the crowd surrounding the former. she rolls her eyes, whispering incoherent curses under her breath.

you snort, "daddy's jaguar, wasn't it?"

a chuckle falls shortly from seunghan's lips, as he hums in agreement, "he went to court to have the judge give him access to the jaguar early."

"you could do that?" you ask, shoving your books into your own locker. then you mutter, "god, i'd kill for that life."

xinyu shrugs before groaning against her locker, "yeah, but then you'd have to surround yourself with them, and become friends with them. that leaves me with nobody to mock," she dramatically groans.

you scoff, slowly drowning out xinyu's and seunghan's voices, as your eyes follow the movement of a certain dark-headed girl near sunghoon: manon. you bite down hard on your lower lip, trying to focus on your friends' conversation.

though, seunghan notices, shoving you with his elbow, which only earns a groan from you. "manon's cool 'n all, but i'd avoid getting sucked into that." he shrugs.

you roll your eyes, shoving the korean boy back, "sucked into what?"

"into… well, all that," xinyu teases, moving her head towards manon's direction.

before you could protest, the bell chimes throughout the hallway, and the two of them giggle, patting your shoulder, and waving good-bye. you huff, watching them leave, as you stuff everything into your locker. while they had class, you had a free period today.

bang! manon's hand hits the metal of your locker harshly, somewhat caging you in, with her other arm folded against her chest. you slightly shudder, your gaze darting to the other girl. your eyes slightly narrow in frustration.

"you couldn't have been normal and said hi?" you retort, heat slightly spreading to your cheeks. you nudge her shoulder playfully, swinging your backpack over your shoulder. she scoffs, and you roll your eyes, your own eyes betraying you, as they unconsciously trace over the ghanaian girl's features filtered in the sunlight from the windows.

she ignores your quip, "you didn't tell me you had a game tonight." a faux sense of annoyance washes over her features, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"i didn't know you wanted to go to my games in the first place," you tease, a half-smile curbing your lips. you lean against your locker, unconsciously leaning in closer towards manon.

shooting you a lethal glare, she shakes her head, muttering tightly through her lips, "it's just a part of our deal."

you sigh, giving her the same glance she gave you, "so you are coming?"

manon sucks in her teeth dramatically, "unfortunately i am. and you better win." her voice rings through your ear, and she shoots you a swift wink. you whistle playfully before she shoves past you playfully—thankfully, not too harsh. you smile just a bit at the gesture, and something in your heart flutters.

you exhale a soft response, as she turns to the corner, clearly not meant to be this late to class, "yeah." leaning against the wall, waiting for your free period to end, a strangled sigh falls shortly from your lips. you close your eyes, and a curse escapes from under your breath. get it together.

you swear up and down this isn't you, and that you were truly just mixing up bitter resentment for affection. heart fluttering more than usual, palms sweaty, hands rubbing nervously over your knees—you were too far lost.

the fact that a girl had made you feel this way was juvenile, considering it was manon bannerman—the most infuriating girl to ever face earth. getting into a fake relationship with her was, by far, the worst idea you ever engaged in.

the ice-glassed rink was alight with the excitement from the current game—almost every seat filled to the brink; you would have never expected packed bleachers for girl's hockey. clapping hands accompanied by roars of cheers were only a few out of many sounds that registered in your ears.

and manon, as expected, was in the crowd. your gaze lands on the ghanaian girl, eyes slightly widening. her arms were crossed, blank expression, and eyes narrowed, as if she was calculating your every move. you notice the way her jaw clenches when the opponent team gets a goal. the sound of hockey sticks scraping against the ice makes manon cringe, her eyes crinkling at the sight of you barely dodging the goalie. she watches the enemy team slam into the glass, causing a shake in the bleachers, the sound loud and jarring.

then your head tilts, and you see her friends, too. cool, cool, cool, cool, your fake girlfriend and her friends are watching you intensely, probably waiting for you to mess up any second now. though, corner of manon's mouth twitches enough to feel like a secret, like something meant only for you.

manon's and her friend's conversation is cut short by the last goal of the night from your team, as the score changes, from 1-2 to 1-3. the last swift shot solidifies your team's win, and cheers erupt. while your team finished celebrating, you made your way to manon, helmet still loosely fitted on your head.

"you came."

"it was a part of our deal," manon reiterates, her perfectly manicured hands tugging on your helmet. "and you won," she murmurs tightly through her lips. you unconsciously lean against the ghanaian girl, a sleazy, ear-to-ear grin tugging your lips.

you chuckle, your eyes twinkling with amusement, "you said i better win."

she inhales sharply, shoving you lightly, before lifting your helmet off, "because it would be embarrassing for me to date a loser." the other girl tilts her head to the right, eyes narrowing, and you'd think that she was plotting your murder—but no, her hand gently cups your face, her thumb swiping over your cheek, and 'wiping' some dirt off your face.

"what?" manon feigns innocence, and that wide grin on her face only sparks something unwelcoming in your chest. her arms rest on your shoulders, and you try to ignore the warmth of her body, but the feeling lingers. you tell yourself that this was all for show, that neither meret manon bannerman nor you actually enjoyed this arrangement.

"nothing," you brush it off, and you push your feelings down. you weren't going to let a girl as materialistic and demanding as manon to make you feel this way. but then you watch her laugh, carefree and strangely vulnerable; it catches you off guard, because it was real. too real that your gaze softens, and that you have to attempt to suppress the smile that nonetheless ghosts your lips.

she shoots you a glare before relenting, "you still taking me on that date?" her hands fully wrap themselves around your neck now, while yours instinctively rest on her waist.

you raise a brow, huffing with mock irritation, "date? who said anything about one?"

"when i found out your teammates were gonna be hosting a party for your guys' win. tomorrow night, pick me up at seven sharp."

lararaj: manon caught in 4k all over her new gf😭 lararaj: attachment: 1 image

manonbannerman: funny. manonbannerman: she js won a game, that's it.

meganskiendiel: so u decide to bombard that poor girl??

manonbannerman: she should be grateful that i'm even giving her attention

zhouxinyu: yn after fumbling a bad bitch who, MIND YOU, came to her game wearing the team colors

ln-yn: why am i always catching strays now??? i did NOT fumble her wtf

hongseunghan: the videos say smth different 😂😂

ln-yn: ur catching this fade at 12am dont play w me ln-yn: u too jisung.

choijisung: I DIDNT EVEN SAY ANYTHING??

you thought you absolutely hated how demanding she was—so why were you outside her house, in your father's pristine lexus, half an hour early—with a bouquet of flowers clutched in your arms, too?

ln-yn: im here wya

and you were already a fool, for thinking that manon didn't have her clique over at her house, helping her get ready, and apparently 'sending her off,' in their words. you lean against the passenger side of the car, hands now tucked in your pockets. the golden streaks of the setting sun highlights the faint awkward smile on your face, as you shift around.

while you waited, manon and her clique were sprawled out in manon's walk-in closet, grabbing hangers after hangers. the ghanaian girl sat down on the ottoman, as lara and megan went through the options for an outfit.

"you don't have to try this hard to impress her," megan says without looking away from the piles of clothes laid out on manon's bed. "i'm sure she wouldn't mind just a plain top."

lara interjects, "except manz' practically in love with yn." she moves towards manon from her spot, nudging the other girl with her elbow. manon sends a glare in the indian girl's direction, as she exhales, dropping her head into her lap.

"not—i am not in love with yn, and i never will be," she asserts, making sure to enunciate her words, as she watches the two other girls throw dresses into the maybe pile.

"i could've sworn you fell asleep on call with her," the chinese girl chimes in, holding up a sequined top. "what made you buy this?" her face contorts into a grimace, dropping the top into the no pile.

"you fell asleep on call with yn, and you didn't bother to tell me?" lara gasps as if scandalized. she begins to croon, tilting her head in the ghanaian girl's direction, "you've got it bad, manon."

manon rubs her temples, scoffing, "she- we just needed to talk about the technicalities for this arrangement, and somewhere in between, she just kept talking on and on about the upcoming superman movie." she sighs dramatically, acting as if she wasn't the same one who tried everything in her power to keep her eyes open that night—as if she wasn't the one who pretended to not care about the movie.

the two other girls roll their eyes, giving the ghanaian girl a knowing look. though, they continue to pull out clothes from her closet, while manon begrudgingly tries on each clothing piece she was given. the moment she settles on a black, v-line halter top, both megan and lara fall silent.

lara and megan interject:

"that is definitely the one."

"she won't know what hit her!"

manon rolls her eyes, laughter bubbling in her chest, as she checks her phone, noticing the notifications sent from you. "she's here," she mutters, as she hastily 'fixes' herself, looking at herself through the mirror.

ln-yn: bro wya dont stand me up rn💔

manonbannerman: ive told you to stop calling me bro before manonbannerman: ill let u in rq im not done getting ready yet

the moment the girls open the front door, your breath catches at the sight of manon leaning against the wall. with a playful shove from megan, manon slightly stumbles, walking towards you. you wave briefly at the two other girls before straightening and meeting the ghanaian girl's gaze.

instead of a greeting, however, she mutters, "you don't look half as bad as what i expected." and you raise your eyebrows, an incredulous look washing over your features. before she continues, her gaze settles on the bouquet of flowers clutched in your arms, and a smile appears on her face,

"turns out you aren't just a stupid jock," she teases, but there's no bite behind her words, like there should be.

you roll your eyes, letting manon take the bouquet into her hands, and her unoccupied hand curls around your wrist, before you accept her hand—your hand interlocked with hers. her friends briefly say bye to manon, whispering something to her, which causes a grimace on the ghanaian girl's face. you wave at them too, watching them leave the driveway, only for them to circle back, and shout:

"she thinks slow dancing is cheesy but likes it anyway!"

the scorching heat practically eats you up limb by limb, as you lean against the the edge of the ghanaian girl's bed, checking your watch every few seconds. for somebody as well-off as manon, you expected that her air conditioner wasn't busted in the middle of a heatwave. you watch her come in and out of the bathroom attached to the room, each time complaining about something you could barely notice a change in.

she finally seems pleased with herself, as she leans over the mirror, touching up on her make-up, and spritzing her neck and wrists with perfume. "are you just gonna stand there and stare?" manon scoffs, giving you a twirl.

you mutter a curse under your breath inaudibly. as you walk towards manon, leaning against the dresser, you swear there's the faintest smirk on her face.

you quickly shove down the spiral threatening to start, and in response, you roll your eyes, crossing your arms against your chest, "you didn't even let me get a word out when i arrived. what do you expect? you spent all this time getting ready!" you look at her with faux disdain, but she reads right through you, grinning.

"well i'm sorry that i need to make sure i look good for this party," she nudges you, grabbing her purse from her bed, "and you will be introducing me to your friends."

"you are, by far, the most high-maintenance person i've ever met," you retaliate, grabbing your car keys from your pocket.

"you like it."

the sun was high in the sky, casting streaks over the bodies of people, and the sounds of waves crashing is disrupted by the blaring music from inside the beach house. you saunter in, your hand hooked with manon's.

the ghanaian girl could practically feel the worry emanating off of you, a grin on her lips. she turns around to face you, hands curling around your wrists to tuck them around her waist. "you haven't even told me how good i look tonight," she coaxes, looking up at you through her heavy-lidded eyes.

you swallow, and your chest tightens. "the top really suits you."

she's barely able to hold back a giggle, a wide smile replacing that previous stupid, stupid grin, and she nudges your shoulder. "that's all? you could do better, couldn't you?" the ghanaian girl lets her manicured nails trail down your arm.

"now you just want attention," you retort, and you watch her lips annoyingly curl,

"as if i didn't want it before."

the opening notes of somethin' stupid by frank sinatra fill the beach house. around you, couples swaying against each-other, and for a brief second, you hesitate.

but then, the ghanaian girl's hands find your waist, gentle and sure, pulling you in just enough for your lips to be mere inches away. your arms snake around her shoulder like second nature, fingertips brushing against the nape of her neck.

you swallow hard, trying to let yourself sink into this moment.

"do you want me to actually show you how to do this—so you don't hurt yourself and possibly others?" manon whispers against your ear, letting out a soft chuckle, as she watches you struggle to keep up with her footwork.

you nod, "good call."

she pulls you in closer, one hand intertwined with yours, the other resting on your side. you suck in a breath from her touch, trying to blink away the sudden warmth spreading at your chest. you shouldn't be doing this, not here, and certainly not with manon.

you try to ignore everything, focusing on the ghanaian girl's steps to distract yourself from the way your pulse betrays you. her lips curl into a smile, her eyes watching your eyebrows crease together as you try to immerse yourself. your gaze wander back to her face, and you notice something undeniably fond washing across her face.

your heartbeat goes haywire, and you pray that the other girl doesn't feel the way it practically pounds out your chest.

a second passes. then another.

you clear your throat, "you look crazy beautiful tonight—not that you always don't."

"i know," manon muses, humming in agreement. you snort, shoving her shoulder playfully. she rolls her eyes, but her grin doesn't waver—it only becomes wider. she lets her hands trail lazily over your torso, "i wanted to match you."

you halt your movements, brow raising, and heartbeat picking up rapidly. "you did?"

"it's our first party together, excluding the galas," she nods, leaning in just a little, breath warm against your ear. "and besides, i couldn't let a loser like you out-dress me." you wanted to believe she was serious, that there was actual venom laced in her tone, but there isn't—instead something akin to affection is there, and your knees almost go weak.

fortunately for you, though, frank sinatra stops playing, and it transitions back into electronic-dance music.

and instead of staying glued to one-another, manon had flitted away from your side the first moment she got, disappearing into the throng of the rich and wealthy. so now here you were, stuck getting high-fives from your teammates for 'scoring' a girl as gorgeous as manon. each time, your lips part in an attempt to mutter out 'she's not my girlfriend,' only to push down that thought.

the odor of beer and lavish cologne waffle through the beach house, as you walk through the crowd, trying not to trip over the students drinking on any possible surface. though, you give up the moment you see the ghanaian girl up against the wall, red solo-cup in her hand, as she watched her friends' hollow-headed boyfriends play beer pong.

you sigh, teeth biting the rim of your cup. "you're prancing around with your new girlfriend now?" you turn your head to the side, and you're met by xinyu. you roll your eyes, and you shove the chinese girl.

"i'm just saying! i've never seen you… this invested in someone like manon," she argues with a whine, rubbing her shoulder dramatically. you glance at her with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "hell, you even introduced her to seunghan. you never even introduced your last girlfriend to him."

you snicker softly, straightening your back, "she's just different, that's all." you cross your arms against your chest, hoping that your friend would just drop the topic altogether. xinyu shrugs, sighing, before leaning against you.

you sip your drink to push the bitter words down, "she just knows what she wants, and gets it." you pause before continuing, "and you know, there's really no one else's opinion i care more about than hers." there's sincerity laced in your tone, your ears slightly burning at your own admission.

the chinese girl beside you scoffs, and a chuckle slips past her lips. "whatever you say," she whistles, her hand reaching to your collar to flatten it. "you couldn't have at least fixed your collar for this so-called date with her?" she teases.

"fair enough," you relent, and you let your gaze slip to manon, the corners of her lips tugged into an ear-to-ear smile, with her eyes crinkled into crescents. though, you tear your gaze off of the ghanaian girl, now facing xinyu completely.

"if she's changed, then she's changed," the chinese girl mutters, and then she sighs, "maybe you're right. just be careful. promise me that you won't let her step all over you." you roll your eyes, but your pinky-finger still intertwines itself with xinyu's, pinky-promising her.

amidst the crowd though stood a jaw-clenched, eyes-narrowed manon sending glares to the back of your head. she tries and tries to distract herself from the image of you and another girl, but her gaze almost always wanders back to you. she swirls her drink in her hand miserably, watching her friends and their boyfriends play pool horrendously.

she couldn't hear what either you or xinyu were saying over the blaring music, but she curses herself for noticing the genuine smile on your lips and the laugh the chinese girl elicits from you. she shouldn't feel this way—not when she thought you were a nuisance to her life, something to keep her reputation at bay.

every time she talked to you, she felt a sense of annoyance radiating off of herself, yet she found herself tolerating you. everything you did was harmless payback—the snide remarks you made, to the relentless flirting, meant to keep manon on her toes. you drove her utterly insane—yet sometimes, she notices the way the warmth in her chest spreads just a little whenever you try to get on her nerves.

she shouldn't feel like this. this shouldn't feel real.

"what's got your panties in a bunch, manon?" one of her friends tease, and then another whines, "help us finish these shots, won't you?"

"it's just one shot! what damage could that do?" another grins, clicking their glass against her drink cup. she rolls her eyes, and her grip on the cup becomes overbearing. she crushes the plastic cup, her drink spilling onto the ground.

manon shakes her head, muttering through gritted teeth "maybe next time." she turns her heel, and makes way upstairs, which was certainly off-limits to party guests, but she nonetheless enters.

you're still leaned against the wall, nodding your head at whatever xinyu was rambling on about, only for her to interrupt herself and jerk her head. "your girlfriend's headin' up, you should check on her." you whip your head in her direction, eyes narrowing, as you trace manon's figure through the dim lighting; the ghanaian girl's lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyebrows etched together.

"definitely," you mutter, waving the chinese girl good-bye hurriedly, and immediately rushing through the crowd. you barely manage to dodge a stray elbow in the sea of bodies. you finally catch up to manon on the second floor, in some vacant throwaway room's balcony. her back was turned against the door, and you pause in your movements.

then, you speak up, "glad i found where the rejects were." you lean against the door, and it wasn't difficult for manon to deduce it was you. a slight pout juts her lips, as she turns her head in your direction. she doesn't expect you to apologize for your words, but you do anyway, a quiet 'sorry' escaping from your lips.

