#that’s not even mentioning how he is in bed

[em1i2a3]

Carry The Zero

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry (or The Void) x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess because Bob is in here. Other than that there is nothing too extreme happening in here, it’s a bit emotional, but there is fluff in here, I would kind of describe this as a Hurt/Comfort fic than anything. There are mentions of abuse and there is also some heavy petting maybe? I mean, I’ll put that in here to cover my booty lol.

Authors Note: My second viewing of Thunderbolts truly got my mind racing for what to write in regard to Bob. Thought I would put out this lil blurb and probably add more to it later in another segment or something! Anyways! Enjoy y’all and happy premiere weekend!!! :)

Word Count: 6,784

The room wasn’t built for two people, that’s what you knew for sure. It used to be a storage space, at least that is what you assumed judging by the various filing cabinets that lined the area, the dented lockers that were near the door, and the strewn papers that nobody decided to throw away in preparation for the move-in. The only thing that was the saving grace was the fact that the place had a window that let you look out onto the city. But it still didn’t truly make up for the cramped space, even though they were able to shove two twin sized beds inside it and call it a room–which showed how effective their planning was throughout all the chaos.

The Avengers Compound was still under renovations after a security breach took out part of the living space, meaning everyone needed to be shuffled like cards in a losing deck. Room assignments were given unwillingly to everyone, and you had been paired with Bob.

It was weird to be rooming with someone who had the power of a million exploding suns as people liked to say, because even though he carried that on his sleeve sheepishly, his personality certainly didn’t match that of a person who could take down the entire world. He was shy, quiet, and careful, tip-toeing around you like you were going to snap at him at any second–which was not the case at all.

Compared to the other options you had you actually preferred to be rooming with him.

The first few days had passed in near silence. You didn’t talk much, you’d only go into your room to sleep or change, and when you would do something outside of those two things Bob would rush out pretty quickly, apologizing nervously under his breath, like he thought you were obligated to time alone.

He’d go to bed early, and you’d catch him reading beneath the awful buzzing lamp that was left in the room from before the two of you moved in. You never really asked him what he was reading because the title was always changing, like he couldn’t finish anything, or he had so much time to himself he was finishing books like they were snacks.

Then there were little things you began to notice.

He’d pace a lot, wring his hands in his lap, or pick at the skin on his fingers. He was clean, he never left shoes in the middle of the room, and always lined them up neatly under his bed frame, even yours. He would flinch at loud noises, like if there was a childish argument happening in the communal kitchen and things got too high in volume he would get a little twitchy. He was observant, and paid attention to everything around him–sometimes you would hear him talking to himself, repeating fragments of conversations from earlier in the day, like it grounded him in some way.

He had his routine and you respected it as much as possible, but tonight was entirely different.

You were coming in late from training, and a med bay visit.

The scrape on your shoulder wasn’t serious, but it was bad enough to have Bucky send you down to get checked out. It was standard–some antiseptic, a lecture from one of the nurses about being more careful and aware of your surroundings, and then you were released with a warning, and a fresh bandage. You were exhausted, sore, and annoyed with yourself for not paying attention and letting your guard down during a simulation, especially because the past few nights had been like that.

By the time you reached your floor, the halls were quiet. There wasn’t any bickering or discussions happening in the kitchen, nobody was lingering in the living room with post-mission jitters, it was just peace, for once.

You stopped at the fridge to pick yourself up a bottle of electrolytes, then paused, eyeing the row of them. You bit your inner cheek, and after a second of hesitation you grabbed another one for Bob, tucking it against you.

You figured he would be awake like he always was when you were on your training nights. You weren’t sure if he was just waiting for you or if he was just incapable of resting when you weren’t accounted for, but you never asked.

Slowly, you moved down the hall, twisting the cap off your drink with a wince when you strained just a little too much, causing the bandage to sting beneath your shirt. You gritted your teeth and let out a frustrated grunt.

“Gotta take it easy on yourself.” You heard Bucky say from behind you. You turned on your heel, seeing he was still in his training gear, also holding a bottle of electrolytes as well, “You’re gonna burn out if you don’t take breaks.” You shifted under his gaze.

”I want to be better, that’s why I’m training. If you got your ass handed to you on the field you would be doing the same.” He shook his head.

”No. I would be resting and seeing what I could do better the next time. Don’t come to training for the rest of the week, just relax and recoup, we’ll revisit your regimen when you’re better.” Before you could say anything he typed his code in for his room, and was out of your sight. You could feel your body seething as you turned back around to continue making your way down the hall. You’d seen it coming from a mile away just by the way he was watching you during the simulation but you never thought he would say anything to you like that. It just added another layer of annoyance as you reached your room.

You pushed the door open gently, careful not to let the hinges creak too loudly. The room was dark, which was unexpected, Bob’s light wasn’t even on. The only thing that was illuminating the room was the shimmer of city lights, casting silver-blue shadows across the floor.

Bob was in bed, lying on his side facing you, with his blanket tugged up to his neck. His face was soft in the low light–features relaxed, eyes closed. Sleeping, or at least you thought he was. You lingered in the doorway for a moment, squinting in the dimness of the room to see him a bit better.

His light brown hair looked a little messy, like he’d been shifting around for a while before finally settling on the position he was in now. You wondered how long he was lying like that, or if he had been waiting for your return but fell asleep in the process, and now you felt even worse than before.

You let the door close softly behind you with a gentle click, removing your shoes slowly, one at a time. Every motion felt heavier than it should have–dull with fatigue, and edged in frustration. You padded across the narrow space, keeping your steps quiet, with the extra bottle of electrolytes tucked against you, the condensation seeping through your training jacket.

You crouched slowly beside Bob’s bed, biting back a wince as your muscles tensed in protest, while you placed the bottle down on the floor, angling it so he’d see it when he woke up. It was a small, quiet offering, just something kind, a consideration in a way. You took your next moves slowly as you stood up and turned to your own bed with a tired exhale, putting the cap back on your drink and throwing it onto your bed. One hand rose to the zipper of your training jacket, pulling it down in a swift movement, teeth grinding while you pushed the fabric off your shoulders, feeling pain erupt from your ribs and shoulder now, the muscles pulsing with burning heat.

The cool air of the room hit your skin instantly, and your tank top didn’t do much to hide any of your injuries from the environment. Your back arched with the grating sting that came through you, and one hand came up to press against the bandage, making sure it was still on properly and not tugging at your skin. The ache was sharp and pulsing, and when your fingers came away damp, you already knew there was blood seeping through the gauze. You grimaced but didn’t consider making another trip to the med bay. You were too tired to care at this point, and it wasn’t something that would cause you to bleed out, so it was a morning issue to deal with.

You turned toward your dresser, collecting a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of sage, throwing both articles of clothing down onto your bed with a soft plop. You rolled your shoulder gently, testing the range of motion in it with a quiet wince before reaching for the hem of your tank top, peeling the rough fabric up your skin carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the sting, though even at your slowest pace you could feel the movement pulling at the wound.

The cotton clung briefly to the tape of the gauze and the dried sweat that coated your skin before finally giving way, and coming off completely. You let out a sigh of relief, as you let the fabric fall to the floor, reaching for your sweater next. The bandage on your shoulder throbbed with every shift you made, but it was the deeper bruises scattered across your body–ghosts of impacts from the past few days–that ached beneath your skin like an echoing thunder. You glanced down at yourself, taking in the way they bloomed across your ribs, stomach, and hips, at this point you could see more bruises than your actual flesh at this point, and they were tender, dark and swollen. Maybe Bucky was right, maybe you really did need a break…

Your fingers curled loosely into the hem of your sweater, but you didn’t think to pull it on yet, you just continued to look down at the wreck that was your body, and the longer you stared, the more numb you became. It was easy to take a break but it wasn’t deserved, you couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes during missions, and you knew you weren’t going to listen to Bucky, you would keep training until your body gave out.

You closed your eyes for a moment, before lifting the sweater towards you, ready to retreat into its softness, ready to disappear and call it a night, but then you heard it.

A breath. Sharp and quick. You froze in your spot.

Then came the sound of movement, the shuffling of the blanket, the mattress creaking under the shifting weight.

Your eyes darted toward Bob’s bed instantly, seeing that his back was now turned towards you. His blanket was pulled up around his shoulders, almost covering his whole head, but there was tension in his posture now, like he was more alert, and less relaxed.

Another breath was inhaled, only it was thinner this time, and wet, followed by a muffled sniffle. Your brows furrowed, and you worked quickly to throw your sweater on without hurting yourself so you were covered up completely, before making your way to his bed, crouching down on the floor, keeping your attention fixated on him. His shoulders were rising and falling now in uneven motions, and now you were piecing together that he was actually crying.

”…Bob?” You whispered, voice soft and low, like if you made it any louder than the volume you were at now it might shatter him. You could see the shuddering in his shoulders halt at the way you said his name, and he pulled the blanket higher over his head, like he was trying to shield himself from your eyes.

”I’m sorry…” Your brows pulled together in confusion as you leaned against the bed a little more, watching the outline of his frame beneath the covers, seeing the small tremors still running through his shoulders. You bit the inside of your cheek as you reached out, your hand hovering for a breath before resting gently against the curve of his back. He was radiating heat through the blanket, but he was stiff beneath your touch, like he didn’t know what to do with the comfort you were offering.

“Bob…Why are you apologizing?” You asked softly. He took in another shaky breath, but didn’t answer. You let out a sigh, rubbing your hand up and down his back like your mother used to when you cried, trying to soothe him, to calm him as much as you could.

”I…I saw the bruises.” He said, barely a whisper. Your hand on his back froze for a moment, “I-I didn’t mean to look, I swear, I just-“ His breath hitched, realizing that you were probably throwing daggers into his back with your eyes, “I just woke up…And saw them, and I couldn’t…Couldn’t stop remembering…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, it was just too much, as another set of sobs escaped his throat. You could feel your gaze soften at the noise, almost like a piece of your heart was breaking for him, continuing your movements along his back, pressing just a little harder into the muscle.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want some electrolytes or something?” He shook his head.

”No…P-Please just stay…” His voice was hoarse, cracking under the thickness that coated his throat from the tears. You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, staring at his shoulders as he continued to cry, curling in on himself beneath his blanket.

You continued rubbing his back, keeping a steady and consistent rhythm. The heat of him radiated through the blanket like a furnace on the verge of burning itself out. Every time your hand passed over his spine, his shoulders seemed to loosen by a fraction.

“C-Can I ask something…Kind of w-weird?” His voice broke through the quiet again, in such a timid whisper that you barely heard it.

“Sure.” You replied, hearing him sniffle again. There was a long pause, and you could feel the hesitation, like he was trying to put his words together properly so whatever he was going to say didn’t come off creepy. You continued to run your hand over his back, waiting patiently for him, watching his figure rising and falling beneath the blanket, still seeing it shaking. In your mind, you were worried, you hadn’t seen him like this before, and there was a moment where you considered calling Bucky or Yelena to come help you, but then his voice broke through the thoughts.

”…Could you…” He took another breath, “Could you…Please hold me?” The question came out strangled, like it had clawed its way out of his throat before he could second-guess it again. You blinked slowly at the request, not because you were unsure of your answer, but because the way he said it was so gentle, and embarrassed it caught you off guard in a way.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to say, you thought maybe he was going to ask you for a tissue, but this was something far more vulnerable, something you never thought would come from Bob of all people, even though you knew he was sensitive. Inside you hesitated only because you didn’t want to hurt him by possibly doing the wrong thing, yet your heart ached watching him break down beneath his blanket which at this point was drowning him because of how much he had curled up beneath it.

“Of course…Just let me change out of these training pants first okay? It’ll just take a second.” There was no response to that, just movement. He shifted towards the wall so he was giving you enough space to get in, still hunched over like he felt guilty for the area that he occupied. You quickly stood up, and made quick work of shimmying out of your training pants and putting on your cotton sleep shorts, which was probably the best idea since you felt him burning through the blanket he was wrapped in. You brought your attention back to him soon after, returning to the side of the bed, your eyes roaming over the lump that resembled his body.

With a gentle hand, you tugged the edge of the blanket down just enough to uncover the top of his head, revealing his light brown hair again which looked dampened with sweat beneath the illuminating city lights that shined through the window. He didn’t say anything, or protest being exposed to you, so you took that as a good sign to continue.

You slid into the space he made for you, careful not to jostle the cocoon he made for himself too much, and eased your bad arm underneath his pillow so your scraped shoulder could rest in a neutral position where your bandage wouldn’t rip off your skin completely. You pulled up the blanket slightly, getting in behind him, scooting closer until your chest met his damp back.

His navy blue t-shirt was soaked through completely, and it wasn’t helping that he was wearing long pants to bed either. There was a fear he was gonna pass out from heat stroke or something, but he had mentioned it several times that he ran hot in general, you just didn’t see it to this extreme. He smelled like a salty rain storm, or like ozone, it was something indescribable to you in those moments, but it was what he typically radiated, it was familiar.

Slowly, you brought your arm over his torso, placing your hand onto the hard plane of his sternum, the muscles beneath his shirt twitching against the unfamiliar touch that you introduced to him.

Neither of you spoke, you just laid against each other in pure silence, listening to each other's breathing–his trembling, yours steady. He could feel your hot breaths against his neck and tried to pay attention to it, as you pushed down the blanket a bit with your elbow to shed the makeshift shield from his body. It took him a while to compose himself enough to speak again, but when he did, you were hanging off of every word.

”…When I saw the bruises…” He rasped, “All I could think about was me. When I was a kid…” The mentioning of his childhood immediately felt like a blow to your stomach. He had said something about how he was raised in passing, but it was an off handed remark that nobody really paid attention to. You figured it was something he didn’t want to talk about, but hearing him say this only made you dread what he was going to continue with.

”After he’d hit me…I’d go over to the mirror, just to see how bad it was. I’d tell myself it didn’t hurt, even if it did, I’d just lie to myself, because I knew if I cried, he’d just get angrier. He was always in the mood to beat me up so when he had a reason I think it made him feel justified in some…Messed up way.” Your chest tightened at his words, thinking about how scary it must’ve been for him, and how terrified he must’ve felt not knowing when his own father would strike. You didn’t speak right away, but you did shift, sliding your hand up higher on his chest, so you could press your palm flat over his heart. His shirt was soaked there too, yet beneath it all you could feel the frantic fluttering of his pulse, like a bird rattling against its cage.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your breath tickling his neck again. He didn’t respond, though he didn’t recoil either.

“None of that should’ve ever happened to you,” You continued softly, brushing your thumb along the fabric against his heart, “You were a child, and you didn’t deserve that.” He let out a breath like he was trying not to begin sobbing again.

”You don’t have to say that.” You raised your head a bit, almost in disbelief that he truly thought that what happened to him was somehow okay or justified.

”I do, Bob.” You murmured, inching just a little closer, feeling your body screaming in protest as your injured shoulder moved the wrong way, causing you to hiss through your teeth. Bob noticed instantly.

”You’re hurting,” He said quietly with guilt sinking into every syllable.

”I really couldn’t give a crap about that right now Bob, trust me I’ve been through worse. You’re hurting right now too and I’m not going anywhere. Do you understand?” You replied back, your voice low, but lacking bite, not that you intended to have it sound stern or anything.

Bob shifted beneath your touch, slowly rolling onto his back like the weight of your words cracked something loose inside him. You adjusted carefully to give him space, keeping your injured shoulder angled away from the impact of his back pressing against your arm, even though the ache felt like white noise beneath the tension that was beginning to rise in the room. When he settled on his back you adjusted yourself so your chin rested against his chest, keeping your hand splayed in the same position over his heart.

His eyes didn’t find yours at first, they stared blankly at the ceiling, the soft glow of the city lights catching the shimmer of the tears that were still pooling in his eyes. Now that you could see him fully, you realized how bad things really were. His skin was blotchy, and flushed from how hot he was. His cheeks were stained with fresh tears, mixing with sweat that created this overall sheen on his skin in general, which made his hair cling to his forehead. A long, old kind of hurt settled over his face, the kind that hid quietly within the corners of a person.

He inhaled shakily, and every exhale got caught somewhere between exhaustion and restraint. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your chin, and it made you ache in a way that put a hole deep in your chest.

”Bob…” You murmured, barely louder than the sound of the city humming outside the window, “Look at me.” At first he didn’t move, keeping his eyes fixated on the ceiling, distant and confused, still taking in those short bursts of air. Your hand left his chest, bringing them up to his jaw, coaxing his attention with the lightest touch you could give him.

“Look at me Bob,” You whispered again.

Then slowly, his eyes shifted downward until they found yours. The moment his gaze landed on you, something cracked open between you both–it was quiet, and delicate, but present and grounded in the center of it all. His expression was drawn, and his lashes were clumpy and wet with tears, framing his shimmering blue irises.

The skin surrounding his eyes were raw, almost a blood red, like someone had scratched it and left their marks streaking down his flesh. You didn’t flinch away from it though, you just looked at him with such focus, like your gaze could settle the storm that was in him. You could see his lip tremble slightly under your gaze as he tried to hold himself still, tears brimming in his eyes again, threatening to spill.

”I hate remembering…I can’t stand it. I don’t want to remember this stuff…I don’t want to think about it anymore, and I don’t want you to associate me with being weak.” You raised your eyebrows, now raising your head up to you were looking at him a little better, resting your hand against his chin now.

”I don’t, ” You stated, watching a set of tears flow out of the corners of his eyes, swallowing loudly, “I don’t associate you with weakness.” You whispered, brushing your thumb along the smooth skin of his cheek.

”I associate you with patience…With overwhelming kindness, and with strength so deep it doesn’t even have to be displayed. You could burn the sky down…You could use all the pain inside you to destroy the planet…Yet you help, you listen, and you keep going. That’s not a weak person Bob.” You wiped one of the tears away with your thumb, feeling him hesitate before leaning into your touch.

“Y/N…I’m not right in the head…You don’t understand…You’ll never understand.” You shook your head, and sighed.

”I don’t have to understand everything to care about you,” Bob’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, like the words that you said hit him like a truck. You could feel the tension in his jaw, as he clenched it tightly, trying to contain himself a bit.

“I used to think that if I could just bury everything deep enough maybe it wouldn’t make me feel so contaminated…But then when I got the serum…And The Void came…And that awfulness manifested into something bigger…I realized that it just wouldn’t go away. I’m dangerous Y/N…I’m not someone that can be fixed. I know you care, but I can’t risk hurting you.” You shifted closer to him, moving up slowly, dragging your chest along his. His eyes followed your movements, turning his head when you settled near his shoulder, feeling your hand leave his cheek.

“You don’t scare me Bob. You’re just saying this stuff because you think it’ll make me give up on you, but I’m not that easy to sway.” You whispered, reaching down to touch one of his hands, which caused him to flinch. He was already bracing himself, preparing to be pulled into one of your memories, but it didn’t happen…It was like…Things were quiet. Just pure emptiness, and the only thing he could see was you. He stared at you as you wrapped your fingers around his hand, seeing his brows draw together.

“H-How are you…Doing this?” He asked quietly, like he was afraid he was going to disturb the peace and get thrown into your mind out of nowhere.

”I locked it out.” He shook his head at you quickly.

”That’s impossible…It always gets in…” A small smile came up on your lips, hearing the disbelief in his voice, the way he was almost entirely taken aback by what you had just said. You leaned in a little closer to him, like you were going to tell him a secret, feeling his breath fanning over your face.

“Before I was recruited, I was part of a different team. Black-ops, kind of like what the X-Men used to be, but very much under the radar. It was just…Constant missions, we were a clean up crew basically, picking up the scraps that nobody else wanted…” You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth twitching with the memories of your team, how close you all were, how none of you took crap from anyone…Similar to what you had now, just a little better because of the tether you all had between each other.

“We ran into a lot of people with gifts. Telepaths. Empaths…Stuff like that. Some didn’t even know they were projecting until it was too late. Others weaponized it. Pulled secrets out like stitches and drove people insane without ever touching them.”

Bob was still staring at you, eyes wide and brimming with tears, his chest rising beneath you in short bursts.

“It was mandatory,” You continued. “To train in mental shielding. Neural control. The discipline to lock down your own mind so tight it’s like a vault. We trained until our thoughts didn’t even echo. You learn to breathe around psychic pressure, to mask trauma with static, to reroute memories into dead space. You learn to feel someone reaching for you…And then cut the line.”

Bob swallowed hard, hearing the way you explained everything to him step by step, while still holding his hand, running your thumb over the back of it.

“I wasn’t trained to stop the Void,” You said gently, “But I was trained to stop something similar to it. And apparently, it’s just close enough.” You watched his lashes flutter like he didn’t know whether he was going to cry again or if he was just going to sink into the mattress and disappear entirely.

“…That’s why the mental noise isn’t so loud when we're alone in a room together…” He whispered under his breath, almost like everything was clicking in his mind, as his hand began to tighten around yours now, matching the same hold you had, “…Mental shielding…Who knew that would be the thing that makes everything go quiet.” You smirked at his comment, already hearing the tension in his voice wavering, feeling his breath sticking to your cheeks, shifting in front of him so your noses bumped slightly.

“Technically it’s still quite an experimental thing, but…It works when needed I think.” You can see his lip twitch slightly, drawing into his mouth just a little bit, as if he wanted to get a taste of your breath that coated it.

“It’s…Amazing.” Was all he could muster up to say, continuing to hold onto your hand tightly, like it was anchoring him to this quiet space in his head that he had not been able to reach since taking the serum. “…All I hear, and all I feel…Is you and I had no clue until now…” The sound of his voice made your spine tingle, and goosebumps raise on your skin.

It was shocking that moments ago he was this wreck, then suddenly it was like he was on top of the world. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been touched like this in so long, or maybe it was because he finally had a break from all the noise that kept draining him, you had no clue…But what you did know is how soft his eyes had become, and how deep his breaths were now that he was a little calmer, and not being treated like a threat of some kind.

You shifted again, getting almost unbearably close to him now, the fabric of the blanket sliding down slowly, exposing your clothed bodies to the silvery-blue light just a little more. Bob didn’t move, but his eyes never left yours, he kept every ounce of attention on you, waiting for your next action, hanging on every moment. His breath hitched when your knees bumped gently against his thigh, as the warmth of your bodies radiated like twin heartbeats pressed just barely apart.

Your noses were brushing against one another, and if you tilted your chin up by just a little bit, you’d be kissing.

”I’m glad I’ve been able to make it go quiet for you…Even if it’s not permanent.” A faint smile slowly appeared on his face–crooked, and trembling, but so genuine.

“It’s more peace than I thought I’d ever get…So thank you.” He replied back, his hand squeezing yours, not in desperation, but with something closer to awe, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around the situation that was happening in front of him. His breath brushed across your face as he watched your eyes roaming over his. You couldn’t help but stare at him, to take him in now that he wasn’t crying, to admire the person who was in front of you. It was hard not to lose track of time studying his features, and how they were just…Him.

There was a long pause between the both of you, a snippet of time suspended into the universe where nothing else existed beyond the narrow bed and the hum of the city beyond the window. His chest rose slowly, puffing out warm shallow breaths against your lips, and for a second it felt like he was hesitating on something…But then, he leaned in.

It wasn’t fast, or sweeping like he was trying to catch you off guard. It was careful, like every little millimeter he closed between the both of you was an offer for you to pull back, but you didn’t take it.

When his lips met yours, it was a soft, trembling brush of mouths that lingered more in intent than execution. He kissed like he was afraid you were somehow going to disappear, but you could feel how much he truly wanted this. His lips were warm, and slightly parted, and you could taste the faintness of tears and salt, still hesitating to go the full mile.

There was a moment where he was about to pull back, and that’s when you took the opportunity to fully lean into the kiss and throw logic out the window, just for this one cut of time

Your lips moved against his, answering the softness of his approach with something more certain and grounded. The taste of him was still there, but now it was amplified tenfold from how much more pressure you were placing on the kiss now.

He was stiff at first, the tension in his jaw made it evident, like he was unsure of what he was allowed to do, what he was okay to give back, or like he was bracing himself for the possibility of you pulling back before he could even try to meet you where you were at. But then your hand let go of his, and slid up to cup the side of his face, and he let out the smallest gasp of disbelief against your mouth. Your thumb brushed gently beneath his eye as your lips molded to the shape of his mouth with a tenderness that shattered whatever restrain he’d been holding onto.

Your arm shifted beneath the pillow, bending just enough so you could lace your fingers into his damp hair, pulling him in more with such grace that it made him groan. His hand moved to your neck then–his shaky fingers pressing softly just below your ear, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw as he located your pulse instantly. His touch wasn’t possessive, it was filled with care, and curiosity. He wanted to feel the warmth of your skin, the steady–or not so steady–rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his fingers, he craved to be closer to you, and every moment that passed was giving him the signal that you wanted that too.

He shifted gently, slowly turning onto his side without breaking the kiss, being cautious not to put anymore unwanted pressure on your arm beneath him as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in until your bodies were flush against one another. You could feel the dampness on your sweater from his shirt, and your bare legs brushing against the cotton of his sleep pants, which only overwhelmed you more, knowing it was going to be a challenge to stop this from going too far.

His hand splayed out on your back, twitching against the fabric that covered it as you parted your lips for him, allowing his tongue to brush against yours with the softest flicker of hesitation, tasting you like he was drinking something sacred. The breath he let out against your mouth made your skin prickle beneath your sweater, and it only encouraged your response.

You angled your mouth to his, encouraging him to continue, feeling him follow suit in an instant, matching your energy bit by bit, syncing with the way you moved against him. When your hand slid further into his hair, and curled within the damp strands, gently tugging, he let out the smallest, softest moan–it was so quiet and desperate it sounded like it had been buried within him for years. It made your head spin hearing it, and it only made you shift yourself towards him even more, feeling his thigh nudging between your legs so the both of you can completely mesh together. It was such a subtle move, but it lit up every nerve ending in your body like it was nothing.

Bob’s hand slid beneath the hem of your sweater, craving the feeling of your skin beneath his touch. His fingers traced the small of your spine, barely putting enough pressure on it, yet he still managed to send shivers through your body. He was getting bolder, but kept his awareness at the forefront, like he was cataloging every reaction you gave him, terrified that he might cross an invisible line and ruin the moment.

You felt the muscles in his arm shift as he pulled you even closer, putting more pressure between your bodies until you felt every rise and fall of his chest, and his heartbeat pulsed through you. His knee shifted again, nudging further between your thighs, pressing it gently into the thin cotton fabric that covered your most sensitive area, eliciting a gasp from you now. You could feel yourself falter control for a moment, moving your hips just a little to test the friction that you wanted, and that’s when you both realized just how far this could go–and how close you already were to getting there.

His hand tensed against your back, and the kiss slowed down, until he found the correct moment to pull back, just a few inches. His lips were still parted, only now they were swollen and wet with saliva. He was out of breath, and you mirrored the same sentiment, as the both of you tried to even your racing hearts before they exploded. His pupils were dilated, and in the dimmed lighting you could only see a faint glisten of blue that rimmed the darkness that took over, the burn was there, the want was there, but there was the looming fear that you both were going from zero to one hundred really quickly, and that’s when regrets could be made, and neither of you wanted that.

”…We can’t do this…” He whispered, his voice cracking from being the first one to speak. You nodded faintly, your fingers still toying with his hair, reluctant to let go completely, but understanding him.

”I know,” You murmured, “Not like this…Not tonight.” You clarified. He closed his eyes, a soft exhale brushing your lips as his fingers twitched against your pulse point on your neck again.

”It’s not that I don’t want to,” He added quietly, “God I do…You have no idea.”

“I know,” You said again, running your thumb along his cheek, soothing the skin there, “Me too…I want to as well…But we’re not ready. Especially after being in the headspace that you were in a few minutes ago.” He nodded slowly.

”I don’t want it to be something that will be confused for a moment of distraction.” You stared at him, hearing how serious he was about it, “And I don’t want to ruin anything.” He added softly, opening his eyes again to look at you.

”You’re not ruining anything, we’re just pressing pause…And that’s completely fine, and it’s the best decision to make for right now.” He gave a small, nervous smile at that and leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours, “We’ll talk more about it later…But for now how about we just relax hmm?” He let out a shaky breath, the heat from it hitting your lips and invading your mouth for just a split second.

”Yeah…I’d like that.” You smiled faintly, as your bodies untangled just a bit from one another, removing the both of you from the intimate position you had found yourself in moments before. His knee shifted out from between your legs, and rested against them instead, letting the tension unravel and disappear slowly.

He wrapped both arms around you now, carefully noting your injury, and you folded yourself into his chest, letting your hand rest on his ribs as he pulled the blanket up to shield the both of you.

You both stayed there, nose to nose, breath to breath, hearts beating unevenly against one another until sleep came over you like a harsh wave.

[rans-prettydoll]

Handyman!Toji

NOT READ OVER SO MIGHT BE SOME TYPING MISTAKES.

Handyman!Toji was just always fixing something for everyone. Known to be both attractive and a fast worker but also married. To you. Everyone thought you were so lucky to be married to the well-known handyman that everyone was always asking of and well they were right.

Handyman!Toji would barely talk to his female customers trying to flirt with him as he fixed whatever they asked of him. He would even roll his eyes and mumble under his breath. Getting the job done quickly as he held out his hand for the cash before leaving.

Handyman!Toji would come home in his worn-out black short-sleeved button-down and baggy jeans that had all types of stains on them from a long day of work. Not to mention his tool belt that also had his house keys clipped onto it and his picture of you, his wife hanging from it.

Handyman!Toji who wouldn’t dare touch you in his work clothes, there probably all different types of shit on his clothes from all the various jobs he did for the hefty sum of money he made. So he would get in the shower and then after, come and lay on top of you. His wet hair dripped onto your chest as he mumbled, “I don’ feel like drying it..ya do it, mama.” when you asked him why he didn’t dry his hair before he came to lay on you.

Handyman!Toji who ended up falling asleep just like that. Waking up in the same spot he was laying last night, on your chest in bed. He didn’t care about how his phone was blowing up or how his alarm was continuously going off. He reached over and hurled the alarm off the nightstand, breaking it before throwing his phone across the room with it. He didn’t care about any of that shit at the moment, he wanted to be with you for today, he wanted to stay with his face shoved in your plush chest and the smell of body wash that still clung to your skin.

[lauraneedstochill]

can’t pretend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tough night?”

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

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

“Brain dead?”

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

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

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

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do we got here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready to get back in the game?”

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

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

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

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

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

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

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

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

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

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

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

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a few seconds comes another one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Jack is only seeing red.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen, I didn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

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

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

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

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

dividers by me & plum98.

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

[cherrreid]

𝜗𝜚 MY LOVE , MINE, ALL MINE, ALL MINE ❤︎𝄢..

📞 — aftercare with JASON TODD 𝜗𝜚

✉️ — contents : : aftercare , mentions of jay's scars , fluff , yearner!jason todd , first time having sex ( in their relationship ) , grammatical errors , ooc (?)

✉️ — word count : : 1.9k

✉️ — vi whispers : : woohoo !! we reached 700!! also,, i'm still in the hospital, unfortunately. but i will be doing an event 😋 just expect,,, late responsdjes. back to my oldoldold format!!! NOW. this is acc for @fromdove !! like,, remember when i told you that i'll write you a reply?? well, here it is !! lol, how dare you be upset. + will be redoing my m.list. couldn't edit this bc my mom took my laptop

your skin still tingles. it's as if your entire body is remembering what just occurred in waves ▰ the weight of his palms, the way he spoke your name like it was something sacred. the air smells of sweat & heat & him. all is black except for the warm yellow light from the hallway seeping in through the half-open door. the blankets are kicked halfway off the bed, wrapped around your ankle. you're there with your chest rising & falling slow, like the only thing holding you to earth is the weight of his body beside yours.

he's on your side, one arm slung over your waist, forehead against your shoulder. breathing hard like he's still trying to come down. his palm glides up. your ribcage ▰ not sexually, just there, anchoring himself with you. his lips brush the back of your neck. you feel him smile a little.

"you okay?" he asks, but it's softer than normal. almost like he's afraid to screw this up.

you hum, nod, still panting. "yeah. better than okay."

jason pulls nack a little so that he can see your face. his hair is standing up in a dozen different directions, cheeks flushed, lips puffy. his eyes are dark & gentle & so, so exhausted. but they're all for you like you're the only thing in the world that exists. like perhaps he still can't get his head around you being with him, still with him after ▰ & not just forgotten like everything else.

"good," he mutters, but he still scans your face like he's trying to verify something. then, a beat behind, he adds, "didn't mean to be too rough."

you snort. "you weren't."

he's not looking convinced. his fingers are drawing small circles along your hip now. he doesn't say a word, just presses a kiss to your temple & exhales like his entire body is deflating. you reach down, grasp his hand in yours & bring it to your lips. kiss his knuckles. it's slow, gentle, & something in his chest stutters. cracks. hitched.

he rolls onto his back, arm still wrapped around your waist, & glares up at the ceiling as if it has answers scribbled all over it. his throat bobs as he swallows hard. you can tell he's thinking too much. his walls are still up, just thinner now ▰ llike he's cracking his door open a little, even if he's afraid.

"you sure you're okay?" he repeats. & it was the first time you both had sex ever since you two officially became a couple. & it's not just sex. it's everything. about how much he wishes he could be good to you. about the thousand demons in his chest that tell him he can't.

you shift closer until you're half on top of him, nose bumping his jaw. "jason," you whisper, & that's all it takes for him to relax a little.

his arm wraps tighter around you as if he's scared you'll disappear if he releases you. his other hand runs through your hair, hesitant at first, then more insistent, like he remembers you like it that way. he kisses your forehead, your cheek, the edge of your mouth. over & over, slow & soft, worshipping. he doesn't speak but his hands do ▰ they say thank you & i missed you even though we live in the same apartment & don't go.

his voice is hoarse when he speaks again at last. "lemme get you water."

"don't wanna move."

"i'll carry you."

you laugh into his neck. "you're naked."

he smiles, a little. "so are you."

"bold of you to assume i'm getting up."

"fine," he breathes, leaning his head to kiss you again on the jaw. "we'll dehydrate together. tragically romantic."

he doesn't actually get up for another couple of minutes. just stays there with you on top of him, fingers brushing the curve of your back, languid & awed. but after a bit he rolls over, pats your leg.

"alright," he says softly, "give me two seconds." & already he's slipping under & away from you.

he stands, stretches, runs a hand through his hair. & god ▰ you look. he's hot. you can't help it. the way his back curves, all that muscle shifting under skin like a sculpture made of marble that stood up & decided to look at you like that. he notices you looking & grins, wicked. bitch.

"take a picture," he jokes, picking up his sweats from the floor. "it'll last longer."

you toss a pillow at him. he catches it in mid·air, smiling. "what, can't handle the view?"

"get me water, todd."

he salutes, tugging the sweats on. "yes ma'am."

you watch him walk out & your heart kind of… swells. not just because he’s hot ▰ he is, but it’s more than that. it’s the way he hums under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening. the way he double checks the temperature of the water before bringing it to you. the way he wants to take care of you, even if he’s still learning what that means.

he returns with water & a protein bar. holds the cup to your lips like you're royalty & he's your servant, which cracks you up again. until he says "drink" with this expression that shuts you up real quick. you sip a few times. he stands there the entire time like your health is the most important thing in the world.

you remove the cup from him & place it, then pull him back onto the bed. "your turn," you tell him, pushing his hair behind his ears. "you okay?"

he stiffens a little. as if he wasn't expecting that. as if he forgot that people are allowed to ask him that too.

his voice is gentle when he speaks. "yeah. i just…"

he trails off. but you know. you know.

you run your fingers over his chest. "you don't have to say it."

he nods, then leans in & kisses you again. slow & deep & a little desperate. like he's trying to memorize this. the safety. the closeness. you let him. you kiss him back until he sighs against your lips, until he lets his shoulders relax under your hands, until he's not red hood or a broken boy or the bat's second sidekick ▰ just jason. just yours.

he buries his face in your neck afterwards, whispering, "you're really okay?"

you kiss his shoulder. "yeah. are you?"

he pauses. "i will be."

you hug him closer.

he's so close. you can feel the thump of his heart in the way he presses his chest against yours. it's a slow thrum. not quick, but gentle. intimate. honest. he's not letting you go anytime soon, & honestly, you don't want him to. his mouth leaves tiny kisses along your neck, slow & deliberate, like he's playing catch-up. perhaps he doesn't realize that you see it, but the way his hands are trembling ever so slightly is all you need to know. he's still hesitant, still so goddamned starved for you even though he already has you. there’s something in him that doesn’t stop needing to touch, to feel, as if it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded.

you bite your lip, pushing your fingers through his messy hair. his eyes flicker open & meet yours, half-lidded with exhaustion but intense.

“you’re really here,” he murmurs. like he needs to hear it out loud.

"yeah, jason," you reply softly, tracing your thumb over his cheek. "i'm right here."

he leans his forehead against yours, releasing a breath as if he's not saying anything. his arms wrap tighter around you once more, as if he's worried that you're going to get away if he doesn't hold on. you roll over onto your back, pulling him along with you, the blanket wrapped around your ankles. it's silent for a bit, the only noise is the constant thrum of the city out there & the slow, thudding pulse of his breathing.

then, out of nowhere, he begins kissing you again. slow at first, just his lips grazing against yours. but then, he goes deeper. soft & hungry, his hands cradling your face like you could break. it's warm, it's soft, & you can feel every inch of him. when he pulls back, he gazes at you with uncertainty. his lips red, his hair disheveled, his face too vulnerable for the jason todd you once thought you'd known.

"don't go," he utters softly, & it's as if his entire universe hangs in the balance.

you smile, weaving your fingers through his hair once more. "i'm not going anywhere."

he sighs, a little relieved. but the moment doesn’t last long before his fingers start feeling your body again, gently this time ▰ tracing the line of your spine, the curve of your hip, your stretch marks. his thumb runs over your wrist, brushing lightly, like he’s memorizing you, like he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t miss a single detail of you.

you reach up to touch his chest, & feel his muscles tighten beneath your fingers. he winces a little when your hand slips down, causing him to brush across a scar, but doesn't flinch. instead, he appears to lean into the touch, as though he's finding peace in it.

"sorry," he grunts softly, looking down. "forgot about the scars."

you glance at him, tracing the line of his jaw with your hand. "don't apologize for them," you tell him softly. "they're part of you. and i… i like all of you, jay."

he swallows hard, his chest tightening. "yeah? even the broken ones?"

"especially the hurt ones," you answer ( & corrected ) without hesitation, your eyes locking with his with all the sincerity in the world.

he nods, lips shaking, before he leans in to kiss you once more. this is a softer, slower kiss, like he's trying to say everything he doesn't know how to put into words. when he pulls back, his forehead pressed against yours. his hand wraps around your waist, his fingers digging in a little.

you lay a hand to his chest, tracing little circles over his heart. "you're good, jason," you whisper. "you're more than good."

he shakes his head slightly, closing his eyes for a moment as if your words are too much to take in. then, he nuzzles into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “don’t think i know how to do this,” he says quietly, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "like. this. i don't know what you need."

you smile gently, tracing your fingers through his hair once more. "just be here with me," you breathe. "that's all i need."

he grunts in his throat. but he does not argue. instead, he glides closer, holding you against him as if he is afraid you might slip out of his hands. his lips brush the top of your head, & he stays there, his breathing slow & even against your skin.

you can tell he's going out of his way. attempting to do this right ▰ despite not knowing if he knows he's doing it wrong or not, he's learning, kiss by tender kiss, touch by tender touch. he wants you to feel at peace with him( you are ). he wants to take care of you, even though he's terrified that he's going to get it all wrong.

you lean into him, your body against his, & shut your eyes. "you're doing it right," you whisper. "this is perfect. so are you."

his arms wrap tighter around you once more, & for a second, you think you're the only thing that matters to him. his voice is husky when he talks, low & rough. "i'm not perfect, you know."

you kiss his chest, your lips touching the scar on his ribs. "you don't need to be," you say. "just.. be you. that's all i need, jason."

© MINORLYATFAULT 2025

[intromortal]

✷ LIQUID SWEETENER ⸻ sim jaeyun

jake takes care of his sick girlfriend, but with an unexpected twist.

this work contains ⋆ smut. mdni. established relationship, reader has a fever, she's very annoying tbh but it's bc she's ME! it's okay tho bc jake is equally as bad. spitting medicine in someone's mouth... is this sanitary? absolutely not but i also can't bring myself to care, fingering, praise, degradation (use of slut like once? and pet), he's mostly very sweet tho i promise, oral f!rec, squirting, mentions of free use, multiple orgasms, quick aftercare, jake comes untouched he's down bad sorry ! ⸻ rules ⋆ m.list

length ⋆ oneshot ⸻ 5.2k words

✷ NIA — i finally got around to rewriting this omfg. this rewrite is for my sweet @heechwe and all the nonnies who asked for this to be posted again <3

It's not everyday Jake gets to take care of you, so when you're all sickly and weak, it's hard to evade his attentions no matter how hard you try.

Jake pouts when you shoot down yet another attempt to get you to take your medicine. "Why don't you just chug it? I promise it's not as bad as you think."

He’s been trying to get you to swallow at least a tiny dose of the sweet fever syrup for the best part of an hour, after every attempt to get you to down any kind of pill resulted in you hiding them somewhere underneath your cozy pajamas, against your burning skin.

"If it's not as bad as I think, why are you suggesting I just chug it?" Your voice is slightly muffled as you eye him suspiciously from under the heavy cover pulled up all the way to your nose.

"You're the one insisting it's disgusting without even trying it, I asked for the best flavor possible when I got it." He made sure to pick out a syrup that doesn't taste straight up radioactive, knowing you well enough to predict you’d make a big fuss about the nasty taste. Yeah, he can picture it right in his head, how you’d gag dramatically at the smell and just beg him to go get the tablets again—which you wouldn't agree to take anyway.

For how much you hate being sick, you seem to dislike the idea of getting better quickly even more.

“You would feel so much better if you just took your medicine,” he sighs, resting the cap filled to the brim with honey flavored syrup on the crowded comforter, careful not to leave it too close to the edge. He licks whatever residue is left on his sticky fingers. "Really not that bad. It's sweet."

"So it's not good either," you huff back, trying to wiggle yourself out of the cocoon of blankets Jake wrapped you in as soon as you fell asleep. "I'm not even that sick anyway.”

“Yeah?” Jake looks at you with an arched brow, then points his head to the little mountain of discarded, snot filled tissues overtaking your comforter, the ones he was in the middle of throwing away. “This right here is breeding grounds for bio terrorism allegations.”

He stops you from getting out of bed, securing the warm fuzzy covers around you again. “No need to leave, just tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you,” he whispers against your lashes, placing a soft kiss to your closed eyelid.

“Just wan’ you.”

His plump lips thin into that gorgeous wide smile of his as he speaks,“but you have me baby, I’m right here, yeah?”

He knows very well what you mean, and a frustrated grumble spills out of you at the thought. Cheeky bastard, of course he wants you to say the quiet part out loud. Neither of you is used to going without pleasuring each other for long periods of time, and anything longer than three days is eons according to Jake. You're surprised he's behaved as well as he has this past week, you thought he would be the one to cave in first.

“Want…more,” you crank one of your eyes open, struggling when a droplet from the wet towel on your forehead Jake promptly changed every fifteen minutes slips in it. You blink a few times, adjusting to the light in the room before looking over to Jake, his grin still wide and brightening up his whole face, his head turned to the side as he observes you lovingly, a strand of hair longer than the rest tickling the side of his nose.

If Jake has to be completely honest with himself, he's not particularly sad at you being a little sick. 

Sure, it sounds mean when he says it out loud, but you're not doing so badly or in any kind of pain that would worry him, and he enjoys doting on you like this, with you having no choice but to take his love. Can’t blame a man for wanting to take care of his girl, especially when said girl has a streak of refusing to just lay back and let him do the work. 

You're always hiding your pain and vulnerability from everyone around you, so he enjoys knowing he's helping make it at least a little better for once.

You—however—wouldn’t exactly agree that he's making you feel better, definitely not by walking around with damp hair from the shower and intoxicating the air around you with the lingering salty marine and musky notes of the cologne he always sprays on his fresh change of clothes. A smell you usually related to comfort and home, making your head spin in the best way possible, a whirlwind of anything but pure thoughts crowding your mind.

Jake takes notice of the subtle shift in the air around you right away. You had been–subtly at first—laying down little hints for him to pick up, you craved him. Had been craving him for what felt like forever, ever since you got sick. A nagging hunger that just grew further with every hour he silently ignored it.

Usually you would busy yourself with random tasks, keeping your thoughts clear of images of his hands, or his plush lips and how he always absentmindedly licks away at them or how—you get the idea. But being sick doesn't help, being physically weak and needing rest doesn't stop your mind from running wild. Made it worse, actually, since you have nothing to do but lay in your bed all day. If only he’d slide right next to you under your covers and—

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jake interrupts your thoughts, a hint of amusement shining through his smooth tone. You look up to him hopefully, breath caught in your chest fearing the next few words he's about to say. “And you’re still too sick.”

Really not being dramatic, but you're pretty sure a boulder just crushed you right on your chest. You groan, turning to the other side so you can properly sulk without having to look at Jake’s stupidly handsome face. A face you'd love to ride as soon as possible.

“No like, you actually hate me,” your voice is muffled by the pillow currently squished against your face.

“What are you even doing.”

“Trying to suffocate myself since my man hates me.” You grab the sides of the pillow and push them to cover your ears, making Jake erupt in a fit of boyish giggles. 

“No I don’t, just want you to feel better first,” he whispers, and the loving tone makes your body feel light.

You suddenly push yourself up with your arms to look at him, nest of hair a mess from the speed of your movement. “I would feel sooo much better with your fingers deep inside me right now.”

He looks at you for a moment, really looks at you, assessing what to do in this situation. He too misses your touch, far more than what he lets on. Even just sleeping next to you—a pillow fortress separating you two by your request—turned out to be too much for him on multiple occasions. He often found himself silently sneaking out of bed to go and take care of his sudden little problems in the bathroom, trying not to wake you up because he knew if you caught him he wouldn't be able to get out of your claws.

And you really need the rest.

As if sensing his resolve wavering, you add, “don’t I deserve a little reward?”

“A reward… for what?” Jake is thoroughly amused by your desperation. You rarely ever get like this, and he enjoys every second of it. You can tell because he's pushing it a little farther than what he usually would, ending up punishing himself a little along the way too. On any other occasion he would've been all over you before you could even finish your sentence. But Jake doesn't care, not when he doesn't know when the next time he gets to hear you beg a little for him is gonna be.

“Well of course! For having fought this fever tooth and nail and having come out of it alive.”

“You still have a fever though,” he says. “Could kick your ass right down at any given moment.”

“That.” You glare at him with all the fake anger you can muster up. “Is such a mean thing to even suggest.”

“Don’t you care about me getting sick? Made a scene all week and now you’re okay with me touching you?”

“First of all—I only made you keep the pillows between us the first two days. And like I told you, I feel better, so if—” the words die in your throat as you feet the bed dip underneath the weight of Jake’s knee.

"No, no. Keep talking." He slowly gets under the covers, and it's not because he's testing your reaction. His presence felt different, the soft look in his eyes overtaken by something more primal, and you couldn't help but feel like prey under his watchful gaze. It felt intimidating in a way you weren’t used to. It made you squeeze your legs together in search of any friction, your already feverish skin somehow feeling even hotter.

You try to hide the way you gulp, eyes still fixed on his body as he gets comfortable on his side, facing you.

“Maybe you’re right,” Jake whispers against your cheek, his nose rubbing for a moment on your skin as he sneaks an arm underneath your body, pulling you flush to his chest. Even just that single touch sends an electrifying shiver down your spine. “Since you’re fully capable of talking my ear off…”

You reach for his hand wrapped comfortably around your waist and guide it down to cup your heat through your thin shorts, your own hand resting on top of his as you grind against it.

"I suppose you've had enough rest."

You take notice of how his breath hitches in his throat, his carefully crafted mask of calmness slipping as you use his hand. The illusion wears off even more when he tries to hide it with a gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. You know he wants it just as bad as you do, you're just willing to beg for it as long as it gets you what you want.

“I’ll—” you gasp when he flexes his fingers that tiny little bit you need to be able to feel them press against your fluttering hole. “I’ll do anything, just please make me cum.”

“Anything?” his voice is light and airy as he moves the fabric of the shorts out of his way. A deep chuckle tickles your neck, Jake’s mouth dipping down do leave open mouthed kisses on the sensitive skin.

“Anything, just… please,” you whine, flexing your neck to allow him more space, his tongue dipping to lick a stripe down to the juncture of your neck.

Had you not been so deprived of Jake’s touch, you would have found the way you're grinding up against his hand and moaning in his ear almost embarrassing. But you're desperate, so you can't bring yourself to care too much about how pathetic you probably look to anyone else.

The only people in the room are you and Jake anyway, and he seems to be thoroughly enjoying it. His cock is stiff in his sweats, almost painfully so, from feeling how wet you are through your shorts. Dripping already and he barely touched you.

"You're so fucking hot. You know that?" Jake nibbles the shell of your ear, making you arch further in his hold. “You'll do anything you said? How about you take your medicine then?” He moves his hand from your mound to grip your thigh, ignoring your weak attempts at clawing his arm to get the little taste of pleasure he took away from you back.

He kisses his teeth, eyebrows furrowing in faux disapproval. “Use your words. What will you do?”

“Take my medicine,” you whimper, looking into your boyfriend's eyes despite the tears aligning your waterline, and finding amusement swimming through his gaze. Little piece of shit. Not that you were about to complain or anything.

“Theeeere we go,” Jake sings in your ear, placing a soft kiss behind it before dipping down once again and resuming his sweet torture. “You can be good once in a while.”

You nod, lips thinning to keep quiet as if any wrong sound could make him change his mind and leave you hanging. The hand that was drawing circles on your thigh comes up to hold your chin, carefully tilting it away from Jake’s mouth as he sucks on a particularly sensitive spot on your skin. He smooths over your lips with his thumb, coaxing them to part once again.

“Let me hear how good you feel, baby,” he mumbles, mouth still latched on your neck, before taking a strong whiff off your scent. Had you not been so distracted by the wetness seeping out of your clenching hole and soaking your panties, you would've noticed how his eyes rolled all the way back in his skull at your smell.

His free hand finally slides under your shorts,and a gasp leaves you because of how cold he feels. Jake is always warmer than you, but your fever makes it so his touch feels icy against your skin. Your back arches slightly when one of his digits parts your sopping folds, your sensitivity heightened by the unusual difference of temperature.

“Poor little thing, she’s got a fever too,” he giggles into your neck, another digit joining in as he slowly drags them from your clit to your hole to coat them in your juices. “But it’s okay, I’ll help her feel better.”

Usually, his stupid little jokes would’ve made you groan and push his face away. But this time—blame his voice for being deeper and hoarser than normal, or blame your fever—it makes you clench around nothing, cunt feeling emptier than ever while he takes his sweet time playing with you, savoring the moment.

Your head digs deeper into the pillow, hips lifting from the bed to follow Jake’s torturous movements, desperate to feel something more.

“So needy…” he breathes into your neck and goes back to placing sloppy open mouthed kisses wherever he can reach.

A yelp leaves your mouth, eyes you didn't even notice you closed shooting open when Jake bites down on the junction between your neck and shoulder, just enough to rip you out of the trance you were quickly falling into. He smooths over the little bite mark with this tongue, a tingly sensation overtaking the pain in a matter of seconds, the pleasure overriding anything else. 

Jake finally prods two of his digits into your hole, testing the waters, still careful not to push you too hard so soon. But your reaction is instantaneous, cunt fluttering against his fingertips right away. He has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep most of his noises in. “God… I fucking love it when you act like a little slut.”

Jake is so fucking turned on, he can barely think about anything but your pussy. The only thought in his mind is get her off, make her feel good, get a taste of her sweet cunt, sweet pretty and oh so delicious cunt… like a broken record. He feels like he was born for this and this only, as if his mission in life is just that of pleasing you. And to think he had deprived himself of such bliss for even a few days… Something in you seems different to him, almost animalistic, from the way you rut your hips against his hand as soon as he starts scissoring his fingers inside you, to the way you aren't even trying to hold in your moans like you usually would, mouth hanging open with a string of drool attached to your lips. And this is just from his fingers, he can do so much worse.

You yourself aren't doing any better, your brain basically turned to mush as you help Jake get you off by essentially riding his fingers, despite how weak you feel from the fever. His fingers are so long, hitting all the right spots you know you could never be able to reach by yourself, and his thick knuckles drag against your walls so deliciously.

“S-so good,” you gasp when he turns his fingers just the right way, hitting the spot he knows has you coming undone in just a few strokes.

The room is filled with the slapping sounds of his palm against your drenched cunt, more and more slick dripping down your thighs and onto the bed with every flick of his wrist, making it all that much more obscene and filthy. You can feel the familiar pressure building up in your tummy, and suddenly the overwhelming need to just grab onto something crashes on you, heavy and almost painful. You claw at his shirt, eyebrows furrowed in deep pleasure, unaware of the fact that Jake is not facing you anymore.

He looks at the comforter, over his shoulder. The cap filled with syrup is still there amidst the mess. He twists his body to grab it, careful not to slow down the relentless pace he's fingerfucking your cunt at. A few drops of the liquid spill onto his shirt as he takes a sip of it, a grimace overtaking his features as he tries his best to hold it in his mouth. You're still a moaning mess by his side, tiny brain turned to putty to the point you don't even register anything else happening around you, so hyper focused on the pleasure your boyfriend is providing you with.

“J-Jake, I’m so close.”

Perfect timing.

Jake grabs your jaw to turn your head towards his, applying the pressure you've learned means it is time to part your pretty lips and take his spit, like the good well behaved girl he know you to be. And you do just that; immediately following his movements like he trained you to, tongue sticking out too for good measure.

He bends down slightly to aim better, but this time, instead of the slightly bitter taste of his saliva you expect, he lets small amounts of medicine fall on your tongue.

You uselessly try to back away from him, but he holds you in place, fingers still working inside your cunt. Nor does he allow you to close your mouth despite your surprised gasp. His hand holds your jaw open, grasp getting firmer every time you try to break free from it. After all, you made a promise, and Jake's going to make sure you fulfill it.

“You weren't going to take it, huh?” Jake mouths against your lips once he makes sure you swallowed every last drop of the thick honeyed syrup, holding eye contact with you through it all, fingers never once slowing down their pace. “Little dumb pet thinks she can outsmart me.”

He smashes his mouth on yours, not so much a kiss but a silencing of any complaint you're about to spit at him. Those turn to even more whines when he finally brings his thumb to your clit, drawing harsh circles on it as he fucks you to your orgasm. It's almost instantaneous, you were so close already, his stiff cock rubbing against your thigh and his pants hot in your mouth, but his thumb so cold against your neglected clit.

“That’s it baby, so good for me, yeah.” Jake’s fingers gradually slow down inside you, making sure you got every last bit of pleasure you could possibly experience from this high. He too relishes in how your cunt pulses around his digits, making it harder to move them inside you. Oh, he wishes it was his cock being constricted like that instead, but that can wait.

You finally feel like you can breathe again, chest heaving to catch in as much air as you possibly can, forehead all sweaty from the exertion.

The sheets are drenched around you, and you can't even pinpoint when it happened, but you can immediately tell you aren't the only one who made a mess. Your gaze wanders to Jake’s pants, and a very evident stain on his crotch catches your attention. And fuck, if you aren't ready to do it all over again.

Jake looks absolutely divine; hair disheveled and soaked from the sweat, boxers and sweatpants full of cum. A waste, truly.

You sneak your hand in his pants, ignoring the loud hiss from overstimulation Jake lets out when you wrap your hand around his cock and pump a few times, your thumb swiping on his exposed head to collect some of the cum covering it.

Jake watches you, mouth ajar and cock stiffening again right away, as you lick your fingers clean. He slides his own fingers out of your cunt, lapping at them like a man starved, hoping to work you up just as much as you did him. His heart races in his chest as you keep looking at him, a little smile playing on your lips.

“That was so…” you speak up, giggling when Jake interrupts you by throwing himself over your figure, capturing your lips in an actual kiss this time. A very messy, very wet kiss. Allowing you to savor your own taste mixed with his and sweetened by the medicine.

“I think the word you’re looking for is hot.”

“Dramatic,” you interjected. “So, so dramatic.”

Jake curls an eyebrow at you. “You were the one acting like it’d kill you to swallow some syrup. And actually, let’s not forget–” He places a quick kiss on your nose before pushing you against the mattress further, his entire weight on you. “Ohhh no Jake! Please my Jakey! If I don’t get your cock right now I will DIE!”

“Well I still hav–” 

“And won’t.” he deadpans, sensing where you're trying to stir the conversation. “But I’ve got a few ideas.”

You smile to yourself, feeling feather light kisses making their way down your body, with his messy hair tickling your skin every so often. He places a soft kiss on your mound, whining dramatically when you grab a few strands of his hair to stop him. He rests his head on your thigh, puppy-like eyes looking up at you, almost pleading for permission to continue what he started.

“I really don’t want you to get sick,” you say, voice coming out in a whisper full of care, your fingertips playing with his hair and enjoying the way he nuzzles his head further against your skin.

“Well if I were to get sick by touching you… I’d say the deal is sealed by now, no?” He places another kiss on your thigh, teeth slightly grazing the plush skin when you take too long to contemplate whether to give in or not. “Actually, I think some of this syrup would heal me right now.”

“Jake. I’m being serious.”

“What could I possibly even catch from eating you out that I haven't already by exchanging spit with you? Best pussy in the world disease?” He laughs at his own joke, gaining a roll of the eyes from you. “Let me tell you, the chances of that happening are close to zero anyway. I don’t have a pussy but I am the proud owner of a very fat co–”

“You are downright insufferable.”

“Okay so shut me up with a mouthful of this pu–”

The rest of the sentence is muffled against your mound as you push his head down, deciding you heard enough for the day. And the week.

“Okay, okay. Go on,” you giggle as you lay back once again, a deep sigh following as soon as his expert tongue makes contact with your cunt.

Jake's movements are slow and deliberate at first, as he takes his sweet time collecting all of the slick coating your lips and smearing it all over your skin. It's methodical in a way Jake very rarely is, nothing like the primal and messy mixing of his own spit with your arousal and grunting noises you're so used to. When he gets like this, it's purely to tease you.

You grab a fistful of his hair, the strands soft in your hand, and raise his head to force him to look at you.

You almost regret it when you're met with the sight of him licking his lips, his plump lips spreading in a grin that looks almost evil. His irises are entirely drowning in the dark of his pupils, and you'd be lying if you said it doesn't send a chill down your spine. The good kind, the type that also makes you clench your thighs against his frame.

"If you're gonna beg me to eat me out," you say, finding your strength again and being careful not to let Jake see any weakness on your features. "You better do it properly."

You try to keep a straight face when he erupts in a fit of giggles.

"Oooh, look at you—" he starts, clearly amused by your attempt to assert dominance. "I know what I'm doing. You know I know what I'm doing. It just seems to me that I've spoiled the princess a little too much lately." He lowers his head to your thighs, and litters soft kisses as he makes himself comfortable again. Somewhere along the lines, the harsh hold you had on his hair turned into your hand dragging him closer, but you can't pinpoint the exact moment.