"what's up with you tonight?" you murmur, as you slowly walk towards the other girl who settled on leaning against the balcony's railing. "not that you aren't always moody, but you're literally brooding right now." her gaze flickers to meet yours, her eyes slightly hooded and narrow, before you playfully raise your hands to gesture surrender.

"i'm just saying. you seemed happy earlier to be here, like when you were teaching me how to waltz." you explain.

she doesn't muster up the strength to say anything, barely sparing you a glance. your hand instinctively reaches for hers, and it felt like muscle memory, holding her hand whenever you two were in public, to pretend to be the perfect couple—except this time, you held her hand like you meant it. your thumb brushes over her knuckles repeatedly, and she tenses slightly.

silence.

you use the beat of silence to your advantage, completely fixating your gaze on her, and your eyes catch the way her shoulders were slump, the natural confidence she exuded now gone, and her jaw clenched. you sigh, staring out into dusk eating away at the light streaks that were previously in the sky, and the trees leaves rustling. you were about to give up on her, until she leans against your body unconsciously, lips quirked into a slight smile, before she quickly suppresses it.

"you know you can't ignore me forever, right? sooner or later, you have to talk to me. we both know you couldn't bear the pain of not talking to me." a gentle smile replaces the previous shit-eating grin on your lips. usually, that would elicit a playful shove and a venom-laced quip from manon, but tonight she only stills in her movements, refusing to answer.

she relents, though, and her hand that you were once drawing patterns on, reaches for your hand. your gaze darts to your guys' intertwined hands, and it was shameful how easy it was for the ghanaian girl to make heat tint your cheeks. her eyebrows flatten from a crease, and her nose scrunches.

you wished that it wasn't so easy for manon to make you break, to make you putty in her hands. the warmth in your chest spreads just a little, and you shift slightly. get a grip on yourself. you hated her stupidly perfect side-profile, the way her lips part just before she drags her nails down your hand.

your breath hitches, and she notices.

everything fades into the background; the world spins around you and manon. her gaze droops down to your lips for a fleeting moment. and then she realizes, you've always looked at her—waiting, watching, as if you needed the right time to come by. her hand rests on top of yours, wanting to reach for you even more. then it trails up to your shoulder, and she properly faces you now.

"why are you looking at me like that?" manon suddenly speaks up, voice quivering. you freeze, your gaze still on her lips. your fingers tug her closer almost instinctively. though, your hands were loose enough for her to slip away, but she doesn't. why won't she?

"like what?"

"like you tolerate me, like you actually like me." she answers.

"what, i can't find you tolerable all of the sudden?" you try to play it off, a faux grin on your lips, as you try to ease the tension.

"you know what i mean."

you want to bite back, to downplay it, but it was no use. it was futile, considering that the ghanaian girl could practically bend you to her every beck and call. you swallow, and you meet her gaze.

then your heart twists.

"so what if i do look at you like that?"

"don't say that," manon immediately cuts in, her voice barely a whisper. "you— we can't. this isn't real." she gestures the space between you two, eyebrows knitted together. her hands reach up to your chest, pushing you away. your fingers curl into fists. and you swallow, hard. you're unable to mutter anything out, hands now stuck at your side.

your face falls, and manon couldn't bring herself to look at you. but she continues, her words meant to sting—meant to intentionally hurt you, meant to force you to walk away. "this wasn't meant to escalate into anything real; this was an accident, yn." her voice trembles, and she tries to believe her own words; but everything is like a punch to the gut for the both of you.

her skin burns at your gaze, and her breathing gets heavy. you stare at her, lips pressed into a thin-line, and your lips part in an attempt to argue. you want to tell her it's not like that, at least for you, because up until now, everything felt real to you, the lines blurring. it was real, and it was sharp, and it was cruel—the way manon filled every hollow space in your heart.

"why?" you search her eyes, and finally do hers meet with yours. it was a look—fleeting and bruised.

the ghanaian girl's throat runs dry, and it gets harder to pretend. she knows, deep in her bones, that you're right. then one of her hands trail down to your waist, almost as if she was attempting to memorize every inch of you. you take it as a cue to speak.

"i didn't want to care about the girl who recorded me throwing up in freshman year. but i did—i do," you swallow, "and now, i'm here, in this fake relationship with you. and somewhere in between the playful fights and pretending to be actual girlfriends in front of people, i realized i wasn't faking it."

manon feels the guilt in her chest, like she was being squeezed from inside out. the thoughts in her head discombobulate, and she wants to tell you to stop talking, and to forget all about it.

she doesn't say anything, and your stomach twists into knots. her arm moves on its own, and it slings around your neck, her thumb lingering on your cheek for far too long.

"i'm in love with you," she finally whispers, and she exhales. the two of you fall quiet again. and her body moves autonomously, her hand twitching before tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

then, you lean in towards her, voice breathy, "can i?"

she doesn't respond immediately, staring at you like you were delicate, afraid that one haste, frantic touch from her would break you. you swallow, waiting for her response, and before you could apologize—

she leans in, too—her lips on yours frantically.

it happens fast.

her hair tickles the side of your face, and your body shivers. your nose bumps against hers, while her hand entangles itself in your hair, somehow pulling you even closer. your arms instinctively snake around manon's waist, keeping her stabilized. you pull away slightly to regain your breath, only for her to pull you back in for a kiss fervently.

your hand slightly fists into her dress, and you know that if you two weren't already kissing, she'd scold you for 'ruining' her dress. she nips lightly at your lower lip, and you could taste the bitter sensation of spiked punch on her lips. you exhale sharply, and you both finally pull away—both breathless and flushed.

"that wasn't bad at all," a smile ghosts over manon's lips, as her thumb wipes off the lipgloss residue from the corner of your lips.

you shove her playfully, "not bad? how flattering to hear." you bite back, your hands moving to flatten out manon's dress after you bunched it up.

"for someone who's so sloppy at dancing a waltz," she chuckles softly, her eyes still lingering in your lips. her hands find your shoulders, resting on them. "and for someone who messed up my dress."

you roll your eyes, leaning in once more, and you kiss her again—this time, slower, drawing it out, like you wanted to memorize how she felt against you, to reassure yourself that this was all real.

"you were right, and i'm sorry for being too stubborn to even notice that i care about you, a lot," she murmurs against your lips, the soft look in her eyes making your heart flutter and your knees buckle slightly. her voice slightly falters, and a small, broken laugh escapes her lips.

"i thought this was a silly phase," the ghanaian girl admits, "the calling you up in the middle of the night thing, listening to you ramble about superman, and- and actually enjoying your presence, even when you're just, so dead-set on pushing my buttons every second."

she exhales, taking your hand into hers, and a smile ghosts her lips. then, she presses a kiss against your jaw, and at that point, you think you would be more than content to die in her arms right now.

"you push my buttons even more," you manage to mutter out, and your voice cracks. "and even then, you're everything i've ever wanted." your hand trembles against hers, and you try to discern her expression. her thumb draws circles on your knuckles, as a way to calm you down—the same way you did before.

her lips curl into a smile, and she cranks her head down to plant a kiss onto one of your knuckles. "so are you gonna ask the million-dollar question?" she drawls out, that familiar smug lilt present.

you sigh exasperatedly, rolling your eyes. but you clear your voice, "will you, meret manon bannerman, be my girlfriend?" your heart almost pounds out of your chest at your own words.

manon nods teasingly, eyes crinkling into crescent moons, "only if you agree to be my personal chauffeur." you nudge her shoulder, scoffing in response.

"fine."

one simple word, and she was already all over you.

lararaj: manon wya lararaj: hello??

meganskiendiel: do u think she bagged yn

lararaj: perchance perchance…

meganskiendiel: a girl could only hope… and pray

manonbannerman: so why do u guys have absolutely no hope in me❓❓

lararaj: i said perchance not a solid no!!!

zhouxinyu: bro yn done ditched me at a party last night

hongseunghan: thats #friendshipgoals💝

choijisung: hg ditched u for her gf LMFAOAO

ln-yn: BRO xinyu told me to follow manon WDYM ditched❓

day i met you babe, freed me from my fear,

you put the blood back to my heart.

current 𝓽aglist : ( open. ♱ 2 be added, read this post. )

@kisshae @sed7ction @beomniiz @yeetaberry127 @vrtualstar @jellaaa @jaythegirlkisser @falling-intoo-deep @c-yerim @bulgik @gtfoiydlyj @rinapomu @meganskiendielsbtc

#fics 　.#kpop imagines #kpop x reader #katseye x reader #katseye imagines #katseye manon #katseye manon bannerman #katseye manon x reader #katseye manon bannerman x reader #manon bannerman x reader #manon x reader #manon bannerman angst #katseye angst #katseye x reader angst #wlw

532 notes · View notes

konigsblog · 2 days ago

Note

hope ur doing well Orla <3

I need ur thoughts on Older!König and his former bullys daughter!Reader, how mean do you think he'd be

Throughout the entirety of König’s childhood, he was relentlessly ridiculed and humiliated by many. It only worsened as he reached high school. Going through puberty and dealing with acne, having a squeaky voice that would break so easily, and reaching a terrifying height that he was known for. Everyone knew him as the freak of the school, who most hadn’t ever heard speak.

He was a total social recluse.

Despite being bullied by the majority of his year, there was a group of people who specifically targeted him. Everyday was a nightmare for him. He was drained to go to school and would look for any excuse to stay home, but his mother and Oma wouldn’t allow him to miss out on precious education. He routinely would lock himself in the bathroom, skipping lessons he knew where his bullies would be. He’d do anything to avoid being embarrassed in front of a class full of ruthless teenagers.

The effects of bullied carried on into his adulthood. He wouldn’t initiate conversation with people or open up to them about himself out of fear he’d be hurt. When someone would make a joke about him, it put him back into that mindset of being a scrawny, lanky boy. It resulted in him losing a lot of possible friendships due to his insecurity.

While at a nearby café one day, he recognised a familiar face, the same boy who made him feeling worthless and like the scum of the Earth for his entire high school experience. He grinned his teeth together, averting his gaze before having to do a double take. Beside him was a younger woman, likely in her early to mid twenties. She smiled at him gently after locking eyes with him, König’s trousers beginning to feel restrictive as he shifted in his seat.

She sat alone at the table, her father having left to use the restroom, and König just knew what had to be done. Although he wasn’t the type to initiate romantic interest in someone, he couldn’t just let you walk off. Through jumbled speech and an attempt at hiding his trousers, he managed to get your number. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t jerk off until he was numb at your instagram posts.

Two weeks had passed since he got your number and you two had been chatting nonstop. Sending pictures, facetiming, and joining each other on the same video games. You bonded over your shared interest. König couldn’t possibly wait any longer. He had to have you beneath him, sprawled out on his bed, taking every inch he had to offer you. You arranged to meet at König’s apartment, somewhere private, somewhere where he could have you all to himself.

König thought of it as being even. His adolescence was ruined, so he could have his bullies pretty daughter taking his cock.

It was clear felt the moment that you entered his apartment that you shared the same thoughts. The way your clothing hugged your curves and your body left him salivating over you. He couldn’t wait to take in your scent. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. After playing videos games for two hours, König took your controller, throwing it onto the coffee table, his hand gripping your jaw as he leaned in, lips pressed against yours and your hips working against each others. His fingers tugged at your clothing, unclasping your bra, your panties stuffed into his trouser pocket, a souvenir for his pain. He was quick to take his own clothes off, the sound of his belt unbuckling sending shivers down your spine, your thighs parted around his waist, legs wrapped around him. You rested your chin on his shoulder, your chests pressed together and your hardened buds rubbing against his scarred chest.

“Show me how badly you want this.” He mumbled between huffs and laboured breathing. You pressed your lips to his, tongue tracing his bottom teeth, teeth clashing, and strings of spit connecting your lips. You whined for him, tracing your fingers over his tensing and twitching muscles, while he pressed into you, watching your face contort into pleasure and euphoria as he filled your needs.

You cried out as he pumped into you, thick veins rubbing against your gummy and slick walls as you coated him in your pleasure. Your skin was clammy and you felt lightheaded, trying to fuck yourself beck onto him when he was being cruel. After taunting you for long enough, König couldn’t take it anymore himself. He thrusted into you, mumbling about how this was his sweet revenge on your father. You barely even took in what he was saying, lost in the warm heat pooling between your legs, your legs trembling as the head of his shaft hit your walls repeatedly. Tears filled the corners of your eyes, rolling down your cheek before König would perversely drag his tongue along your face, chuckling at your reactions to his thumb against your swollen clit.

It didn’t take long before he had you squirming beneath him, riding out your high before he joined you.

Perhaps when he meets your father again for the first time and is introduced as your boyfriend, he’ll get that sweet satisfaction of revenge.

#orla speaks #cod x reader #könig call of duty #konig x reader #konig call of duty #könig #cod konig #konig mw2 #konig smut #konig x female reader #könig x fem reader #könig x reader

629 notes · View notes

rawme-price · 6 hours ago

Text

Oblivious!ghost and best friend!reader who is so done with his shit.

Ur helping simon do his weekly cleaning of all his knives (something that took u months to gain trust for) while he complains abt how horny hes been recently. His hand and plethora of toys dont really scratch that itch and its made him irritable all week.

U look at him like hes an actual dumbass "okay?? So go fuck someone??" As if its obvious. When ghost shoots back that no one wants to fuck him and chatting up birds at bars is too painful ur actually ready to stab him. "dude. Youve got like, the two sluttiest sergeants ive ever met on your team. Theyre practically drooling over u constantly. Zero effort, you could just spread ur legs and they'd get to work."

Simon splutters, face tomato red as he denies it. "No. They dont think of me that way." You two spend nearly an hour arguing abt it until you pull out ur phone and, much to Simon's mortification, call kyle.

"Hello?" His voice comes through the speaker, a bit rough like hes been sleeping.

"Hey, kyle. Quick question." You keep direct eye contact with ghost while you ask "you'd fuck simon, right?"

"Huh? Oh!" You can practically hear kyle perk up on the other end of the phone. Knowing damn well Simon will make u suffer for this- "hell yeah id fuck simon. Shit, id do whatever he wanted if it means I could see him get off."

You snort at simons face, and kyle seems to take that as disbelief "no, no man, im serious! Hours with his cock in my mouth? Sure. Railing him into the matress? Yes please. Getting fucked over his kitchen counter? In heaven."

You can very clearly see the hard-on simon is sporting right now, grinning evily. Still, you raise a brow at simon and he nods minutely. "awesome. Do my a favor kyle and be here in twenty."

#everyone is always settings reader up but who sets up everyone else???#might write a pt 2 who knows #cod #cod smut #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #ghostgaz #gazghost #ghost x gaz #gaz x ghost

609 notes · View notes

ybklix · 2 days ago

Text

𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫

summary: your swimming instructor is hot.

─ pairing: christopher bahng x fem reader ᛝ warnings: smut, pwp i guess, oral sex, cum eating, praise, boob play, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex, pet names, semi-public sex, chris has a big heart (dick), fuckboy!chris (a little) ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ word count: 4.8k

masterlist ⭒ taglist

wen’s note: i’m ovulating (insert the freaky silver sonic gif) and him at the pool mmm, i had to pause my elaborated wips for a tiny commercial break and say this:

“For God’s sake, you’re pushing 30 and you don’t know how to swim!”

Your best friend teased you. You rolled your eyes. Only one part of what she said was true—you didn’t know how to swim.

“So? It’s not like I’m going to swim in the ocean,” you replied casually.

“Then why the hell are we going on this trip? There will be lots of pools, too.”

“Well, a lot of people can’t swim, Devon.”

“I’m just helping you out. It would be better if you knew how, don’t you think?”

“Well, what’s your solution? I can learn there. I’m sure there will be lots of instructors and safety measures.”

You licked your ice cream, feigning annoyance at being called out so suddenly. You and your best friend had been planning the perfect summer on this beautiful beach for a long time. You had worked hard to pay for your respective relaxation getaways... everything was well planned, but now it seemed that the only problem was that you didn’t know how to swim.

“Hmm, you know, my cousin Hyunjin knows the guy who works as a lifeguard at the country club pools. I don’t know if it’s his place, but I think so. I’ll ask him to teach you. I’ll go with you.”

He was hot. Incredibly hot.

They both were. Hyunjin, Devon’s cousin, and that guy whose name you still didn’t know. You felt your cheeks burn as soon as you saw the two men. You weren’t expecting any of this... two really attractive men, shirtless, looking like models.

You were relaxed, sure that you would learn to swim in no time, just in time for your trip. But with them as your instructors, you felt hotter than the strong summer sun itself. Luckily, you would soon be wet, with water, of course, to cool you down.

The two guys were standing in front of you. You were embarrassed to be wearing a one-piece swimsuit and not a bikini like Devon was wearing so freely. Both guys were a dream. You knew very little about Hyunjin, you had never seen him in person, but you always found him attractive. But right now, standing in front of you, he was a thousand times better than any random photo of Devon’s family you saw around. Slim but muscular body, short dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a truly unique and attractive face, the kind that took your breath away. His lips and eyes must be your favorite part of Hyunjin.

But all your attention and eyes were on the man to his left. Slightly paler than Hyunjin, longer, darker hair, thinner eyebrows, and an unforgettable face, not to mention his well-sculpted, muscular body. Big pecs and broader, stronger shoulders compared to the other guy. There was something about him... that made you nervous.

And the feeling, on that hot summer afternoon, was incredibly mutual. The intensity of his gaze on you was so... indiscreet, but you liked it.

“I’m Chris, nice to meet you... I’ll teach you how to swim...”

Chris. Now you knew his name.

“To Y/N!” Devon was quick to respond, pointing at you enthusiastically.