Or you just really don't care to know, not when Jake starts lapping up at your cunt like he's starving.

"You taste so delicious, baby," he moans between licks, his nose pressing further into your heat with every movement of his. "So much better than any medicine. Fuck—you're gonna be my little cure from now on. Every time I'm sick, I'll just let you open your legs for me. You'd let me, baby. Wouldn't you?"

You nod vehemently, before realizing he can't see you. "Yes, please use me," you moan, spreading your thighs as far as you can while pushing his head closer to you, even when it's almost physically impossible for Jake to even breathe. Not that he would have it any other way.

The grip on his hair, the way you push and pull at it as if you have any command over the stimulation he's giving you, the way you sing for him with every flick of his tongue. It all makes Jake's head spin in the best way possible, his cock stiff again in his pants and throbbing against the very fabric he ruined with his cum only minutes before.

He grunts and moans into you, like he's the one being pleasured, and it all adds to the magic Jake is working on you. The vibrations only aiding in inching you closer to the second orgasm of the day.

"Jake, I'm close, please."

You don't need to say anything else, because he parts from your cunt for a single second. Just enough to let a gobble of his spit drip down right on your engorged clit, coating it in more shiny essence.

You're about the complain about the lack of stimulation, but he dives right back in, licking a singular stripe from your poor mess a of hole upwards. He can taste the remains of the syrup in his own spit still, and paired with the straight up divine taste of your own slick, Jake thinks he might be in heaven.

"So sweet, baby. So fucking sweet. It's like you want me to never stop fucking you with my tongue." He catches your little bundle of nerves between his raw lips, already wet with spit, suckling on it like he's trying to coax even more wetness out of you. He swirls his tongue around it, his eyebrows furrowing in both pleasure and concentration as he keeps toying and prodding at every single part of your pussy.

You're so unbelievably close to coming undone, every passing second just bringing you closer to the brink. All it takes to send you over the edge is Jake moaning with your numb right in his mouth, the small vibrations from it all you needed for the searing white feeling to envelop you completely, the familiar silent yet still deafening tingly sensation spreading from your core to all the limbs in your body.

Jake keeps lapping up all your generous body gives him, thankful for it all and careful not to let a single drop go to waste.

Your arm is thrown over your eyes as you catch your breath, this second orgasm completely emptying you of whatever energy you had left. Usually you would offer Jake to help him out as a little thank you, even though he told you time and time again that it wasn't needed and pleasing you what was got him off in the first place.

But as much as you denied it initially, the fever did take a toll on you, more than you would like to admit. So any further activity would have to wait.

"Yummy." Jake comes up from below you, drying the bottom half of his face with the back of his hand. Even if you're tired and spent, the comment is enough to make you remove your arm from your eyes just so you can give him a well deserved death stare.

He gets up from the bed, disappearing for a few seconds into the bathroom. "What's with that look? No 'thank you Jake, you're the best?'"

When you don't reply, far too weakened to even try to banter with your boyfriend, he walks back into the room with a towel and a worried look etched on his gorgeous features.

He gets on the bed again, careful not to move your body more than necessary, and starts cleaning you up with the gentlest touch you've ever felt him use. "Did i tire you out too much? You're still sick—"

"You were great. Don't worry," you stop his train of thoughts you knew you wouldn't hear the end of if you let him go on for any longer. "I just need a nap, then I'll be as good as new."

The tension in Jake's shoulders only disappears once you smile at him, his own face morphing to match your own. It's one of your favorite things about him, how he's so careful and attentive to every hint and feeling on your face, he ends up mirroring them without even noticing.

He runs his hands soothingly all over your skin as he resumes cleaning you up, the room falling into a peaceful silence.

You almost fall asleep, but you should've known Sim Jake shutting up for once was far too good to be true.

"Look at the mess you made though. This is enough to start an entire pharmacy."

[eraserbread]

so we have ex-husband nanami... WHAT ABOUT EX HUSBAND GOJO? 😋

you and gojo, split amicably... or, so he thought.

on the other hand, you were a mess. drinking every night, calling out of work, constant migraines, hangovers, and fatigue. it was as if this divorce was eating you alive. worst part is, gojo was doing great.

it was one of those nights again -- head hanging between your shoulders as the ground spins with drunkenness. you were too depressed to go to a bar, so you picked up quick, shitty mixed drinks from the convenience store and swallowed them whole. now, your phone was staring at you with a vengeance, begging for attention.

your lock screen is a picture of you two in kyoto when things were still good. it was taken by a friendly stranger. your arms are slung over his neck, and you smile in his face. he smiled back. you miss him so much.

blame it on your lockscreen, or blame it on the alcohol, but you reach for gojo's contact unashamed. you'd beat yourself up about it tomorrow, but if you didn't tell him exactly what you were feeling, that might kill you right now.

so, you call him, but he doesn't answer, not even mentioning that it's well past 3 a.m., but that doesn't really matter. gojo rarely sleeps; you know he's awake.

but you're still met with his empty voicemail box, swallowing when you realize you must speak to make yourself known. after all, it's been long enough—gojo could've deleted your number by now.

"uhm... hi." you slur, leaning forward into an empty palm. "gojo, it's me. i was just wondering how you were. it's all been a lot lately. but, um, call me back, okay? I lo—" you catch yourself. force of habit. "bye."

then you spend the rest of your night lying numb on your loveseat, arms wrapped around your lonely heart. minutes could've passed -- maybe it's an hour. all you know is the only thing that pulled you from your thoughts was the ding of a new message.

blearily, you reach for your phone.

from: gojo satoru you sound pretty bad. come over?

you should've known. you're gullible enough to take a taxi over here in the middle of the night hungry for reconciliation. instead, it leads to gojo pulling you into his home, glossy lips sucking yours into his mouth.

it's a kiss you haven't experienced in months -- needy, heady, loveless. his hands are all over you, the room is dark, his eyes are so bright. he doesn't even say a word.

but he leads you to his bedroom like he never left. it's what he knows you need -- to loose your mind with one orgasm after the next. he knows how to pull it out of you like a science now, and knows you loved being manhandled.

and it makes it easier to toss you into his unmade bed now that you aren't his doting wife. you're just a drunk hookup, panty-less and opening your legs long before he tells you to.

you feel like a whore, gojo doesn't talk, hardly looking at you when he stuffs his long cock into you. squelching against the rivers you exert for him, he doesn't even say your name, he just grips you harder.

and you fall into old ways, rutting like jackrabbits, bed screeching along the floor. pinning you to the mattress, arms raised high above your head, gojo drills you down in missionary, watching the way you're trembling and refusing to open your eyes and look.

you know gojo's vision is like x-rays, he'll read the shame in your gaze if you let him. it takes every ounce of self-control not to give in.

grunting into your ear like he's running a painful marathon, gojo pulls that first orgasm out of you in shivering cries and pleas of his name. he's fucking you so good, kissing your cervix raw with every thrust.

then, he's cumming in quick thrusts, grunts speeding up before evening out. it's all he's saying, tiny whispers of 'fuckin-' and 'yeah?' slipping from his lips if you're lucky.

and, it's so odd. when you were his, he used to purr your name, calling you every type of beautiful and magical in his presence. he used to take his time working you over, fingers light in fear of hurting you.

now, he's bruising you to the bone, fucking you like it was a sport and not even offering you his sensuality. your gojo is an entirely different person.

now, you're ashamed. it hurts to finally admit, but he didn't feel like your husband anymore.

[ddrunkdazed]

By the time Sylus gets home, you’ve been asleep for enough time to feel well rested.

He goes on about his usual routine: disarming himself, checking that everything is running smoothly, having a steaming shower. If he notices that you’ve been staring at him the whole time he’s been coming and going in and out the room, he doesn’t say anything.

Maybe he’s not even aware that you’re awake. After all, Sylus doesn’t like disturbing you, especially not when you’re sleeping. Or maybe he just likes to feel your eyes on him — he’s mentioned it before. And so, you scan his every move, the way his muscles ripple under the satin robe he likes to wear after showering, and how he flexes as he throws on his pajamas.

You stare at him for so long that you’ve started to drift off again. Perhaps you weren’t entirely awake and your longing for Sylus’ presence made you conjure him up, almost like a genie had granted you a wish; and your wish would always, always be him.

You feel his lips press to your forehead, his slender fingers softly caressing your cheek before he sits on the bed, the expensive mattress barely dipping under his weight, “Get some rest, sweetie.”

Sylus lies down next to you and now it’s your turn to feel his eyes on you, while he traces your features softly with the tip of his finger, as if he intends to commit you to memory in that precise moment.

For a brief second, you’re tempted to start one of your bantering moments, those when you both pretend you’re not equally crazy about the other even though you spend the entire day longing for him. Even in your busiest moments, your brain still supplies you with brief moments of intense yearning, like your souls are trying to constantly reach for each other.

You both end up falling asleep, but before the sun rises, you wake up again. This time, Sylus’ back is facing you. So strong, yet so soft. Your dragon, in all his glory. So vulnerable, with all his scars, lying there next to you.

Instinctively, you raise your hand, the unbearable need to touch him taking over you. And yet, you stop yourself, fingers tingling as your hand hangs mid-air. Sylus barely shuffles and you lower your hand softly, your eyes burning holes on his pale skin, a confession in the tip of your tongue.

Still, you hold back. You can just stare at his back the whole day. At least until you’re courageous enough to mutter the three words that have been stuck in your throat for so long.

[fleurbly]

FOREVER, EVER.

summary: heartbroken and lost after remmick’s sudden disappearance, you're left to mourn the quiet life you shared. but when he returns days later in the dead of night, something about him is wrong — colder, darker, not quite the man you remember.

warnings: non-con, dub-con, coercion, power imbalance (?), mentions of blood, angst

DNI IF THIS UPSETS YOU

pairing: dark!remmick x reader

words: 10k+

based off this req

You stopped waiting at the gate on the fifth night.

The first four, you'd sat on the old stone fence just past the apple tree, chin resting in your hand, eyes trained on the path that cut through the hills. Hoping. Always hoping.

The lantern you kept lit burned down to its wick every time, and the neighbor's dog barked at nothing well past midnight. You’d go to bed with your dress still wrinkled from the wait, your hair loose and tangled, smelling like smoke and sweat, throat tight from swallowing every fear you’d never dared to name.

But by the fifth night, something in you stilled. Not in the peaceful way — not in the trusting way either. Just… dulled. Like your bones were too tired to hope properly.

Remmick had been gone nearly two weeks.

He’d only gone to help a traveler — a stranger passing through, said he’d lost his horse down by the bog. You hadn’t seen the man’s face clearly, just his boots as he stood outside your gate and asked for help in that strange, silken voice. You’d been at the basin, elbows deep in washing, and Remmick had leaned against the doorframe with that crooked smile of his and said, “Back in an hour, love.”

But he didn’t come back.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the one after that either.

The village didn’t offer much. A few shrugs, a few mumbled guesses about Dublin work or wrong turns. Someone said they’d seen him near the grove two days after, speaking to no one. But no one really knew anything. No one seemed to care like you did, not even close.

And you — you were unraveling in silence.

Your hands still reached for two plates at supper, even though you only managed a few bites. His shirts were still on the line, starched stiff by the sun. You slept on his side of the bed and dreamt half the time that the mattress shifted under his weight — that his breath tickled your shoulder, that his hand slid up your thigh like nothing had ever gone wrong.

But the bed was always empty by morning. And you stopped setting the table for two.

The house was quiet in a way it had never been, even before him. You hated it. Hated the way the wind pressed against the shutters like fingers trying to slip in. Hated the sound of your own voice when you called for him without thinking. Hated the silence more.

And the heat — Christ, the heat didn’t help. The summer refused to die, clinging on like a fever, like something sick in the lungs of the world. Even though the leaves were curling at the edges and the fields outside had turned to brittle gold, even though the sky went orange far too early and the cicadas screamed like they were begging for the end — still, it stayed. Heavy. Wet. Oppressive.

It pressed down on you like a second skin. You couldn’t move without feeling the sweat pool in the bend of your elbows, your thighs, the hollow at the base of your spine. The nightgown you wore to bed — one of his favorites, he used to tease you about how soft it was — clung to you like it had teeth, plastered against your breasts, the backs of your knees, the dip of your stomach.

You barely slept. Not really. Just lay there, night after night, your limbs too hot to be still, heart too frantic to rest. Sometimes you’d drift — never for long — and always wake with a start, breath stuck in your throat like something had gripped it. You’d wake clutching the sheets, wild-eyed, convinced you’d heard his voice calling from outside the window, soft and slanted and sweet the way only he said your name. But there’d be nothing. Just the open air and the humming heat and the wind through the eaves like a breath that never finished.

You stopped eating too. At first, it was because you couldn’t keep anything down — the nausea sat heavy in your gut, sour and mean — but then it became something else. Like forgetting. You’d boil water for tea and let it cool untouched. You’d leave bread out until it stiffened. The butter melted to nothing in the dish, but you didn’t move to put it away. Everything was too still. Too loud. Too much. You walked through the house like it was someone else’s, like you were waiting to wake up in the right one again, the one where he came through the door at dusk smelling like cut hay and sweat, grumbling about supper and kissing you before you could speak.

That night — the night he came back — was no different.

You’d given up trying to sleep hours before, the mattress too warm, the sheets too tangled. You’d taken to the floor, cheek pressed to the boards that still held some whisper of coolness. Your body was damp with sweat, the cotton of your gown twisted and wrung around you, and still you didn’t move. The house was quiet but not peaceful. The silence felt thick, like the walls were holding their breath.

The scent of him — linen, warm and clean, and that old citrus soap he used to lather all the way up to his throat — lingered faintly in the air, though you hadn’t touched the basin in days.

You tried to tell yourself it was in your head, that it was just the last remnants of a memory you weren’t ready to let go of. But some nights, it was stronger than others, and you swore the air itself felt thick with him, as if the very walls of the house carried the imprint of his presence, as though his scent bled out through the floorboards, lingering in the spaces where his footsteps had once been. It clung to the edges of the night, curling around you, unwelcome but familiar. And you couldn't seem to shake it.

The lantern burned low, the flickering light casting long, wavering shadows across the room, soft and golden against the walls. The wick had started to gutter, sputtering faintly with each breath of air, and the light seemed to shrink in the small space, leaving more darkness in its wake.

The heat of the summer was still thick in the room, the sticky humidity inescapable even in the cool of night. Everything felt close, as though the air itself was pressing in on you. The shadows danced, stretched across the room like fingers reaching for something, and you hovered in that strange, drifting place between sleep and something else — not quite awake, not quite dreaming. It was a liminal space where time didn’t seem to exist, where everything felt like it might slip away at any moment.

Then the knock came.

It was soft. Three taps. Nothing urgent. But something about it made you stop.

You didn’t move at first. You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the sound, your mind slow, the fog of exhaustion still clinging to your senses. You thought maybe it was a trick, your brain playing games with you after so many restless nights. After all, who would be out here now? The village was far, and no one came by this late — especially not in this kind of heat. The knock was so gentle, like a whisper, like someone uncertain. It should’ve been nothing. But there it was again, a ripple in the stillness.

Then it came again.

This time, slower. Heavier. Familiar.

You didn’t think — not at first. Not until your feet began to move without you willing them to. You rose on unsteady legs, your nightgown twisting around your legs as you took each step. Bare feet skimmed the cool wooden floorboards, the sound of your own breathing loud in the otherwise empty house. You crossed to the door, and the air was thick around you, sticky with something like anticipation — like the stillness of the moment had expanded, stretching everything out just a little too long, holding its breath.

Your heart hadn’t started to beat faster yet. It was too stunned, too unsure of what to feel. It was like you’d been frozen in time, suspended in something you couldn’t quite define. Your body moved without your permission, like it knew something you didn’t. You reached for the door, hand trembling just a little as you wrapped your fingers around the cool wood, but you still couldn’t quite bring yourself to open it. You felt the hesitation — your mind, still too slow to catch up with what your body already knew, already feared.

Another knock.

This time, the air felt different. Something heavier hung between the beats of silence, like the world itself was waiting with you.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you hesitated for a moment longer, but then you slowly pulled the door open, the sound of the hinges creaking loud in the quiet night.

The light from the lantern flickered against the doorframe, casting strange, long shadows as the night air washed over you, thick with the scent of earth and warmth. The breeze carried with it a distant hum, but it was nothing compared to the silence that surrounded you, enclosing you in its grip.

Standing there, on the threshold, was a figure. A shape you knew all too well.

You froze.

At first, you couldn’t even bring yourself to speak, because what was there to say? Your mind struggled to process, to find words that made sense, that could explain this moment — but none came.

Instead, you simply stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, your breath shallow as you stared at the figure before you.

He stood there, just outside the door, looking like he’d just stepped out of bed — though anyone who’d seen him at his most disheveled would’ve known better. His shirt was perfectly buttoned, sleeves neatly rolled up, not a wrinkle in sight. His trousers were so pristine they looked like they’d never touched a speck of dirt, not even the tiniest fleck of mud clinging to the hems.

It was like he’d never been gone, like he’d just stepped out of some painting, his sharp jawline cutting through the warm glow, the steady rise and fall of his chest a mockery of the sleepless nights you’d spent wondering where the hell he was.

He looked... perfect. Untouched. As though he’d been lounging on the other side of the world, waiting for the perfect moment to stroll back into your life. His hair was slightly ruffled, but it was the kind of ruffled you only get from running your fingers through it when you're trying to look like you’ve just had a wild night of passion — not from anything remotely chaotic. His expression, however, hadn’t changed at all. That same, cocky tilt to his lips. That same glint in his eyes that you’d once spent so many hours getting lost in.

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something — but he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at you like you were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, taking in your reaction.

You stepped forward, your heart suddenly doing that mad thing again, racing in your chest, but he didn’t move. No hurry. No rush. He was too damn calm.

“Remmick,” you whispered, your voice trembling in spite of yourself. “Jesus, Remmick, where—?”

At the sound of his name, he flinched. That was the first thing that hit you — the first real sign that something wasn’t quite right.

You reached for him, instinctively, your hand brushing the doorframe as if to anchor yourself. His eyes snapped to your fingers, and he blinked slowly, like he’d just noticed them. Like he'd just remembered how to blink, or how to breathe. His lips curled into that trademark smirk, the one that made you want to both kiss him and strangle him all at once.

“Well, ain’t you lookin' all kinds of worried,” he drawled, his voice thick and hoarse, rolling over each word like melted honey. It should’ve been comforting, but there was something so off about it. His throat worked like he was forcing the words out. “I’m sure you’ve been wonderin' where the hell I’ve been, huh?”

You couldn’t find the words to answer. You just stared at him, waiting for something — anything — that would explain this. He was too damn calm. Too perfect.

He tilted his head, still standing there like he hadn’t been gone for weeks. Still looking like the man you remembered — and yet, not at all. “But listen, sugar,” he said, voice a little softer now, “there’s one little thing I need before I can explain any of this. You’ve gotta invite me in. Just a little ‘come on in,’ and I’ll tell you everything you wanna know.”

You blinked. “What?”

He chuckled, low and rich, but the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes. No, those eyes were something else now. Something distant. Like he wasn’t really here. Something far away, watching you through a pane of glass, maybe.

“I know, I know. You think I’m jokin’, don’t you?” His lips twisted into a smile that made your insides twist. But you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. “But I ain’t. It’s simple, really,” he added, dropping his voice just enough to make your heartbeat a little faster than it should’ve. “You just gotta let me in, and I’ll tell you everythin’ you wanna know.”

The sarcasm in his voice should’ve been enough. Should’ve been all you needed to shut the door and run, because what the hell was this? But no, something about the way he stood there, the casual arrogance, the way his eyes never wavered from yours — it was so him. And in the back of your mind, the part you couldn’t quiet, something told you this was no longer the man you had married, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. Not yet.

You didn’t ask why. You should’ve. You wanted to. But you didn’t.

Instead, you stepped back, your hand falling instinctively to the door, your fingers curling around the old wood. You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper as you spoke.

“Come in, then.”

And just like that, he did.

His boots met the floorboards with a slow, deliberate rhythm — not loud, not quiet, just enough to echo faintly in the stillness of the room. It was a sound you’d come to know too well, a sound that carried the weight of both absence and presence.

Every step reverberated in the air like a reminder of the days he’d been gone, a reminder that he was here now. The hollow tap of his boots scraped against your thoughts, making the air feel thick, almost oppressive. Familiar. Tangible. But this time, it sent a shiver down your spine, deeper than it ever had before, like his very presence was waking up something deep within you, something locked up tight these last few weeks. 

It kicked something loose in your chest — a mix of dread and relief, something you couldn’t put a name to. And yet, you couldn’t pull your eyes away, couldn’t look anywhere else but at him, even as that feeling twisted around inside you, coiling and unfurling.

He crossed the threshold with a steady, measured stride, like he’d never left. Like nothing had happened. As if two weeks had somehow faded into nothing more than a passing moment. No apology. No explanation. Just him, here, in the doorway — the same way he always had. Like no space had grown between you, like no time had been lost. Like the silence that had stretched on endlessly in his absence didn’t matter. But it did. You could feel it. 

The room had changed, the house had changed. And you? You had changed. The air around him seemed to buzz with an energy that hadn’t been there before, but it was subtle, hiding beneath the surface. Even as he walked into that familiar space, it felt like he wasn’t just walking into the room — he was walking into everything that had happened while he was gone. Every moment. Every second. And yet, his gaze was calm, almost too calm, as if none of it mattered to him at all.

His eyes moved through the room the same way they always had, like they were cataloging everything in their path. A quick, quiet sweep — slow but unhurried. Measuring, thoughtful. Calculating. Like he was mentally clocking what had changed in the room, the small details, the things he hadn’t seen in the time away. The rearranged furniture. The dust on the counter. The cracks in the walls that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge any of it. It was as though nothing could surprise him.

 Nothing could rattle him. And yet, as his gaze slid over the room, you could feel him noticing everything without ever giving it away on his face. He’d always been like that — careful, observant, measuring every move, every flicker of life in the space around him. But this time, the gaze wasn’t just detached. It felt more deliberate, sharper, like he was seeing things he hadn’t noticed before. Things that hadn’t been there when he left. Things that had changed.

Then, just as you started to breathe again, his eyes landed on you.

And something flickered. Just for a split second. It wasn’t enough to give away what he was thinking — not enough to let you know what he felt, what he was seeing — but it was there. A momentary pause in the rhythm of his movements, a subtle change in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his focus sharpened. He took you in with a slow, deliberate gaze, his eyes tracing the lines of you like he was committing every detail to memory, cataloging the parts of you that hadn’t been there before, the parts of you that had.

The way your nightgown clung to your skin, a little too thin against the chill of the air. The hollows under your eyes, deeper than they should have been, shadows that had settled there from nights of worrying, waiting, wondering. The way your shoulders slumped under the weight of it all — the weight of him, the weight of the silence, the weight of the uncertainty that had been crushing you for far too long. 

You hadn’t even realized you were holding yourself like that. Not until the way he looked at you made you painfully aware. His gaze didn’t linger in the way it used to, with that softness, that familiarity. No, it was sharper. More focused. More calculating. He noticed it all — the small things that would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else, the things you had no choice but to live with. And for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he saw you the way you saw yourself now — broken in places, frayed at the edges, and wearing a mask that didn’t fit anymore.

“You look like hell,” he said, voice low, matter-of-fact. It wasn’t cruel or mocking — not even judgmental, really. It was just a simple observation, something he’d been meaning to say. Like it needed saying, and now it had been, and that was all. The words lingered in the air, hanging between you, but they didn’t cut. They didn’t have the power to hurt, not anymore. You already knew.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, the bitter taste of his absence still on the tip of your tongue. Your fingers tightened reflexively around the doorframe, as if it might somehow steady you. The weight of his gaze was like a hand pressing on your chest, and you hated how small you felt under it, how fragile.

“I waited,” you said, the words feeling tight, like something heavy stuck in your chest. “I—every night, I—” Your voice faltered, like the years you’d spent with him were still too much to process, too big to put into simple words. How could you explain the long, slow unraveling of yourself, the endless hours you’d spent wondering where he was, if he was dead, if he was coming back at all?

He sighed, a deep, worn-out sound, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to shake off the weight of something heavier than the air around you. “I know,” he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that same underlying edge of exhaustion.

“Then why—?” The question almost caught in your throat before you could get it out. It wasn’t just the ‘why’ of his disappearance. It was the ‘why now,’ the why after everything.

“Don’t,” he cut in, not sharply, but with an edge that cut through the air between you. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t warm either. It was just... tired. “Not yet.”

You stared at him, blinking against the sudden wave of emotions you couldn’t sort through. His words didn’t make sense, but that was nothing new. Not with him. “You can’t just walk in here and expect me not to ask.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. But what else was there to do? How could you stay quiet after everything?

“I’m not expecting anything,” he muttered, the words rough, like they didn’t quite fit his mouth. “I’m telling you I need a minute.” He said it like it was simple, like everything could be boiled down to that one sentence, but the air between you felt heavier now, thick with all the things he wasn’t saying.

The words should’ve stung, should’ve pressed against the anger burning in your gut, but they didn’t. They didn’t hurt the way you thought they would. Instead, they just sank deep into you, settling into the ache that had already been growing there. A quiet, hollow ache. A place where everything else had slipped away.

“I thought you were dead,” you whispered, the words so soft, so fragile, it felt like they might break apart in the air. “I thought—” You couldn’t finish. It didn’t matter. He’d heard it, and that was enough. That was everything.

His jaw flexed — the smallest movement, but it didn’t escape you. The flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Regret? You couldn’t be sure, but it was there, and it was gone just as quickly as it had come. He didn’t look at you, didn’t speak. He just kept his back to you, his posture stiff, like the weight of your words was too much.

“I know,” he said again, quieter this time, almost... softer. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, his voice unsteady now, like he was dragging the words out. “It wasn’t supposed to go like that.”

“Then how was it supposed to go?” You didn’t mean for the question to come out so sharp, but it did. Your own voice sounded foreign to you, distant, like you didn’t recognize it anymore.

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. He just bent down to toe off his boots, the movement slow and deliberate, as if he was giving himself time to think. Or maybe just time to avoid you. To avoid answering. He set them neatly by the door, as though it was just any other night. Then, without a word, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, the motion dragging his shirt tight against his chest, the muscles beneath it shifting in a way that reminded you of the man you used to know — the one who could move through a room like he owned it.

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” he said. The words were soft, almost a whisper. “Not yet. I need a wash. And some damn sleep.”

You opened your mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to beg, maybe to demand more. But he was already moving down the hall, his shoulders stiff with something you couldn’t place, like the tension in his back was enough to pull the rest of him away from you. The heat of him lingered in the air for a moment longer, heavy and unspoken, before it started to fade.

“Remmick,” you called, the name slipping out before you could stop it. He didn’t turn around, didn’t even pause. But he didn’t completely ignore you, either.

He slowed, just enough to let you know he’d heard. The silence stretched between you.

“I should be angry,” you said, voice trembling, more to yourself than to him.

A beat passed — long, drawn-out. Then he spoke, his voice barely a murmur. “You should be,” he said, but there was something strange about it. Something unreadable. “But not tonight.”

And with that, he disappeared around the corner, his figure melting into the shadows of the hallway. The sound of water running came a few moments later, too sharp, too loud in the otherwise quiet house, breaking the silence that had settled like a weight between you.

You stood there for a long time, long after he was gone.

Your hand still pressed against the doorframe, your fingers numb, as if you were holding onto something that was already slipping away. The scent of him — soap, sweat, earth, and something that was just... him — lingered faintly in the air. It curled around the room like the ghost of the man who had once been everything to you. And even though he was there, so close, you could feel the distance between you, stretching farther with each second that passed.

You finally pulled yourself away from the doorframe, the pressure in your fingers dissipating slowly. The sound of the water running—loud, steady—told you he was in the shower.

Without thinking much, you made your way up the stairs, the quiet of the house wrapping around you. The stillness felt a bit too much, like the air was holding its breath, waiting for something that hadn’t been said.

You entered the bedroom, the familiar scent of the sheets and the faint smell of his cologne still lingering in the room. For a moment, you just stood there, your eyes tracing the space like you were seeing it for the first time.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, the coolness of the sheets surprisingly comforting. It felt strange, being in here alone once again, but the exhaustion was too much to ignore. The bed was warm, the kind of warmth that felt right, even though things between you two didn’t feel that way anymore.

You stretched out, letting your body sink deeper into the comfort of the mattress. Without meaning to, your eyes fluttered closed, the soft hum of the water below lulling you into a quiet space of your own. Thoughts drifted, but the pull of sleep was stronger.

And before you even realized it, the exhaustion had taken over. The tension from earlier faded, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the distant sound of water running.

You were asleep before you could even stop yourself.

You didn’t wake all at once. It came in pieces, slow and disjointed — a vague sense of wrongness settling in before your body even caught up. The kind of stirring that made your brows draw together before your eyes opened, as if some part of you already knew something wasn’t right. Like your body remembered a warning your mind hadn’t yet caught onto. It wasn’t the dark or the silence that did it. It was just... a feeling. A weight in your chest. An ache you couldn’t place.

And then — sharp. Sudden. At the base of your neck.

It wasn’t just pain. It was dragging, hot and deep, like someone had sunk something beneath your skin and left it there to fester. You drew in a breath too fast through your nose, air catching in your throat as your hand moved, half-conscious, to the source of it. Fingers brushed skin that was warmer than it should’ve been, too sensitive, and damp.

Not with sweat.

Not with tears.

When you pulled your hand back, you saw it even before your eyes had fully adjusted.

Blood.

Smearing across the pads of your fingers in thin streaks, tacky and fresh. Your breath stuttered. It didn’t make sense. Not at first. Your mind fumbled, still heavy from sleep — still hoping for something reasonable. A nosebleed, maybe. A bad dream. Anything that didn’t explain why your neck felt like it was pulsing beneath your skin, hot and raw.

But the moment your fingertips found the punctures — two, clean, unmistakable — that shaky hope snapped.

You sat up, not fast, not slow — just enough to know your body didn’t want to cooperate. Your spine felt weak, your shoulders heavy, like you’d been drugged or drowned or left to unravel. The fog in your mind hadn’t cleared, not fully, but it parted just enough to register the absence beside you.

The bed was empty.

And not just empty — cold.

His side of the mattress had no trace of warmth. No indentation, no shifting blanket, no smell of him lingering on the pillow like it usually did. Just stillness. And space.

Your stomach dropped in that quiet, breathless way that only came when something inside you recognized danger before your brain could name it. Because this wasn’t new, was it? That bone-deep panic, that flash of he’s gone—you’d lived it before. And still, even now, the idea of him vanishing again hollowed out your lungs.

You sat up straighter, hand still pressed to your neck, your pulse knocking unevenly under your palm.

“Remmick?”

Your voice cracked when you said his name. Not loudly — barely above a whisper — but it still felt like it shattered something. Like it didn’t belong in the room the way it used to.

Silence.

Not the safe kind.

The kind that pressed back.

You waited. One second. Then two. Then ten.

Still nothing. No answer. No creak of footsteps. No familiar drawl or shift of weight or even the soft drag of breath beside you.

And that was when fear bloomed. Quiet and wide, like ink dropped in water.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, trying to steady your hands, your thoughts, your pulse. The ache in your neck burned again, and you bit down hard to stop from crying out — half from the pain, half from the mounting realization that you didn’t know what had happened.

You were just about to rise when a sound broke through the thick stillness — soft, so subtle you almost missed it.

A creak. Wood shifting under weight. You turned sharply. 

And your breath caught. Remmick was sitting by the window. Still. Half in shadow, half painted in pale moonlight, just enough for you to see him clearly — or at least enough to see what mattered. 

He wasn’t looking out the window. He was looking at you. He was watching you.

Not startled. Not guilty. Just still — like he had been for hours, like he hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d left your side. The chair beneath him creaked softly as he shifted his weight, but even that felt deliberate. Intentional. The kind of quiet that didn’t happen by accident.

One arm rested across the side of the chair, the other draped loosely over his lap — casual, composed, but there was a tension in him now, something unreadable coiled beneath his skin.

And then you saw it.

The blood.

It caught the light as he turned just slightly, glinting red against the pale of his jaw. It smeared along the corner of his mouth, wet and stark and so out of place. He hadn’t wiped it away. Hadn’t tried to hide it. It was yours.

A breath snagged in your throat, sharp and quick. Your pulse skipped — or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was something else now. Something slower. Something changed.

Your hand flew back to your neck — faster this time, not careful, not hesitant — and this time, you felt the truth in full.

Two points.

Sharp. Precise. Still tender.

Still fresh.

Your fingers pressed against the small wounds, and even that tiny pressure made the ache flare again, deeper now, pulling at something beneath the surface of your skin. It was like touching a place that wasn’t fully yours anymore.

Your blood. On his mouth.

Your breath caught, and your eyes locked on him again.

He hadn’t moved.

Just sat there. Watching.

His eyes were different now. You didn’t know how you hadn’t noticed it before — maybe the dark had masked it, or maybe your mind hadn’t wanted to see it. But they were colder. Calmer. Less human.

You opened your mouth — maybe to speak, maybe to scream — but no sound came.

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Measured. Like he already knew.

“Hey baby.”

Two words, quiet as dust settling, but they shattered something in you anyway.

Because you had woken up in panic — empty bed, aching body, blood on your fingertips — and for a moment, you thought he’d done it and left. Like before. Vanished again into the dark like he always had. But he hadn’t.

He’d stayed.

And maybe that was worse.

Your voice came back slowly, a rasp barely held together. “What did you do?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. His eyes never left yours, and he didn’t look sorry. Didn’t look afraid. Just… resolute. Like whatever line he’d crossed tonight had been waiting in the sand for a long time.

Finally, he spoke — and this time, his voice held something else. Something heavy.

“I couldn’t lose you to what I am now.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — too full — of everything he wasn’t saying. What he’d done. What it meant. What you were now.

Your gaze snapped to him — sharp, panicked, disbelieving — and the horror that had been simmering beneath your skin finally cracked wide open across your face. Your chest heaved, breath catching in uneven stutters as your hands began to tremble, fingertips smeared with your own blood, still wet against your throat.

And he just sat there.

Watching.

Still.

It wasn’t the ache in your neck that made your voice break — it was the realization settling like ice in your bones. The finality of it.

Your fingers shook as you held them up — bloodstained, trembling, helpless.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you choked out, your voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Remmick, what—what did you do?”

It wasn’t just fear in your voice. It was grief. Rage. Betrayal.

Your throat closed up around the last word, and your vision swam. You could feel your pulse thundering in your ears, but not in the way it used to — not in the way that made you feel alive. It was distant now. Hollow. Like something inside you had been scooped out and replaced with something colder. Hungrier.

He still didn’t move. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, posture calm — almost reverent. The only thing that betrayed him was the faint tension in his jaw. Like even he didn’t quite know how to explain what he’d done.

“I had to,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

You flinched.

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head so hard it made your vision blur. “No, you—you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to—fuck, Remmick—”

Your voice broke again, and this time you didn’t try to stop it. The tears came without permission, hot and sudden, streaking down your face as you stared at him like he was someone you didn’t recognize.

Like he wasn’t him anymore.

Or maybe this had always been him.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Still, he didn’t rise. Just watched you — a war in his eyes, but no regret on his face.

Only inevitability.

You noticed it the second you moved — the way his eyes locked on to you, tracking every small tremble in your limbs as you rose from the bed on shaky legs. There was no concern in his expression, no guilt. Just a quiet, intent focus that wrapped around you like a snare. He didn’t flinch at the sight of your blood, or at the way your breath caught in your throat, or even at the disbelief etched so plainly across your face.

If anything… he looked calm. Unshaken. Like this had always been the plan.

His gaze followed the stutter of your steps, the way your hand still hovered near your neck as if trying to protect it from him — from what he had already done. A glint flickered in his eyes then. Not regret. Not sorrow.

Possession.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was low — steady in a way that made your blood run colder than anything else.

“You really think I’d let you live out the rest of your days like that?” he asked, his tone almost casual, like he was surprised by the very idea. “Still human? Still breakable?” He scoffed faintly, shaking his head, and took a slow step forward. “Like hell I would.”

He paused, watching you. Letting it sink in. Then his voice dropped further, rougher, the edge of something else — something darker — slipping beneath every word.

“You think I’d walk away forever, leave you behind while I disappeared into something you’d never understand?” His lip curled, not quite a smile — too sharp, too cold. “You think I’d let you grow old without me? Let you forget me?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and the silence stretched, thick and humming with something terrible.

“No, darlin’,” he said, his voice soft now — too soft. “No. That was never gonna happen.”

He took another step, and this time you could feel the air shift around him, like the whole room was holding its breath. “I made sure of that,” he continued, and the words dripped like oil from his lips. “I had to. The second they turned me — the second I felt what it really meant to hunger, to need—”

He let the sentence hang there, unfinished, heavy.

“That was when I knew,” he said, quieter now. “I couldn’t leave without you. Wouldn’t. Not when every part of me still belonged to you, even after death. Especially after.”

Your knees nearly buckled at the intensity in his voice — not shouted, not frantic. Just certain. Like he was telling you gravity existed. Like he was telling you the sky was blue.

He stepped closer still, until the distance between you was no more than a breath. He looked down at you, eyes dark, but lit with something that made your skin crawl — reverence, obsession, devotion twisted into something monstrous.

“I took the choice from you,” he said. “Because I knew you’d fight it. Knew you’d beg me not to. And I couldn’t let that happen. Not when the thought of you out there without me — without this — felt worse than hell itself.”

His hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach out but knew it would break you completely if he did.

“You’re mine now, always have been,” he breathed. “In blood. In life. In death. There’s no going back.”

He leaned in, so close you could feel the chill of him, and whispered like it was a promise stitched straight into your soul.

“You ain’t ever leavin’ me, sweetheart. Not in this life. Not in the next. We end where we began.”

You staggered backwards, your heart pounding in your chest as you fought against the rising wave of nausea threatening to overtake you. The blood on your hands, the feel of it still fresh and wet, clung to you like a confession — one you couldn't escape. You couldn’t focus on anything else, not the cold air seeping in around the edges of the room, not the way his gaze followed you like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You made a choice for me, is that it?” The words ripped from you like a scream, raw and jagged, a desperate plea for control you knew you no longer had. Your voice cracked, breaking under the weight of it, yet you still pushed forward, each step farther from him. As if distance could undo the horror of the night. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for any of it!”

You could hear your breath coming in ragged gasps now, your body trembling as if every nerve was alight, your fingers pressing into your sides like you could somehow squeeze the truth out of your skin. “I ain’t wanna live forever,” you spat, the words dripping with a mixture of fear and rage that burned like acid in your throat. “You sick fuck... you thought you could just make that decision for me? Just change everything about who I am, who I was—for what?!”

His silence, that cold, relentless stillness, only made the anger surge deeper. He didn’t move, didn’t speak — just watched, those eyes of his dark with something far too hungry for comfort. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to run, to get out of this — to get away from him before whatever he’d done to you fully took hold. But there was nowhere to go. Not anymore.

“Why?” you cried, your voice breaking, shaking as the tears spilled freely down your cheeks. You couldn’t stop them. You didn’t even try. “Why did you come back?! You should have just stayed wherever the hell you came from!” The words felt like they were choking you as they left your lips. They were too sharp, too brutal, but they were all you had left. “Why drag me into this? Why do this to me? You don’t even care what I want, do you?!”

The sobs caught in your chest, short and ragged, but the fury burned hotter with each passing moment. You swiped at your eyes, trying to clear away the tears, but it felt pointless. He had taken something you couldn’t ever get back, something far more important than just your body. He had taken your choice. He had stolen everything from you. And the worst part? He didn’t even see it as wrong.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, the ache in your neck now a distant throb compared to the tidal wave of betrayal that had you on your knees — metaphorically, physically, you didn’t know anymore. Your body was moving without your permission, words spilling out that you couldn’t take back.

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?!” you screamed, your hands shaking so violently, you couldn’t hold them still. Your mind felt like it was spiraling, everything you thought you knew about him — everything you thought you knew about you — coming apart in pieces too small to gather back together.

But he just stood there. His face unreadable. His eyes locked on you, like he was savoring every word, every tear that fell. A strange, twisted satisfaction in the way you collapsed before him — not physically, but in every other way.

The silence stretched long, too long. It felt suffocating, like the air had turned dense, thick with the weight of what had just happened, what was happening, and what could still come. Your mind scrambled for some sort of answer, something that would make this make sense, but all you could see was him — Remmick, standing there, the man who had just destroyed everything you thought you knew about yourself.

He didn’t speak at first. He just stared at you, those dark eyes taking in every sob, every shake of your body, as if he were trying to commit it all to memory. A predator, studying its prey.

Then, finally, his voice came. Low. Dark. Almost as if he were enjoying the chaos he had stirred.

“You think you’re the only one in pain here, darling?” His words slid over you like cold venom. “You think you’re the only one who has had their choice ripped away?”

You froze. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and for a moment, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, each movement carrying with it an almost cruel calmness. His eyes never left yours, his gaze narrowing just slightly, something dark and possessive creeping across his features.

“You think I wanted this?” he asked, his voice like gravel scraping against metal. “I didn’t want this any more than you did. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?” He took another step, closing the distance between you, and you could feel your legs trembling beneath you, as if your body was betraying you, unwilling to stand firm in the face of the terror he had brought.

“I didn’t come back for me, you know,” he continued, his voice taking on that same low, obsessive tone. “I came back for you. You’re mine, and now you’re going to understand that. I made you like me because I had to. You think I’d let you go on pretending you were something other than what you are now? What we are? We belong to each other, whether you like it or not.”

Each word hit like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. Your stomach twisted, nausea threatening to spill over again, but this time it wasn’t from the blood on your hands. It was from the venom in his voice, the surety in the way he spoke, like this was his world now — and you were nothing but a piece of it.

“You really think you could just walk away from me?” he muttered, taking another step closer, and this time, the air seemed to crackle with an unspoken threat. “You think you can just run? You’re not leaving me. Not now, not ever.” He paused, and his eyes darkened. "I gave you this gift, and you'll learn to appreciate it, whether you want to or not."

The fear, the panic that had been simmering beneath the surface, broke free like a dam shattering. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want him.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up. You turned, stumbling towards the door, your breath coming in short, frantic gasps. Get out. Get away.

But you didn’t make it far. Not nearly far enough.

Before you could even reach the door, his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of your hair with brutal force. The pain was immediate and sharp, the pressure of his grip causing a cry to break from your throat. You tried to struggle, to yank yourself free, but his hold was like iron.

“No,” he growled, his voice low, dangerous, as he yanked you backward. “You’re not running from me. Not now. Not ever.”

Your body collided with the bed, and before you could recover, he was on you — heavy, suffocating, with an air of finality you could feel deep in your bones. His grip on your hair didn’t loosen, dragging you further onto the bed, pinning you down as if you were nothing more than a doll in his hands.

“Let go of me!” You shoved at his chest, weakly, your hands trembling with desperation. Your words came out in a broken, panicked rasp, your voice barely recognizable. “I said, let me go!”

But he didn’t budge. Instead, he leaned down, his breath warm and ragged against your ear as his fingers tightened their grip on your hair, forcing your head back. The pressure was suffocating, like the very essence of you was being crushed under the weight of his presence. You tried to twist beneath him, your limbs flailing weakly in an attempt to push him off, but it felt useless. Your movements were sluggish, your body still reeling from everything he had done to you. Every nerve screamed for escape, but your strength was slipping away, leaving you feeling more fragile than ever.

“You’re wasting your energy, darling,” his voice was low, almost amused as he pressed closer to you. “You can fight all you want. You can scream. But it won’t change a thing. You’re mine now, and there’s no running from that.”

“Why?” you gasped, the word coming out more like a plea than a question. “Why are you doing this? Why me?”

His eyes gleamed, dark with something dangerous — possessive, obsessive. “Because you belong to me. Everything about you, everything that makes you, you, it was always meant to be mine. Do you understand?” His lips curled into a wicked smile as he hovered just above you, his eyes never leaving yours, studying every flicker of emotion that passed across your face. “You can hate me for it all you want, but this is what you were always meant to be. Don’t you see? You can’t escape fate.”

Tears blurred your vision as your breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. Every inch of you wanted to scream, to claw at him, to push him off, but it felt like the fight was draining out of you with each passing second. You continued to struggle beneath him, your hands pushing against his chest, weak and trembling.

“No!” You spat, your voice raw with anguish and fury. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for any of this!”

The sobs came again, racking through your chest in desperate, painful waves. “You took my life from me! You took everything from me!”

His expression twisted, his eyes flashing with something dangerous, something darker than anything you’d seen before. His fingers tightened in your hair, pulling your head back further, exposing your neck to him as he loomed over you.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered, his voice full of a dark, possessive thrill. “You think you’re losing everything, but you haven’t lost a thing. You’re with me, and that’s all that matters. That’s all you need to understand.”

You choked on your own breath as the weight of his words settled over you. His grip on your hair dragged you deeper into the bed, making it impossible to look away. But even through the pain, you felt a surge of rage rise up within you, stronger now than ever before. With every ounce of strength you had left, you pushed your hands against his chest again, shoving with every last bit of energy you could muster.

Remmick took an almost sadistic delight in pain now, something you hadn’t known about him before. Before he was turned, he had been nothing but soft — a gentle touch, a soothing voice, a warmth that never failed to comfort you. But now, the cruelty in his eyes, the way he reveled in your suffering, was something entirely new.

Your bed had never felt so unforgiving beneath you. The struggle was fierce, a brutal clash of wills that left your body aching and your heart racing with a mix of fear and fury. Each movement felt like it was costing you something, each strike against him a desperate plea for control that seemed to slip through your fingers with every passing second. In that moment, you were fighting for your life. Or at least, it felt like you were—because in a way, you had already lost it, the life you once knew, the one you thought you had, was gone.

Remmick’s head jerked to the side as your fist connected with his cheek, the force of it sending a brief flash of satisfaction through you. But you didn't stop there. You lashed out again, driven by the need to push him back, to feel some shred of power over the chaos. Your knuckles grazed the sharp edge of his jaw, the impact drawing blood—warm, dark, and unmistakably real.

But instead of retreating, instead of giving you the space you needed, it only made him more feral. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and the raw anger in his eyes burned hotter, deeper, like a fire stoked by every drop of blood you spilled. It was clear now that your resistance wasn’t making him back off—it was making him hunger for more. The blood, your blood, didn’t weaken him. It emboldened him, and that realization hit you harder than any of your blows.

His grip on you tightened, forcing your body back into the bed, his weight pressing down on you with a suffocating finality. Every movement felt heavy, as though every inch of ground you gained was immediately lost under the weight of his presence. And you fought, tried to shove him off, but he just absorbed it, his body not giving an inch, his eyes burning with a dark satisfaction. He wasn’t just enjoying this struggle; he was feeding off it.

The sharp sound of fabric ripping echoed through the room, the soft material of your nightgown shredding with terrifying ease under the force of his grip. Each tear seemed to magnify the tension in the air, adding to the sense of powerlessness that clawed at you. The cool night air kissed your bare skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine as the fabric came apart piece by piece. Goosebumps bloomed along your arms, the chill of the air contrasting sharply with the heat of your skin, still burning from the proximity.

It was as though time had slowed, the cold bite of the room amplifying your vulnerability. But no matter how much you tried to twist, to wriggle away, his hold was relentless—each move you made only made it worse. His strength, like something primal and undeniable, was something you couldn’t fight, no matter how hard you tried. The night seemed to grow colder, harsher, and all you could feel was the weight of his presence, closing in.

Remmick didn’t hesitate, his lips curling into something dark before he sank his teeth into your skin, the sharp bite sending a jolt of pain through you. A startled cry escaped your lips, the sudden intrusion taking your breath away. Desperately, you pushed at his head, your hands shaking as you fought to regain control, the pressure of his weight on you overwhelming.

When Remmick entered you so suddenly, a forbidden heat flared within you, a visceral response that your body registered as good even as your mind recoiled. Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the dark shape looming above, every instinct screaming for him to stop, yet a shameful throb pulsed between your legs, a betrayal of your will.

Each thrust was a brutal act, yet a perverse wave of sensation followed, a tightening and clenching that was undeniably potent but utterly unwanted in this moment of force. Your nails tore at the sheets, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself against the confusing storm of physical pleasure intertwined with the horror of the violation. 

Your body, against your conscious desire, began to heat and clench with a shameful insistence, a biological response at odds with your desperate wish for it to end, for him to be gone. You squeezed your eyes shut, a silent scream against the unwelcome sensations that bloomed within you even as you longed for release from his presence.

A raw, electric heat jolted through you, coiling low in your belly and sending involuntary tremors that rippled through your thighs. You bit down hard on your lip, the sharp sting a fragile anchor against the overwhelming tide of sensation threatening to drown your will.

Remmick's low laugh rumbled against your ear, a possessive sound that vibrated through your very bones. Your eyes flickered open, finding his gaze locked onto yours, a dark, consuming intensity that held you captive.

His skin glistened with a slick sheen of sweat, catching the dim light and mirroring the feverish dampness clinging to your own heated flesh. Strands of dark, tousled hair fell across his brow, shadowing his intent gaze as he watched you. A molten warmth spread through your core, a wildfire of unfamiliar sensations that licked at your resolve, threatening to obliterate your resistance. 

Your breath hitched, a ragged gasp escaping your lips as your gaze dropped to the visceral joining of your bodies, the point of intense friction and burgeoning pleasure. A primal hunger flared in his eyes, a raw possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. His tongue flicked out to wet his parted lips, a silent testament to the desire that gripped him.

"Mmm, look at you, darlin'," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble laced with that slow Southern drawl. "Just tremblin' for me, ain't ya? Every little inch of you." His hips slammed against yours, a relentless, driving rhythm that stole the air from your lungs and sent dizzying pulses of sensation radiating through your body, each deep connection igniting a fresh wave of intense, spiraling pleasure that warred with your inner turmoil. The friction built, a searing heat that stole your focus, leaving only the insistent pressure and the confusingly exquisite ache.

The relentless thrusts continued, each slick slide a deep invasion that stretched you open, filling you with a heavy, insistent heat. Remmick’s breath hitched in your ear, his hands gripping your hips, guiding the forceful rhythm that echoed in the small space. Your own breaths came in short, uneven gasps, a shaky counterpoint to his deeper exertions.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a futile attempt to block the overwhelming sensations. Your body softened, yielding against your will to the insistent pressure and the unfamiliar ache that bloomed low in your belly. It was a deep, throbbing heat, undeniably physical and increasingly difficult to ignore.

“Easy, darlin’,” Remmick rasped, his voice thick with desire. “Just feel it… let it build.”

His words were a rough whisper against your skin, and his movements shifted, angling his hips to press deeper, catching a sensitive point that sent a sharp, unexpected thrill through you. A small whimper escaped your lips, your back arching slightly against the pleasure.

A wave of pure sensation crashed over you, a blinding, intense release that shuddered through your frame. Your grip on the sheets tightened, your body arching as the pleasure crested, a series of sharp, involuntary contractions seizing you. A ragged gasp escaped your lips, the sound raw and unrestrained as the intense waves of sensation pulsed through you, each one more potent than the last. Your vision swam, the edges blurring as the overwhelming pleasure consumed you. 

He began to move again, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, more urgent. The control he had been exerting shattered, replaced by a raw, driving need. His hips slammed against yours with increasing intensity, each impact a desperate plea for his own release. The sweat slicking his skin made the sounds of your bodies moving together even more pronounced, a wet, frantic rhythm that echoed the escalating tension in the room.

His hands, which had been cradling your face, now gripped your hips with a fierce possessiveness, lifting you slightly with each powerful thrust, driving him deeper and deeper. His head fell forward, his teeth gritted, a low growl rumbling in his chest with each movement.

“Goddamn— sugar, you feel too good…better than the other hundreds of times I've taken you.”

He was chasing the edge, driven by the tight, slick heat of your body around him, the lingering echoes of your own release fueling his urgency. His breath came in sharp, desperate gasps, each exhale a ragged sound of pure physical need.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath coming in shuddering gasps as he emptied himself into you, the powerful pulses of his release echoing the recent intensity of yours. He remained there for a long moment, his body  against yours, his grip on your hips slowly easing as the aftershocks subsided. The only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the faint, wet sounds of your joined bodies.

He stayed pressed against you, his body molded to yours like he couldn't stand the idea of even an inch of distance. His breathing had slowed, but the tension in his arms hadn’t left. One hand remained splayed over your stomach, the other draped heavy over your hip — possessive, unmoving.

Silence filled the room, thick and weighted. Only the faint rustle of the sheets and your uneven breaths disturbed it. Your body ached, spent in a way that ran deeper than physical.

Remmick shifted slightly, his nose brushing your neck, lips parted just enough for you to feel the ghost of his voice as he spoke.

“I could’ve kept going,” he said, voice quiet, but far from gentle. There was hunger beneath it — not lust, not anymore. Something deeper. Something endless. “You know that, don’t you? I could’ve taken you again. And again. You wouldn’t have stopped me.”

He didn’t say it to be cruel. He said it like a promise.

But then he sighed, not out of regret — there was no room for that here — but as if reining himself in. “You’re tired,” he murmured, his hand tracing absently across your stomach, as if to remind himself you were still there, still his. “So rest… for now.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your eyes were open, unfocused on the far wall, heart still racing slow and uneven under your ribs.

And beside you, he lay silent, content — not with the moment, but with the fact that there would be many more.

Because now, he had you.

And he wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever. Not even when centuries passed and the world turned to dust around you.

You were his — bound by blood, by the curse he’d carved into your skin, by the hunger he’d forced into your veins. There was no going back now. No undoing what he’d done. You belonged to him, in life, in death, and everything in between — and he would make damn sure you never forgot it.

[risskia]

can you write how each of the lads men would react when you tell them you want children? (or it could be any of them) (your fics are nice btw)

Reply: Yes that is so cute!! ────────────────────

✦ You tell the LADS men that you want children ✦

PAIRINGS: Xavier x reader, Caleb x reader, Sylus x reader, Zayne x reader, Rafayel x reader TAGS: slight suggestive content, mostly wholesome cute fluff, short blurbs

────────────────────

“Xavier, I want to have kids.” You announce.

You two are currently in Jeremiah’s greenhouse, helping him tend to his flowers. Xavier’s hands still on a potted plant as he looks to you, his eyes wide.

 “Right here?”

“W-what?” Your face turns red. “No! Of course not! I meant, when we get back h–”

But Xavier is already pushing you up against the cool glass of the greenhouse, his chest against your back and fingers dipping below your waistband.

“Too late,” he hums, pressing soft kisses to your sensitive neck. “ You’re absolutely right – I want children too. Right now.”

You two are at Sylus’s favourite restaurant when you casually bring up that you want children.

Sylus’s hand stills, as he looks up at you from his steak with an indiscernible expression. You peer at him nervously, trying to gauge his reaction. Does he want children too? Is he okay with the idea of raising them?

“Anyways – that was just a thought – let’s talk about something else.” you quickly say.

The next day ── .✦

“Sylus!” You call out as you push open the door to Sylus’s apartment. You kick something by accident – a gold pacifier? You look down at it, beyond perplexed.

As you step into his apartment, you’re met with the sight of piles upon piles of various baby clothes and toys, stacked neatly across the living room and dining hall. You’re speechless. 

Sylus walks out into the living room in nothing but his red silk pajamas. He mimics your aloof expression when he sees you.

“What? You said you wanted children.”

“Sylus – it was just an idea!”

You notice something : ever since you’ve casually mentioned wanting children (you don’t think Caleb would even notice), Caleb has been seeming really fatigued, sometimes even dozing off in the middle of the day just to wake up with a start.

You don’t question why and just go about your day as usual.

Until one night, you wake up from a bad dream. You sit up groggily, yawning and rubbing your eyes tiredly, just to find Caleb missing from bed.

Instead, a dim glow radiates from the study desk. Caleb sits at it, carefully jotting down notes on a notepad that you’ve never seen before. You sneak over, and tackle him by surprise. Caleb lets out a yelp of surprise as you jump onto his lap.

“Pips! What are you doing, being awake right now?” he asks hoarsely. You huff. 

“I should be asking you the same thing.” You turn to look at his notes – and that's when you realise that they’re all about pregnancy and taking care of newborns. You giggle as you flick through his notes, and Caleb just looks at you with resignation.

“This is what you’ve been losing sleep over? You’re adorable.” you tell him, twisting over in his lap to squeeze him affectionately by his cheek. “10 health recipes for pregnancy? How to take care of newborns… side effects of pregnancy and how to manage them…damn, you’re thorough.”

“I need to come prepared, okay?” Caleb nips at your fingers. “I’ll make sure to take care of you when you’re bearing our child. I’ll make sure you have everything and anything you need. All for my wife.”

When you tell him that you want children, Zayne pauses for a second, looking at you carefully.

“Are you sure?” He looks at you with a gentle expression, reaching a hand out to hold yours. “I need you to be completely certain. This is a huge decision, after all.”

“Positive,” you reply eagerly. “Zayne, I’ve been thinking this over for months.”

“Okay. Give me a second.” Zayne pulls out his phone and clicks onto a contact, holding it to his ear.

“Greyson?” He pauses. “I’ll be taking a one week leave.”

Your jaw drops. Zayne? Taking a whole week off his job? That is unheard of. Zayne continues to dish out a couple of instructions to his assistant over call before he quickly hangs up. With his full attention back to you now, he leans forward and kisses you softly on the cheek.

“Zayne,” you say slowly. “What…why…”

“You want children, right?” A playful smile tugs at his lips. “We’ll have to work on that all week. That way, it can be guaranteed that you get what you want.”

Your face heats up at the implications of his words. Zayne leans forward once more, this time pressing his warm lips to yours.

“Let’s start now.”

“...so that’s why I want children.”

Rafayel gets flashbacks to those birth-giving videos he has the misfortune to chance upon.

“But, darling,” Rafayel says, sounding pained. “Giving birth looks excruciating. What a miserable process. I don’t want you to see you in pain, ever.”

You laugh at his words, squeezing his cheek. “Rafayel, it’s going to be OK.”

“Are you sure?” he frets. “I wish there was a way you don’t have to go through the suffering, ever. I wish I could be the one giving birth.”

When he kisses you, he is extra gentle in the way he holds and touches you. His hands snake down to your thighs as he pulls back to look at you with wide, adoring eyes.

──────────────────── .✦

[bueckersworld]

౨ৎ headcanons for jealous!bsf!paige

౨ৎ WARNING(S): sfw + suggestive ish, cheating, territoriality, possessive!paige, cocky!paige

info. masterlist. taglist.

────୨ৎ────

౨ৎ — paige always sits next to you, even when your boyfriend’s around — she’ll slide into the spot like it’s hers by default, daring him to say something.

—. your boyfriend makes space for you on the couch, but before you can sit, paige slides into the spot next to him, flashing him a teasing smile. “you mind?” she asks, already settling in. he freezes. you just watch, amused.

౨ৎ — she interrupts your conversations with him constantly, pretending it’s casual, but her eyes flick to him every time like she’s daring him to protest.