Chris knew. He knew from the moment Hyunjin suggested it, but at first he didn’t want to, especially since the country club belonged to their best friend, Seungmin, and his family. Chris was only there for a couple of weeks in the summer, helping out and watching over the exclusive—and wealthy—members of that club, most of whom were children swimming or unhappy wives who wanted to see him shirtless in the afternoons from time to time. But when he thought about it, two pretty girls, whom he would help learn to swim, wasn’t so bad. A little distraction. Girls in bikinis? Why not? He even accepted with joy and asked Seungmin to borrow the pool area after his work hours.

He knew it was you because Devon greeted his cousin enthusiastically. Chris looked at Devon for a second, licked his lips as he turned his eyes to you. Piercing you with his gaze again. He didn’t know what to expect either and was fascinated, especially by you, the shy girl next to her friend. You had that look. It was inevitable for Chris not to desire you, even if only a little. He blamed the heat wave.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Chris clapped his hands, encouraging everyone.

“Ah, not me. I’m going to get a little tan,” Devon interrupted, walking casually toward the chairs.

It was an indoor pool with large windows, perfectly sized for the sun’s rays to shine through.

You bit your lip nervously, approaching Chris, who was slowly walking toward the enormous pool, which looked terrifyingly deep, but the beautiful water and tiles made it appear a lovely blue.

“Hyunjin!” Devon called out to him. “Come here, you have to tell me what happened with Saetbyul.”

Hyunjin looked at you and Chris, confused, unsure if you needed more help and if he should get in the pool, until his cousin called him over for some gossip.

And so it became the perfect excuse, the moment you let him touch you, gently, almost uncertainly, teaching you how to swim. Touching your thighs discreetly, your arms, and your waist. It was magical. It felt so good, just you and Chris... and Devon not bothering you at all.

But it didn’t last long. According to your friend, you’d be ready in a week. You’d learn to swim, at least the basics. But it wasn’t enough, yet it was the only time you had left before your trip.

After the first session, feeling incredibly attracted to Chris and slightly and disturbingly aroused by his closeness, by his voice, by how good he looked wet, by how he gave you gentle instructions... Devon said, “He’s really hot.” But she never tried anything with him. You knew she wasn’t interested, and that put you in a very good mood. But still... You didn’t dare to ask her if maybe you could start going to the classes completely alone. You didn’t even know why—you knew exactly why, because all of him— you wanted to, it wasn’t like you were taking the first step, but alone, maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself go more...

Of course, you started wearing your bikinis right after the first class, hoping he would get the message.

And of course, he got it. You wanted it as much as he wanted you, even though you tried to hide it behind that shy look that drove him crazy.

So, you were ready. Apparently. At least you knew something decent. Like floating, losing your fear a little, moving in the water. But to really learn, it took more time, or at least that’s what Chris told you... And you became more shy, yet you dared to ask him flirtatiously if he could teach you better once you both had time, with a clear connotation of another meaning. You needed him, badly. The whole week was delicious torture, for both of you, in fact.

It was too short a time. You learned very little about each other. Like how professional and good Chris was at swimming. That he was a sweet 27 years old—which excited and thrilled you so much, it was such a beautiful age, just enough to teach you many things in another area... a dirtier one that didn’t let your thoughts rest. You knew he was good, at mostly... everything.

And just when it was the last day, when between sighs you had to say goodbye and modestly thank him for his help, head down and sad that you might never see him again and that you would miss having him around so much, he suddenly blurted out:

“We can meet tonight, alone... just to practice better.”

Your eyes widened with excitement as you nodded. Your heart raced, yes, of course, to practice. Both of you knew exactly what that meant.

And you were a nervous wreck.

He would be lying if he said he never did something like that. But he gets what he wants and who he wants. You were no exception. From the moment you both exchanged that look that spoke volumes, from the moment you trembled at his touch, he knew.

He wanted to destroy you. He wanted to rip that little bikini in two and devour you whole. And you were about to leave, to have more fun with a foreigner who didn’t deserve you. He wanted you for himself first.

And yet you… it was definitely not something you did. But your impulses to try won out. Leading you to the point of getting into his car, to take you to the well-known pool, which was faintly and almost romantically lit at night through the windows and the dim lights of the pool. It didn’t look dark or scary, but magical.

“So, c’mon, let’s get in the water.”

You blinked in disbelief at how quickly he began to act. Taking off his shoes, socks, shirt… and practically undressing himself.

You looked away, embarrassed and scandalized, when his attractive hand reached for his shorts to take them off. You had barely appreciated him in a full outfit, with a nice shirt covering his incredible abs and chest, his shorts… he looked just as good out of the ordinary as you knew him, shirtless and soaked. Also, you had barely enjoyed a pleasant chat in his car, and now… everything happened so fast.

Chris chuckled at your shy reaction. As if you hadn’t seen him like that before, in shorts and no shirt. Only this time it was slightly different, wearing his boxers.

“Come on, I’ll teach you better.”

You were blushing. You would have died to see how attractively he took off his clothes, one by one. But you didn’t. You turned slowly, uncertainly, to look at him, doing your best to meet his eyes. But you almost sighed when you saw his sculpted body in just boxers.

Fuck. It was happening. And it was turning you on too much.

“Mmm, sure, I’ll get chang-”

“No need for that, you can… just take your clothes off. There’s no one else here.”

He spoke to you, soft, slow, seductively, raising his eyebrows, almost alluring, challenging you.

You giggled nervously. But you obeyed him, just for the adrenaline rush of being spontaneous for once in your life. Chris’ smile widened as he watched you take off your clothes and realized how easily he had persuaded you…

Oh, he knew you were going to be delicious.

He admired you, as if he hadn’t already seen you like that before, half-naked, covering only your breasts and private parts... but this time you were more vulnerable, in a way, and he could see it in you.

He stepped forward, jumping into the pool unexpectedly, to break the tension between you at that moment. From your shy but penetrating gaze exploring his body, his abs, his delicious and subtly outlined cock in the fabric of his underwear... and for him it was exactly the same feeling—the curve of your breasts, your sweet mons pubis...

Chris got into the water, perhaps to calm down a little from how incredibly aroused and hot he was just from seeing you, having you close, and imagining a lot of not-so-nice things.

“Isn’t the water freezing?” you asked him.

He got out after submerging himself, looking so handsome, his hair slicked back, his manly face looking certainly so soft.

“Mmm... no, you have to get in.”

You bit your lip, hesitating to trust him. You stood with your arms crossed. You felt uncomfortable in your underwear, even though you knew it was absurd. And you slowly got in, letting out a squeal when your body floated on the cold water. You closed your eyes and shivered as every part of you bristled.

“You said it wouldn’t be cold!”

“Mmm, it’s not for me,” he said amused.

You laughed and submerged yourself completely to wet your head. Then you started swimming a little, gently, away from him.

“See? You’re doing great!” he exclaimed, losing track of how long he had been smiling just looking at you.

You turned to look at him, happy. You were at the deepest point of the pool, so you decided to play with him a little. As soon as you turned around, you pretended to sink, flapping your arms desperately and fearfully, alerting him instantly.

“Y/n? Oh, shit!”

Chris’ smile completely disappeared, and he swam quickly to you, grabbing your arms tightly and pulling you up to the surface so you could breathe. He looked at you with concern, scared, his eyes wide open.

“Are you okay?”

You looked at his expression and smiled amusedly. As soon as he saw your mocking look, he didn’t relax his face, but continued to frown, this time in annoyance.

“Fuck! Y/n, that wasn’t funny!”

You laughed in his face.

“Sorry, Chris. You should have seen your face! You owed me one for making me get into the cold water.”

Chris wasn’t entirely upset. Within seconds, your sweet laughter was contagious to him. He let go of you and swam out of the pool.

“What are you doing?” you asked, confused.

You almost drooled at the sight of his muscular body emerging from the water, then standing at the edge of the pool as the water dripped off his body and his boxers clung to his skin. You gulped. He certainly had a good bulge.

“I’m going to leave you there for being a bad girl with your instructor,” he joked.

“Come on, you can’t leave me here...”

“Why not? It seems you’ve learned so much that you’re even joking around.”

“I’m sorry, Chris.”

You both knew he was just playing around. But the truth was that you were still afraid to move on your own at the deepest point of the pool. Looking down still made you dizzy, especially at night when the tiles played tricks on your mind and made it look dark and endless. You needed him to guide you.

“Mmm, I’ll consider your apology. Now get out of there on your own.”

He looked at you, expectantly. His gaze made you tremble. You were somewhere between scared, amused, and turned on.

“Please,” you almost whined, “you know I can’t swim here.”

“Then why did you go there in the first place?”

“Chris, please...”

The way you asked tickled a very specific part of him. From the moment he invited you, he knew he was going to fuck you. You both knew it, and he couldn’t put it off any longer. He needed you.

“Mmm, say it again.”

“What?”

“Beg some more, and maybe I’ll rescue you.”

This time he spoke more seriously, more deeply. Now you were so curious about what might happen if he approached you again.

“Chris...” you spoke more slowly, giving him almost bedroom eyes, “Please. Come here. Help me. Isn’t-not helping me against your lifesaving rules?”

You were like a helpless little whore—you had to confess, looking boldly at his cock, and asking for something else entirely...

Chris sighed and discreetly adjusted his growing erection. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by desire and eroticism, so he quickly entered the water, gently took you by the arm, and placed you right in the middle of the large pool, at a depth where you felt comfortable.

You noticed how he avoided eye contact with you and suddenly became abrupt. He got out of the pool again, sitting on the edge and dipping his feet in the water. He was beginning to wonder... should he really start something sexual with you? Wouldn’t it be too soon? You were so sweet that he almost didn’t want to corrupt you.

“Is something wrong?” you asked softly.

You positioned yourself directly in front of his legs, in a strategic spot, right between his thighs. You tilted your head, waiting for an answer.

He got nervous. You, on the other hand, thought he would really do it. That he would kiss you as soon as he got close to you. But nothing, you got nothing but strange behavior all of a sudden, so you decided to act on your own... giving him those subtle signals of how much you needed and wanted him. Right now.

“Mmm, nothing, keep swimming. I’ll supervise you from here,” he cleared his throat. Your gaze was killing him.

As soon as you put your hands on his knees, he almost lost control.

“Why did you act like that all of a sudden?” you pouted.

Chris sighed again, thinking of all the things he could do to that pretty little face of yours. Right now. Fill you with his cum, make you cry, rub his cock on your lips, fuck, he was so hard. And his growing erection didn’t help; it was more than obvious, it was there, right in front of you.

“Like what?”

“Something... distant... cold...”

You didn’t know what you were talking about. Your gaze drifted away, slowly lowering, making the sweet journey from his eyes, his lips, his wet abs... to his noticeable cock. Was he hard? Or why did it look even bigger than before? Your mouth salivated. You confirmed it as soon as you saw his cock throbbing. All because Chris reacted to your intense gaze.

“Babygirl, my eyes are up here,” he said, with a cocky grin.

He felt flattered. If only you could see your expression right now... your bright eyes, the impression on your face.

You looked him in the eyes, quickly, your cheeks red. “I’m sor...”

Chris leaned in, leaving you speechless and placing his fingers gently on your chin. Now that he knew how badly you wanted him too, there was no turning back. You looked into each other’s eyes, and he whispered in a slightly hoarse, demanding voice:

“Go ahead, taste me. See how fucking hard you got me, princess.”

You swallowed nervously. Your heart raced faster, and without wasting any more time, you settled yourself better between his legs once he opened them wider for you. You looked at him and then at his large erection. You had never experienced being aroused underwater before, the wetness of your pussy lost in the pool water, throbbing hard in an almost weightless, relaxed sensation.

You never thought that the first thing your lips would taste and touch would be his cock, but there you were, trembling with excitement and pulling down his underwear to reveal something even bigger that he had kept well hidden.

You appreciated his fully erect cock for a moment, its slight curve, its intimidating presence on its own, and its prominent vein running along its entire length. His cock was big. And if he fucked you, you could fantasize about how much it would overwhelm you and make you whimper. The visual image filled you with even more desire. You were so lost, almost drooling at the thought of having him.

You made a small effort to raise your body higher, to position your mouth at just the right height, gently resting your arms on his thighs, and you began to caress him. His cock throbbed in your hand, and at your touch, Chris let out an exquisite moan from his lips. He was so needy. You could see it, his cock so pink and aroused, and just of thinking about everything that could happen. Everything that is happening right now, filling every one of his senses.

You licked his pink glans, continuing to stroke and gently pull his rigid length, which aroused him even more, to the point of making him bite his lip and pant in desperation. He responded very well to every little thing you did to him.

You circled his tip with your tongue, savoring the taste of his flesh as you took more and more into your mouth while looking him in the eyes. Your mouth opened wider and wider, trying to accommodate the thickness of his cock. Chris whimpered, suddenly feeling the warmth of your mouth. He admired with some difficulty, as he was letting himself be carried away by the pleasure, your wet eyelashes, your body under the water... your sweet expression distorting into something obscene, taking his cock in your mouth, your eyes wanting to cry little by little, your lips surrounding his rigid manhood.

Chris held on tightly, letting his body fall onto his hands pressed against the floor, marking his veiny arms, letting you do almost all the work, allowing you to please him at your own pace.

You began to suck him, to manipulate his cock to your liking, leaving him whimpering, breathless, and so close to orgasm. You sucked and licked consistently until you tasted his precum, until you took his big cock to the back of your mouth, teasing your throat. His throbbing, large sex filled your cavity and drove you crazy in many ways—making you extremely aroused, making your poor pussy restless, begging for more and more, and, as you choked and drooled on his hard dick, it was messy and hot. The sound of your heart beating intensely echoed in your ears, the obscene sounds of your mouth satisfying his sexual desire and stimulating his genitals, but above all, Chris’s sweet whimpers filled the room.

“Fuck, it feels so, so good.”

You continued, taking breaths from time to time, staining your hand with your saliva and his sticky fluids every time you pulled away and pretended to be brave again, giving him oral sex once more. There was something so exquisite about Chris, besides his gasps and his hot, throbbing cock stimulating your mouth. You were being used so badly, your legs moving desperately under the water, but you couldn’t stop, not until you achieved exactly what you both wanted. Chris came in your mouth, whimpering loudly, breathing deeply as his well-satisfied cock spilled its hot, exquisite semen. It filled your mouth as his penis and him continued to collapse in orgasm inside your cavity, going straight to your throat, making a mess and dripping from the corner of your lips.

You took his cock out of your mouth and drank as much semen as you could. He took his cock and rubbed his large manhood, still covered in his white cum, over your lips, gently slapping your face. You smiled, licking every last bit of him around your mouth. This was exactly what you wanted from the moment you met him... But you were still so turned on.

“Good girl, you drank all my cum? Look at you. Now it’s my turn. Come here, get out of the water, please.”

His words excited you, and you obeyed him. The summer fun was still going strong. So, you sat down on the edge of the pool too, and Chris adjusted his cock again and came closer to you, gently wiping your mouth and erotically inserting his thumb into your mouth, making him moan at the sensation of your warm tongue touching his finger. Then he pulled it away from you and finally kissed you, slowly but desperately, with an intensity that left you wanting more. His tongue made its presence felt, playing with yours, making the act dirty enough to then move his lips to your neck, while one of his hands quickly unhooked your bra and tossed it aside.

His mouth played and reveled mercilessly in your breasts, in your wet skin, while one hand squeezed your other breast, pinching your nipples... and the other sucked hard, making you whimper. It was slightly painful pleasure, the kind that only stimulated you to the limit, but the action softened once his fingers pulled aside the fabric of your panties to caress and attend to your clit. You squealed in response, almost wanting to close your legs as a reflex. You were so wet that Chris had to slide his fingers over your entire pussy just to differentiate between the soft, slightly sticky moisture of your arousal and the simple water from the pool.

And suddenly, he slid inside two of his fingers, working harder and harder on you, thrusting into you and overwhelming you with the sensation of his mischievous tongue using and stimulating your nipples, to the point of leaving them sensitive.

His fingers were long, moving, and working exquisitely on you, and if he continued at that pace, you could come for him. But he had other plans, sweet plans to eat you out completely.

His lips moved down your abdomen. He smiled when he saw you shudder and when he reached your navel, he moved away from you a little, removing his fingers from you, which he was only using to stimulate your entrance, and slowly slid your panties down to leave you completely naked.

Chris moaned and his cock throbbed again in desperation—even though he was still so sensitive there—at the sight of your mons pubis looking tenderly soft and appetizing to his libido and insatiable desire for you.

He got back into the pool, controlled your body to position himself in the same way you were, with his face in front of your intimacy, placing your legs on his broad shoulders, and finally began to satisfy you.

He first gave a warm and sizzling lick all over your vulva, raising his gaze lasciviously, inviting you to witness and pay close attention to how crazy he was to turn you on with his skills.

Then Chris finally sucked your clit, licked it, gently pushing it with his strong tongue just to tease you, and then sucked it hard, pressing his swollen lips against your pussy. And that’s how your wildness unfolded. At first, he licked you all over, patiently teasing you while his hands squeezed your thighs and he panted over your pussy, reveling in your taste and soft sensation:

“Mmm, fuck, yessss.”

Then he began to suck you with a voracious hunger, leaving you on the edge, stimulated, trembling, so overwhelmed by the new sensations—his tongue licked and stimulated the right places, his lips and nose pushed into your pussy right on the softest of spots, and even his teeth gently nibbling you were paradise. He knew exactly what he was doing. You had never experienced anything like it, making your pussy throb almost his name alone, so wonderful that you even rolled your eyes gently.