౨ৎ — if he makes you cry, even once, paige goes radio silent—except to show up at your door, hoodie on, hands in her pockets, jaw tight, like she’s deciding between comforting you or committing a felony.

—. your phone buzzes with his apology, but it’s too late. there’s a knock on your door. you open it to find paige standing there, hoodie pulled low, jaw clenched. “you okay?” she asks quietly, her eyes flicking to the tear-streaked mess of you. she doesn’t wait for an answer, stepping inside, pulling you into a tight hug and closing the door with her foot.

౨ৎ — when you’re out as a group, she subtly puts her hand on your lower back, guiding you through crowds like you belong to her.

౨ৎ — she always introduces you as “my girl” to new people, and if someone raises a brow at that, she doesn’t correct them. you’re at a party with paige, and she’s introducing you to a group of new people.

—. “this is my girl,” paige says casually, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. someone raises an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you. paige just smirks and shrugs, her grip tightening slightly. “what? got a problem with that?” they stay quiet. you feel a thrill of heat rush through you.

౨ৎ — if he texts you while you’re with her, she gets visibly annoyed, watching you respond like every second you’re not focused on her is an insult.

౨ৎ — she glares at him when he makes you wait on replies, then messages you right after with: you deserve someone who actually gives a shit

౨ৎ — when he forgets something important, she shows up with it instead — your favorite snack, a charger, your hoodie — always acting like someone had to do it.

౨ৎ — if you ever fight with him, she’s at your door in twenty minutes, hoodie and all, smirking like she’s been waiting for her chance.

౨ৎ — paige gets weirdly quiet when you mention sleeping over at his place — but when you crash at hers, she makes the couch magically “unavailable.”

—

౨ৎ — she lowers her voice when she’s close to you, whispering things like, “he doesn’t make you blush like i do, huh?” — just to see your reaction.

౨ৎ — you once joked about her being jealous, and she deadpanned: “yeah, because watching him waste you makes me fucking crazy.”

౨ৎ — she offers to “show you what it’s supposed to feel like” after hearing your boyfriend was a little too lazy in bed — her tone isn’t joking.

—. “so, how’d it go last night?” she asks, her voice lower than usual, the casual question laced with something else. “you know… with him?” you shrug, trying to play it off, but your fingers curl around your glass, memories of his lackluster touches still fresh. “same old. he’s… lazy.” paige chuckles, but it’s dark, almost knowing. she steps a little closer, her breath warm on your ear. “you deserve someone who knows how to treat you, baby. someone who actually gets it.” her lips brush your ear as she adds, “i could show you what it’s supposed to feel like, if you wanted.” your pulse quickens, the words hitting deeper than they should.

౨ৎ — paige grabs your jaw when you avoid her gaze, lifting your chin and saying, “don’t look away from me like that. you know i mean it.”

౨ৎ — when you’re tipsy and clinging to her at a party, she lets you, leaning in close and whispering in your ear, “tell him you’re sleeping at mine tonight.”

౨ৎ — she watches you get ready for a date with him, eyes trailing your body, then mutters, “shame you’re wasting that dress on someone who won’t appreciate it.”

౨ৎ — you once caught her staring at your lips for way too long. she didn’t even flinch — just said, “what, you want me to stop pretending?”

౨ৎ — when you stay over, she always finds a reason for you to share her bed — and somehow ends up pressed behind you, arm slung low on your waist.

౨ৎ — one time she adjusted your necklace and let her fingers drag down your collarbone, slow and intentional, like she was memorizing how soft your skin was.

౨ৎ — one day, she just says it — low, frustrated, and right in your face: “you’re mine, and he’s just borrowing what he doesn’t even know how to hold.”

© bueckersworld

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ HEY GUYS. long time no see, *tuck hair behind ear.*

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

MILLER'S ABYSS

Summary: Your sister is marrying one of the Millers — but you despise the other one, and the feeling is mutual. Still, family is supposed to stick together, not tear each other apart. So, over time, the two of you grow closer… far closer than anyone ever expected.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, enemies to lovers, age gap (not really mentioned), strong language, nicknames (goor girl…) praise kink, sexual tension, oral sex ( f receiving ), creampie, rough unprotected sex ( p i v ), harassment, mention of weapons and alcohol

A/n: Hello! I swear to god I wrote a long ass novel. I am really sorry for anyone, who decided to read the whole thing…anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You’ve been around since the very beginning of your sister’s relationship with Tommy.

From the moment she started gushing daily about how beautiful his eyes were, how no man had ever smiled at her the way he did, how kind and attentive he was. You witnessed it all — the blissful highs and the inevitable lows. The fights, the breaks, the tearful late-night conversations about breaking up… though they never actually did.

You were there for every moment, even the ones you wish you hadn’t been. Kate had never been shy about sharing even the most intimate details of her relationship with you. She had no filter, and unfortunately for you, that included describing her and Tommy’s sex life in disturbingly vivid detail.

Once, you even caught them in the act in your own house. But hey, that’s a memory you can kind of laugh about now… sort of.

So when she told you Tommy had proposed, you weren’t surprised — not in the slightest. You were happy for her. You loved your sister more than anything, and you knew she had chosen the right guy. Honestly, you were just relieved she hadn’t chosen his brother — Joel.

From the first moment those grumpy, judgmental eyes met yours, Joel Miller had been a pain in your ass. Arrogant. Insufferable. Always had something snarky to say about you at every family gathering. And sure, you gave it back. You were never the type to sit there and take it. Which is exactly how this rivalry had formed. Let’s just call it what it is: you and Joel were enemies.

Until now, it wasn’t really a problem. You could ignore him, roll your eyes when his name came up, and pray you wouldn’t be seated next to him at dinner. But now that your sister was officially going to be a part of the Miller family, officially taking their name, sharing their home, their holiday dinners, that made you, like it or not, a part of their family too. Great.

And if that wasn’t enough, your sister had been relentlessly pushing you to make peace with Joel. “For her.” As if you owed it to her to get along with a man who seemed to exist solely to piss you off.

She guilt-tripped you into it, like she always did, and you hated that it worked. Because as manipulative as she could be, you loved the hell out of her. And you knew this meant the world to her. But Joel? Joel was still a jackass, pre-wedding or not, he wasn’t going to change.

You were still at home when Kate barged into your room like she owned the place — which, technically, she almost did, considering how often she was there. Dressed in a soft green sweater and jeans, she looked casual, relaxed, and maddeningly excited.

Meanwhile, you were half-dressed, still holding a flat iron in one hand and a look of pure dread on your face.

“Come on,” she said with a cheerful grin. “It’s just dinner.”

You narrowed your eyes at her in the mirror. “It’s never just dinner when Joel’s involved.”

Kate sighed dramatically, flopping down on your bed like some exhausted mother of the bride. “You two need to get over this weird… war thing. He’s really not that bad.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He once referred to me as ‘extra baggage’ in front of your entire family.”

“Okay, yes, that was… not his finest moment. But he was joking,” she admit, but still tried to save it.

“Oh yeah, nothing screams hilarious comedy like being publicly insulted.”

She sat up, crossing her legs under her. “Please, babe. Just try tonight. For me. If you can survive one dinner without threatening to stab him with a fork, I swear I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

You let out a dry laugh. “You say that every time.”

“And yet you keep saying yes,” she smirked.

You groaned. She was right. You hated how much you loved her. With a final puff of frustration, you turned off the flat iron, stood up, and grabbed your jacket. “Fine. But if he calls me ‘baggage’ again, I’m pouring wine on his lap.”

Meanwhile, Joel is going through the exact same thing. Tommy’s been in his ear all week, pressuring him to play nice. To “just give her a chance.” Tommy’s been acting like he’s the victim, like he’s stuck in the middle, practically begging Joel to make the effort. So now you and Joel are both being dragged into this under the pretense of a “family bonding” dinner.

By the time you two got to the Miller house, it was already dusk. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over the wood panels and old swing seat hanging to the side. Tommy opened the door before you even knocked. He immediately scooped Kate into his arms, greeting her with a kiss that lasted a bit too long for your taste.

“Jesus, get a room,” you muttered under your breath.

Tommy chuckled. “Evenin’,” he said, giving you a nod.

You gave him a polite smile. “Hey.”

Then came the moment your blood turned cold. Joel stepped into the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. His hair was slightly damp like he’d just showered, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He didn’t say anything — just looked at you. You looked back. And there it was again, that mutual expression of ugh, it’s you.

Kate and Tommy exchanged matching looks and leaned into your ears simultaneously.

“Be nice,” she hissed at you.

“Don’t start anything,” Tommy whispered to Joel.

You both scoffed.

Dinner prep was a disaster waiting to happen. For some unknown reason, probably Kate and Tommy being evil geniuses, you and Joel were tasked with setting the table and bringing out the food. The tension in the kitchen was unbearable.

“Could you not stand in front of the fridge like a statue?” you snapped.

“I’m getting the damn salad, princess,” Joel grumbled, pulling out the bowl and practically shoving it into your arms.

You glared. “Try using your words instead of your muscles, Neanderthal.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tempt me to go back to grunting. Might actually be more productive.”

The more you moved around each other, the worse it got — bumping hips at the counter, brushing arms when reaching for the same spoon, and more than once, you two knocked elbows hard enough to make you both wince.

“Watch it,” you muttered.

“You watch it,” he shot back.

“Jesus Christ,” you both said at the same time, throwing your heads back in sync. Which, of course, only made things worse because now you were in sync, and that was not acceptable.

Finally, Kate came in and clapped her hands. “Enough! Can you two just pretend not to hate each other for one night? Please?”

You and Joel both grumbled something under your breath and carried the last dishes to the table in stony silence.

Dinner was… exactly what you expected. You sat across from Joel — naturally. Your jaw was clenched the entire time, and you were very aware of every fork and knife placement, just in case they needed to become weapons. The air was so thick with tension it could’ve been sliced like the roast chicken on the table.

Kate and Tommy tried to salvage the evening with small talk.

“So…” Kate started, glancing between you and Joel, “how was everyone’s day?”

“Fine,” you said flatly.

“Work,” Joel replied, same tone.

Tommy tried to step in. “Hey, did you two know you both listen to Johnny Cash? I found out the other day when—”

“I liked him first,” you snapped.

Joel raised a brow. “Didn’t realize it was a competition.”

“Everything is a competition with you.”

Tommy looked between you both like a tennis match was playing out on the table. “O-kayyy…”

Kate, bless her heart, still tried. “Oh! What’s one thing you two have in common, hmm? Let’s start there.”

You both said nothing.

Joel took a slow sip of water and said, “We both hate this dinner.”

You nodded. “He’s not wrong.”

Kate sighed, Tommy just reached for the wine bottle, shaking his head. They both knew this is going to be a long night.

Dinner was mostly quiet — painfully so. The clink of forks against plates and the occasional hum of conversation from Tommy and Kate filled the room, but that was about it. You and Joel barely spoke.

Occasionally, your eyes would meet across the table, sometimes with passive annoyance, other times with flat-out disgust, and sometimes with something neutral. But even neutrality between you two felt tense, like a ceasefire that could end at any moment.

Tommy tried to lighten the mood a few times, making dumb jokes about the food or poking at Joel’s cooking skills.

“This chicken dry, or is it just me?” he teased with a grin.

Joel gave him a look. “If it’s dry, it’s ’cause you didn’t baste it. That was your job.”

Kate laughed, trying to follow up. “At least you two managed not to kill each other in the kitchen, right?”

No response. But they tried again.

“So,” Kate began, clearly reaching, “any plans this weekend?”

“I work,” you said.

Joel echoed, “Same.”

Another silence fell, heavier than before. The kind of silence that made your jaw ache just from clenching it so long. No matter how hard Tommy and Kate tried to spark something between you two — laughter, small talk, anything — the tension in the room snuffed it out before it could catch fire. It wasn’t just awkward. It was chemical.

You and Joel in the same space were like two opposing forces, constantly repelling, constantly charged. Too close and it sparked. Too far and it still lingered in the air like static.

After dinner, as expected, you and Joel were once again exiled to the kitchen, this time to wash the dishes.

Kate had literally clapped her hands and said, “Bonding time!” before shoving the dirty plates into your arms. You didn’t even have time to argue before she and Tommy disappeared into the living room, probably to laugh about your misery.

Now you stood next to Joel, the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder at the sink.

He washed. You dried. Silence.

The sound of running water filled the space, along with the occasional clink of a fork against a plate. You hadn’t said a single word since you entered the kitchen, and neither had he.

The mood wasn’t angry, though. Not anymore. It was something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You turned your head slightly, and your gaze drifted downward, toward his hands.

You didn’t mean to stare, but something about them caught you. His hands were large, strong, weathered. The veins stood out beneath the tanned skin, pulsing slightly as he gripped a soapy plate. His knuckles looked a little bruised, like he’d been working with tools recently, or maybe throwing punches. There was hair on his forearms, just enough, and the muscles flexed subtly as he moved, the way a man’s body does when he doesn’t even think about it.

You swallowed. Your eyes lingered on his fingers. Long, sure, and steady. You imagined, just for a split second, how they would feel against your skin. What they would do if they weren’t holding a dish, but holding you. You bit your lip.

The kitchen faded around you. The water noise dimmed. Everything felt slow, heavy, thick like honey. Your chest tightened, your stomach dropped, and something low and electric buzzed between your legs — a tension that coiled and pulled without warning, warm and unwanted and there. You weren’t even breathing right.

You didn’t realize he was speaking to you.

“Hey. Plate.”

Your head snapped up, too late. He was holding a clean plate, expecting you to take it. But your hands stayed frozen, and when he let go, it slipped. The crash was loud.

Porcelain shattered against the floor in a sharp burst, and you gasped, stepping back automatically.

“Shit,” Joel muttered under his breath, already reaching down.

You moved forward, instinctively trying to kneel, but his hand shot out fast, palm pressed against your hip to stop you.

“Don’t,” he said firmly, his voice low — not angry, not annoyed. Protective. You froze in place.

He crouched and swept up the shards quickly, moving with precision, barely saying a word. He worked silently, efficiently, like it was nothing, but his jaw was tight. His eyes flicked up at you once, his brows furrowed. His expression was angry and confused all at once.

He stood back up after dumping the last of the shards into the trash bin, wiping his hands on a towel with a sigh, sharp and fed up.

Then he turned toward you with that same ever-present frustration in his eyes.

“What is wrong with you?”

You blinked at him, speechless.

“What, were you daydreamin’ so hard you forgot how to use your hands?”

His tone wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was accusatory, like you’d done it on purpose, just to piss him off.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your body was frozen in place, the towel still clenched in your fingers, your lips parted like you might say something — but no sound came out. You weren’t even mad. Not this time. Because underneath all that embarrassment, all that tension, was confusion.

What the hell was that?

Why had you been staring at his hands like they were goddamn poetry? Why had your brain short-circuited and your body reacted like that — like you wanted something from him?

From Joel fucking Miller.

You didn’t understand yourself right now. At all.

Joel scoffed under his breath when you didn’t respond and brushed past you without another word, tossing the towel over the edge of the sink and leaving you standing there — warm, unsettled, and angry at no one but yourself.

After you and Kate finally left the Miller house and inhaled the fresh night air, Kate looped her arm through yours. She looked up at you with that too-knowing expression.

“Well?” she asked, her voice casual, but the look on her face said spill it.

You gave her the look — that don’t start with me kind of face.

Kate exhaled, long and exaggerated. “Seriously? What is it gonna take for you two to stop acting like mortal enemies?”

You didn’t answer right away, just stared out at the sidewalk ahead.

“I know he’s annoying,” she went on. “I know he’s pushy, and grumpy, and rude as hell, but Jesus, he’s not the devil. He’s just Joel.”

You finally spoke, voice lower than usual. “I get it. Okay? I get it. You’re marrying into his family, I’m technically gonna be stuck with him for the rest of my life, blah blah blah.”

She smirked. “So you’ll try?”

You sighed. “I will. But only if he does, too. I can’t be the only one putting effort into something we both clearly hate.”

Kate made a noise between a laugh and a groan. “Fair enough. But God, I swear, if you two ruin the wedding photos with your death glares…”

Back inside the Miller house, Joel was slouched on the couch, legs spread out, beer in hand. Tommy returned from the kitchen with two more beers and plopped down beside him.

“So,” he said, cracking open a bottle. “What the hell happened in there?”

Joel didn’t even look at him. “She dropped a plate.”

Tommy squinted. “She dropped it?”

Joel shrugged. “I handed it to her, and she just… didn’t take it. Let it fall. Her fault.”

Tommy gave him a really, man? look. “You think maybe she was distracted or somethin��? Maybe you distracted her?”

Joel scoffed. “You think she was distracted by me? Please. If anything, she was probably daydreamin’ about strangling me.”

Tommy raised a brow, clearly not buying the sarcasm. “You ever think that maybe the reason you two can’t stop fighting is because there’s somethin’ else going on?”

Joel shot him a glare. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Tommy said, leaning forward with that big-brother patience, “that you’ve been on her case since day one. And maybe it’s not just because she annoys you.”

Joel opened his mouth, but Tommy cut him off.

“I’m serious, man. The wedding’s in a few days. Can you do me a favor and try to get along with her until then? I don’t need you two turning the rehearsal dinner into a goddamn war zone.”

Joel looked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything for a while. Just took a long drink from his bottle.

Eventually, he muttered, “I’ll think about it.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Better than nothing, I guess.”

The tension between you and Joel hadn’t eased in the slightest since that night at the Miller household. If anything, the silence had grown louder, more hostile. Kate and Tommy, of course, refused to give up on their master plan to “bring the two of you together,” as if your lives were a cheesy rom-com and not a daily emotional battlefield.

With the wedding quickly approaching, they decided the best way to force bonding would be through responsibility. Specifically: seating arrangements and wedding invitations. Apparently, this critical task needed the undivided attention of you and Joel. Together. Alone. In their house. Because of course.

Kate and Tommy conveniently had an appointment in town, something about last-minute candle holders and music rehearsals, and “oh no, what a shame, you guys will just have to hold down the fort!” Kate practically squealed while Tommy tried to look like it wasn’t part of their evil plan.

So there you were, sitting stiffly at the Millers’ dining table, stacks of RSVP cards, envelopes, and color-coded guest lists spread out in front of you. Joel sat across from you, equally still, equally uninterested in being here.

The silence was thick. Occasionally, one of you would mutter something like, “He’s allergic to nuts, right?” or “That name’s spelled with an ‘e’.”

Minimal communication. Minimal eye contact. Maximal contempt.

You let out a heavy sigh as you picked up a fresh stack of blank envelopes. “Y’know, this would’ve been so much easier if the world hadn’t ended,” you muttered under your breath. “A few clicks and everyone would’ve had a damn email invite. Done in five minutes.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You miss the internet that bad?”

You shrugged. “I miss not having to do this shit by hand, yeah.”

He scoffed. “It’s a wedding. People used to do this all the time.”

You shot him a look. “People used to do a lot of dumb things.”

Joel raised both hands in mock surrender, then muttered, “Including arguing about paper.”

A few beats passed in silence again before you looked up, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “This whole thing’s weird, isn’t it?”

Joel looked at you cautiously. “Which part?”

“All of it,” you said. “Two people falling in love in this… mess. Choosing each other. Wanting to celebrate it. Feels like some part of the old world pretending it still exists.”

He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on the page in front of him.

You watched him a second longer, then said, “I mean… what does that even mean anymore? Love. You think it still means the same thing it used to?”

Joel finally looked up.

You met his gaze, and the words slipped out before you could think twice, not really curious, more mocking than anything else. “What does love even mean to you, Joel Miller?”

He stared at you, his jaw slowly tightening.

You added with a touch of venom, “Have you even ever been in love? Or are you too emotionally constipated for that, too?”

He froze. The look in his eyes darkened, and the air between you changed.

“The hell did you just say?”

You didn’t flinch. “I called you a pussy, Joel.”

His nostrils flared. “Say it again.”

“I said, you’re a pussy.”

The silence that followed was dense, almost buzzing. Joel’s eyes drilled into you, and for a second, you weren’t sure what he was going to do. Yell? Walk out?

But instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, voice low and sharp.

“You wanna talk big, huh? Then tell me, what does love mean to you, sweetheart?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Since you’ve clearly got all the answers.”

You hesitated, heart skipping. Your mouth opened, then closed. You looked away.

“That’s what I thought,” Joel said.

You stared at the table for a long moment, heart pounding in your ears. Then, before you could stop yourself, your voice broke the silence.

“Love is… when you can’t breathe right unless that person is in the room. When you’d rather fight with them than be at peace with anyone else. When you want to see all the ugly parts of them and still stay. And when their pain… feels like yours.”

You didn’t dare look up, not right away. When you finally did, Joel was staring. Not blinking. Not moving. Just looking. Like he’d never really seen you until now.

He cleared his throat suddenly, shifted, and said, “Huh.”

Then he nodded. Once. Turned back to the list. The moment lingered. Hung between you like a string, pulled taut.

Then he spoke again.

“Love’s when you wanna walk away but something keeps pullin’ you back. When you can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how they laugh… or how mad they get. When you know it’s messy and it still feels like home.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Something inside you had shifted.

But before it could settle, before the warmth could sink in…

Joel muttered, “Still doesn’t explain why you act like a damn gremlin every time I speak.”

You scoffed. “Because you speak like a man who’s never been hugged.”

“Then maybe you should try it sometime,” he shot back.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. I’d rather hug a cactus.”

“Figures,” Joel said. “Prickly little thing like you would.”

Still, despite the insults, the two of you finished the task. The guest list was done. Invitations sorted. But the words exchanged, the raw ones, clung to the air. And you didn’t quite know how to feel.

You had just gotten home, the front door clicking shut behind you with a soft thud. Your shoulders slumped immediately. The moment you stepped into your own space, a small but safe corner of Jackson, you let out a sigh that had been bottled up since you left the Miller house.

The silence here was different. Not tense or charged like it had been with Joel. Just… quiet.

You slipped off your jacket, toed off your boots, and dropped your bag on the floor without ceremony. The thought of Joel’s voice, his eyes locked on yours when you told him what love meant to you…it haunted the back of your mind like a persistent shadow. You shook your head, trying to return back to reality.

A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts. You already knew it was her.

Kate stood there with a small smile, holding a container of something vaguely edible and homemade. “Peace offering,” she said. “And no, you don’t get to say no.”

You let her in, and a few minutes later you were both curled up on your couch, the dish of food forgotten on the coffee table. Kate had that look, the one she wore when she was trying to act casual, but her whole soul was bubbling with questions.

“So…” she said, dragging the word out dramatically. “How’d it go?”

You blinked, already mentally preparing your response. “Fine.”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “Fine?”

You nodded. “We didn’t kill each other. That’s a win.”

She stared at you, and you could practically hear her brain doing somersaults. She knew something was wrong. You've never looked so confused.

Kate pulled her legs up onto the couch and faced you fully, expression softening.

“You look… tired,” she finally said, trying to keep her tone light.

“Long day,” you replied simply, brushing it off.

Kate gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How was the… invitation thing?”

You shrugged. “It’s done.”

There was a pause. You didn’t elaborate. And she didn’t press. You could feel her gaze lingering on you, trying to read something on your face, but you didn’t let her see it. Whatever was still spinning inside you, the strange heaviness, the warmth that shouldn’t have been there, the ghost of Joel Miller’s voice, that was yours. Yours alone.

Kate leaned back with a sigh, folding her arms.

“I know you don’t want to talk about him,” she said softly, “but I just… I need to ask.”

You looked at her, guarded.

“Do you think it’s ever going to change? Between you and Joel?”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked at your hands, picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Some things don’t change,” you said quietly. “Some things just… stay broken.”

Kate’s face twisted, the fight going out of her. She blinked quickly, but it didn’t stop the tears that started forming.

You looked over, guilt blooming in your chest. “Kate…”

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” she whispered. “My wedding. This whole day I’ve been dreaming of since I was a kid. I wanted everyone I love to be there and to be happy and whole.”

“You will have that,” you said firmly, even if your voice shook a little.

She shook her head, wiping her cheeks as the tears finally fell. “Not if you two are at each other’s throats the whole time.”

You stayed quiet, watching her break down in front of you — your strong, soft-hearted sister who tried so hard to keep everyone together.

“I know I sound dramatic,” she laughed bitterly through her tears. “But I don’t want to remember walking down the aisle and seeing you scowling in one corner and Joel brooding in the other.”

You reached out and took her hand. “You won’t. I promise.”

Kate sniffled. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise I’ll try,” you said. “I don’t know what he’ll do, but I’ll try. For you.”

That seemed to help — not fix it, not fully, but soften the edges of her sadness. Her grip on your hand tightened.

Kate wiped her cheeks and let out a breathy laugh. “You better try, because if not, I was going to threaten you with the world’s ugliest bridesmaid dress.”

You snorted. “I’d wear it. Just to ruin your photos.”

She gasped in mock offense, then started laughing, a real one this time. You joined her, and for a few minutes, the air was lighter. Less pressure. Less ache.

At least for now.

The bed creaked softly beneath him as he shifted for the third time in five minutes. Joel lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his dimly lit bedroom, the moonlight cutting across the room in a cold stripe. The air was still, thick with silence, and yet his mind was unbearably loud.

He’d tried everything. Rolling over. Flipping his pillow. Forcing his thoughts toward patrol routes, inventory lists, anything functional. But no matter what direction he turned, you were there. Like a ghost he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t exorcize.

Your face hovered behind his eyelids. Not angry or sharp the way it often was — but softer. Lit with that rare, fleeting smile you gave Kate. Or the way your head tipped back when you laughed at something that actually caught you off guard. That sound — fuck, that sound — warm and bright like the first day of spring after a brutal winter.

And then there was the way you touched your hair, that unconscious little motion, fingers gliding through it, tucking it behind your ear or sweeping it out of your eyes. You didn’t even know you did it. But Joel did. He’d seen it. Noticed it. Memorized it like a fool.

He pictured you leaning over the table earlier that day, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of bare lower back. His gaze had lingered. Too long. He knew that. He hated that.

Your ass—round, perfect, smug in those tight jeans—had haunted him every time he closed his eyes since.

He shifted again, jaw clenched now, heat starting to pool somewhere low in his belly.

No. No, no, no.

But it was already too late. His body wasn’t asking for permission — it was responding. A twitch of pressure, a slow tightening beneath the waistband of his briefs. His breath caught as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish you from his brain.

Didn’t work.

You stayed, and now you were closer — the imagined warmth of your skin, the sound of your voice in his ear, teasing, smug. The tilt of your mouth. The curve of your hips as you stood with one hand on them, rolling your eyes at something he said.

His hand fisted the sheets.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, voice rough, hoarse with frustration — and something else.

He turned onto his side, dragging the blanket higher, willing his body to calm down. But it wouldn’t. Every time he shut his eyes, there you were — sometimes laughing, sometimes biting your lip, sometimes looking up at him with that fire in your gaze that made him feel like he was being dared to cross a line.

He groaned, low and miserable, rolling onto his back again.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were infuriating. You were stubborn, impulsive, mouthy. You didn’t like him. He didn’t like you.

But your voice still echoed in his head, that quiet answer you’d given when you talked about love. It had knocked something loose in him. Something buried. Something he didn’t want to name.

Joel cursed under his breath again and threw an arm over his eyes, as if blocking out the light might also block you. His body was still betraying him — hard now, pulsing and persistent, refusing to let him pretend.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. Why it was happening. Why it was happening, because of you.

He hated you. Every fiber of you. Every sound that came out of your mouth was insufferable, every sentence laced with that arrogant, sarcastic tone that made his blood boil. Your eyes, your posture, your voice, your goddamn presence—he hated it all.

So why the hell is he fucking hard right now? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

Why did the image of your lips slightly parted as you chewed on your bottom one haunt him? Why did the memory of the soft curve of your waist, revealed when your shirt lifted just a little too high the other day, replay in his mind like some sick punishment? Why did he remember the sway of your hips when you walked away from him in irritation, those tight pants hugging your ass so perfectly it should’ve been illegal?

And why did his cock throb every time he let the image linger? It was torture.

He shifted in his bed again, groaning under his breath. Sheets rustled around him, clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.

He closed his eyes. He opened them. He closed them again. You were still there—in his head. Laughing, glaring, rolling your eyes, teasing him with that attitude that made him want to pin you to a wall and shut you up with his mouth.

He threw an arm over his face. Growled.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

Sleep definitely wasn’t coming tonight.

The next morning arrived like a slap in the face.

You were walking through Jackson, hands tucked into your jacket pockets, breathing in the chilled air. The sky was pale and clouded, the usual buzz of early activity around you—a couple of kids running down the path, dogs barking, someone hauling wood nearby.

You were just going to the store. That was it. Simple. In and out. Until your eyes landed on him - on Joel.

He was a little far off, working on a newly constructed cabin. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick, sun-kissed forearms, and you watched, breath hitching as his muscles tensed with each swing of the hammer. The way his biceps bulged, like fucking granite, as he brought the tool down with precision and force.

You knew it was wrong, but… your eyes wandered lower. Watching the way his back flexed beneath his shirt, the curve of his ass in those damn jeans, the way his hair bounced slightly with the movement, sticking to his sweaty forehead. The veins in his hands, so prominent, so… masculine, wrapped around the handle of that hammer like it owed him something.

Your stomach twisted. You swallowed hard. Your thighs pressed together. Your panties were… wet. Unmistakably. You could feel it. You were pulsing. And it was because of Joel fucking Miller.

You stared for a moment too long, heart racing, body betraying you in every way it could. Then it hit you like a truck, the embarrassment, the fury.

You tore your gaze away, eyes wide, and stormed forward like your feet could carry you out of your own body.

What the hell was wrong with you? Why were you reacting like this to him? You hated him. He was rude. Cocky. Infuriating. Not even that attractive.

So why the hell was your body acting like it wanted him inside you?