Chris didn’t hesitate to delight in you, he wanted to do it ever since he put his hand on your abdomen and guided you to teach you how to float. He knew that your little pussy was going to be a delight, so he didn’t waste an inch of you. He sucked your clit, tangled his tongue in your labia, pushed your entrance with it; he made you tremble, whimper, stimulating you as your moans of pleasure were a soft melody to him, until he finally tasted your sweet orgasm. You were as sweet as a warm summer evenning, he could have you every damn day.

“Mmm, fuck, I need to fuck you, now. Okay, babygirl?”

You nodded, breathless, still trembling and processing the intense sensation of orgasm.

Chris quickly got out of the pool, sat down, took out his cock, and guided your body to position yourself on top of him, holding you by the waist. You bit your lip, understanding perfectly that you were going to ride him. You sighed, preparing to take his cock.

“Take all the time you need, baby,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“It’s okay. It’s just—that you’re so big,” you replied breathlessly.

Chris smiled, and you finally gathered the courage to position his cock at your entrance and slowly slide down onto it. You both gasped. You had taken in just over half of his length and were already whimpering, feeling it push against your insides, but you wanted to be braver and let yourself fall onto it, letting out an almost hot cry. His cock throbbed inside you, hitting right against your cervix. And Chris wasn’t far behind; the feeling of his cock feeling practically crushed and compacted in such a tight, warm pussy made him see stars.

You were about to move, completely ready. Both of you could taste the sweetest, panting, hot sex. But the sudden lighting of the entire place interrupted and scared you.

Shit. Chris could already guess what it was, but he didn’t even have time to hide you. His cock was buried deep inside you.

“Chris... are you...? What the fuck?!”

Yes. The owner and his friend, Seungmin, had just entered the room, backing away and closing his eyes in terror at the sudden pornographic image.

“Are you fucking in my pool?!!”

You saw the unknown guy in terror and surprise, and then at Chris... but you had to admit that it was kind of funny, thinking that at least you both tasted each other deliciously.

𐙚 general taglist: @rylea08 @hann1bee @iovecb97 @armystay89 @lolareadsimagines @ayyonoona @do-you-remember-summer-127 @wildtokay @korthbum @hyune-sssne @oddracha @choso4u @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @bokkiesluv @thvsuga @myrkhive

⊹ chris taglist: @cherricola-star @biscuitthefirst @vernorica124

729 notes · View notes

bryantmoretta · 3 days ago

Text

under observation - jack abbot x PA!reader

a/n: slow-burn! if there’s room for an assistant im finna put them in a story. this has room to grow if the masses are interested. thank you for reading even if you aren’t interested :)

tonight was your first night as a physician assistant in the emergency department of PTMC. you’d been briefed earlier in the week — two attending physicians, five residents on rotation, and the chief of emergency medicine himself floating in from time to time. it wasn’t going to be easy, but it wasn’t supposed to be. that’s what drew you here.

you smoothed down your yellow cardigan over the hospital-approved scrubs, clipped your badge with the bold red ASSISTANT tag beneath your name, and walked out onto the floor just in time for shift change.

you introduced yourself quietly, politely — always with a smile, never taking up more space than necessary. when the flurry of greetings passed, you found your place just off to the side, near the wall, and waited. clipboard in one hand, tablet tucked under the other arm, pen ready.

you’d been told to stick with dr. abbot for the night, though that would change once the team got used to having a PA around. the position was new here, met with a little curiosity — and, if you were honest with yourself, a fair bit of skepticism.

dr. abbot himself didn’t seem thrilled. he clocked you almost immediately from across the room, a sharp glance sweeping over your ID badge and that bright yellow sweater like he wasn’t sure whether you were a med student who’d wandered into the wrong department or a plant sent from upstairs.

“so… what exactly are you doing here?”

you didn’t look up right away. you focused on the clipboard, fingers adjusting your pen.

“oh, um, i’m here to chart patient interactions, monitor labs, send prescriptions to the pharmacy, and process referrals. i can answer general questions so patients don’t have to wait on you. i’ll keep out of the way. i promise. but if i’m missing anything, or the tone’s not right, just let me know. i’m here to make your life easier, dr. abbot. not harder.”

only when you finished did you meet his eyes. you were earnest, that much was clear — and young. not in only years, but also in how you approached things. careful. measured. like you knew you were walking on uncertain ground and were trying not to step too loud.

jack grunted, barely a nod. and then turned away.

the first patient arrived fifteen minutes later.

you did exactly what you said you’d do: found your place in the room but stayed quiet. you kept your head down, your pen moving steadily over the notes. jack forgot you were even there until he started barking about imaging and a calm voice answered, “patient is next in line, dr. abbot.”

his head turned slightly. not quite a double take, but he didn’t say anything. you were already scribbling again.

by the time jack sat down to catch up on charting, he found half his work already waiting for him. he blinked at the screen — no way you’d written that already. but there it was: complete, thorough, clean. better than he would’ve phrased it himself.

he kept watching.

patient after patient. your notes were on time, perfectly structured, waiting for his sign-off. you never hovered. you weren’t loud. you just… worked. with quiet efficiency and an attention to detail he wasn’t used to seeing from someone on their first night.

he was reading through a set of imaging reports when you appeared again, holding out the tablet.

“scans are back for room three. fractured ulna. radiology’s recommending surgical consult — i paged ortho already, but they’ll need a formal handover from you.” you handed him the tablet, already zoomed to the exact image he needed, and walked away.

jack blinked down at the screen. he wasn’t smiling, not quite, but something shifted in his chest.

for the first time in months, he realized, the only thing he’d really done tonight was practice medicine.

an hour later, he dropped a paper bag by your elbow without a word.

you were mid-sip of your coffee when you looked down at the brownie like it might contain anthrax. he coughed, suddenly feeling a little stupid.

“it’s not laced with anything. just… sugar. welcome to the night shift.”

you smiled, small and sheepish. “thank you. i’m usually in REM sleep right now, so this might save me.”

he found himself leaning a little closer, glancing down at the loops and swirls on your clipboard. “you trained to read hieroglyphics?”

you laughed softly, and the sound pulled at something inside him. it was light. honest.

“no, that’s my shorthand. something they taught us in school, easier to take notes if you’re not writing full sentences.” you pointed to a few symbols. “that one’s sedated intubation. this one’s full code. and that’s patient stabilized.”

jack nodded impressed. “you’re already the smartest person in the room on your first night?”

your eyes dropped, cheeks coloring. “oh — no. i’m not the one doing the procedure.”

jack didn’t say anything, but he filed that away. the way you downplayed yourself. the way you spoke with such care. someone had taught you humility like a rulebook. he made a mental note to unteach that — slowly.

“you’ll get used to nights,” he said. “valerian root tea. blackout curtains.”

your nose scrunched up adorably. “noted, thanks dr. abbot.”

later, you approached with discharge papers.

“room seven. 22-year-old with a coffee burn. dr. ellis cleared them for discharge, but i need your sign-off.”

jack took the pen from his pocket, already moving to stand when you gently held up a hand.

“oh — you don’t need to. i can handle the discharge. i’ve got privileges for that. unless… you would rather?”

he paused. studied you.

so careful not to overstep. always deferring.

“you got this one,” he said, signing the paper. “any questions, come find me.”

he wasn’t sure why, but as you walked toward the patient, jack followed, quietly, from a distance. you explained everything in a calm, even voice. scheduled the burn clinic follow-up, handed over a card with the time and address. you showed her how to reapply the cream, even pulled five samples from your cardigan pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he’d never seen a discharge done with that much… care. not on a routine burn.

by the time he returned to the desk, you’d already updated his charts.

all the way to the last patient he literally just watched you discharge.

and jack couldn’t believe it, eight hours ago, he’d been annoyed at your presence. now he was wondering how he’d ever gone without someone like you.

robby showed up at the crack of dawn, squinting against the overhead lights.

“still alive?” he asked jack, eyeing the coffee in his hand.

jack smirked. “barely. but get this-”

he pulled up a chart on the computer, turning it toward robby. “febrile seizure from literally 20 minutes ago. notes were done before i even had time to sit down.”

robby whistled. “you’re saying upstairs was right about PAs?”

jack didn’t answer. he was looking over toward where you sat at the corner station, head bent low, fingers flying over your keyboard.

“she’s efficient,” robby said.

jack gave him a look. one part warning, one part something else.

“you don’t get to poach this one,” he said quietly. “she’s mine.”

#jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction

423 notes · View notes

abbotjack · 3 days ago

Text

Showing Up Anyway

THE LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST , PREVIOUS PART : IRREGULARITIES

summary : A wedding countdown set against night shifts, compliance deadlines, trauma bays, and Target registries. Two imperfect people, choosing each other again and again.

word count : 16,330

a/n : Here it is.. the long-awaited new official chapter in the series! I’ve been working on this one since I released the prequel back in May, so it’s been a labor of love (and many, many rewrites). Because it’s grown into something bigger than I expected, I ended up splitting it into two part. This chapter is the lead-up, and the wedding + honeymoon will be posted later this week. Thank you for your patience ♡

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! slow burn, emotional intimacy, wedding planning, night shift/9–5 relationship dynamic, war references, hospital setting, mass casualty events (mentioned), depictions of burnout, dissociation, anxiety, perfectionism, implied PTSD, suicidal ideation mention (15 months chapter), partner care during illness, grief and loss, parental death, strained mother/daughter relationship, reader is competent and exhausted, pie charts as emotional coping, soft possessive Jack, love through the mess, mutual devotion

18 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 7:52 PM | Kane & Turner LLP, Federal Compliance Division, Downtown Office ✧ Lesson One: Love Is Showing Up Anyway

You’ve forgotten what time it is.

Not in a casual way. Not like, oh, it’s later than I thought, but in the disorienting, jarring way that happens when your body and your mind are no longer in sync. When the clock reads 7:52 and you swear it was just 4:30. When your hands are still typing but your vision keeps blurring out at the corners. When the last thing you ate was a protein bar shoved into your mouth between flagged grant summaries, and your coffee’s cold and untouched next to your elbow.

You’re still in work mode... or what's left of it.

Your office glows down the darkened hallway, the only one still lit. Everyone else is gone. Even the interns who pretend to like staying late. You haven’t moved in hours, not really... just shifted, stiffened, cracked your neck now and then and blinked too long at your dual monitors, waiting for the numbers to make sense again.

There’s a manila folder open on your desk. Pages covered in fine-tipped notes and color-coded underlines. Red for risk. Pink for inconsistencies. Blue for double checked lines. Your system. Your safety net.

This case is bad.

Worse than AGH.

Which says something, because you still wake up some nights thinking about those trauma logs. But this one? This one is messier. Bigger. More money. More eyes. More ways to screw it up.

Your phone buzzes again. A soft, short vibration against your desk.

You don’t look. You can’t.

If you look, you’ll remember that Jack’s been calling. That he texted an hour ago. That he probably texted again. That your silence is saying something you don’t mean to say.

So you keep your head down. Keep your pen in your hand. Keep breathing like it’s your job. You tell yourself: If I stay ahead now, I’ll have breathing room later. If I catch everything early, I won’t be drowning come next quarter. I can be sharp. Composed. The kind of person who doesn’t fall apart eighteen months from now, standing at the end of an aisle she didn’t give herself permission to enjoy.

That’s when you hear the knock.

Soft. Muffled through the glass door.

You look up.

Jack.

He’s standing just outside your office, half shadowed in the hallway light, one hand braced against the frame. He’s in his hoodie, the dark gray one with the thinning sleeves. Hair still damp from what must’ve been a quick, distracted shower. There’s a takeout bag in his other hand. His brow is furrowed.

He looks worried.

You can feel it in your chest.

You stand. Walk over and unlock the door. Jack slips in with a kind of quiet you’ve only ever seen in him when something’s wrong.

“Dale let me up,” he says, gently.

“Security Dale?”

“Yeah. He said I looked like I knew where I was going.” Jack shrugs, but there’s no humor in it. “Figured he recognized me from the Christmas party. Or the bake off thing… or that time I had to come rescue you after the emergency stairwell coffee disaster."

You almost smile.

You don’t.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dragging across your face. Down to your posture. Your hands. The tired set of your shoulders. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he says, softly.

“I turned it on silent,” you reply, not quite meeting his gaze.

“I texted.”

“I know.”

“I called.”

“I know, Jack.”

He doesn’t move.

The bag in his hand sags a little with the weight of the cannoli inside. You recognize the bakery stamp on the side. “I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“I know you didn’t,” he says, too quietly.

He takes a few steps toward your desk. His limp is more pronounced when he’s tired, you’ve learned that. He favors the left, absorbs with the right. It’s subtle, but tonight it’s worse. Which means he didn’t rest today. Which means he was waiting for you. That realization makes your throat burn.

Jack sets the bag down gently next to your folders. Then he turns and looks at you again. “You’ve been here how long?”

You hesitate. “Since seven.”

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t raise his voice. But something in his jaw shifts. “You eat?”

You don’t answer.

“Water?”

You glance at your bottle. “It’s full.”

He nods. Like that tells him everything.

“Jack,” you say, trying to head off whatever he’s about to do. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I just need to get ahead of this—”

“No, you don’t.”

He walks around your desk, slow but deliberate, and crouches down beside your chair. Places a hand on your knee.

“You’re trying to outrun it,” he says. “The stress. The risk. The idea that if you just work hard enough now, you won’t have to panic later. That if you make yourself perfect, the rest of the world will back off and leave you alone.”

You blink fast. Jack’s voice softens, breaks a little at the edges.

“But baby,” he says, “you already fixed everything that needed fixing.”

You shake your head, jaw tight. “No. I didn’t. This case is a mess. If I miss even one item, the feds will escalate it. The firm gets hit. The client sues. And I...”

“You what?” Jack asks, gently. “You don’t get to marry me?”

Your breath stutters. He leans in a little, eyes locked on yours. “You think I need you to earn that? Like it’s some kind of performance review?”

You look away.

“Don’t,” he says, voice firm now. “Don’t look away. You haven’t looked at me in a week.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I know. I’m not mad. I’m not here to fight you. I’m just—” he exhales, “I’m scared. Because I see you disappearing and I can’t get to you. I’m on nights. I sleep while you work. And I keep hoping we’ll meet in the middle but you’re getting harder to find.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Right in the ribcage. You press your fingers to your eyes. “I just want it to be good, Jack.”

“It is.”

“But it needs to be perfect.”

“It already is.”

You let your hand fall. Look at him.

“I’m not perfect,” you whisper.

Jack reaches for your hand. Laces your fingers together. Holds them there, like they matter. “You are the most perfectly perfect person I have ever loved,” he says, with a kind of quiet conviction that shatters you.

And then his voice softens again. “I made a cake tasting appointment.”

You blink. “What?”

“Late slot. Guy said we could come in right before close. I figured you might need sugar and something dumb to make fun of.”

You stare at him.

“It’s not about the wedding,” he adds quickly. “I mean... okay. It is. But it’s really just an excuse. To get you in my car. To get you out of this building. To sit across from you and watch your eyes do that thing when you taste something you don’t expect to like.”

You let out a quiet laugh. It breaks on the edges. Jack stands slowly, careful with his leg, and offers you a hand.

You take it.

And when he tugs you up, when he wraps his arms around you and holds you close, when he presses a kiss into your temple and whispers, “Come home,” you finally let yourself lean.

Not because the work is done. But because you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

Not tonight.

17 Months Until the Wedding �� Saturday, 9:03 PM | Wedding Reception, Oakmont Country Club ✧ Lesson Two: Love Is Not Looking for a Mirror

You’ve lost track of how many chandeliers are in this tent.

Three? Four? A dozen? All you know is that they’re casting this impossibly soft glow over everything. Over polished cutlery and thousand dollar centerpieces and sequins and pressed tuxedos. The whole place looks like the inside of a champagne flute.

And somewhere in the middle of it all is Jack.

Your fiancé. Your problem. Your person. Leaning against a cocktail table like he didn’t just spend fifteen minutes pretending to care about someone’s hedge fund. He’s already ditched the tie. His shirt sleeves are rolled up. His boots... yes, his boots, because Jack Abbot will die before he wears dress shoes (unless it's for something that involves you), are planted wide, stance loose, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

He looks like the only real thing in the room.

“You realize we are the only people here not wearing pastels,” you murmur.

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just raises his glass in mock salute. “We’re a bold contrast.”

“We’re the problem.”

He grins. “And yet here we are. Still invited.”

“For now.”

“Until someone’s mother tries to seat us closer to the photobooth.”

“You were mean to the photobooth guy.”

Jack shrugs. “He asked me to smile with props. That’s a crime.”

You laugh and sip your drink. Jack watches you over the rim of his glass. His gaze flicks down, from your eyes to your lips to the skin just visible beneath the off-shoulder neckline of your dress. The look is slow. Possessive, but not in a showy way. Just… anchored. Like he needs to keep reminding himself you’re here. That this is real.

“I like this dress,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Even though it’s…” You gesture vaguely. “Wedding-y?”

“Especially because it’s wedding-y.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw’s clean-shaven. He wore the suit you laid out without complaint, but only because you didn’t try to get him into something double breasted or God forbid velvet. And even now, stripped of the tie and already sweating under the lights, he hasn’t taken off the jacket. You know he’s doing it for you.

“You look good too,” you say, quieter this time.

Jack doesn’t respond. Just slides his hand around your waist, fingers brushing the zipper at the small of your back. “I feel like a security risk,” he murmurs.

“You look like you want to start a bar fight with the DJ.”

“I do want to start a bar fight with the DJ.”

You grin. “Too many Ed Sheeran remixes?”

“One is too many.”

You lean in, your voice dropping conspiratorially. “We’re gonna have to pick a first dance song at some point.”

Jack groans into his drink.

“I’m just saying,” you tease. “This could be us.”