You cursed under your breath. Not at Joel. At yourself.

By the time you entered the store, you were still flustered, heart thudding in your ears. You pushed a cart forward and moved through the aisles like you were on autopilot, scanning for what you needed. Your brain was still somewhere else entirely.

That’s when someone spoke behind you.

“Hey—uh, sorry, do you know which flour’s better for, like, sourdough bread? The brown bag or the white one?”

You blinked and turned around. There was a guy. Kinda cute. Probably around your age. Tall, lean, with soft features and warm eyes. His voice was kind, curious. Not annoying. Not Joel.

You glanced at the two bags in his hands, then pointed to one. “The brown bag’s whole grain. It’s heavier. Depends what you want, but for sourdough? White’s probably safer.”

He smiled. “Thanks. I’m Hank, by the way.”

You nodded, giving a small smile back. “Nice to meet you.”

And that was it. Just… nice.

You continued your shopping, finishing quickly, keeping the interaction in the back of your mind, but it was faint. Not because Hank wasn’t lovely, but because Joel was still in your system like venom.

You paid, stepped outside with your bag in hand, and started the walk home, your mind looping the same awful thought:

Why did your body want the one person your brain wanted to strangle? You had no answer. Just the echo of his name in your head and the heavy, traitorous thrum in your chest.

The sky had long since darkened into a deep navy, the stars peeking shyly through the scattered clouds above Jackson.

Inside your home, it was warm—quiet. A soft amber glow bathed the living room from the single lamp you’d turned on, casting long shadows against the walls.

You were curled up on the couch, wearing nothing but a loose oversized T-shirt that draped just over your hips and a pair of simple cotton panties. Your legs were bare, tucked under you as you sipped from a mug of coffee that had gone lukewarm long ago, but the comfort it offered hadn’t worn off.

The silence was calming, the kind that followed an emotionally messy day. You breathed out softly, your body finally beginning to unwind—until a knock pulled you back into reality.

You didn’t flinch. You assumed, without question, that it was Kate. Probably coming to drop off something or chat about the wedding. So you padded lazily to the door, not thinking twice about how little you were wearing. Your shirt clung to your body slightly, the thin fabric doing little to hide the curve of your breasts or the faint outline of your nipples beneath it. You didn’t care. It was just Kate.

But it wasn’t Kate.

The second the door opened, and you locked eyes with the man standing there, your breath caught. Joel Miller. And he looked stunned.

His eyes scanned you—fast at first, like he knew he shouldn’t—but then slower, more deliberate. They flicked down your body, taking in the exposed skin of your legs, the hem of the shirt barely grazing your thighs. The hard peaks beneath the soft fabric. Your bare feet. Your collarbone. His mouth parted slightly, and for the briefest moment, he forgot whatever the hell he was doing there.

You noticed. You definitely noticed.

Your expression flattened into a scowl as you exhaled, annoyed. “The fuck do you want?”

That snapped him out of it. He blinked, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearly trying to summon the familiar arrogance that always kept him armored around you.

“Trust me,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, “I’d rather be anywhere else but here.”

“Great,” you snapped, already pushing the door to shut in his face. But his large, calloused hand caught the wood with ease, pushing it back open like it was nothing.

You glared but didn’t resist. There was no point. You couldn’t overpower Joel Miller, and honestly, you were too tired to try.

“Tommy sent me,” he finally said, voice returning to its usual gruff cadence. “Said we need to go grab some shit from the woods. Decoration stuff. For the wedding.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why me?”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Apparently, you’re a woman. Which means you’re supposed to be better at this crap than me.”

You scoffed dramatically, rolling your eyes, and turned to glance at the clock hanging in your living room. “It’s nine-fucking-p.m. Are you stupid?”

“I worked all day,” he bit back, voice edging toward exasperation, though his gaze never left your bare thighs.

You mumbled under your breath, “Yeah. I noticed.” Your eyes flicked down to the floor quickly.

Joel tilted his head. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you replied with a fake sweet smile, lips curling with venom.

He sighed. “Are you coming or not?”

You knew damn well that if you said no, not only would he keep annoying you, but so would Kate and Tommy, and eventually, you’d cave. So you made the only rational choice—gave a dramatic sigh and stepped back into your house, leaving the door open behind you.

“Wait here,” you muttered over your shoulder.

Joel stepped inside, his boots heavy against your wooden floor. He didn’t say anything. Just took in your space with a kind of silent judgment that felt oddly intimate. It was homey. Clean. Warm. He liked it more than he should’ve.

When you returned a few minutes later, your body was dressed in a black button-up shirt that clung to your figure, paired with tight black jeans that hugged your hips and ass like they were tailor-made. You tossed your hair back and brushed your hand along the wall, grabbing your jacket.

Joel saw you. swallowing hard when he felt the blood in his body rush somewhere it really shouldn’t.

“Let’s go,” you said curtly, pushing past him and stepping out the door. He followed. Silently.

The truck rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the inky black night as Joel pulled out of your driveway. You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, gaze fixed out the window.

Silence. Thick silence.

Not the peaceful kind from earlier. This one was charged, buzzing under your skin like static. The air between you crackled with unspoken things, heavy tension that neither of you dared to slice through. Questions, feelings, memories—none of them had names, but they were all there, pressing into the cab of the truck like ghosts refusing to stay dead.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you. But both of you felt it. Every second ticked by like a countdown to something inevitable. Something neither of you were ready to admit.

The road stretched out endlessly ahead, swallowed by the dark trees on either side. The only sound filling the truck was the steady hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires. You sat with your arms crossed, your body angled slightly toward the window, your gaze locked on the shadows flashing by. The silence was thick. Claustrophobic. And entirely unbearable.

Finally, Joel broke it.

“What’d you do today?”

His voice was neutral. Uninterested, even. He didn’t look at you—kept his eyes on the road, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, the other draped over the armrest. Just a casual question, thrown out into the air like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

You turned your head slowly toward him, an incredulous smirk pulling at your lips. “Really?”

Joel glanced at you once, then again, brows drawing slightly together. “What?”

A laugh burst out of you, short and bitter, as you shook your head in disbelief. “You’re seriously trying to ask me about my day?”

He didn’t respond immediately. You could tell he was debating it. Trying to find a retort that wouldn’t sound weak. But before he could even open his mouth, you beat him to it.

“You don’t even care.”

Your voice was quieter now, almost defeated. You turned your head back toward the window, watching the world blur past, soft shadows and moonlight playing tricks on your vision. For a moment, there was only silence again. Heavy. Tense.

“…I don’t,” Joel finally admitted, his tone dry, “but it’s better than this annoying-ass silence.”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. The bastard had a point. You let a few seconds pass, then finally gave in.

“I went to the store.”

Joel gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, a slight nod that was barely perceptible.

“I met someone. Hank.”

Another grunt. Another nod. But this time… his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Just a little. Barely enough to notice. But you saw the way his forearm flexed, how his fingers wrapped more firmly around the leather. It was subtle. But there. A small flash of something ugly and hot in his chest. Jealousy? No. That couldn’t be. Why the hell would he be jealous?

“Is he cute?” he asked.

You didn’t even hesitate. “Not bad. Might give him my address if I see him again.”

That did it. Joel’s knuckles went white on the wheel, his jaw tightening so hard it ticked. His whole body tensed like a wire pulled too tight.

You knew exactly what you were doing. And you liked the reaction a little more than you should have.

“What about you?” you asked, voice suddenly lighter, almost teasing. “Meet any girls today?”

“Huh?” Joel glanced over at you quickly before looking back at the road.

“Come on, you know… did you meet someone new? Maybe someone young and smiley and way too optimistic for her own good?”

Joel let out a huff of air—half a laugh, half a scoff. “Not into that crap.”

“Not into what? Dating?”

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Who the hell would date a grumpy old bastard like me?”

Your eyes met for a second too long. And something in your chest… shifted. He didn’t say it like a joke. He wasn’t fishing for pity. He was just being honest. And you saw it, really saw it, in his expression. That quiet loneliness that clung to him like a shadow he didn’t know how to shake.

“Don’t be stupid,” you muttered. “I’m sure someone would.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. It came out before you could stop it. Before you could build your usual wall of sarcasm and spite.

Joel’s mouth twitched bitterly. “Wish I was as naïve as you.”

And god, you hated how that made you feel. That burning in your throat. The aching behind your ribs. He was so frustrating, so guarded, so closed off—but in moments like this, you could almost feel how much it cost him to let anything through.

You wanted to hug him. You wouldn’t, of course. But you wanted to.

Joel pulled the truck to a slow stop, the gravel crunching under the tires as the headlights hit a clearing at the edge of the woods. “We’re here,” he muttered, already pushing open his door without a second glance.

You followed a few seconds later, slamming the passenger door a bit too hard and catching up with him.

“So,” you asked as you reached his side, “what exactly are we looking for?”

“Shit for the wedding. Kate wants it to be all… nature-themed or whatever. So twigs, berries, moss, mushrooms. Forest crap.”

You arched a brow. “Romantic.”

Joel didn’t reply. He just handed you a small burlap sack and started heading deeper into the woods, boots crunching over fallen leaves. You walked with him in silence, collecting whatever looked remotely wedding-appropriate. The air was damp and smelled like earth. Leaves brushed against your ankles. Moonlight filtered through the branches in silvery streaks.

Then, suddenly—snap. The sharp crack of a stick breaking echoed nearby. Joel froze. His body went rigid, hand instinctively reaching for his pistol. In a second, the weapon was drawn, held steady, and aimed at the darkness beyond the trees.

You jumped, stumbling back a step and grabbing onto Joel’s arm without thinking. “Shit—what was that?”

“Do you have a gun?” he asked, eyes scanning the shadows.

“Do I look like I have a gun?!”

You moved closer to him, practically hiding behind his solid frame. Your heart was thudding like crazy, adrenaline crawling under your skin.

Joel didn’t move for a long beat, waiting. Watching. But nothing came. Just the wind brushing through the leaves and the chirp of a distant bird. Slowly, he lowered the gun.

“Probably just an animal,” he muttered, but you saw the way his shoulders remained tense. Still alert. Still ready. After a few more seconds, he glanced back at you. “You ever even held a gun?”

You raised a brow. “Do I look like I have?”

Joel sighed heavily and handed you his pistol. “Here.”

You stared at it like he’d just handed you a live snake. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Aim,” he said flatly, giving you the simplest instruction imaginable.

You blinked at him. “Come again?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just raised an eyebrow. His expression said don’t argue. So you tried. Kind of. You awkwardly lifted the gun with both hands, your arms stiff, elbows out, your grip all wrong.

Joel let out the most exhausted sigh you’d ever heard, rubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

He took the pistol back, turned it in his hands, and then showed you how to hold it properly.

Feet apart. Elbows relaxed. Grip tight but not too tight. Then he placed the gun back into your hands and watched you. But even so, you were still holding the gun wrong.

Your hands were trembling. Not much, but enough that he noticed. Enough that you noticed. The gun felt heavy, unnatural. Like it didn’t belong in your hands. Joel sighed.

He stepped behind you. Closer than he ever had before. You could feel the heat of his body pressing along your back, his chest brushing against your shoulder blades, his breath — warm and unfiltered — ghosting across the curve of your neck.

Then came his hands.

Big. Rough. Calloused. They slid over yours like they’d been made to fit there — palms swallowing yours completely, fingers curling around the outside of your own to adjust your grip. His thumbs pressed down gently, firmly guiding you, correcting you. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t breathe.

His beard scraped softly against the edge of your cheek as he leaned in closer. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Like this. Keep your elbows down. You’re stiff as a damn board.”

You didn’t hear the words.

You just heard him. The low rumble in his chest. The scent of him — cedar, sweat, something smoky and old and undeniably male. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in the cold woods.

And something inside you snapped. Or maybe it awakened.

A pulse flickered deep in your lower belly. Then it dropped lower. Heat bloomed between your thighs, a slow, aching throb that made your breath hitch and your knees feel just a little weaker. You clenched without meaning to — your muscles tightening instinctively, reflexively — and you felt it in your underwear. The wetness. Already.

Fuck.

Your face was on fire. You were sure of it. Your cheeks burned, your ears burned, even the back of your neck was hot — but you didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because if you did, you’d have to step away from him. And you didn’t want to.

Your heart was hammering inside your chest, pounding against your ribs like it wanted to get out. Your thoughts were chaotic, messy, breathless, spinning.

And when he adjusted your fingers again, his thumb grazing along the sensitive skin between your thumb and forefinger, you couldn’t help the tiny sound that escaped your throat — a breathy, almost inaudible gasp.

Your skin was soft. Warm. He could smell your shampoo, something faint and floral that made him want to bury his face in your neck. He tried to focus on your stance, on the gun, on anything except the way your ass pressed back slightly against his hips, or the tiny hitch in your breath, or the fact that he could feel your pulse through your wrist.

His cock twitched.

The heat spread through him fast — like gasoline catching flame. His hands were supposed to be steady, but they started to shake. Just a little. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your cheek, the curve of your jaw, the way your lips were slightly parted. You looked flustered. Flushed. He saw your chest rising and falling faster than before.

And he felt it.

Your body stiffening. That subtle shift of your hips. That soft, barely audible sound that slipped from your throat.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were turned on. And now he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was stare at the back of your neck and fight the overwhelming urge to bend his head down and press his mouth there. To see if you’d make that sound again, louder this time.

His cock was already hard. Thick and aching behind his jeans, pressing against the inside of his thigh. And all because of you. Because of the way your body felt under his hands. Because of the way you smelled. Because of that little gasp.

He had to pull away. Now. Before he did something really fucking stupid. But his hands didn’t move. They wouldn’t move.

Instead, he lowered his voice again, leaning closer, his lips grazing your ear.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good.”

Your body shivered. And Joel knew, with complete, devastating certainty, that he was royally, irreversibly fucked.

You turned around slowly, pulse loud in your ears, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

His face was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Your noses almost brushed. The small space between you felt volatile, like a match hovering over gasoline.

His eyes met yours and you swore time folded in on itself. Everything narrowed down to that one unbearable moment of stillness, your shared breath, the roughness of his exhale fanning across your cheek, his scent laced with sweat and cedar and tension.

You weren’t breathing. You didn’t want to. You wanted to stay right there, suspended in the heaviness of that electric, untouchable almost.

And just when you swore he might tilt his head that tiny bit to close the distance, crack. A branch snapped not far from where you stood.

Joel moved instantly, instinctively. He stepped in front of you, arm extended protectively as his eyes scanned the trees.

Your chest rose and fell, rapidly now, the illusion shattered but the heat still simmering under your skin.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “We’re done here,” he said, his voice gravelly, low, but tight. “Let’s go. Ain’t smart to be out here after dark.”

You nodded, mute. There was nothing to say. You followed him through the trees, the pressure in your chest still coiled tight like a loaded spring.

The silence in the truck was worse than the previous drive into the woods. Neither of you said a word. You didn’t even try. The memory of his hands on yours haunted your skin. The way his body pressed behind you. The way he felt. The way your body had responded.

You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together, breath shaky. From the corner of your eye, you saw his grip tighten on the wheel.

He was thinking about it too. You knew it. You felt it. Like the air between you still crackled with something unnamed and unbearable.

When he pulled up in front of your house, the engine idling, you turned your head to him.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely audible. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded once.

You got out quickly, afraid your legs might give out if you didn’t move fast. Your fists were clenched as you stormed into your house and slammed the door behind you.

Joel watched until the porch light flicked on. Then he drove off. He had to.

Because if he didn’t leave right now, if he stayed even a second longer in that truck with the memory of your body pressed into his and your eyes looking at him like that, he wouldn’t be able to think. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

And he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to hide the growing ache in his jeans.

The next morning came like a slap. You didn’t sleep much. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back to the woods. His breath. His voice. That moment.

You sat now on a little wooden stool, knees tucked under you, watching Kate twirl in front of the mirror in a champagne-colored dress.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding the fabric out by her sides like she was floating.

You smiled. Or at least you tried to.

“It’s perfect,” you said.

And it was—for her. It hugged her curves beautifully, made her look like a springtime goddess. She looked happy. Radiant.

You wanted to be happy with her. But you couldn’t stop thinking about Joel. You couldn’t stop thinking about his voice low in your ear. His hands gripping yours like they belonged there.

The way he pressed into your back, firm and controlled, but just barely. You swallowed hard, shifting on the stool. Your thighs pressed together and stayed there. Your fingers dug into your own knees.

God, what would it be like if he said things like that in a bed? His voice rough, that little growl he did in his throat when he was trying not to let something slip.

“That's it,” he’d say again, but slower this time, with your legs around his waist. His hand around your neck. His body heavy over yours. His—

“Hey?” Kate’s voice broke straight through your filthy mind like a cold slap of water. Your head snapped up. She was watching you in the mirror, a little frown on her face.

“You okay? You zoned out like… hard.”

You blinked. Forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Just tired, I think.”

Kate turned toward you, dress swishing with her. “You sure? You look kinda pale.”

You smiled again. “I’m good. Promise.”

She squinted for a second longer, then let it go. “Okay. Well, you better wake up before tonight. Everyone’s gonna be at the bar. You are coming, right?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know, Katie…”

“Don’t you dare bail on me,” she said, walking over and poking you square in the forehead. “It’s my last free Saturday before wedding chaos hits full force. You’re coming. No excuses.”

You sighed, lips pressed together. “Fine. I’ll go. For you.”

“Damn right it’s for me,” she grinned, turning back to the mirror, completely unaware of the storm behind your eyes.

Because she had no idea that the only thing keeping you from vibrating out of your skin was the image of her future brother-in-law. His voice, his hands, the pressure of him against your back, his body between your thighs, his cock filling you as he growled against your neck—

You clenched your fists again. You were not okay. And tonight, you were about to walk into a room full of people, awesome.

The bar buzzed with life. Music pulsed in waves from the overhead speakers, something upbeat and forgettable, and people swayed and shouted and laughed, glasses clinking against each other, beer sloshing onto tables and sticky wooden floors.

You were perched on a high stool at the edge of the chaos, your drink half full and your nerves stretched thin.

You’d let Kate drag you here. You hadn’t wanted to come. But the smile on her face as she danced in a small circle with her friends made it all worth it. You were here for her.

But even now, even under the dim golden lights and the noise, your mind flickered like static back to the woods. Joel’s hands. Joel’s breath. Joel’s words. Your thighs pressed together. You took a bigger sip of your drink.

“Thought that was you,” a familiar voice said behind you. You turned and saw him, Hank. That cute guy from the store. You almost forget about him, because your mind is currently full of Miller.

“Hank,” you said, forcing a tight smile, trying to hide your overthinking and zoning out every five second.

He held a drink in each hand, his leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the collar of some aggressively loud shirt underneath.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you without asking.

“Yeah… my sister dragged me out.”

“Ah,” Hank chuckled. “Lucky for me.” He slid one of the glasses toward you. Whiskey. Neat. You nodded politely. “Thanks.”

You didn’t ask for it, but you took a sip. Because refusing would be more exhausting than drinking.

Hank talked, mostly about himself. Occasionally he asked you a question, but he never waited for the answer before launching into another story. Still, it was noise. Noise was good. Noise kept you out of your head.

“You’re quiet,” Hank said, tilting his head. “You mad at me?”

You blinked back to the present.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just… tired.”

He smiled. “You need to loosen up.”

You tried to smile back. But then his hand landed on your thigh. It wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. Heavy. You froze. Your pulse quickened.

You shifted, a small movement—polite, non-threatening, clear. But he didn’t move his hand.

Instead, he leaned in closer, the alcohol on his breath making your stomach twist.

“You look so fuckin’ good tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Bet you feel good too.”

You jerked back. “Hank, don’t—”

He grabbed your wrist, quick and tight, and leaned in.

“Relax, sweetheart. We’re just talkin’.”

“No,” you said, firmer now. “Let go.”

His expression changed. Gone was the charm. What replaced it was flat. Cold.

“You wanna cause a scene?” he whispered.

And then you felt it. Something cold and sharp pressing against your ribs. Your eyes snapped down.

A knife. Small, dirty, folded out from a pocket tool. But real. Panic bloomed in your chest like poison.

“Let’s go,” Hank whispered, teeth clenched in a smile. “Now.”

You nodded. What else could you do?

He guided you off the stool, the knife barely brushing your side as a constant reminder. No one noticed. No one cared. The music was too loud. The lights too low.

He steered you toward the back of the bar, toward the restrooms.

Your heart thundered. Your stomach churned. You were already running through what you’d say, what you’d do, how you’d get out—

“Let her go.”

The voice split through the air like a shotgun. You turned, Hank right after you.

And there he was, your savior. Joel.

Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes black with rage. His hand hovering near the holster on his hip. Not on his gun, at least, not yet.

Hank laughed. “C’mon, dude. We’re just talking.”

“I said let. her. go.”

He stepped closer. Each footfall was silent but devastating, like the pressure drop before a tornado hits. His voice had lowered now, dangerously calm.

Your breath caught. You didn’t even realize tears had formed in your eyes until you blinked and they fell.

Hank looked between you and Joel. He weighed his chances. And then, he shoved you.

You stumbled back—but before Hank could bolt, Joel moved. One hand slammed the knife out of Hank’s grip, sent it skittering across the floor.

The other grabbed the front of his jacket and shoved him into the wall so hard the drywall cracked behind him.

“You ever touch her again,” Joel growled, face inches from his, “I’ll break both your fuckin’ arms. And that’ll be merciful.”

Hank didn’t speak, didn't fight, didn't move. He was shaking, his eyes wide open like he just saw a ghost. He was so fucking scared.

Joel dropped him with a final shove and turned toward you, chest rising and falling fast. You stood there frozen, still shaking, tears streaking your cheeks now.

“Hey,” he said softly, all that rage melting into something gentler. “You alright?”

You nodded quickly. He stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a scared animal. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

You followed him without thinking. Out into the night. Into the truck. The door shut behind you, and silence filled the cab.

But this silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Comforting. You let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the seat.

Joel didn’t speak. He just drove, his hand occasionally flexing on the wheel like he still hadn’t shaken off what he’d just done.

When the truck rolled to a stop in front of your house, you reached for the handle, but something in your chest seized. You looked over at him.

“Do you wanna come in?” you asked softly. “I… I could make some coffee. As a thank you.”

Joel hesitated. You saw it all over his face. His jaw flexed, his throat bobbed. He shouldn’t go. He knew he shouldn’t. But his eyes dropped to your lips. Just for a second, and that was enough for him to decide.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Alright.”

You unlock the door with slightly trembling fingers, the echo of the evening still buzzing in your bones. Joel follows close behind, silent but solid, like some kind of ghost who bled warmth instead of cold.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you say softly, stepping inside and beginning to shrug off your jacket.

Joel doesn’t speak. He just nods and quietly peels off his own coat, hanging it neatly by the door. You move through the familiar space of your kitchen, the air oddly still. Behind you, you hear the chair scrape softly against the floor as he sits down at the small table.

Joel's eyes were glued on you, burning through your clothes, lingering on the curve of your spine, the swing of your hips. It’s not like before. It’s different. Hungrier.

You reach for the coffee tin without looking at him. You know exactly what kind of coffee he likes.

Which is stupid. Because this is Joel. The man you were supposed to despise. And yet here you are, pouring the water, adding just the right amount of grounds, without needing to ask a damn thing.

The silence wraps around the room, thick and buzzing with the unsaid. You can feel him watching your every move. When the coffee’s ready, you grab two mugs, pour them evenly, and walk over to him.

You set his mug down, sitting across from him, your fingers wrapping around the warmth of the ceramic. You both take the first sip in tandem. Then, quiet. The kind that presses in, like fog.

Finally, you speak. You felt like you have to, after being saved. After practically everything.

“Thanks for earlier,” you murmur, your voice a little raw. “That was… Hank.”

Joel’s jaw shifts slightly. His eyes darken. “Figured.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Didn’t think he’d be that type.”

He leans back a little, cradling the mug in one hand. “A lot of men like him are out there. Even now. You give ‘em power, they use it to corner someone weaker.”

The words sit between you, bitter like the coffee on your tongue. You nod, slowly. “How’d you even see me? No one else noticed.”

You watch the flicker of hesitation pass behind his eyes, the clench in his jaw. “I just… saw you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In that whole crowd?”

He meets your gaze, lips twitching slightly. “What can I say? You kinda stand out.”

You smirk, mock-offended. “Was it my clothes or the way I awkwardly clung to the wall?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Bit of both.”

You both chuckle, and something shifts. The ice melts. The air gets warmer. It’s not like before. It’s lighter, easier, safer.

Joel finishes his coffee, setting the mug down gently. “I should get outta here. You’ve had one hell of a night.”

You nod, standing with him. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

But as you turn to lead him out, your sock catches on the edge of the rug and your balance tips.

“Shit—!”

You stumble forward, instinctively reaching out, but Joel is already there—his arms snapping around you, pulling you tightly against him.

Your chest slams into his, and his hands steady you, one firm on your waist, the other wrapped just under your ribs.

You’re both laughing at first. A light, breathy kind of laugh, like the end of a good joke. But then you look up at him. And suddenly, it’s not funny anymore.

His face is so close. Again. Like in the woods.

Your noses almost touch. His breath brushes your cheek. One of his hands tightens slightly on your hip, grounding you. His other hand firm against your back, your palms flat against his chest.

You looked up into his eyes, and for a moment, nothing else in the world existed. Just the two of you, breathing the same charged air, close enough to feel the heat rolling off each other. You didn’t know if it was a good idea. Hell, it probably wasn’t. This would ruin everything. Complicate the wedding. Complicate Jackson. Complicate… him. You.

But you didn’t move. Neither did he.

His eyes kept dropping, from your eyes to your lips, back up again, then down. Every time he looked at your mouth, it felt like fire ran through your veins. His thumb brushed along your spine like he was grounding himself, and you swore your knees nearly gave out from just that.

Then, like something broke inside him, he kissed you.

It was sudden, deep, and full of something too big for either of you to name. It wasn’t soft, not really. It was controlled. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to remember how to be careful. But the second he felt you lean into it, tilt your head and let out that quiet, needful sound from the back of your throat, he was done.

He pulled back just a fraction, like he was afraid to have gone too far. Like he was waiting for you to push him away.

But instead, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in like a wild thing that had been starving for this. Your lips crashed into his and there was no more hesitation, no more thinking.

Only need.

The kiss turned feverish — teeth, tongues, breathless groans swallowed between your mouths. His hands were everywhere — gripping your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed to memorize every inch.

You couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Your body was reacting like it had waited a lifetime for this. You were pressed up against him, feeling the hardness straining against his jeans, the way his hips rolled into yours with unconscious desperation.

Somehow, you stumbled backwards through the hallway, bumping into walls, laughing through your gasps and moans as he kissed your neck, your jaw, your mouth again. His hands slid down your thighs and lifted you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist.

His mouth never left yours, the kissing is harder now—urgent, uneven. The hallway dimly lit by the golden hue of a single lamp in your kitchen blurred behind you as he carried you toward your bedroom.

Your fingers twisted into the collar of his shirt, knuckles white, and his breath hitched when your teeth grazed his bottom lip. His hips pressed into you as you gasped softly into his mouth, your thighs squeezing around him. The friction made your body jolt with a pulse of heat that spread through your stomach like wildfire.

He kicked the door to your room open, then brought you down to the bed. Not gently. Not softly. There was no time for that.

Your bodies hit the mattress with a thud, your hair splaying out beneath you like a dark halo. He hovered above you for just a second, both of you panting, eyes locked, your chests rising and falling in unison. Then his hands were on you again—rough, wide palms pushing under your shirt, dragging it up. His touch was everywhere. Greedy. Desperate.

You sat up to help him, tearing the shirt over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. Joel’s gaze dropped to your chest, dark and feral, his breath catching hard as if he’d just been punched in the stomach. His hands, already trembling slightly, moved with surprising reverence as he reached behind you to unclasp your bra.

It slid down your arms slowly, and the moment your chest was bare, Joel exhaled shakily like he was in physical pain. Like he’d been imagining this for far too long. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His expression was torn between reverence and hunger. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed thickly.

Then, his hands came up to cup you.

They were big, calloused, and the contrast of his roughness against the softness of your skin made you shudder. He traced the curves with his thumbs, gentle at first, then firmer when he saw how your body arched into his touch. Your breath caught again, a small, sharp sound that broke the silence like a dropped glass.

Joel leaned in, lips parting as he pressed his mouth to the swell of one breast, then to your nipple, hot, wet, insistent. Your head fell back with a whimper as his mouth worked in slow, teasing circles. His hand kneaded the other breast, his thumb flicking expertly, rhythmically, and your legs began to shift restlessly beneath him.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging.

Not to stop him, to beg for more. The sensation was overwhelming, grounding and floating you at the same time. He groaned low into your skin, and you felt the sound vibrate through your ribs, down your spine. Your hips lifted off the bed involuntarily, searching for contact, for pressure, for anything.

Joel paused only to look up at you—his lips shiny, his expression undone. You couldn’t breathe. He looked like sin, and you wanted to drown in it. His hand slid down your side slowly, possessively, as if mapping you. Memorizing you.

With a firm but gentle hand, he urges you backward until your spine meets the mattress. You obey without protest, eyes locked on his, heart thundering in your chest. He follows you down, hovering above you, and then he’s on you again, his mouth returning to your chest, latching onto a sensitive nipple like he’s starving for it.

His tongue swirls, wet and deliberate, flicking over the peak until you whimper. Then he sucks, slow and deep, and your back arches as pleasure shoots through you like a live wire.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice gravelly and full of reverence. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

Your thighs press together as heat pools between them. You can barely focus, your hands fisting into the sheets as he alternates between each breast—suckling, kissing, grazing them with the barest edge of his teeth. Every touch makes you writhe, your body hypersensitive, your breath short.