“I’d rather deploy again.”

“Jack.”

“No, really. Give me a Kevlar vest and a sandstorm over choreographed dancing any day.”

You’re still laughing when a hand taps your shoulder. It’s Charles, the bride’s dad. All broad smiles and cologne. A little too tipsy. A little too charming. You don’t even remember shaking his hand during the ceremony, but suddenly he’s there.

“Mind if I steal her?” he asks, already offering his arm.

You glance at Jack. His entire expression changes in a heartbeat. His smile doesn't falter. But the warmth drops. Just slightly. “Go ahead,” he says, voice even. “Just don’t drop her.”

Charles chuckles like it’s a joke. You press your fingers lightly to Jack’s hand and let yourself be led onto the dance floor. The lights are even warmer here. The music soft and nostalgic. You sway politely, smiling when you’re supposed to, nodding through a conversation about how much everyone’s grown, how wild it is to see college girls getting married now.

You feel Jack watching you the entire time.

When you return, he’s already standing, glass abandoned, jacket unbuttoned now. His eyes cut through the crowd to you like a spotlight. “You let him spin you,” he says the moment you reach him.

“It was one spin.”

“He dipped you.”

“I dipped myself.”

He gives you a look.

You grin. “Jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” Jack mutters. “I just have eyes. And a pulse. And an extremely vivid imagination when I see someone else touching you.”

You let that hang for a beat longer than you need to.

Then, “Would you dance with me if I asked?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “No one else,” he says. “But yeah. You? Always.”

You blink. Then slide your hand into his. His palm is warm. Dry. Familiar. You lead him out. The music’s slow again. Nothing formal. Nothing choreographed. Just something you can move to without thinking. Jack pulls you close. One hand at your waist. The other curled loosely around your hand.

“This is nice,” you say.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“You’re so romantic.”

“Keep saying nice things,” he whispers. “I’ll put the tie back on.”

You laugh against his chest. You’re silent for a few moments. Just the music. His heartbeat. His breath against your temple. Then quietly, you say: “Would you wear it?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

You tilt your head to look up at him. “The mess uniform. At our wedding.”

His body tenses almost subtle. His hand at your back stops moving. You’re careful not to fill the silence too fast.

“You don’t have to,” you add quickly. “I just... thought about it. I didn’t know if you’d already decided. Or if you didn’t want to. I mean... God, forget I said anything—”

Jack shakes his head, voice low. “You don’t have to walk it back.”

You look up.

His expression is faint. But not cold. “I haven’t put that thing on in years,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d ever have a reason to again.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m not asking because of the photos. Or the guests. Or the aesthetics.”

“I know.”

“I’m asking because it’s yours. And I love all of it. Even the parts that still scare you.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. Not defensive. Just... moved. After a long moment, he nods. “If you want me in it, I’ll wear it.”

You stare at him. Then, because it’s Jack, you whisper, “Only if I get to unbutton it later.”

Jack groans.

You grin.

The song changes again. He leans in, nose brushing your temple. “You’re dangerous,” he mutters.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Undeniably.”

He kisses you. Not for the tent. Not for the guests. For you. And you think, this isn’t the wedding I pictured growing up.

But it’s ours.

It’s real.

And it’s so much better.

16 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 10:24 AM | Their House, Kitchen ✧ Lesson Three: Love Is Letting It Be Ugly Sometimes

The skillet is smoking. Your eyes are stinging. And for some godforsaken reason, the fire alarm is going off like you’ve just staged a small domestic war.

You’re barefoot on cold tile, wearing Jack’s ripped-at-the-hem Purdue sweatshirt and no bra. There's flour on your cheekbone, batter on your forearm, and the only thing more scorched than the eggs is your patience. You reach for the dish towel. Swat at the smoke alarm. Miss. Swear. Swat again.

It screams louder.

Of course it does.

You drop the towel, slam the pan on the back burner, and curse under your breath so hard it echoes. From upstairs, a voice:

“Hey... what the hell—?”

And then: footsteps. Jack appears a second later at the landing, shirtless, drawstring of his sweatpants trailing loose. He stops cold in the doorway, taking in the scene: the haze of burnt oil, the crusted pan, the smoke alarm, your arms mid-air like you’re about to start round two with the ceiling.

You look at him. He blinks at you. “…Are we under siege?” he asks.

You point the spatula at him. “Not now.”

Jack squints. “Is this… an emotional spiral or a kitchen fire?”

“Pick one.”

He walks in, quiet, slow, like you’re both in a hostage situation. Then casually grabs a chair, drags it under the smoke alarm, climbs up, and yanks the battery out. The beeping dies mid-wail.

Silence.

You close your eyes.

Jack steps down. Sets the chair back. Then gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “You wanna walk me through the crime scene?”

“I was making breakfast.”

“That’s a strong word for what’s in that pan.”

You glare.

He holds up his hands. “Hey. Just trying to understand the chain of events that led us to DEFCON 3 at ten in the morning.”

You turn your back on him and run cold water over the edge of the skillet. Steam hisses up like it’s offended. Jack leans against the counter. Watches you. “You’re not mad about the eggs,” he says.

“No,” you mutter.

“So what is it?”

You don’t answer. He waits. Not pushing. Just there. You scrub at the pan like it wronged you personally. “I just wanted to do something nice,” you say finally. “Something simple. Something domestic and… normal.”

Jack lifts a brow. “You chose a frittata.”

“I chose trying.” Your voice cracks, and you hate that it does. “Because everything’s been work and logistics and checklists, and I thought... maybe if I got it right today, I could feel human again.”

Jack’s face softens. But you keep going. The words start pouring before you can stop them. “And you’re off, for once, and we’re here, in this house we actually get to live in, and I thought, if I made something that didn’t come in a takeout container, maybe I’d stop feeling like a failure.”

His eyes flick over you, the sleeves rolled to your elbows, the flour in your hair, the exhaustion smudged beneath your eyes.

“You’re not a failure,” he says.

“You didn’t see the frittata.”

“I saw a woman I love trying too hard not to fall apart.”

You freeze. Jack steps in. Takes the ruined spatula from your hand. Sets it down. “Babe,” he says, voice low. “You don’t need to impress me.”

“It’s not just you,” you say. “It’s the wedding. The planner. The project. The group chat with your family that has seven unread messages about linen swatches. And I—Jack, I don’t want to be the girl who fakes it through her own engagement. I want to be ready. I want to be good.”

Jack cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing behind your ear. Not possessive, anchoring. “You are good,” he says. “You’re so fucking good, I forget sometimes that you’re human.”

You exhale. Your eyes are wet now. Not crying. Just on the edge. Jack leans his forehead against yours.

“You burn things sometimes. You forget coffee filters. You start spiral-cleaning the second you get overwhelmed.... you alphabetize canned goods.”

You crack a smile. “You told me to.”

“Look,” he says, thumb tracing your jaw. “I love the girl who color codes our budget. I love the one who triple checks the emergency contacts. I love the one who’s already mapped the guest list like it’s a war plan.”

“That’s not—”

“But I also love this,” he says, eyes on you. “Right here. The mess. The smoke. The ruined pan. All of it.”

You bite your lip.

“I don’t need a picture perfect fiancée,” Jack adds, softer now. “I need you. The one who’s in this with me. Even when it sucks.”

You look at him. And it clicks, how he’s always known how to let you be messy without flinching. That he doesn’t need the Pinterest version of your love. Just the one standing in front of him. You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest. He wraps around you instantly, warm and solid and sure.

“So,” Jack says, voice muffled against your hair. “You still want eggs?”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re not gonna try and make a second frittata, are you?”

Jack grins. “God, no. We’re ordering bagels and pretending none of this ever happened.”

You smile, even as you swipe flour from your cheek. “I love you,” you say, quietly.

He kisses you. Fast, firm, forehead to yours.

“I know.”

Then he pauses.

Tilts his head.

“Do we still have any of that fancy jam?”

You laugh. “You mean the one you said tasted like ‘fruit that went to private school’?”

Jack lifts both hands in mock defense. “It grew on me.”

You shake your head, grinning now.

The house still smells like smoke. The kitchen’s still a disaster. But it feels lighter. Like you can breathe again.

Like love doesn’t need to look good to be right.

15 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 6:41 AM | Their House ✧ Lesson Four: Love Is Knowing When to Knock Softly

You’re not supposed to be awake. But the buzz on your nightstand has weight. You reach without thinking, already expecting the worst. The screen lights up.

ROBBY (6:41 AM)

Hey Jack’s okay. Just wanted to tell you before you hear from anyone else... He was on the roof after the crash but it was different this time, He was past the railing

You sit up too fast. Everything blurs. Your throat tightens, stomach dropping straight through the mattress. The room is too quiet. Your heart fills all the space.

Past the railing.

Not the usual. Not just air. Not just darkness and coping.

You try calling him.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

You’re already out of bed. Hoodie. Keys. Phone in hand. You don’t remember putting on socks. Don’t remember how the floor got so cold. Just that your hands won’t stop shaking. You get as far as the front door when you see it. Headlights, slow, pulling into the drive.

You pause. Your hand’s already on the knob.

The door opens before you touch it.

Jack steps in.

The porch light hits him in pieces. Boots, scrubs, jaw, eyes. His face is flushed from the cold, but something in him is too still. He stops when he sees you. His mouth opens like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Not at first.

“I was gonna shower first,” he says finally, voice low. Hoarse. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You don’t speak.

You just walk straight to him and wrap your arms around his chest, burying your face in the fabric of his scrubs. You don’t care that he smells like sweat and disinfectant. You don’t care that your knees go weak halfway into the hug. He doesn't resist. He just stands there, breathing you in.

Your hand fists into his back. You press your forehead to his shoulder. “Don’t do that,” you whisper. “Don’t not come home.”

He exhales slowly. Doesn’t answer. You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are rimmed in red. Not crying, past crying. The hollow, end-of-the-line kind of tired.

“How bad?” you ask, voice barely above a breath.

Jack blinks slowly, like answering costs him something.

“Bad enough,” he says. “Bus crash. Kids. No warning, no prep. Half the bay was still flipping rooms. One of the boys was—” His jaw locks. “He was wearing a little league jersey. I thought about what I’d say to his parents, but the mom was already there. She knew.”

You don’t realize you’ve moved until your fingers are in his hair, carding slowly. He leans into the touch like it’s the first real thing he’s felt all night.

“I went upstairs,” he says, voice breaking in the middle. “Didn’t mean to. Just ended up there.”

You nod slowly.

“I know.”

“I wasn't going to jump,” he says. “But I didn’t not want to.”

That’s when your breath catches. His voice is low and steady, like he’s reciting numbers, charting vitals. Like if he says it clinical enough, it won’t count as a confession.

You lift your hand to his face. His skin is cold. Your thumb brushes the space beneath his eye. “I’m here,” you whisper. “You’re not alone. You never were.”

Jack’s eyes close, and for the first time, he doesn’t look like a doctor or a soldier or a man trying to hold the whole world in his chest. He just looks tired.

“I kept thinking about how this house has your name on the lease,” he murmurs, like it’s some unholy secret. “That you’ll come down the stairs and find out I left you with that.”

You swallow hard.

“I’d burn the house down if it meant keeping you in it.”

That gets him. His throat bobs. He drops his forehead to yours and exhales. You wrap your arms tighter. “I didn’t know how to call you,” he admits. “Didn’t know what I’d say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur. “You just have to let me in.”

He nods once. Then again, slower. The silence shifts. Not heavier. Just more shared. You guide him to the couch. Don’t ask. Just pull him down beside you. You curl into him the way he always curls into the dark. Quiet, without demand.

You press a kiss to his jaw. To his temple. To the place behind his ear where he’s warmest. “I need you to promise me something,” you say.

Jack glances sideways. “Okay.”

“If it ever gets too loud, if it gets bad like that again... call me.”

He starts to shake his head. You stop him with a hand on his cheek. “I mean it. Even if you’re just sitting there thinking about it. Especially then. You call.”

Jack doesn’t nod. He just presses his face to your shoulder, hand clutching the back of your top like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

And you let him.

You stay until the sky lightens further. Until the birds start. Until his breathing slows.

Later, when he finally falls asleep with his head on your lap and your fingers in his hair, you reach for the blanket on the back of the couch and drape it over both of you.

You don’t sleep. You don’t move.

You just stay.

Because this, this moment, is what the love lesson is: Not saving. Not fixing. Just being there when the roof stops feeling safe.

And showing up again in the morning.

12 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 1:12 PM | Highland Park — Back Room of a Florist-Wine Bar Hybrid ✧ Lesson Five: Love Is Reading the Fine Print

The upstairs room smells like citrus and eucalyptus. Not overpowering, just enough to remind you the space doubles as a wedding florist during the week and a sensory friendly poetry venue every third Thursday. Rain beads against the windows, soaking the outside world in silver. You and Jack sit at a mismatched table of reclaimed wood, surrounded by dried flower bundles, stacks of linen bound vow books, and a pot of herbal tea that tastes faintly like pine.

Your officiant, Ramona, wears wire rimmed glasses and Doc Martens. She’s in her fifties, has a doctorate in philosophy, and once paused a funeral for a rainbow. You trust her almost instantly.

“I like to get a feel for the texture of a couple before I start writing their ceremony,” she says, flipping open a folio. “Not just your origin story. The actual feel of you. Your voice, your contradictions, your shared language. I want the ceremony to sound like something you’d say to each other in the car.”

Jack smiles faintly. “In that case, I hope you like petty arguments about traffic and why she won’t use Google Maps.”

“Because Google Maps tried to kill me once,” you mutter.

Ramona grins, pen poised. “Let’s start.”

She glances down, then back up. “This won’t be formal. Just real. Answer however you want.”

You both nod.

“What surprised you the most about falling in love with each other?”

Jack speaks first, after a beat.

He doesn’t look up right away, just rubs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip like he’s turning the words over in his mouth before committing to them. “I think what surprised me most was… how quiet it felt,” Jack says, voice low but steady. “Not in a dull way. Just... safe."

He glances over at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She didn’t storm in. She just… walked in with a ledger and started pulling the wires out of the bomb like it was her job.”

A pause. Then, a little softer:

“I’m not easy. I know that. And I’ve had a lot of people… love me in theory. Love the idea of what I survived, or what I do. But not a lot of people have stayed long enough to love the parts of me that aren’t so noble. The sharp stuff. The quiet.”

He exhales through his nose. “But she did. She just stayed. And I kept expecting it to feel terrifying, but it didn’t. It is just easy”

You shift slightly in your seat before answering.

“I didn’t think I was someone who could be surprised,” you say. “Not in relationships. I’ve seen enough messes, enough ruined budgets, enough imploded dynamics, enough emotional disaster zones with overdue invoices... to assume most things unravel exactly on schedule.”

You glance at Jack. He meets your eyes without flinching.

“But he didn’t unravel. He endured. And more than that, he met me where I was. Not just the good parts. Not just the organized, always-has-an-answer parts. He saw the panic underneath the planning. The anxiety under the armor.”

You smile faintly.

“And he didn’t flinch. He just asked what color highlighter to use.”

“Tell me about a time you misunderstood each other... and what you learned from it.”

You go first this time.

You sit forward a little, folding your hands in your lap, searching for the right entry point.

“There was a week early on… maybe four, five months in. Jack had back-to-back trauma shifts. I was in the middle of a government bid audit that was leaking data requests like a pipe. We barely saw each other. I think we passed like ships. He’d get home just as I left for work. It wasn’t… dramatic. Just silent.”

Your voice softens.

“And I took that silence personally. I thought he was pulling back. That maybe I’d asked for too much without realizing it. Or—God—forgiven too easily. That maybe I’d read into it wrong.”

Jack looks over at you, brow tense, but you’re not crying. You’re just being honest.

“So I did what I do,” you go on. “I built walls. Quietly. Strategically. Tried to get ahead of the hurt by preparing for it. I told myself if I just didn’t need him, then it wouldn’t matter. And he... he noticed. But he didn’t push. Not right away.”

A beat.

“And then one morning, I came downstairs and he’d made coffee. He was sitting on the floor in yesterday’s hoodie with a post-it on the mug that said I’m sorry I haven’t had words lately. I still love you, even when I’m empty.”

You pause, blinking once.

“It wasn’t the silence that was the problem. It was the assumptions we each made about it.”

Jack nods slowly before answering.

“I thought if I just kept showing up, if I kept the ship running, she’d know. That she’d feel it. That I didn’t need to explain I was drowning a little because explaining it felt like another form of work.”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“But she’s not a mind reader. And I’m not made of stone. And somewhere in the middle of that week, I realized… she’d rather hear messy truth than be left filling in blanks I’m too tired to name.”

He looks at you.

“I’m learning how to name things.”

“When do you feel the most loved by each other? Not the big moments. The small, almost invisible ones.”

Jack answers. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the window like he's watching the answer unfold in the back of his mind before bringing it forward.

“When she packs my bag,” he says eventually. “I never ask her to. She plays it off like it’s just practical. Habit. But it’s more than that.��

A beat. He shifts forward, voice lower now, rough at the edges.

“There’s always something in there that says, I love you. A folded note in the side pocket. A packet of ibuprofen. One of those overpriced protein bars she claims she only bought for the office. My phone charger wrapped up right, because she knows I won’t do it right myself.”

He taps a finger against his thigh, thoughtful.

“It’s her way of saying I can’t be in the trauma bay with you, but I can make sure you're okay when you get out. And that… that’s love. The kind you feel before you name it. The kind that doesn’t need a witness.”

He turns to you, something soft pulling at the corners of his expression.

“She takes care of me in ways I didn’t know I needed.”

You answer without taking your eyes off him.

“When he comes home and doesn’t make noise.”

You pause, let that hang there for a second.

“It’s gonna sound weird, but... he comes in soft. After twelve hours of blood and adrenaline and chaos, he doesn’t slam the door or crash into the fridge or announce that he’s back. He just… re-enters quietly. Takes his boots off by the door. Showers without waking me. Leaves his pager in the kitchen. Like he’s trying not to break the spell.”

You smile faintly.

“And then he’ll climb into bed and just rest his forehead against mine. Not to wake me. Just to check that I’m breathing okay. That I’m there. That he’s home. And sometimes I’ll pretend to still be asleep because the moment is too good to interrupt.”

A breath.

“That’s when I feel it most. The care that doesn’t need to be loud.”

“What’s one completely ridiculous thing about your partner that you find weirdly endearing?”

You jump in first, already grinning.

“He can’t whisper,” you say, and Jack immediately groans.

“I can whisper,” he protests.

You raise a brow. “Jack. You stage whisper like a man doing bad improv.”

Ramona laughs. Jack mutters something under his breath, but he’s smiling.

“It’s not just that it’s loud,” you go on. “It’s the urgency. Like he thinks if he says it fast enough, it’ll count as subtle. He’ll lean over during a formal event. Like, say, the staff Christmas dinner where my boss is ten feet away, and be like: ‘That guy’s absolutely embezzling.’” You mimic the hoarse, rushed tone. “‘Look at his shoes. No one buys those on a public salary.’”

“And I was right,” Jack says.

You point at him. “You always think you’re right. And somehow, even when you are, I’m still the one doing damage control.”

“You got engaged to a trauma doc with a forensic brain and a God complex,” Jack says, palms up like he’s pleading the fifth. “At a certain point, that’s on you.”

Jack answers next, looking far too smug.

“She makes her bed like she’s preparing for a hotel inspection,” he says, deadpan.

“That is not ridiculous,” you interject.

“She fluffs the pillows. Under the decorative pillows. There are sub pillows. There’s a throw blanket with diagonal angles measured like it’s a geometry quiz. I watched her adjust the fringe once because it looked ‘unsettled.’”

You try not to laugh. “Fringe can have a mood.”

“It can’t,” Jack replies. “And here’s the thing, I ruined the whole bed three hours later. And she still makes it like it’s a sacred ritual.”

He shrugs, softer now.

“I don’t know. It’s her way of making order out of chaos. And maybe I’ve had enough chaos that the order feels like a love letter.”

“What’s your most controversial opinion about your partner’s habits or routines?”

Jack answers first. He sighs like he’s been waiting to get this one off his chest for months.

“She thinks spreadsheets are a coping mechanism.”

He looks at you, then at Ramona. “And not just in the ‘I’m organized’ way. I mean she builds full-scale tactical battle plans in Excel. I once walked into the kitchen and she had a spreadsheet open titled ‘Contingency Plan – Worst Case Guest Seating.’”

You shrug. “That was responsible.”

“That was psychotic,” Jack replies, deadpan. “There were color coded tabs for in-law arguments, dietary restrictions, and what to do if someone dies on the dance floor. She had a section labeled ‘emotional fallout’ with subcategories.”

He looks at the officiant again. “And, she once made a pie chart of our arguments.”

“It was an illustrative tool,” you mutter.

“It had a legend!” Jack says. “She gave our passive-aggressive silences colors!”

Then he softens. “But the part that gets me is that it’s not an act. It’s how she steadies herself. How she makes sense of the world. When things start to spiral, she opens up Excel and starts building structure. Order. Exit plans.”

A breath.

“And I used to think it was funny... or neurotic. But now I think it’s the bravest thing in the world in a way. She tries to organize the storm because she wants to make sure everyone makes it through it alive.”

He smiles, crooked and quiet. “I get it now. I just… wish she’d let the pie charts go.”

You answer next, slow and steady.

“Jack eats like the fridge might explode if he opens it too fast,” you say. “Like he’s afraid it’ll startle.”

Jack groans. “It’s called moving with intention.”

“No, it’s called closing the door with your foot while holding a spoon in your teeth like you're stealing fire from the gods.”

Ramona laughs. You go on.

“He doesn’t meal prep. He meal guesses. He gets home at 7AM after twelve hours of pure hell and just stands there, staring into the fridge like it’s a patient he’s trying to diagnose.”

Jack shrugs. You smile, fond, but exasperated. “One time, he made an entire dinner out of half a lemon, three olives, and a protein bar.”

Jack raises a finger. “It worked.”

“You were starving two hours later.”

“Then it mostly worked.”

You pause, then look at him more softly.

“But here’s the thing. He doesn’t ask for much. He’s not high maintenance. He’d eat cereal and call it a meal. But when I bring him something, when I actually cook, he eats it like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like it’s church. Like someone made the world quiet for a second.”

You glance down, voice gentler now.

“That’s what gets me. The way he treats care like it’s rare. And sacred. Like it’s a surprise every time someone chooses him.”

Ramona smiles gently. “Well,” she says. “That’s more than enough to work with.”

She closes the folio.

“Y’all are going to ruin me, you know that?”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “We try.”

And as the rain thickens outside and the air inside settles into a quiet warmth, you realize that somehow, even with opposite schedules, opposite coping styles, and two wildly different calendars, you’ve built a kind of rhythm neither of you saw coming.

A new kind of fluency.

A love that speaks in fine print and late-night texts and hand touches under the table.

And right now?

It speaks just fine.

13 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 9:16 AM | Target Superstore ✧ Lesson Six: Love Is Not Dividing the Closet

You’ve been here for forty-six minutes and Jack Abbot has scanned:

one neon green NERF blaster

a velvet throw blanket that you told him would attract lint like a graveyard attracts ghosts

and a plastic skull-shaped candy bowl from the Halloween clearance bin.

“Essential,” he says now, holding it aloft like Hamlet’s skull. “Picture it. Movie night. Swedish Fish. Macabre ambiance.”

You stare at him. “Honey... we are building a wedding registry.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging the registry scanner like it’s a sidearm. “A registry should reflect the soul of the couple.”

“Which part of the skull screams us?”

Jack gives you a beat of mock-thoughtful silence, then, “Probably the part where it looks normal until you look closer and realize something deeply unhinged is going on beneath the surface.”

You snort, try to fight it, fail miserably. “Put it back.”

He sighs, dramatic and long suffering, and places it in the nearest red cart as if he's someone laying a hero to rest. You don’t remember who suggested doing the registry in person. Probably you. Jack’s always game for an errand, especially on his post shift high. The weird adrenaline laced exhaustion that turns into mischief if left unchecked.

He met you in the parking lot after you ran a few errands, holding a coffee you hadn’t asked for but probably needed. You were still cloudy from spreadsheet hell, and he looked like a man whose entire shift smelled like antiseptic and sorrow. And yet, he grinned. That sharp, sideways Jack grin, all teeth and unslept eyes and: “Let’s go argue about towels.”

You said yes because you loved him. And because, if you’re being honest, you wanted to see what kind of towels he’d fight for.

Spoiler: Jack doesn’t care about towels.

“I just think it’s weird they’re labeled ‘quick dry,’” he says now, poking one. “Like that’s not the basic expectation of a towel.”

“They dry the person quickly,” you argue. “Not themselves.”

“Then the marketing is a lie.”

He holds one up to his face, rubs his cheek against it like a cat. “Too scratchy,” he declares. “This one feels like the trauma sheets after a code.”

“That is the most horrifying comparison you could’ve made.”

“You brought me here,” Jack says. “This is on you.”

You sigh, rub your temples. “Can we just pick something practical? One brand, one set, good reviews, nothing red or teal or embroidered with ‘his’ and ‘hers.’”

Jack frowns. “What about ‘hers’ and ‘also hers’?”

You pause. “That’s kind of funny.”

“Or,” he says, lifting a grey towel, “we each pick one. Yours is practical. Mine’s wildly impractical but emotionally satisfying.”

“Like you?”

He grins. “Exactly.”

You find yourselves standing in front of a display of Dutch ovens, and something about the look of them makes you both go quiet. Jack nudges one of them. “Do you actually want this stuff?”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He shrugs, scans the floor. “I know you. I know you’d be just as happy cooking pasta in a scratched up pan if it meant we could put the rest toward something practical. You’re not here for the aesthetic.”

You smile. “I want our house to feel lived in. Not staged.”

Jack hums.

“Then why do it?” he asks. “Why the registry? Why drag me to aisle forty seven of hell?”

You look at him.

“I want things we choose together,” you say finally. “Not just things that end up in our house because someone handed them down or because I panicked during a flash sale.”

You gesture to the rows of over designed bakeware.

“This isn’t about what we own. It’s about what we build.”

Jack is quiet for a moment. Then, in that way he does, the way he softens without warning, he says, “Okay. Let’s build something.”

You leave the store with a registry that includes:

a beautiful, neutral-toned towel set

one aggressively orange mixing bowl, Jack’s justification being, This feels like something I would’ve stolen from your college apartment if I’d known you back then.

a Dutch oven you didn’t think you’d care about but kind of love

…and, yes, the goddamn skull candy bowl... which Jack, apparently, couldn’t wait to add to a registry and just bought outright.

“Compromise,” Jack says, loading it into the car.

You shake your head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He leans across the console before starting the engine, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “I’d register for that, too.”

You roll your eyes. But you’re smiling.

And somewhere, between aisle forty seven and the trunk of Jack’s ancient car, you realize: You’re not building a registry.

You’re building a home.

And you’re doing it with him.

10 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 11:22 AM | Solstice Bridal Studio ✧ Lesson Seven: Love Is Letting Yourself Be Seen

The mirrors catch you before you’re ready. Three angles. Soft lighting. The kind of dress that doesn’t just lay on your body, but convinces you that you need to stand still and see yourself.

It’s not even the first one you’ve tried on. It’s not the most dramatic, or the most expensive. But something about this one, the way the neckline settles against your collarbone, makes everyone go quiet. And that’s what gets you. Not the price. Not the lace. The silence.

“Holy shit,” Kennedy breathes, mouth half covered by her prosecco flute.

“She’s gonna make me cry,” Mara mutters from the couch, already dabbing at her mascara.

Bri grins like she’s known this was the one since you walked in the door. “Jack's gonna pass out.”

You blink fast and try to laugh, but it catches halfway. You can't cry, not yet, but your hand curls slightly at your side. A quiet tic Jack would recognize. A holdover from stress.

Heather sees it too.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just leans forward, elbows to knees, that steady, unreadable look you’ve only ever seen in the trauma bay. Like she’s assessing the wound before calling it what it is.

You remember the first time Jack told you about her. Heather Collins, resident, terrifyingly competent. Back then she was just a name. A force of ER nature. But then came the double dates, you and Jack meeting Robby and Heather at trivia nights, or that one ill-fated bowling night where Robby showed up in scrubs and Heather casually demolished everyone with perfect form and no trash talk.

The friendship wasn’t immediate. Heather’s not the kind of person who gives herself away. But slowly, with each shared plate of dumplings, each side glance during a rant from Jack or Robby, it started to shift. She started sitting closer. Started texting you outside of plans. Started staying after for one more glass of wine.

Then one night, she invited you out. Just you. No boys. No buffer. You sat at the bar until closing, talking about work, womanhood, the unspoken heaviness of holding yourself together for everyone else. She told you, without flourish, about her miscarriage. About how she’d gone back to work two days later. Now she’s here, sitting among the champagne glasses and velvet armchairs, and her voice is the one that cuts through the noise.

“It’s a good dress,” she says softly. “But that’s not why you’re freaking out.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that Heather raises an eyebrow.

You glance at your reflection. Then away. “It’s just—” You swallow. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this. So... much.”

Mara pipes up from the couch. “That’s because it’s working.”

“It’s not just the dress,” you say. You’re talking to the room, but really you’re looking at Heather. “It’s the moment. Like… this is the part where everything starts to count. Like if I let myself be excited, I have to admit that it’s real. And if it’s real... what if I mess it up?”

Heather doesn’t answer right away. She stands. Crosses the room quietly and stands beside you at the mirror. “You won’t,” she says.

You huff a laugh. “You can’t know that.”

“No,” she agrees. “But I’ve seen you love him. And I’ve seen him love you. And I’ve worked in trauma for years. Trust me, that kind of loyalty? It’s not common.”

You blink again. Your throat’s starting to close.

“Also,” Heather adds lightly, “I’ve watched that man wince every time he leaves your house in the morning. Like he’s being separated from a lung.”

That makes you laugh. Shaky and wet but real. Your friends start chattering again behind you. The stylist murmurs something about bustle options. But Heather stays quiet beside you, like she knows what it’s like to be surrounded and still feel alone.

You glance over at her. “I’m glad you came.”

She gives you a look that isn’t quite a smile, but close. “Me too. For what it’s worth… you’re allowed to feel overwhelmed. And you’re allowed to be the bride.”

You nod. “Even if I don’t know how?”

Heather’s voice softens. “Especially then.”

You step down from the pedestal and turn toward the group. Kennedy’s already waving her phone around. Bri’s asking for champagne refills. Heather stands with her arms crossed, watching it all unfold. She meets your eyes, and in that steady gaze is a kind of permission you didn’t know you needed.

You don’t know if this is the dress. You don’t know if there’s a right one.

But you do know, this is the first time it hasn’t felt like you were pretending.

And that counts for something.

9 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 12:03 PM | West End Bridal Co. ✧ Lesson Eight: Love Is Allowing The Unexpected

You’re thirty two minutes into your planning meeting with Tessa, your wedding coordinator, and Jack has already declared open hostility toward the word “tablescape.”

“You know what that sounds like?” he says, shifting in the antique French armchair that’s clearly not built for him. “Some kind of military op. Like we’re storming the beach... but with dinnerware.”

Tessa, unfazed, makes a note on her tablet without looking up. “Noted. Groom prefers classic, not coastal.”

He shoots you a look. “She didn’t even flinch.”

You mouth, be nice.

Jack doesn’t look particularly bridal. He’s in scrubs under a hoodie under a jacket, hair still damp from a too fast shower. He came straight from The Pitt, where he worked a fifteen hour overnight shift and left his name tag in the trauma bay. Again. His prosthetic leg creaks every time he shifts in the dainty chair, but he hasn't complained. Not once.

You’re in your work blazer, still wearing the same lipstick from this morning’s conference, and you’re trying not to over highlight anything in your wedding binder.

Tessa taps her stylus. “So. Let’s go through tone. Theme. The aesthetic of the day.”

You glance at Jack, who gives a shrug that somehow says, Don’t look at me. I still think we should’ve eloped.

“I want it to feel like us,” you say slowly. “Not too formal. But still intentional.”

Jack leans back, stretching his bad leg out to the side. “She means she wants people to cry. But in an elevated way.”

“Jack.”

“I’m being supportive.”

He is. In his own dry, night shift warped way. Tessa looks between you like she’s taking notes for a relationship case study.

“What about colors?” she asks.

“No sage green,” you say instantly. “Or beige.”

“No dusty anything,” Jack adds. “If the name sounds like a 19th century disease, we don’t want it.”

You glance at him. “You really did not sleep.”

“I’m choosing to channel that into productive critique.”

The next few questions blur. Venue confirmations, vendor scheduling, cake flavors. Jack starts quietly doodling in the margin of your to-do list with your pen. He draws a tiny anatomical heart, then another, then writes: you’re here in one ventricle, in all caps.

Tessa asks, “What kind of ceremony are you envisioning?”

You go quiet. Jack tilts his head slightly, watching you. “I think we want something honest,” you say. “Not too rehearsed. Something that feels grounded. Real.”

“She means I’m not allowed to quote Star Wars,” Jack says, “which is a shame, because Yoda had a lot to say about commitment.”

Tessa smiles. “And vows? Writing your own?”

Jack’s voice softens. “Yeah. We are.”

He doesn’t say more than that. But you feel it in your chest. The way he says we. Not I. Not her. We.

Tessa scrolls. “Let’s talk must haves.”

“Food,” you both say in unison.

Jack grins. “Specifically, food that will not insult the working class palate. No foam. No flowers. No dishes that look like they would appear out of 'The Bear.'’”

Tessa nods seriously. “Comfort food, elevated. Got it.”

“Also, no DJ who talks like he runs a podcast.”

“And no cover bands who turn every song into a ballad.”

“No slideshow of us as babies set to an Ed Sheeran remix.”

You both keep going, rapid fire, in perfect sync. The list is ridiculous. You’re laughing. Tessa is trying to keep up. And for a moment, it feels less like planning and more so something that has you and Jack at the very center of it.

Eventually, the meeting winds down. Tessa gives you a revised checklist, a follow up email promise, and a very stern warning not to book any new vendors without looping her in. You stand. Jack rises slower, like the shift just hit him all at once. He picks up your binder before you can and slides it under his arm.

Outside, the afternoon sun makes the city haze look almost gold. Jack stops just before you reach the car. “Hey,” he says.

You turn. His face is tired, unshaven, his eyes still a little red from the night. But he’s looking at you like he remembers why he does all of it. Every shift. Every sunrise.

“You did good in there,” he says quietly.

You blink. “I didn’t say anything that important.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jack replies. “You were you.”

He steps forward, brushes your hair behind your ear, like he’s done a hundred times, but somehow it still feels brand new. “I’ve been in rooms where people don’t show up for each other,” he says. “You always do. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you’re scared.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m really glad it’s you,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you. Tired, slow, sure.

In the middle of a busy sidewalk, in front of a studio, with traffic groaning in the distance and the wind catching your coat hem, it feels like the world pauses just long enough to let you breathe.

Nine months to go.

8 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 11:38 AM | East End Convention Center ✧ Lesson Nine: Love Is Knowing When to Bail

You knew it was going to be a disaster the second someone handed Jack a glitter coated swag bag that said Bride Vibes Only in pink script.