You moan his name, barely a whisper, and he growls softly in response. His lips are warm, skilled, knowing. There’s nothing rushed in his worship; he’s savoring every second, and it drives you wild.

Eventually, his mouth releases you, leaving your skin damp and flushed. But he doesn’t move far—only lower, lower still, lips grazing a path down your torso. He leaves a kiss beneath your ribs, then another just below your navel. Each one sets off sparks in your belly. Your breath hitches as he pauses, right above the hem of your panties.

He glances up, eyes catching yours. “You want this?”

Your nod is immediate, shaky. “Yes.”

He hooks his fingers beneath the fabric of your panties, dragging them down your thighs with excruciating slowness. As he slips them off, he holds your gaze, and then he brings the panties to his lips, kisses the damp center, and tucks them into his back pocket with a smug glint in his eye.

And then he lowers his head again.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on you—warm, wet, divine. His tongue dips between your folds, exploring you with devastating thoroughness. He licks a slow stripe up your slit, groaning against you like he’s the one being pleasured.

His tongue is rough, textured, dragging deliciously across your most sensitive parts. Every flick, every swirl, every subtle change in rhythm makes your hips lift off the bed, your thighs trembling around his head.

He moans into you like you taste like salvation. One of his hands pins your hip down gently, the other resting on your thigh, keeping you open for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes between licks, “you’re drippin’. So damn perfect.”

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the strands, anchoring yourself as your body threatens to unravel. Every sound you make, every twitch and gasp, seems to fuel him. He buries his face deeper, devouring you like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you tremble.

And god, you can’t stop moaning—his name, half-formed pleas, incoherent gasps. You can’t think. All you can do is feel.

You’re flushed, your legs shaking, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. He slides his tongue over your clit, slow and firm, circling it in ways that make your toes curl.

His mind is a mess of craving and possessiveness. He wants to make you come on his tongue, over and over, until you forget anyone but him has ever touched you. You can feel it in every movement, every low sound he makes against you—he’s not just giving you pleasure. He’s claiming you.

The pressure builds fast and fierce, and your thighs clamp tighter around his head. He doesn’t stop. He just groans into your heat, sending vibrations through you that make you cry out, teetering right on the edge.

And just before you fall, he pulls back slightly, eyes glazed with lust, lips glistening.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he whispers.

“Yes—Joel, please—”

He just smiled devilishly, before his mouth is on you again, relentless. And you break. Your orgasm slams into you like a wave crashing over your body. It’s not soft or sweet—it’s violent, intense, a full-body convulsion that steals your breath and bends your spine off the mattress.

Your mouth opens in a scream, but all that comes out is a strangled moan, broken and raw. Your thighs tighten around Joel’s head, trembling uncontrollably, and your fingers yank at his hair as if anchoring yourself to reality.

The pleasure rips through your core in sharp, overwhelming pulses. Each one sends another shock down your spine, through your arms, your legs, your fingertips. Your vision whitens at the edges. You can’t hear anything but the pounding of your own heart, your ragged gasps, and the obscene wet sounds of his mouth still working you through every last wave.

Joel groans like a man starved, like you are the only thing that’s ever mattered. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, your whole body twitching beneath him. When he finally pulls back, his beard is damp, his lips swollen and slick, his chest heaving.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glued to you. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful when you come.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your pulse thudding in your ears. The room tilts a little as you try to breathe through the aftershocks. Everything feels too much, your skin is flushed and hypersensitive, your muscles limp and tingling. You can barely keep your eyes open.

“Joel…” you whisper, dazed. You blink up at him just in time to see his hands at his belt. He unbuckles it slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time, like he’s daring you to look away.

You don’t.

The sound of the leather sliding free is sinful—low, threatening, full of promise. He lets it fall to the floor with a soft thud, then pops the button of his jeans and drags the zipper down.

You watch, helpless to do anything else. He’s broad, powerful, and glowing with heat—shoulders wide, stomach lined with a thick trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband he’s tugging down. His cock springs free, thick, flushed, already leaking, and your mouth waters just looking at him.

But he’s not done.

He shrugs off his shirt slowly, working each button free with frustrating patience. And when he peels the fabric off his shoulders and tosses it aside, you nearly forget how to breathe.

All muscle and scars and raw masculinity. His chest is dusted with dark hair, his abdomen hard and sculpted, veins visible on his forearms as he braces himself above you. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, making every dip and ridge of his body gleam under the soft light.

You stare, dazed and aching, lips parted as your eyes trace every inch of him.

“Like what you see?” he asks, voice rough, almost teasing, but there’s a strain there. He’s barely holding it together. You nod, unable to speak.

And he smirks, just a little, before leaning down to kiss you again, the heat of his bare skin pressing against yours. Then, he crawled up your body, eyes dark, jaw clenched. His control is fraying, shredded to the edge. You can see it in the way his arms tremble slightly, in how fast he’s breathing.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

You nod frantically, legs already parting for him.

He doesn’t even bother with teasing. He just grabs himself. Thick, hard, flushed at the tip, and guides his cock between your thighs, rubbing the head slowly through your slick folds. He groans at the contact, voice shaking.

“Fuck… You’re so wet for me.”

And then, he pushes in. The stretch is unreal. You gasp, eyes flying open as he sinks into you inch by inch. He’s thick, hot, and pulsing with need. Your walls clench around him automatically, your nails digging into his back as he slowly pushes deeper.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, every muscle in his body rigid. “You feel like heaven.”

The sensation is overwhelming. Your body tries to adjust, but he’s so big, so deep already. You bite your lip, crying out when he bottoms out, pelvis pressing flush against yours.

You’re full. Stuffed. You feel every vein, every twitch of him inside you.

Joel doesn’t move at first, just leans over you, forearms braced on either side of your head, chest heaving as he fights to keep control. His forehead rests against yours, sweat starting to gather at his temples.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. Please—Joel, move.”

That’s all he needs. He starts slow—long, deep thrusts that make your breath stutter, your nails dig into his skin. The sounds of your bodies fill the room: skin against skin, your wetness coating him with every stroke, the soft gasp and grunt of every movement.

But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

Joel groans low in his throat and suddenly snaps his hips forward—hard. You yelp, eyes rolling back. He does it again. And again. Then he loses the last of his restraint.

He fucks you hard, fast, mercilessly. The rhythm ruthless, pounding into you so deep your legs shake around his waist. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking softly against the wall, but you barely register it.

You can only feel him—his cock driving into you with unrelenting force, your pussy clenching with every thrust.

His grip on your hips tightens, bruising. He watches your face twist with pleasure, your mouth open in gasps and cries, your fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Take it. Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You can barely form words. Your mind is gone, wrecked, your entire world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you—stretching, filling, owning every part of you.

He leans down, capturing your mouth again, and fucks you so hard you feel like you’re going to shatter around him.

Then, he pulls out slowly, just for a second, only to flip you onto your stomach.

You barely register the motion before his hands are on your hips, strong and commanding, dragging your ass up until you’re on your knees, chest still against the mattress.

You whimper at the loss of him, but then he’s there again—his cock thick and hot as he drags it through your slick folds from behind.

“Joel—” you breathe, barely able to form the word.

“I can't hold back,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Need you. Need this.”

He thrusts back into you with no warning, making you scream into the sheets.

He’s so deep, so thick, the angle making it feel impossibly intense, like he’s splitting you open all over again.

Your arms give out, your face pressing into the mattress as he starts to move. And it’s brutal. No finesse, no patience. Just raw, driving thrusts that shake your whole body.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Like he’s trying to bury himself so deep you’ll never forget the shape of him. You won’t.

His grip on your hips is bruising, fingertips digging into your flesh as he slams into you again and again. Your skin stings, your scalp prickles—until suddenly, he grabs a handful of your hair, yanks your head back, and you sob at the mix of pain and pleasure.

“You take it so fuckin’ well,” he growls behind you, breath hot against your ear. “You were made for me.”

Tears spill from your eyes, uncontrollably, shamelessly. From the intensity, from the feeling of being completely and utterly taken. Your body can’t keep up. You’re trembling, overwhelmed, moaning brokenly as every thrust punches another cry from your throat.

He leans over you, rutting into you deeper now, rougher. His chest presses against your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you pinned in place while the other stays tangled in your hair.

You feel yourself spiraling again, your second orgasm rising so fast it almost hurts. Your vision blurs, the mattress soaked with your tears as you sob, “Joel, please, I’m—God—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he pants into your neck. “Come for me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

It tears through you like lightning, your body locking up before shattering into trembling convulsions. You scream—loud, raw, broken—back arching hard against him. You’re gushing, pulsing around him, your slick flooding down your thighs as your body clenches around his cock.

You’re sobbing, half-coherent, and Joel curses—low and wrecked.

“Fuck—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight—”

He’s close. You can feel it in the way he moves, the frantic pace, the desperation in every thrust.

Then his hips stutter. He growls your name like a curse and slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes.

It’s not soft—it’s violent. His entire body shudders behind you, his hands gripping you like you’re the only solid thing keeping him grounded. You can feel the heat of him spilling inside you, filling you up as he lets out a low, strangled moan against your skin.

You both collapse.

Joel slumps over your back, breathing hard, his body heavy and trembling with aftershocks. Your legs are jelly, your vision blurry with tears and sweat, your heart pounding against the mattress like it’s trying to break free.

Everything’s quiet, except for your breathing, your sobs slowly calming, and the soft curses Joel whispers as he presses his lips to your shoulder, over and over again. His body still draped over yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. You can feel his heartbeat pounding against your back, can feel the way his arms tighten around your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Eventually, he shifts—pulls out of you gently, muttering something soft against your shoulder that you can’t quite make out. You’re too dazed, too shattered, your limbs heavy and slow like you’ve been drugged. He disappears for a moment.

You barely lift your head when he returns with a towel. Joel doesn’t say a word. He just nudges your legs apart, cleans you carefully, almost reverently.

His touch is gentle, surprisingly so. No roughness, no urgency. Just patient, quiet care. He wipes between your thighs, along your trembling skin, and when you flinch from sensitivity, he whispers, “Shh, I got you,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls the blanket up over both of you. You barely notice him crawling in beside you until you feel the weight of his arm wrap around your waist, tugging you back into his chest.

Your eyelids are heavy.

Your body is sore, humming with satisfaction and confusion and something dangerously close to contentment. His warmth seeps into your spine, his breath soft at the nape of your neck. You think he might kiss your shoulder again, but he doesn’t. He just holds you, skin to skin, until you drift off to sleep in his arms.

It’s been three days.

Three days since you let Joel Miller into your home. Three days since you let him see you—all of you. Three days since he touched you like you were something sacred and ruined you all at once.

Tomorrow, your sister’s getting married. Tomorrow, she becomes a Miller. But tonight… tonight is the last night she’ll fall asleep with your name still matching hers.

And all you can think about is him.

Not the ceremony. Not the dress. Not the decorations you spent hours picking out.

Only him. Only that night.

The taste of his mouth. The feel of his body. The way he said your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

It should’ve been nothing. A mistake. A one-time moment of insanity. You could’ve stopped it. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You let him in. You invited the devil to your doorstep, and you didn’t slam the door in his face.

You let him fuck you like you meant something. And worse—you liked it. You hate yourself for that. Because now? Now you can’t even look at him.

He tries. You see it. A polite nod, a soft “hey,” a wave from across the street. You ignore it all. You keep your eyes down. Pretend not to hear him. Pretend he doesn’t exist—because if you don’t, if you let yourself remember even a second of what happened that night, your chest might split open.

He saw you. Really saw you. And he did things to you no one’s ever done before. Things you didn’t know you wanted, let alone needed.

And now… he’s just walking around Jackson like nothing happened. Like he’s fine.

But you’re not.

You’re a mess. A storm barely contained behind a polite smile. Because every time you shut your eyes, he’s there. That mouth. Those hands. That voice in your ear whispering “good girl” as you came around his tongue.

What the hell were you thinking?

Sleeping with your sister’s future brother-in-law? With your enemy? It sounds like a sick joke. A bad decision spun wildly out of control. And the worst part? You’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

You should’ve said no.

When Kate looked at you with those sparkling eyes, veil clipped into her hair, all glowing and giddy and “Can you do me a favor?” You should’ve said it right there. No. But you didn’t.

Because tomorrow she gets married. Tomorrow she becomes someone’s wife, and you’d cut off your own arm to make sure her day is perfect. So now you’re stuck in Joel Miller’s truck. Alone. With him.

You sit curled up on the passenger side, arms crossed, body tense like a coiled spring. You haven’t spoken since you got in. Haven’t looked at him once. He tries though.

“Hey,” he said when you climbed in. “You look… nice.” You didn’t answer.

“You sleep alright last night?”

You made a noncommittal grunt and turned your face to the window.

He’s still trying, glancing over occasionally, fingers drumming on the steering wheel like he’s searching for the right rhythm to break the silence. But you give him nothing.

Because what the hell is there to say? That you still feel his hands on your body when you close your eyes? That your throat tightens when you hear his voice, because it reminds you of how it sounded whispering filth in your ear while he ruined you? That your entire body clenches at the thought of him inside you again?

No, there’s nothing to say. But the universe doesn’t give a fuck about timing. Because just as you pass the city limits, the sky cracks open. One fat drop hits the windshield. Then another. Then it’s a full-on storm.

Rain lashes at the glass, fast and blinding, and Joel slows down immediately. Thunder growls somewhere above, deep and low like the sound of something ancient waking up.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Gotta pull over.”

He steers the truck down an overgrown path and finds an old garage, half-collapsed, but enough to get out of the worst of the storm. The rain slams into the tin roof above you, loud and wild. You’re safe, but it feels suffocating.

Joel turns off the engine. Silence falls, except for the storm. He exhales slowly, then speaks.

“You gonna keep pretendin’ I don’t exist?” he asks quietly.

That’s it. You snap. You whip your head toward him, the heat in your chest rising like boiling water. “What do you want me to say, Joel?!”

He blinks. You’re already throwing the door open, going straight to the rain. You needed a fresh air, one that doesn't smell like Joel's car. His door slams right behind you.

“What are you—,”

“Hey, remember that time you fucked me senseless and now I can’t breathe without thinking about it?” You step out into the rain. “That I feel like a complete idiot because I invited you in and now I can’t even look at myself in the mirror?!”

The cold hits you like a slap, rain soaking your clothes instantly. You welcome it. He follows, his voice sharp through the downpour. “I didn’t plan it either! You think I woke up that morning hopin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind over you?!”

You spin on him. “You didn’t stop me!”

“I couldn’t!” he shouts back, eyes wild, hair already soaked. “You looked at me like you wanted it. Like no one ever looked at me before and I couldn’t—” He stops himself, jaw tight.

You stare at him. The rain pours around you, drumming on the roof, the truck, the gravel. Your chest heaves. Your teeth clench. Everything is raw, exposed, trembling.

“This was a mistake,” you say, but your voice breaks halfway through. He steps closer.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I have to,” you whisper.

Joel’s hands reach out slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His palms settle on your wet cheeks. “Look I get it…,” he says softly, “but I ain’t sorry for what we did, and I defenitely do not regret it.”

Your breath catches.

“Do you?” He asked, his brown chocolate eyes made your knees weak, and you knew the answer damn well, but it was just hard. Hard to admit that you have feelings for Joel fucking Miller. That you feel something more, and unfortunately, it's not hatress.

“I don't—” you start, but then he kisses you.

Hard. Desperate. Wet mouths clashing in the rain like something out of a dream you’d never admit to having. His hands hold your face like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. Your fingers dig into his shirt, nails catching fabric. There’s nothing gentle about it.

It’s all tongue and teeth and years of hate folding into hunger. You kiss him like you’re punishing him. He kisses you like he’s begging for mercy.

When you finally break apart, you’re both panting.

Foreheads pressed together. Rain dripping from your lashes. His hands stay on your face. Yours clutch his jacket.

“I’m so fucking mad at you,” you whisper.

Joel smiles. “Yeah. I know.”

The morning sun filters in through sheer curtains, soft and golden, bathing the room in light that feels almost sacred.

Kate stands by the mirror, surrounded by laughter, perfume, and a blur of ivory fabric and flowers. Her wedding dress hugs her figure perfectly—delicate lace at the shoulders, tiny buttons running down the back, and a soft, flowing skirt that pools like clouds around her feet. Her hair is curled and pinned, a few loose strands framing her glowing face, and in her hands is a bouquet of wildflowers tied with satin.

She looks like something out of a dream. You watch her, heart pounding, throat tight with nerves. It’s now or never.

“Kate,” you say gently, stepping forward.

She turns to you, bright-eyed. “Yeah?”

Your hands are shaking. You swallow hard. “I need to tell you something. And I should’ve told you sooner, I just… I didn’t know how.”

She blinks. “What is it?”

You inhale slowly. “It’s about me and Joel.”

She was quiet, her eyes full of expectations and lips sucked nervously into a thin line.

“Me and Joel are… kinda together,” you sigh, heart hammering in your chest, fully expecting a meltdown. But instead, she squeals.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! This is—this is amazing!” She throws her arms around you, nearly knocking your breath out. “I knew there was something! You’ve been acting so weird! But this, this makes me so happy!”

You’re stunned. “Wait… you’re not mad?”

She pulls back and beams. “Mad? Are you kidding? I ship this. Hard.”

You burst into laughter, nearly crying from the relief.

��You’re insane,” you whisper, wiping your eyes.

“I’m your sister, it’s my job,” she grins.

The wedding ceremony is set beneath an arch of flowers, surrounded by rows of chairs filled with friends and family. The sun is just starting to dip lower, casting long shadows, the sky streaked with pink and lavender.

You stand at the altar as a bridesmaid, bouquet clutched tightly in your hands. You’ve never worn a dress like this before—it’s soft, elegant, pale lavender—and your hair is pinned back, a few curls brushing your cheek. Your palms are sweaty. Your heart’s full.

Across from you, Joel stands in a dark suit, tie slightly loosened, that damn rugged charm still impossible to ignore. And then, the music starts. Everyone rises. You turn your head, and there she is.

Kate walks slowly down the aisle, hand wrapped around your father’s arm, veil trailing behind her like a whisper. Her eyes are wide, lips trembling with a smile, and she looks so happy, like every fairytale in the world decided to make a cameo in her life today.

You feel it before you realize it, tears welling in your eyes. You blink rapidly, but they fall anyway, slipping down your cheeks in quiet streaks.

Then you glance sideways. Joel isn’t looking at the bride. He’s looking at you.

His eyes are soft. Warm. His lips curve into the smallest smile—just for you. One corner up, the kind that says I’m here. I see you. I’m yours.

You smile back, heart blooming.

And in that moment, standing in the golden light of your sister’s wedding, mascara streaking your cheeks, hands still trembling from the weight of it all, you realize you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

With him. With all of it. And finally, finally, it feels like the chaos was worth it.

Hii! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

LOVE YA! 🥮🍂

[leriexoxo]

Angry Boys - Jisung

His Breaking Point

Tags: emotionally intense themes, including possessive behavior, emotionally messy and angry sex, mild degradation, consensual non-consent undertones, crying during sex, mentions of jealousy and emotional manipulation, overstimulation, rough handling, and soft aftercare.

Word count: 2k

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

ANGRY BOYS MASTERLIST

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You didn’t knock.

Didn’t call ahead—You knew he’d be there.

Just slammed the door behind you like a warning shot.

Jisung was already pacing in your kitchen, hoodie half off one shoulder, lips red from chewing them raw. His eyes snapped to you the second the door shut—and they were already burning.

“Where the fuck were you?”

You dropped your bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. “Not tonight, Jisung.”

“No, fuck that. Answer me.” His voice cracked—half-shout, half-plea. “You disappear for sixteen hours with no text, no calls—nothing—and you expect me to sit here like I’m not going insane?”

Your jaw clenched. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

The silence hit like a gunshot.

His whole body flinched.

“Right,” he said. Flat. Cold. “Right. Thanks for the reminder.”

You tried to walk past him—to your room, to safety—but he stepped in front of you. Just stood there. Blocking. Breathing heavy.

His eyes were wild.

“You think I’m just some warm body to crawl into bed with when you’re bored? Something to fuck, to kill time with? Do you even see me when you look at me?”

“I never lied to you,” you hissed.

“No,” he snapped, voice going sharp. “You just dangle me.”

His hands were shaking.

“You touch me like I’m important to you,” he whispered. “You fuck me like I matter. And then you leave before I can even breathe.”

Your stomach twisted. You hated how right he sounded.

“You could’ve walked away anytime.”

He laughed—bitter and small. “I should’ve. God, I should’ve. But I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop wanting you.”

You backed up a step.

He followed.

“You’re in my head,” he said. “All the time. Every second. You act like you don’t feel it too, like this is just sex—but I see the way you shake when I touch you.”

You turned your face, voice cracking. “That doesn’t mean—”

“Then what does it mean?” His voice rose again. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? Sit here like a fool while you fuck me, leave, and pretend I don’t exist again?”

You didn’t answer.

He took another step forward—eyes locked to yours, breathing heavy, like he was standing on a ledge.

“I’m not asking anymore,” he said. “I need to know what this is. Or I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He closed the space between you in one breath, one second—and then his hands were on your face, his mouth crashing into yours like he was trying to inhale you whole.

There was no patience.

Just heat. Teeth. Desperation.

His hand slid under your shirt like it had every right to be there, fingers digging into your skin like anchors.

“You can hate me later,” he panted against your lips. “But I need you to want me right fucking now.”

Your back hit the wall.

You moaned into his mouth.

And Jisung growled.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, and he kissed you like he was burning alive.

His hands didn’t hesitate—yanked your shirt over your head, tugged your waistband down like he’d already ripped you out of his fantasies a hundred times today. His mouth was still on you—jaw tight, teeth grazing skin, lips trembling between bites and kisses.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice fraying. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because you did.

You wanted him like this—unraveling. Furious. Needing you more than his next breath.

Your nails dragged down his chest, and he groaned deep in his throat. His cock was already hard through his sweats, pressing against your thigh with a desperation that mirrored his voice.

He pushed your legs apart and dropped to his knees without ceremony—yanked your panties to the side and dove in like a man gone mad.

“Oh—fuck—Jisung—”

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t tease.

Just sucked your clit into his mouth and rolled his tongue like he was trying to make you break fast so he could climb inside the pieces.

You slapped your hand against the wall, legs already shaking.

He moaned against you—deep, guttural, possessive—and the vibration had your hips jerking forward.

“This,” he growled, fingers pressing inside, “is mine.”

You whimpered, head dropping back.

He kept going—faster, harder—fucking you on his fingers while his tongue tore you apart. You were drenched, twitching, biting down on your lip so hard it stung.

“Don’t you dare hold back,” he snapped. “Scream. Let them know who fucking owns you.”

Your knees buckled as your orgasm slammed through you. You did scream.

And Jisung just groaned into your cunt like it was everything he needed to breathe again.

He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shoved his sweats down just enough.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he muttered, jerking his cock once, twice. “Every inch. And when I’m done, you’re gonna know who the fuck you belong to.”

He didn’t wait for a response—just lifted you by the thighs, slammed you back against the wall, and sank in deep.

Your mouth fell open. No sound came out.

He filled you—thick, hot, pulsing—and then he started moving.

No rhythm. No care.

Just frantic thrusts, gasps, groans, like he was chasing something he didn’t know how to name.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you feel it too.”

You clutched his shoulders, nails digging in. “I—fuck—I feel it, Jisung—God—”

He snapped his hips harder, and your back hit the wall again.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled. “You don’t let anyone else in like this. You never fall apart like this. Just me.”

You nodded, choking on breath. “Just you—only you—fuck—”

His pace got brutal.

His forehead dropped to yours, sweat beading down his temple.

“I fucking hate how much I want you,” he whispered. “And I still want more.”

He slammed into you once, twice—your legs twitching around his waist—and then you came again, crying into his neck, whole body shaking.

He followed seconds later with a loud, broken fuck, hips stuttering, hands gripping your ass like he’d fall apart without you.

And when it was over— You both just breathed.

Shaking. Soaked. Spent.

You barely had time to catch your breath but Jisung didn’t let go, didn’t even slow down.

He carried you to the couch, still buried inside you, his face buried in your neck like he couldn’t bear to look at you—like seeing you would only crack him further.

“Jisung—” you started, but he just growled, low and broken.

“Not done,” he muttered. “I can’t stop. I won’t.”

You whimpered as he dropped you onto the cushions, dragging your hips to the edge. His cock slipped out, glistening and angry red, but he was already moving again—spitting into his hand, stroking himself with fast, angry pumps.

“I hate how much I love this,” he rasped. “Hate that I miss you even when you’re under me.”

“Ji—”

“Do you even think about me when you leave?” he asked, voice shaking now—fighting emotion and lust in equal measure. “Do you even remember what it feels like when I’m not fucking you?”

He slid back in.

Too fast. Too deep.

Your back arched with a sob.

“Because I do,” he hissed. “Every fucking time. I remember every sound. Every face you make. Every time you say my name like I matter.”

He pulled out almost all the way—then slammed in again.

You yelped, hands scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto.

“Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open.

And what you saw nearly undid you.

He looked wrecked.

Tears in his eyes. Jaw clenched so tight it trembled. Entire body trembling, like this wasn’t just fucking—it was confession.

“I know you don’t belong to me,” he whispered, slowing just enough to make the weight of each thrust sink. “But I wish you did.”

You cupped his face without thinking, thumb brushing the corner of his eye.

That broke him.

He let out a sound—half sob, half moan—and thrust deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“I think I love you,” he choked. “I don’t know when it happened—I just—I fucking love you and I’m terrified you don’t feel anything.”

Your eyes stung. Your throat closed.

“I feel it,” you whispered.

He froze.

“You—?”

“I feel it,” you repeated. “Even when I try to pretend I don’t.”

Something cracked in him then—softer this time.

He kissed you like you were oxygen.

Like the entire storm inside him could finally exhale.

And then he fucked you slow.

Deep.

So deep it made you cry again.

He held you through it, whispered everything he couldn’t say before—the fear, the ache, the need. You came one more time, sobbing into his neck.

And this time when he followed—he held you close and breathed you in.

—

Sunlight found you first.

It cut through the curtains in soft streaks, warming your bare shoulder where the blanket had slipped. Jisung stirred behind you, arms still locked around your waist like he’d never let go.

His breath was slow. Shaky.

You knew he was awake.

Neither of you had slept much.

His hand twitched on your stomach, then stilled.

You could feel it—the tension. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you now that the storm had passed.

You turned in his arms.

His eyes were already open.

Red-rimmed. Exhausted. Still clinging to the emotion from last night like it hadn’t let him go either.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice hoarse.

You searched his face. “How much of that do you remember?”

He let out a small, shaky laugh. “All of it.”

You nodded. “Good.”

Silence stretched—but not heavy this time.

Just full.

You reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. He leaned into your touch like it hurt not to.

“I meant what I said,” you whispered.

His breath caught.

“I feel it,” you said. “I think I’ve been trying not to. Because I knew if I let it in, I’d never be able to let it go.”

Jisung exhaled like it physically left his chest. His forehead dropped to yours.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he murmured.

“You didn’t scare me.”

“I scared myself,” he said quietly. “I’ve never felt like that before. Like I was breaking apart from the inside.”

“You weren’t breaking,” you said. “You were opening.”

He smiled, pained and fragile. “Then why does it feel like it still might shatter?”

“Because it’s real,” you said. “And real things are always sharp at the edges.”

He kissed you then.

Soft. Unhurried.

The kind of kiss that said: I see you. I trust you. I want to keep doing this if you’ll let me.

You curled into him and whispered, “No more pretending.”

He tightened his arms around you. “No more hiding.”