He looked at it like it might explode.

“I think it’s cursed,” he said flatly. “Like, if I open this, I get possessed by the ghost of a bridezilla.”

You didn’t even bother to hide your grin. “Don’t open it, then. You’re already a lot.”

Jack gave you a look. “I’m exactly enough. You knew what you were signing up for.”

What you were signing up for, apparently, was a wedding expo with three indoor fountains, nine signature cocktail stations, a ring light photo booth, and a host named Sebastian who referred to himself as your “love concierge.”

The harpist in the corner was playing a slowed down version of Beyoncé’s “Love On Top.” Someone offered you champagne at 11:40 in the morning. Jack’s eye twitched. He was wearing blue jeans, a button-down you’d only seen twice before, and that wary, bracing for impact look that meant he was trying not to be rude. Trying very hard.

“We’ve been here twelve minutes,” he said, deadpan. “And I’m one cake pop away from declaring war on the string quartet.”

You patted his chest. “Deep breaths, Dr. Abbot.”

He muttered something about this being worse than the time he had to disimpact a bowel during a mass casualty event.

You tried. You really did. You tasted a sample of fig compote. You listened to a sales pitch on laser engraved chair signs. You nodded solemnly while a woman named Lisa explained the spiritual benefits of biodegradable confetti. Jack trailed behind you, loyal and suffering, occasionally squeezing your hand like he was making sure you still existed. But his eyes were starting to glaze over. Somewhere around the personalized ice sculpture booth, he stopped pretending.

He looked at you and said, very gently, “Babe, I love you. So much. So very much. But I think I’ve developed wedding themed vertigo.”

You burst out laughing. “Okay. That’s it. We’re pulling the plug.”

And just like that, you were gone. No excuses, no apologies. Just a shared glance, a silent agreement. You ditched the expo, Jack’s cursed swag bag still in hand, and made your way three blocks over to a dingy little diner with sticky menus and laminate tables. It smelled like maple syrup and something fried in oil that had been alive during the Bush administration. Jack held the door open for you like it was the Ritz.

“This,” he said, sliding into a booth, “is my version of a sacred space.”

You joined him, already feeling the tension bleed out of your shoulders. He looked so much more himself here, relaxed, hair still a little messy from sleep, prosthetic leg stretched out under the table like it had a right to exist there. Which it did. Which he did.

You took his hand across the table. “Thank you for trying. Really.”

He shrugged. “Hey. I’ll wade through ten thousand cupcakes on sticks if it means I get to marry you.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was disgustingly sweet.”

“I’m trying to keep you off balance,” he said, grinning as he reached for his coffee. “Gotta maintain the upper hand before you add another color to the pie chart argument. What are we at now, eight slices of doom?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not doom. It’s detail.”

The waitress brought you coffee. Jack took his black, always. You drowned yours in cream and sugar. He made fun of you for it every time, but this time, he just smiled and watched the way your hands cradled the mug like it was anchoring you.

Then quietly, you say, “Do you think you want kids?”

Jack didn’t move for a moment. Didn’t flinch. Just blinked, like he was adjusting to sudden sunlight.

“That’s not a trap question, by the way,” you added quickly. “I just realized we’ve never really talked about it. Not seriously.”

He was quiet for a while. Not with fear, but with thought. “I think… there was a time I couldn’t picture it,” he said, voice low. “Not because I didn’t want it. But because it didn’t feel real. Like I wasn’t allowed to imagine that kind of softness. I spent so long being the guy who works nights, eats leftovers cold in the staff lounge at 3AM, and comes home covered in other people’s blood.”

You reached out, gently brushing your thumb along his knuckles.

“But then you,” he continued, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “And suddenly, I’m thinking about things like first steps and reading bedtime stories with terrible voices. I think—I think I’d like to be the kind of man who makes space for that. For them.”

You were already blinking back tears. “Don’t cry,” he said, soft but teasing. “We haven’t even ordered pancakes yet.”

You smiled wetly. “I’m just trying to picture you with a baby strapped to your chest in one of those wrap things.”

Jack looked genuinely alarmed. “You mean the infant burrito slings?”

“Yes. That.”

He grinned. “Only if I get to wear the kid to Costco.”

“I’d marry you tomorrow.”

His face went still, open and serious. “Good. Because I’m already yours. For whatever kind of life we end up choosing. Whether we get three kids or ten dogs or just the weird skull bowl.”

You laughed then. Loud. Unfiltered. And he looked at you like he never wanted to look away.

They didn’t have champagne towers or harpists at the diner. The lighting was bad and the toast was cold. But sitting there with Jack, talking about maybe somedays and what ifs and little half formed dreams neither of you had dared name until now.

It felt like a life.

7 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 9:09 AM | Their House ✧ Lesson Ten: Love Is Letting Go of Control

You’re not vacuuming anymore. You’re just standing in the center of the living room. You took the day off from work, burned a precious PTO day you couldn’t really afford, just to make sure every corner of the house looked untouched by stress. The rug has been vacuumed three times. The couch cushions have been rotated, reshaped, and fluffed to showroom precision. There are fresh flowers in three different vases, one strategically tucked behind a framed photo so your mother won’t accuse you of trying too hard. Or worse, trying to impress her.

When Jack walks in, still wearing his scrubs and the exhaustion of a long night shift, he clocks everything at once. The third round of vacuuming and the arrangement of coasters. And then he finds you. He leans against the doorway, watching you in that way he does sometimes. Quiet, concerned, like he’s mentally noting which version of you he’s walking into. Then he speaks.

“Okay,” he says softly, tipping his head. “Just checking in, is this a cry for help?”

You don’t laugh, though you want to. You just shake your head and lower the vacuum handle.

“She gets in at noon,” you say. “I still need to re-steam the curtains. And I don’t think the towels are—”

“Baby,” Jack interrupts softly. “She’s not bringing a clipboard.”

You meet his eyes. “No, but she’ll make one.”

He walks over, gently plucks the cord from your fingers. His hands linger at your wrists.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” he says.

You look away. “It’s not about her. It’s just... she’s never seen this house. Or… this life. And part of me feels like if it’s not flawless, she’s going to decide I’m a failure.”

Jack doesn’t speak immediately. He waits. Always lets you come to your own senses.

“She got harder after my dad died,” you finally say. “It was like… she had to control something. And I was what was left.”

His hands move to your shoulders. “You’ve never told me that.”

You shrug. “There was never a good time. And I didn’t want to make it your burden. You already hold so much.”

Jack shakes his head. “You’re not a burden. Your grief isn’t a burden.”

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead. “I keep thinking, if I just get every part of this wedding right, then maybe she’ll relax. Maybe she’ll think I turned out okay.”

Jack steps closer. “Hey. You didn’t turn out okay. You turned out brilliant. And if she can’t see that, it’s not because you’re not enough. It’s because she never figured out how to deal with losing the person who made you both softer.”

You inhale. It shudders. “I miss him.”

“I know,” he says, voice low. “I know you do.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just the two of you, standing in the middle of your over cleaned house with the weight of grief buzzing low between your ribs. Then, quietly, you say, “When we talked about kids…”

Jack stills, but he doesn’t flinch. “…I don’t know if I can be her,” you finish. “I don’t want to pass down everything she made me afraid of. I don’t want to love someone in a way that makes them small just because I’m scared.”

Jack’s hand slides down to yours. “You won’t be her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says simply. “I’ve seen how you love. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You make space. You give people air.”

You blink hard, trying not to cry. “But what if I mess it up? What if I don’t know how to be soft?”

He leans in until his forehead rests against yours. “Then we learn,” he whispers. “We learn together. And if we get it wrong, we try again. We don’t weaponize the love. We don’t use silence as punishment. And we never let fear win. Not in this house.”

You’re quiet for a long time, breathing through it. Jack waits. Always. Not pushing, not pulling. Just holding steady like he always does.

Finally, you nod. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” you murmur.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about how I’m going to be the buffer when she inevitably asks why we don’t have a cheese course.”

You snort, softly. “You think she’ll wait that long?”

Jack grins. “I give it twenty minutes. Tops.”

You finally move toward him, tuck your head against his chest. He holds you like it’s instinct.

Later, when your mother arrives and critiques the driveway lighting before even stepping inside, Jack only smiles. He helps with her bags, offers her coffee, listens to her dissect your color palette without blinking. And when you look at him, you realize this is what it means to be loved in a way that lets you lay your weapons down.

Jack catches your eye across the kitchen later and winks.

You don’t need to impress your mother. You just need to be you.

6 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 9:14 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Eleven: Love Is Remembering

The wine glasses are still half full.

The record player is still spinning.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen in that navy button down from Jack’s side of the closet. The same one he wore on your first date, sleeves now rolled to your elbows, hem grazing the tops of your thighs. Your hair is a little undone. Your makeup is mostly gone. The house smells like rosemary and lemon and something human. Skin warmed cotton. Cologne, maybe. Him.

Jack’s standing in front of you, backlit by the soft kitchen light, shirtless and half smiling. Not cocky. Not confident. Just blissful.

He steps closer. “I remember the second you got out of that Uber,” he murmurs. “You looked at me like you already knew what would happen.”

“And you looked at me like you hoped I was right.”

Jack huffs a laugh, low and hot. “I was fucked from the second I saw you.”

His hand finds your waist. The other cups your cheek, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. He kisses you slowly like he has time. And you melt. Because this is the same man who once looked across a candlelit table and said, “I’ve never been afraid of blood. But I’ve always been afraid of this.”

And still, he stayed.

You pull him closer, fingers curling into his shoulder, the press of your bodies so familiar it’s muscle memory. He kisses you again, open mouthed and low sighing, like he’s trying to say something without words.

“Bedroom,” you whisper against his mouth. Jack lifts you before you finish the sentence. Your bedroom is dark, the only light coming from the hallway, honey warm and soft across the sheets. He lays you down like you’re something precious. Like you’re a promise he’s keeping.

“This feels like that night,” he murmurs.

Your voice catches. “It is that night.”

But not rushed. Not new. Not unknown.

This time, he knows your body. He knows how your breath hitches when he kisses the spot below your ear. He knows how you sound when you try to keep quiet. He knows where to touch, where to slow down, where to ruin you just right. Jack pulls your his shirt over your head with quiet precision, mouth following the trail he uncovers, throat, collarbone, the soft dip at your sternum. His hands settle on your hips. His grip is firm. Grounding.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says, voice low, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the spell.

“You always say that when you’re about to wreck me,” you whisper, breathless.

He smirks.

Then wrecks you anyway.

Slow. Intentional. Every movement like a memory. Every kiss a callback. Every shift of his hips like a vow. When he sinks into you, it’s with a sound that feels like a prayer. You gasp, hands curling against his back, body arching to meet him. He stills for a moment. Just looks down at you. “You good?”

“Jack,” you whisper, “move.”

He does.

The rhythm builds. Steady at first, then deeper, more urgent. Like the years between that first night and this one has only made him hungrier. His hand laces with yours, fingers gripping tight.

And you remember—god, you remember—the way he looked that night when you offered your hand. The look of disbelief. Of awe. Of the first time he let himself hope. You pull him closer now. Mouth to his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack groans. Half laugh, half sound of someone holding on too tight. You both fall apart like that. Like two people who stopped being afraid of what this could become. When it’s over, neither of you move right away. Jack stays above you, chest heaving. Then slowly lowers himself, rolling to the side but keeping one hand anchored at your waist.

Later, your head on his chest, your fingers tracing a line down his sternum, he murmurs, “Three years.”

You hum, lazy and warm. “And?”

“I still remember the color of your dress. The way your eyes looked in candlelight.”

You smile. “What color was the dress?”

“Midnight blue. Just barely clinging to your shoulders.” His hand drags softly along your bare spine. “I almost didn't want to touch you that night.”

You tilt your head up. “Why not?”

“Because I knew,” he says. “If I touched you… I’d never want to stop.”

You kiss him slow.

He doesn’t stop.

Not for a long time.

And somewhere, in the soft haze of lamplight and breathless laughter, with his body warm against yours and the echo of that first night lingering like a heartbeat, Jack Abbot falls in love again.

He didn't think that was possible.

5 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 2:04 PM | Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center ✧ Lesson Twelve: Love Is Letting Yourself Be Taken Care Of

It doesn’t happen in the way anyone expects. No warning. No graceful fade. Just... collapse.

You’re at the office copier. Fluorescent lights humming above you, screen blaring a “paper jam” message you can barely read. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. You’ve had a fever for days. Ignored it. Took DayQuil. Drank tea. Told yourself it’d pass.

It doesn’t.

Instead, your knees give out. Your coffee spills across the floor. And then the world tilts hard and fast.

You crumple like paper.

The only sound is your body hitting the tile. Then a scream. Then running footsteps. Then everything blurs.

Jack is halfway through his shift at The Pitt when the trauma alert comes through. Female, syncopal episode at a downtown office. Fever. Hypoxic. Unresponsive en route. He’s barely listening. Just another Friday.

Until the EMT’s voice crackles over the intercom and says your name. Jack stops moving. Stops breathing. The world narrows like a camera lens. He doesn’t remember barking for a room or snapping at Dana. All he knows is that when the stretcher rounds the corner,

It’s you.

Soaked in sweat. Eyes half-lidded. Fever warming every inch of your skin. IV started. And still, still, you’re shaking.

“No. Move. Let me in.”

“Jack—”

“She’s my fiancée,” he growls. “I’m not standing behind the glass.”

They don’t argue. He’s already at your side.

“Hey. Sweetheart.” His voice fractures. “It’s me. I’ve got you, okay?”

You blink slowly. Your lips move. But no sound comes out. Then your oxygen monitor starts to plummet.

“Sat’s dropping. 86. 82. 77—”

“Get me heated high flow and the crash cart,” Jack snaps. “Get cultures. Ice bath, now, not when you get around to it. Go.”

“Jack, maybe we should assign this to—?”

“She’s my patient. She’s mine.” He doesn’t yell it. He doesn’t need to. The words come out low and final, grounded in panic and something older than fear. Someone peels off your shirt, which is soaked through. Jack doesn’t flinch. He’s already pressing his palm to your clavicle, counting your heartbeats with practiced fingers.

“God, you’re burning up,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You can’t answer. You’re too far gone. The team lifts you. The ice packs and cooling blanket is placed. Your body seizes. Jack catches you before you arch off the bed. Holds your face between both hands. Anchors you there with his voice alone.

“I know, I know, I’m here. You’re okay. I’ve got you, baby, stay with me. Just... stay.”

Your teeth chatter. You moan softly, in pain, confused, slipping in and out. Someone says something about intubation if your O2 doesn’t rise. Jack growls a curse under his breath, brushing hair out of your face.

“She hates the cold,” he tells them.

A nurse stares. “How do you...”

“She’s my fiancée,” Jack says again, quieter now. “I know everything.”

You wake up in a hospital bed, hours later.

The fever’s broken. Your head pounds. There’s an oxygen line under your nose and the soft hum of a monitor nearby. And Jack is there. Sitting in a chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hands knotted tight in front of his mouth like he’s praying.

“Jack,” you croak.

He’s up in an instant. At your side. His hand goes to your cheek, trembling. His voice drops to something hoarse and hollow: “Oh, thank God.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

“You’re not.” It comes out too fast, too sharp. His eyes close. He steadies himself. “You weren’t. You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to be dramatic,” you mumble. “I thought it was just a cold. You’d picked up a double. I didn’t want to interrupt your night.”

Jack pulls back like he’s been struck.

“Interrupt?” he says, almost stunned. “You don’t interrupt my life. You are my life.”

The silence crackles.

“We practically had to put you in an ice bath,” he whispers. “You weren’t breathing right. You had a fever of 105. I didn’t know if—” He swallows. “I didn’t know if I was going to lose you before we made it to the altar.”

You blink hard, eyes stinging. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I just, I thought I could power through it. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Jack’s eyes flash. He leans forward, voice breaking open. “If I’m supposed to call you when I’m on the roof,” he says, “then you are supposed to call me when you can’t stand up. That’s the deal.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Yeah,” you say. “That’s the deal.”

He leans in slowly. Forehead to yours. His hand wrapped around your wrist like a tether. “I need you to stop pretending you don’t matter,” he murmurs. “You do. To me. To everyone. But mostly me.”

You nod again, smaller this time. Jack brushes a kiss to your temple, slow and steady. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You’re here,” he breathes.

And for the first time in days, your chest feels lighter.

Because Jack is here. Still worried. Still angry. Still your doctor, your fiancé, your home.

4 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 3:12 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Thirteen: Love Is Remembering the Yes

The dining table looks like it’s been through a minor catastrophe.

There are RSVP cards in chaotic stacks that no longer correspond to any known system. A rogue envelope lies open and abandoned, its flap torn. Wax seals, once delicately arranged in a tin, have spilled across the oak surface. A roll of postage stamps is unraveling off the edge close to your mug of half-cold tea.

The scent of teakwood hangs in the air burned low from the candle you lit nearly two hours ago when this still felt exciting. Fun, even. Jack is hunched at the far end of the table, brow furrowed in surgical concentration, the exact posture he wears when threading a central line or building a cabinet without instructions. His sleeves are rolled up. His penmanship has started to slant. There’s a smear of dark ink along his thumb joint.

You’re on the hardwood floor with your back against a dining chair, legs stretched long in front of you, an envelope balanced on your thighs. Your hair is twisted up with the same pen you used to address the last twenty five envelopes. It doesn’t feel particularly secure.

Jack exhales, not dramatically, just a long slow drag of air. “I’d rather do a thoracotomy than figure out if your Aunt Cynthia counts as plus one material.”

“She does,” you mutter. “Unless you want to trigger another text chain where she threatens to rent a llama”

Jack winces. “She still says that like it’s a metaphor.”

“It’s not. She tried to get one for my cousin's baby shower.’”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. You can tell he’s trying not to smile. Jack glances at you sideways, amused. “You sure you don’t want to elope?”

His voice is dry but there’s that softness underneath it. That Jack softness that sounds like teasing but scans like an offer. His hair is a little wild from running his hand through it too many times. His shirt is slightly rumpled from leaning too far across the table to double check addresses. His face is tired but glowing in the way it gets when he’s fully immersed in something. Even this.

Even you.

“I do want to elope,” you say, voice light. “Right after we lick seventy six more envelopes and threaten each other over the font size on the return address.”

Jack gives a quiet, exaggerated shudder. “You adjusted the kerning again, didn’t you?”

“I like even spacing!”

“You are chaos incarnate,” he mutters fondly, sealing another envelope with the wax stamp you bought off Etsy at 2:00 a.m. on a whim. There’s something special in the way he handles it. Not just careful, but intentional. Like every invitation is a promise. Not just to your guests, but to each other. It’s such a small thing. But Jack’s always understood the weight of small things. You stare for a moment longer, chest tight with something unspoken.

“Hey,” you murmur, setting down your envelope. “Can I ask you something?”

He looks up immediately, eyes alert, not worried, just open in that way he only is with you. It still makes your heart ache, how freely he listens. “Always.”

“When’s the last time you RSVP’d to something?”

It’s a question born of nothing. A whim. Or maybe not.

But Jack stills.

Not dramatically. Just entirely. His hands still, the seal halfway lifted. His shoulders freeze in place. His eyes go somewhere else for a long moment. Then, finally, he sets the seal down and says, quietly, “My friend Caleb’s funeral.”

You don’t move.

Jack doesn’t either.

“He was in my unit,” he adds, voice lower now. “Didn’t make it home. The funeral was back in Boston. They sent the invite in an envelope like this. Heavy paper. Formal. Starched. With his name misspelled on the return address.”

You reach for his hand before you think it through. You just move. He lets you. Doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t look at you, either. His eyes stay on the stack of finished invitations, like they’re keeping him tethered.

“I didn’t go,” he says after a while.

Your voice is soft. “Why not?”

He draws a breath. Holds it. Lets it go slowly, through his nose.

“Because then it would have been real.”

Your throat catches. Jack’s eyes flick toward you then, like he’s checking your reaction even though he doesn’t want to. Or maybe because he needs to. You squeeze his hand. You don’t speak. You just hold him steady.

“It felt like... if I went, if I said yes to that... that would be the shape of my future,” he continues. “Loss. Grief. Empty chairs. I wasn’t ready to make that kind of peace.”

There’s a pause. His grip tightens around yours. “It’s not that I didn’t care. I just couldn’t...”

You’re quiet for a long moment.

Then you shift toward him, still sitting on the floor, knees brushing his. “Jack,” you whisper. “You’ve said yes to so many things since then.”

“I know,” he says. “But this one, this whole wedding thing, it’s the first time in years where I feel like I’m not waiting for something to go wrong. I’m not just surviving. I’m—” He breaks off. Starts again. “It means something different now.”

“What does?”

“Saying yes. To this. To you. To us.” He swallows. “It doesn’t feel like the end of anything.”

“It’s not,” you say, fierce and low. “It’s the opposite.”

Jack shifts off his chair and sinks down to the floor beside you, knees pulled up, hands laced in yours. “You know how we said we’d call each other when we’re 'stuck on the roof'?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“Well...” he squeezes your hand. “I think I also need to call you when I get stuck on the floor. Inside my head. Inside some old envelope that showed up eight years too late.”

You nod. Your voice is rough. “Deal.”

He kisses you. Slowly. The envelopes dwindle. The light shifts across the kitchen. Outside, a neighbor’s lawn mower hums. A dog barks at nothing in particular. Somewhere far off, the city goes on, unaware.

You sit there in the middle of it. Legs tangled. Tea gone cold. Surrounded by stacks of hand-written names and tiny declarations of presence.

Later, just before the sun sets, you gather the last of the invitations and slide them into the box. Jack walks beside you down the driveway, the early evening sun casting long shadows across the sidewalk. His fingers brush yours the whole way.

You pause at the mailbox. It feels... ceremonial.

Jack looks at you. “Ready?”

You look back at him. “Yeah. You?”

His nod is slow. Steady. “Yeah.”

3 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 4:02 PM | Downtown Pittsburgh ✧ Lesson Fourteen: Love Is Sharing the Blueprint

The office is warmer than you expect. Not by temperature, but by tone. There’s golden afternoon light catching on the glass table, a faint smell of espresso drifting from a side counter, and a little dish of peppermint bark sitting like a dare beside a crystal coaster. Outside, the city hums. You can see the tops of yellow bridges cutting across the Monongahela, traffic crawling like toy cars.

Jack sits beside you, relaxed but alert, still wearing his scrubs beneath a quarter zip. Badge clipped. It’s almost 4PM; he’ll be heading straight to the hospital after this meeting. He doesn’t say anything when he notices the bowl of peppermint bark on the table, just quietly nudges it toward you like an unspoken offering.

“I’m not getting roped into another Are Roth IRAs Romantic? podcast after this,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

You nudge his ankle with yours under the table. “You liked that episode. You said the hosts had good banter.”

“I said they had predictable banter,” he corrects. “One of them mispronounced ‘fiduciary’ three times. I was physically in pain.”

Across the desk, Annette, your financial planner, late fourties, elegant sweater set, kind eyes, a well practiced brow raise, smiles without looking up. “You two always talk like this?”

“Only when money’s involved,” you say, and Jack makes a noise of quiet agreement.

Annette closes the folder she’s been reviewing. “Well, I’ll say this. You’re ahead of most couples I meet three months before a wedding. Joint checking, good credit scores, already fighting about the candy dish on your registry…”

Jack leans back. “It’s a skull. With fangs. It’s delightful.”

“It’s a Halloween decoration,” you say. “It's not even October."

“Which is exactly when one should prepare for spooky season and buy it early,” Jack replies.

Annette clears her throat gently, smiling. “Let’s get into it, then.”

She moves easily through the numbers. Earnings, benefits, deductions. The two of you answer questions about emergency funds, insurance, whose student loans still exist (yours). Jack answers most things with dry, grounded precision, occasionally passing you a sticky note or circling a detail he wants to revisit. You feel the rhythm of the thing between you. But the shift happens like it always does... with a question that you aren't prepared for.

Annette sets her pen down.

“And how are you both feeling about long-term planning?” she asks. “Five years out, ten?”

There’s a pause. Not the awkward kind... just the kind that asks you both to reach for something a little deeper. You glance at Jack. He’s already looking at you.

“I think,” you start, slowly, “we’re trying to take it one thing at a time. Wedding first. House projects. Then... see what we grow into.”

Jack’s quiet a moment longer. Then: “I want to start a savings account.”

Annette tilts her head. “For what specifically?”

Jack doesn’t look at her. He looks at you.

“For a kid,” he says simply.

You blink.

There’s no hesitation in the way he says it. No performance, no apology. “I mean—” he continues, eyes still on you, voice softer now. “Not tomorrow. Or even next year. I just... want to start planning like we believe we’ll get there. Like we’ll be ready.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs. You sit with it. With him. With the man who once admitted that for years, he didn’t RSVP to things because it felt like making a promise the world would take away. And now he’s sitting in an office with paperclips shaped like dollar signs and a coffee ring on his printout, saying he wants to open a savings account for your future child.

You clear your throat. “You really want to?”

Jack gives the smallest nod. “I do.”

And not the wedding kind of I do. The this is what I’m choosing, every day kind. “I know I talk about wanting control,” you admit. “Budgets. Plans. Lists. It’s how I survived for a long time. After my dad died... things stopped feeling stable. Money especially. So I overcompensated. I still do.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. He just slides his hand and brushes his thumb over yours. You keep going. “But with you... it’s different. It’s not about trying to protect myself anymore.”

He looks at you like you’re the most legible thing in the room. Annette clears her throat, but there’s a softness in her eyes. “Would you like to set up a short-term and long-term goal tracker? Just the basics: house, retirement, hypothetical mini-human?”

Jack grins faintly. “Throw in a new vacuum. Ours doesn't like the stairs.”

“I’ll make a note,” Annette says, flipping a tab on her binder.

The meeting wraps with warm handshakes and follow up dates. You leave with a slight ache in your throat, and a new joint account scheduled to open next month titled “Future Projects.”

In the parking garage, the air smells like cement and late summer. Jack walks with one hand in his pocket, the other brushing against yours. You stop by your car. “You really want to save for that?” you ask quietly. “Even if it’s still just a... maybe?”

Jack shrugs. “I don’t think it’s about certainty. I think it’s about faith.”

You lean into him, forehead against his shoulder.

“Maybe we can start small,” you murmur. “Like... every time we skip takeout or return something impulsive, we put twenty dollars in the account.”

Jack hums. “So far we’ve returned a decorative vase, an extra toaster, and sequined napkin rings.”

You grin. “So... sixty bucks and counting.”

He tilts his head and kisses your temple. “Look at us. Practically billionaires.”

You don’t say anything.

You just lean there, pressed into the warm beat of his chest, the folder with your blueprint tucked between you.

2 Months Until the Wedding — Thursday, 5:11 PM | Their Backyard ✧ Lesson Fifteen: Love Is Letting It Be Messy

There’s a suspicious gurgle from the corner of the yard.

You glance up from where you’re kneeling in the dirt. Gloves muddy and sweat dripping down your neck despite the breeze. Jack’s by the hose spigot, frowning down at the PVC pipes you both thought would make a perfectly straightforward raised bed irrigation system.

That gurgle? It turns into a hiss.

Then a pop.

Then a full pressure geyser.

You barely have time to yelp before it hits, an arc of cold water blasting Jack in the chest. He stands there, dripping. You don’t laugh. You shouldn’t laugh.

But you do. Helplessly. Loudly. The kind of laughter that curls your shoulders and steals your breath, muddy gloves pressed to your face. Jack just stares at you. Soaked. Hair plastered back. T-shirt transparent against the muscle of his chest. He blinks. Water drips from his nose. “You find this funny?”

You nod, gasping. “Oh my god, I think this is the best day of my life.”

He glances down at himself. “Well, whose idea was it to do ‘just a little weeding and measuring’ before dinner?” he asks, stepping carefully over the spray like he’s walking through landmines. “Whose grand plan was the backyard irrigation system?”

“Yours.”

Jack levels you with a look. “No. I said, ‘We should probably look into drip irrigation.’ You said, ‘We’re smart. We can DIY.’ And then you watched a TikTok and ordered pipe fittings.”

You blink. “You seemed excited.”

“I was tired. I was impressionable.”

You tug off your gloves and wipe your brow with your forearm, still grinning. “Do you regret saying yes yet?”

Jack tilts his head, water still running down his jawline. “To the irrigation system? Yes. To you? Never.”

That wipes the smirk off your face. Because even now, mud-streaked and sun-tired and definitely going to need a plumber... Jack Abbot still looks at you like there’s no place he’d rather be than ankle-deep in a mess you made together.

You drop the gloves. Walk toward him.

He meets you halfway.

“You’re soaking wet,” you murmur.

“You’re filthy,” he says, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone where dirt smudged.

You loop your arms around his neck. “Perfect match.”

He kisses you and it's warm despite the cold spray still misting around you. You taste water and earth and something sweeter, deeper. Home.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “You know this means we’re showering before dinner, right?”

You smirk. “Together?”

Jack sighs dramatically. “For water conservation.”

“Sure,” you say, stepping closer. “For the environment.”

He kisses you again.

Somewhere behind you, the hose explodes off the connector with a comical pop. Neither of you move.

Eventually, you call a real plumber. But you keep the crooked garden bed just the way it is. Half-built, half-wrecked, and entirely yours.

Because the thing about building a life with someone like Jack Abbot is that it’s never going to be clean.

It’s going to be messy.

Imperfect.

Soaked to the bone, blistered hands, laugh until you cry kind of messy.

And if you’re lucky?

It’s the kind of mess you both keep choosing. Over and over again.

1 Month Until the Wedding — Friday, 7:12 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Sixteen: Love Is in the Ordinary Hours

The dryer hums like a lullaby you don’t remember learning as a child.

You’re sitting on the hallway floor. Legs tucked under you, fingers combing absently through a basket of clean laundry that smells like cedar and soap and the detergent Jack picked out because it “smelled like something you’d like.”

The overhead light flickers once before settling. The sky outside is pinking at the edges, and the air feels like summer wanting to stay.

Jack is here.

Dressed in his scrubs—black, slightly wrinkled from where they sat at the bottom of the clean pile. He’s half-sitting, half-sprawled across from you, one socked foot nudging yours beneath the basket. He smells like mint and steam and the smallest trace of your shampoo.

He’s supposed to be at work in twenty minutes.

The towel in your hand goes unfolded for the third time.

Jack watches you with that half-smile... the one that starts in the corner of his mouth and makes you feel like you’re glowing even when you’re just folding bath towels and trying not to cry over how close it all is now. One month. Thirty days. Four Friday nights.

“You know,” he says, voice low, teasing, “if you keep folding the same towel over and over again, I’m going to start thinking you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

He tilts his head.

You groan and bury your face in the towel. “Fine. I’m nervous.”

Jack leans back. “Talk to me.”

You pull your knees up to your chest, still holding the towel. “I don’t even know what I’m nervous about. It’s not the getting married part. It’s not you. It’s—god, I don’t know. I think it’s just that everything’s about to... happen. And I keep thinking about how I want it to feel, and what if I mess it up?”

Jack exhales and reaches across the laundry pile to gently tug the towel from your hands. He folds it neatly. Of course he does, surgical corners, and sets it aside.

“You won’t mess it up,” he says simply.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re you,” he says. “And you love me. And I know that like I know how to put pressure on a wound.”

You blink. “That’s your metaphor?”

“I’m not a poet,” he says. “I’m a trauma doctor. It’s the highest praise I’ve got.”

You laugh, breath catching. “Well, in that case.”

Jack grins and reaches for another towel. Folds it perfectly. Sets it aside.

You let yourself watch him for a moment. The ease of him. The steadiness. The way he anchors you without even meaning to. Then you sit up straighter. “Okay. But we still haven’t written our vows.”

Jack doesn’t look up. “I have.”

You stare. “What?”

“I mean—they’re messy. And they’re not done. And there’s definitely a metaphor about drywall I need to workshop. But yeah. I started.”

“You told me we’d write them together.”

“I know. I lied. I was lovesick and weak.”

You swat him with a pair of socks.

He just smirks.

You narrow your eyes. “Well, I’m writing mine in private.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re doing secret vows now?”

“I want them to be a surprise,” you say, firm. “I want you to hear them for the first time when I say them. On the day. With everything.”

Jack quiets. Something flickers in his eyes. “Okay,” he says, softer now. “Yeah. That’s... yeah. That’s good.”

“You sure?” you ask, suddenly nervous again.

He nods. “If that’s what you want.”

You study his face.

He’s quiet.

Then, still watching you, “I might cry.”

Your heart thumps.

You whisper, “Really?”

He shrugs a little, like it’s no big deal. “I almost did when you added me to the grocery list app when we started dating. That felt like commitment.”

You snort. “Jack.”

“I’m serious. I was seen.”

You’re laughing now, full on, and then you’re leaning forward and grabbing his face and kissing him hard enough to tip the laundry basket sideways.

He kisses you back with all the quiet passion you love about him. His hand at your jaw, his other arm sliding around your waist. The laundry shifts beneath you. You don’t care.

You pull back, breathless. “Okay. Then I have a surprise for you.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “What kind of surprise?”

You grin. “Wedding night. But you have to wait.”

His voice drops. “You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He nods solemnly. “Desperately.”

You kiss his cheek. “You’re going to love it.”

“I already love you,” he says.

You pause.

He means it. You can feel it in your bones. You sit there on the floor, pressed together, surrounded by socks and half folded towels, and suddenly your eyes sting with the weight of how much this is.

You reach for his hand. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

He squeezes it. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Jack checks the time and sighs. “I really do have to go.”

You groan and flop onto the floor. “Nooooo.”

He stands, leans down, kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

Just before he reaches the door, you call after him.

“Jack?”

He turns.

You give him the softest smile you’ve got.

“Promise me you won’t cry before I get through my whole vows. You have to make it through. I’m dramatic, structured and I need the audience.”

Jack grins. “I’ll try.”

“You have to.”

He opens the door.

“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But you have no idea what you sound like when you’re in love. It’s lethal.”

Then he disappears into the night shift air, the door shutting gently behind him. You’re still sitting on the floor. The laundry is still warm. And somewhere in the pile, half folded, slightly wrinkled, is the T-shirt you’re planning to wear while you get ready for your wedding.

You pick it up.

And tucked beneath it, where you’re positive you didn’t put it—is a sheet of paper. Folded twice. Your name is on the front. Jack’s handwriting.

You freeze.

Your fingers tremble.

Then—footsteps on the porch.

You look up.

The door opens again.

Jack’s head pokes back in through the door, one eyebrow raised, that familiar crooked smile already in place.

You blink, caught between the paper in your hand and the man in your doorway.

Jack grins.

“Whatever surprise you’re saving for our wedding night…” he pauses, voice dropping, eyes steady, teasing but real. “Just know I’ve been in love with you through every version of you. And I’m not surviving that night. I’m surrendering.”

Then he’s gone again.

And the wedding is suddenly, wildly, heartbreakingly close.

#the life we grew #tlwg #x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot smut #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot #jack abbot #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt smut #the pitt x reader

422 notes · View notes