“And if I stay this time?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Then I’ll never let you go.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Needy Jisung?? Every. Damn. Time!! 🥹🥹 Are you enjoying the series? If you are then dont forget to encourage me with your comments and likes and reblogs! Love you guys!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @mythicmochi @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @niki007 @swordswallower2000

[fallingforyouforeverr]

LOVE LANGUAGES

feat. Lando, Oscar, Max, Charles, Lewis, and Carlos

a/n: I loved writing this sm so if you want me to write this for anyone else or if you have ideas for other headcannons/fics please leave a request <3

LANDO NORRIS

Lando's love for you is obvious in the way he is always touching you. His hand habitually reaches for yours whenever you are nearby only to drop to rest on your thigh when you sit down and in crowded places he wraps his arm tightly around you. In private however, he is even more clingy. Lando constantly craves some form of physical touch and takes every opportunity to act on it. Watching tv? Cuddles. Laying in bed together? More cuddles. Cooking dinner? He's hugging you from behind. Busy with work? He's lying next to you with his head is in your lap. The other drivers find it cute how he always attaches himself to you and although it can be annoying sometimes - especially during very hot weather - it is also endearing to you as it is impossible to feel unloved when he is quite literally smothering you in his affection 24/7

OSCAR PIASTRI

Oscar shows his love for you through his actions, all the sweet little gestures he does for you, often subconsciously. These habits have become so ingrained into your relationship that you usually don't even notice him doing them, but the fans always do. There are many threads and compilations dedicated to all of Oscar's acts of service towards you, whether it be him carying your bags for you, covering sharp corners with his hand, or him having a hairband around his wrist at all times in case you need one. He is always gentlemanly towards you by opening doors, giving you his jacket and refusing to let you pay on dates, and people often joke that 'chivalry isn't dead till Oscar Piastri is'. At first, you were worried that he was lovebombing you or something, but you soon realised that it was just the way he is and now it is one of your favourite things about him

MAX VERSTAPPEN

Max sometimes struggles to articulate his thoughts, so he tends to show his love more through his acts of service. It's the little things he does that let you know how much he cares for you, such as always carrying a spare of your essentials or items that you often forget and carrying you home from a night out when your feet hurt, despite the inevitable teasing from Charles and Lando. Max can be deceivingly romantic – he may not often outright say that he loves you, but he ensures that you feel loved every single day, even when he's not with you. Whenever you're apart, Max loves surprising you with fresh bouquets and random grocery deliveries of your favourite snacks to your shared apartment, as well as ensuring he always brings home a trinket from whatever country he was racing in. It's simply his way of letting you know he's thinking about you

CHARLES LECLERC

Because of how much time he spends away from you due to the demands from his job, he values the quality time you have together. Charles loves doing mundane activities such as cooking together, even though he isn't always the best at it, just as much as he enjoys the expensive dinner dates you often go on. He doesn't really care where you go, just as long as you are there with him. Something Charles absolutely adores is when the two of you share your respective hobbies with eachother, whether it involves playfully competitive sim races or you trying to teaching him a skill you have cause he doesn't have enough random side quests already, it's guaranteed to be a fun pastime with Charles by your side, regardless of the outcome. Also, whenever you mention a new interest of yours, however niche or kooky, he spends hours afterwards researching as much as he can about it so that you can enthuse about it together

LEWIS HAMILTON

Lewis is literally a multimillionaire and he uses all that money to absolutely spoil you. He loves to surprise you with all manner of gifts, whether it be a new designer purse he knew you wanted or just ordering your favourite flowers. You and Lewis are no doubt the most fashionable couple on the grid as since you started dating, he has literally bought you every single item of clothing/makeup you could ever want. You sometimes feel bad about how much he spends on you, but he always assures you that he just wants you to be happy and it's not like he can't afford it lol

CARLOS SAINZ

Carlos is a very jokey guy, and he is always willing to make a complete fool of himself in front of everyone he knows just to get a smile from you, but he can also be incrediblely sincere when it matters. To him, you are genuinely the most beautiful person Carlos has ever seen, and he never forgets to remind you of this, as well as showering you with compliments 24/7 about your personality, your humor, your kindness, even your fashion sense. If you ever feel insecure at all, rest assured this man will bombard you with endless reasons as to why he loves you, and he will not stop until every doubt and negative thought has been swept away. He's also the type of guy to send random 'ily' or 'I miss you so much' texts in the middle of the day, even if he knows you won't check your phone for hours because of differing timezones. Carlos loves you immensely and he's not afraid of telling you so, or anyone else for that matter. Carlos's friends and family constantly complain about how much he talks about you and tease him relentlessly, but they not-so-secretly love to see him so happy with you

[lightsoutmatthews]

Emergency Contact - Sidney Crosby

summary: after an incident at work you wake up in the hospital, much to your surprise your ex-boyfriend is there too

pairing: Sidney Crosby x female!reader

word count: 3.2k

warnings: hospitals, fainting, mentions of needles, age gap relationship (reader described to be in her mid 20s)

authors note

greetings from the sunny South of France

----------------------------------

When you blink your eyes open you were in an unfamiliar setting. A rhythmic beep was coming from somewhere, but you couldn’t quite make out from where because consciousness hadn’t completely returned to your body yet.

You didn’t know where exactly you were. The last thing you remembered being suddenly feeling incredibly ill on the way to your next meeting and no matter how hard you tried to think about what happened next you could not remember.

You had a few very stressful weeks. A big project deadline was coming up at work and in the middle of all of it you broke up with your boyfriend.

Sidney and you ending wasn’t something that came completely out of the blue, it wasn’t like you were fighting or anything dramatic turned the tide in your relationship. Life got busy. Not living together and him being gone half the month wasn’t helping to keep the relationship what it was in the beginning.

Sometimes you thought he felt bad for keeping you in his house during the weekends. “You´re young, you should be out partying not watch old movies with me on the couch.” He once said to you. When you tried to argue that you loved the quiet evenings with him, he just shrugged it off.

The ten-year age gap hadn’t been something that bothered you. You enjoyed a quiet life after being the life of the party when you were in college. Settling down in your mid-twenties something you hadn’t imagined for you but weren’t complaining about.

But you knew it bothered Sidney sometimes, that paired with the lack of seeing each other lead to the eventual end of your relationship.

It wasn’t an easy talk but neither of you had hard feelings. You had gathered your things from his house with the promise to drop his off as soon as you had time to gather them and that was the end of it.

Sure, you missed him and deep down you knew there would always be some sort of feelings for the man you had spent almost a year with, but it wasn’t the worst break-up you ever had.

Locking eyes with exactly that man when you fully gained consciousness again was not what you expected.

Sidney looked exhausted. Like he hadn’t slept in days. Head hung low; a penguins hoodie draped over his broad shoulders; team issued sweats on his legs. He looked like he was fresh out of practice and didn’t have time to change yet.

You blinked a few times to make sure you weren’t imagining him being there. While doing that you finally fully realized where you were. A hospital room. A needle poked in the back of your hand, a bag with fluids hanging on a metal rod next to you. Stiff sheets wrapped around you.

“Oh great, you´re awake,” a nurse, entering your room, said. Sidney’s head snapped up immediately, his dark eyes locking with yours. “Do you remember what happened? Or why you are here?” she questioned, while you still starred at your ex-boyfriend with an open mouth and wide eyes.

Closing your mouth when her words registered, you tried to remember once again, but nothing came back to you.

“The last thing I remember was being at work, rushing from one meeting to the next and then I woke up here,” you mumbled. The nurse wrote something down on a tablet she was carrying before looking at you with kind eyes.

“You fainted at work. One of your co-workers called an ambulance because you weren’t waking up for a few minutes and they were really worried. You have been resting for a couple of hours now. How are you feeling?” she explained the situation.

Blinking a few times a faint memory of being in the ambulance came back to you. The unsteady back and forth on the uncomfortable bed. While the paramedics moved around you but that was it.

“I remember being in the ambulance,” you whispered. The nurse nodded before facing the tablet again.

While she was doing that your eyes went back to Sidney. The hospital chair was too small for his large frame. He was fidgeting with his hands; a look of worry firm on his face.

“It´s good that you seem to be feeling better. The doctor will be with you in a few to explain to you what the next steps are but I´m sure your boyfriend can take you home in a few hours.” She nodded towards Sidney, who stiffened when she mentioned the word boyfriend.

That was the first time you questioned why he was here. You weren’t together anymore, there was no reason for anyone to call him or for anyone connected to you to have his number in the first place.

“I´ll be back in a bit,” the nurse waived goodbye before stepping out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly.

Carefully you tried to sit up, but exhaustion was still lingering all over your body. “Stop trying to move so much, you need rest,” his firm voice came out of nowhere. He had been a silent observer of everything ever since you woke up, so you were taken aback a little.

A few beats of silence followed. You tried to gather the courage to ask why he was here. He was thinking about something too, you knew by the expression on his face.

You swallowed. Your throat dry from hours without water.

“Here,” Sidney said, getting up, handing you a cup that was placed on a table next to the bed. “Thanks,” you coughed out before taking a greedy sip from the cup. “Go slow,” the man in front of you uttered.

After a few gulps your throat started to feel better, and you felt like you were able to speak normal again. Sidney had returned to his chair, back to kneading his hands and thinking.

“Why are you here, Sid?” you quietly questioned.

The hockey player ran his hand over his face, letting out a sigh before answering. “They called me. Apparently, I´m still your emergency contact.” You closed your eyes, swallowing hard. Removing him from the list of contacts was on your list of things you needed to do, but since the last weeks were so busy you simply forgot. It´s not like anyone expected you to land in the hospital any time soon.

“I´m sorry.” You eyed him up and down. “Did they call you away from practice?”

You had stopped following the Penguins soon after the two of you broke up. You weren’t a hockey fan before you met him, only watching games for him during your relationship, stopping soon after it ended.

“Yeah, not off the ice but from the weight room.” You swallowed hard again. You knew how serious he took his training and discipline. Him leaving the facility to get to you at the hospital not something you had even expected from him during the relationship, much less now.

“I´m sorry they called you away. You didn’t have to come.” His brows furrowed. “What am I supposed to do when a hospital calls me, telling me my girlfriend passed out at work and is admitted into it because of severe exhaustion? What would they think of me if I didn’t show up?”

His image was one of the most important things to him. No scandals, ever. He was just here to protect that, you thought.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he added before you could say another word. “I didn’t mean it in a way of being who I am but what kind of boyfriend I would be.” You turned your head to look directly into his eyes again.

“But you´re not,” his features tightened. “They don’t know that.”

Turning back to stare at the celling you let out a deep breath. Your head was starting to hurt and the quiet grumble in your stomach slowly began to be more prominent. It made you a little uncomfortable that he was just staring at you without saying anything. Like he could see right through you and your thoughts.

“You can leave if you want to, I´m sure you have more important things to do than watch your ex-girlfriend at the hospital. I call my sister to pick me up later.” Sidney let out an incoherent grumble before looking at you like you had just offended him.

“I´m good,” he said before grabbing his phone, that was lying face down next to him and began typing. Probably to coaches or teammates, letting them know that he would not come back to the facility today.

Based on the fact that he was still here you figured that he didn’t have a game today. If he did, he wouldn’t have disrupted his routine. He was so superstitious in that department. If he didn’t go through his usual routines before a game, he was convinced he would have a bad game.

When you were still together it took you a while to come to terms with it. But there was never a day where you didn’t respect his wishes. You knew he was who he was because of what he did.

Heavy silence cast over the room. Neither of you knowing what to say. Was small talk something appropriate for this? Should you ask him about hockey? Tell him about why you were so exhausted?

In the end you decided against it. He wasn’t your boyfriend anymore, there was no reason for you to share all that with him.

“You should let your co-workers know that you´ll be alright,” Sidney suggested, when he stopped typing into his phone a few minutes later. “One of them kept calling earlier but I didn’t know if they knew about us, so I didn’t pick up.”

You looked over at the small table next to you bed again. Your phone laid there abandoned. “There is no us, Sidney,” was the first thing you argued. His features got hard. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“Assume what? We broke up weeks ago, yes, I told them about it. It’s not like it was supposed to be kept a secret right? Hardly anyone knew we were together anyways.” It wasn’t supposed to be an accusation, but you realized that it came out like one.

He valued his privacy. Only people close to him knew about your relationship. Family, friends, his team and a few selected others. You weren’t complaining. A life in the public eye like his was, wasn’t something you ever intended on having.

“Sorry, I didn’t want that to sound so accusing,” you backtracked immediately, just like he did earlier. Your head had started to pound, feeling like it was about to explode. Rubbing your temples you closed your eyes again, hoping it would go away when you shut out the bright overhead lights.

When you opened them again a few minutes later the room was cast in darkness. The only light coming from Sidney´s phone screen. He was typing again, not noticing that you had opened your eyes.

You observed him for a bit. While you couldn’t see much you could see that the grey streak in his hair got more prominent since you last saw him in person. His expression was stern, but the familiar softness of his features wasn’t lost in it. He was still as beautiful as you remembered him. Looking effortlessly put together even in his team issued sweats and with tussled hair.

“I can feel you staring,” he chuckled. “Hard not to look when you look like that,” you laughed back, grimacing immediately when a sting pinched through your head. You didn’t mean to flirt but something in the air made it impossible to react normal to his presence.

“The nurse should be here with some painkillers any minute,” he added before putting his phone away, giving you his full attention again.

Speaking of the devil the nurse from earlier softly opened the door and stepped in, followed by an older woman in a white coat.

The nurse handed you a pill and another cup of water, while the woman, who you assumed was the doctor, checked the monitor you were hooked up on.

“Wonderful to see that you are awake. Mr. Crosby told us that you´re experiencing a strong headache. That’s normal after fainting. It should go away with the ibuprofen and rest. You´ll be as good as new in a few hours.” She turns to face Sidney.

“When you take her home, she needs to rest.” She turned back around to face you this time, speaking again before you could tell her that Sidney would in fact not take you home. “No work for a few days, you need rest and after that you need to take it slow,” she added with a stern expression.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Sidney was faster. “I´ll take care of it.” His deep voice sent a shiver down your spine. “Good, we´ll get the results from the lab in about forty-five minutes, I´ll come back then and you should be able to leave after that. But again, no work, nothing that could induce too much stress.” You nodded, fear overtaking your thoughts.

You still had the project due next week and since you were one of the leading designers, taking days off before it was set to launch. The team was capable, you knew that, but there was no way you wouldn’t be there to oversee the last steps.

“I´ll be back in a bit,” the doctor said, before rushing out of the room.

Sidney shuffled in his chair. He seemed nervous all of a sudden and from experience you knew that it took a lot to make in nervous. “You can leave if you have to, I´ll get out on my own.” Your voice was quiet, you weren’t even sure he heard you but when he sucked in a deep breath before standing you assumed he had.

What you hadn’t assumed was that instead of leaving like you just offered him he walked over to your side. Suddenly being close to him sent a shiver down your spine. His familiar scent took over your nose and let goosebumps rise on your arms.

A few seconds passed without anyone saying anything. You looking anywhere but in his general direction but at the same time feeling his glace on you. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

For a beat you weren’t sure what he meant but then it clicked in your head. He wanted to know what was going on, why you passed out at work. The look of worry on his face still as prominent as when you first woke up.

Taking a deep breath, you brushed a stand of your hair out of your face before answering. “They promoted me to lead designer for the project, like you know and ever since then responsibilities were piled on my head. Not like small things, more like I had to redesign one entire page of the website because one of the new hires messed something up by accident. Then I had constant meetings with the board. They´re insisting that everything about this is perfect. One wrong move and the entirety of the team will face consequences.”

You took a short break, taking another deep breath, considering your next words carefully. “And then in the middle of all that my boyfriend and I broke up. Which might have seemed inevitable and predictable but still nagged on me for weeks.”

For a second you had hesitated before speaking. Debated with yourself if you should bring it up as one of the reasons why you were so stressed right now. But you felt like he deserved to know.

“I´m sorry,” you blinked. Starring at him in silence, not understanding what exactly he was sorry for. “I did a lot of thinking since and breaking up the way we did was wrong. We… I should have worked harder to make it work.” He ran his hand over his face once again, turning away, but you grabbed his hand before he could fully walk away.

“Sid, this is not your fault. It´s a lot of stressors coming together at an unfortunate time. You and I ending was unavoidable. Work getting busy right at the same time is just a coincidence.”

“You and I ending was avoidable.”

His statement lingered in the room like a heavy cloud. You didn’t understand what he meant.

Looking at him for answers he seemed to calculate his next words very carefully.

“I thought I was holding you back. You´re only 26, that´s young. I thought you should rather be out with your friends on a Saturday night than on the couch with me or at the arena watching me play a sport you don´t even like. That´s on me. I should’ve listened to you when you told me it’s what you want.”

His confession surprised you and while he was right, and you were glad that he could see that he was projecting something onto your relationship that was entirely untrue you weren’t sure why he was coming out with it right now. At the hospital. Where he only showed up because you forgot to remove him as your emergency contact.

“Why are you telling me this now? And why here?” you questioned.

“Getting the call and seeing you in here made me realize I never want to not be there when you need someone to be by your side. Doesn’t matter if it´s in the hospital or at your big work presentation.” He tightened the grip you still had on his hand. “I want to be there, if you´ll still have me.”

You swallowed hard. This confession hitting you even harder than the first one. You didn’t assume he was still feeling for you like before.

Weeks had passed since the two of you broke up. Life moved on and so did he, or so you tought.

Him standing here, in your hospital room, asking you if he could still be the guy that stands by your side through life, something you never imagined happening. But your heart immediately fluttered when he spoke the words. Lingering feelings of something you still had just a few short weeks ago bubbling back up before you could even try to swallow them down.

Being with Sidney was good. Being with Sidney was something you wished you had never given up for weeks after the initial conversation happened and now you had it right in front of you again.

“Sid…” you started. His hopeful eyes dimming immediately at your tone. But you spoke again before he had a chance to intercept. “… if we want to try again, we really need to set some rules, okay?” He nodded slowly.

“We can discuss them later, I mean I am still in the hospital, and I should rest before my boyfriend takes me home.” His hear perked up at the word boyfriend his face totally different than earlier when the nurse called him the same thing.

“So, you´re giving us another chance?” A smile spread across his face. “Yeah, Sid. I´m giving us another chance.”

He grabbed your hand, the one that still had a hold on his and placed a subtle kiss to the back of it.

“I will work harder to make this work, I promise,” he mumbled against it. “Let´s not talk about this now,” you reminded him. “Just kiss me.”

And who was he do deny you.

[trulybetty]

third time is a charm | part two

pairing: dr. jack abbot x gn!reader word count: 1,888 warnings: grumpy x sunshine, minor mentions of a laceration reader receives, talk of a minor medical procedure, very tame to what is shown on screen, competency kink continues to be itched estimated reading time: 8 minutes summary: it seems the universe is intent on throwing you in the path of dr. jack abbot ao3: linked

« part one | part three »

Third Time Is a Charm Part Two.

Jack was halfway down the hall of the ED, mentally counting how long was left in his shift, when Lena, the night shift charge nurse, flagged him down.

“Hey, I need you on four,” she said, tapping the corresponding file folder on the counter of the hub, the heart of the Emergency Department. “Been waiting over two hours, and I need that bed.”

Jack glanced at the assignment screen, where there weren’t any details assigned to the name and the bed number, then back at Lena. “Then throw it to one of the interns.”

“I would, but they’re all with Robby on that MVC overflow. It’s either you or we let triage back up even more, and we wait for Gloria to come down and complain—again.”

He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anything I should know?”

“Nope,” she popped on the pronunciation, “Deep hand laceration. Bleeding had stopped by the time they brought them back.” Lena cocked an eyebrow at his exasperation, “You’ll survive.”

Jack muttered something that sounded like obscenities under his breath, but still turned towards bed four. Given the brief descriptor and the late hour, he was expecting some college kid or maybe a drunk idiot hurt in a bar fight. What he wasn’t expecting was you.

You were sitting up on the gurney, one hand wrapped in a polka-dot dish towel, which once upon a time had been mostly white, scrolling through your phone like you were in line at the DMV, not waiting on stitches.

His steps slowed.

While it had been a few weeks, he still recognized you instantly.

Looking up from your phone at the sound of the curtain being opened, you blinked, recognition dawning. Then smiled. “Oh, hey.”

Jack pulled back the curtain to close off the ward outside. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with your car.”

You shook your head, “In my defence,” you said brightly, “this wasn’t on purpose.”

He dropped onto the stool next to the bed and nodded at the dish towel around your hand, “Is that… from your kitchen?”

“It was the only clean thing I had,” you eyed it warily, “Well, clean-ish.”

Jack exhaled, heavy, “Of course it was.”

He rolled to the supply drawers, grabbing gloves and a suture pack. You tapped your outstretched feet together, watching him with a relaxed amusement that grated on him more than he’d like to admit.

“Let’s see it,” he says, nodding at your hand.

You peeled back the towel. The lack of pressure made you wince. Jack leaned in closer to examine the wound—a deep, jagged slice across your palm between your left thumb and forefinger. It’d stopped bleeding a while ago, but the edges were angry and starting to swell.

He huffed, “This could’ve used stitches hours ago,” he said, more to himself than you. “Any numbness? Tingling?”

“Nope. Just throbs.”

“You’re lucky. Could’ve cut something important.” He picked up the dishcloth as if it had offended him. He noticed the tomato sauce stains between the patches of blood, “This is not clean, by the way.”

You shrugged, “It was the best out of the bunch.”

He looked up from the suture kit he’d just pulled out, deadpan, “That’s not the win you think it is. Do you even have a first aid kit?”

You scrunched your nose, “I’ve got some band-aids somewhere.”

He gave you a pointed look: “Invest in a first aid kit.”

You grinned.

He sighed.

Straightening up, he prepared a shot of lidocaine. “This is going to sting,” he warned, and you hissed at the first injection of anesthetic. “Normally, I’d throw this to an intern, but the entire next generation of healthcare is on clean up from a multi-car pile-up.”

“I’m flattered.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he started to clean the wound, his touch brisk but careful.

“Let me guess, kitchen accident?”

“It was an avocado.”

“It come at you with a knife?”

“I only came at it with a spoon at first. Had it for a week waiting for it to go ripe, guess it had other ideas.”

He irrigated the wound and checked your range of motion. You were quiet for a beat, watching him thread a needle with a practiced hand. Evident that he could do this in his sleep if needed.

“You ever done this before?” you asked, lips twitching.

“Stitches?” Jack asks, pausing to look at you like he should ask if you hit your head, too.

“Yeah.”

Jack shook his head as he started the process of stitching your hand. “I’m an ER doctor.”

You tried not to squirm, even as you felt the ghost of the antiseptic burn a little at the edges and the tug of the first stitch pulled at your skin.

“You could be new, this is a teaching hospital, right?”

“I’m not, and it is.”

“Could be your first.”

He glances up, “You think I’d let you be my first?”

You shrugged with faux nonchalance, “Shame, could have been romantic.”

He worked in silence for a beat, “You’re lucky,” he says. “Could’ve hit a tendon.”

You hummed, watching him continue with the stitches, “Think I’ll get a cool scar?”

“Sure,” Jack muttered, “might want to come up with a better story for it though.”

“So, what name do I put down for my Yelp review?”

He paused slightly, needle midair—this was taking him twice as long.

He arched a brow, and you offered a smile in return.

“I just realized I’ve never gotten your name. Kinda rude. Since you know mine now.”

Jack huffed, “Actually, I don’t.”

You feigned offence. “Ouch. It’s in the file.”

“I didn’t read your file.”

“Well. That’s a little concerning.”

“I read what matters,” he offered by way of explanation.

“So, what name do I put down? Or do I just call you Dr. Jumper Cables?”

He finally glanced up, meeting your eyes.

“That thing still running?”

“Haven’t left the lights on since.”

“Doctor Jack Abbot,” he offered after a beat.

You nodded, letting it settle and running it over your tongue under your breath. “Okay, well, Dr. Abbot… you get four out of five stars.”

That earns you a stern look.

“What? It was a three-star—but you gained a bonus star for jump-starting my car the other week. Though maybe I shouldn’t mention that? You’ll have patients asking for oil changes with their stitches.”

He didn’t laugh. Not even remotely. But his mouth twitched, and you caught the way he ducked his head as a tiny smile fought its appearance.

Normally, he’d be calling in a nurse by now. Let them do the bandaging, offer advice on care and follow up. That’s what the protocols were for. What his time was technically supposed to be used for.

Instead, he rolled his chair over to the supply drawers and grabbed gauze, tape and a clean wrap. Gloves back on.

You watched him with a kind of relaxed amusement that does get under his skin, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Not because you’re mocking him—because you’re not bothered by him. Not in the way some people get with him. Even if some of it is mostly a result of his own doing.

He cleaned around the stitches, checking for residual bleeding, and wrapped it with careful, even pressure.

“Keep it dry,” he said, taping off the end. He held up a second unopened package of dressing, “and because I don’t want you using dishcloths again. Change this in twenty-four hours. Come back in five to seven days to get the stitches removed.”

“I’ll pencil it in.”

The moment was interrupted by a tannoy going off, ‘Abbott to trauma bay two’. He sighed. It was going to be a long night.

“You’re all set.” He said, standing and peeling off his gloves.

You glanced down at your hand, flexing your fingers. Then up at him as he scribbled something on your chart, and headed for the curtain.

“Someone’ll be by with your paperwork.”

“Thanks,” you said, no teasing in your voice this time.

Jack gave you a short nod, hand on the privacy curtain. But just before he was about to pull it aside, he paused.

A smile—not a full, but a real one—crossed his face for the first time.

“Don’t forget to turn your headlights off and get yourself a damn first aid kit,” he said.

And then he was gone.

A Week Later.

The sky was dark, and the sidewalk outside the hospital was wet and salty from an early morning flurry that the wind had blown in. You’d managed to get in early at the walk-in clinic to get your stitches removed. It was healing nicely, they’d said who’d ever done the stitches did good work and was saving you from a gnarly scar. You’d smiled at this. But now, you were scowling at your phone.

For a Saturday morning at seven am, Uber’s prices were rising like it was New Year’s Eve. You weren’t sure what circus was in town, but it didn’t look like prices were going to go down anytime soon.

You weren’t dressed for waiting or public transit—you’d figured you’d be in and out. Your winter coat was holding up just enough, but the cold was still making its way in and soaking into your bones.

You were debating on walking partway home—maybe enough to cut the fare, figure out the bus schedule—when the glass doors hissed open behind you.

Jack stepped out, hitching his backpack onto his shoulder and pulling his scarf tighter against the cold.

He was glad for the extra sweater he’d left in his locker, padding out his coat. His badge was clipped to his hip still, his truck keys in one hand. He spots you immediately.

You offered him a small wave, “Oh, hi.”

He stopped in front of you, taking in your ungloved hand that was wrapped in a fresh dressing, and frowned. “Tell me you’re not driving.”

“Nope. Waiting for a ride.”

“Uber?”

“Kind of,” you flashed your phone screen, “surge pricing. I’m hoping that if I wait it out, it’ll drop.”

He grunted, “What happened to the hatchback?”

You hesitated, wrinkling your nose, “It… died.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Battery again?”

“No, not this time. Transmission, maybe? There were a lot of words and car parts mentioned that I still don’t understand. It made a noise, then coasted to a sad little death in front of a bakery.”

His brow lifted, “That tracks.”

“But hey, I got a good pastry and an amazing coffee out of it while I waited for the tow truck.”

Jack didn’t say anything at first. Just glanced down the road, then back to you.

“You’re over on 48th, right?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He knew it probably wasn’t going to do him any favours with what he was about to say next, “Want a ride?”

You hesitated, “Seriously?”

“It’s the festival today, Uber isn’t going to go down anytime soon, and half the roads are closed, so the buses are being rerouted.”

He started walking towards the employee lot, but looked back when he realized you weren’t following, “Come on,” he said, not breaking his stride.

You smiled and jogged to catch up with him.

[jollyhunter]

Shower Reliever

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE Dean Winchester x f!Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS SMUT 18+ MDNI, established relationship, menstruating (evil cramps!!), tooth-rotting sweet fluff, mention of blood (light), Dean being dorky and cute, guided masturbation in the shower? (idk how to tag this sryyy), Dean’s misuse of a shower head as a magic wand, no use of Y/N, English isn’t my native language

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY It’s that time of the month; Cramps are tormenting you, but Dean’s there to cheer you up and look after you by giving you some relief. ♡ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 4,2k

It’s afternoon. Or maybe it’s evening.

How are you supposed to know when you’re surrounded by the bunker’s concrete and artificial light all day?

A pathetic, writhing-weeping blood sacrifice wrapped up in bed sheets like a burrito. That’s what you are. Ready to be served. Honestly, though? Big Hellhound pupper toying with your guts suddenly seems much more appealing than a day ago. At least the doggo wouldn’t take three damn days to rip your innards out.

But you won’t complain. Because right now? Things seemed oddly… okay? It’s almost suspicious.

A deep sigh of relief falls of your lips and you dare to sprawl out on the mattress. Star-fish formation. Plain ceiling staring back down at you.

You’re maybe 5 seconds into your newfound content - and then the little bitch ruins it by raking her peeler down your walls. A sharp hiss presses past your clenched teeth.

Nevermind. Here she goes again.

Peeling your uterus out from the inside. Like Lilith herself is down there, having a feast on your unborn – and very non-existent – baby.

Muffled by Dean’s pillow, you scream. Fuck that time of the month.

Why’s it always that time of the month? Again and again and again.

Why can’t you just get the period twice a year like a bitch and get on with it? It’s not like you signed up for this. In fact, you’d very much like to file a complaint.

Not that Chuck would care. “That bastard knows why he doesn’t own an uterus...” you grumble.

A hot flush shoots through your body. Wheezing takes over your breathing. The bedsheets go flying along some of the pillows you’d burrowed yourself in.

Burning up. Hot. Your body feels like your ovaries decided to have a meltdown.

You roll around the bed, aimlessly. A ball of messy hair. Entangled in the sweat-drenched pyjama you couldn’t get yourself to change from. Arms clutched around your stomach, fingers clawing at the hot-water bag which so far hasn’t done much more than give you third-degree burns and only add to the feverish heat steaming beneath your skin.

When the door to your and Dean’s bedroom opens, you can’t even bring yourself to lift your head. Instead you’re curled up like a salted snail, squirming, each and every noise escaping from you thick with pain.

“Hey baby, ‘m back…” Dean greets you from across the room, his voice dying down as he spots you on the bed just where he'd left you this morning.

Your face plants into the sheets when you double over from another stab to your uterus.

“It’s trying to kill me, Dean,” you whimper into the mattress. Dean’s face contorts at your strangled sound.

“That bad?” It’s a stupid question, and he realizes it the moment it leaves his mouth. Of course it’s bad. You look like hell.

And worst is, it’s been going like this the entire day already. First time Dean’s witnessing it from the start, too. You’d been together for a couple of months now, but you being you, you’d so far managed to slip away just in time before your period kicked down the door.

Now that you moved in with the boys in the bunker that didn’t seem an option any longer.

You watch Dean’s face harden, the way it always does when he starts to feel helpless.

Indeed, Dean could feel the frustration claw on the inside of his chest. To the point he secretly wished your state would just be the aftermath of a hunt gone wrong.

At least he would know what to do then, y’know? Clean your wounds, stitch you back together if needed – maybe it wouldn’t look as neat as when you did it, but it’d do the job – because that’s what he’s good at.

But this? He didn’t quite know how to work with this.

There’s no injury he could just patch up. No swig of whiskey to dampen the pain. No way for him to help. And watching you writhe like you were being tortured from the inside, was killing him.

He sighs. The shopping bag in his hand gets dropped to the floor and he rounds the bed to your side. A frustrated hand ruffles back his hair. His eyes taking in the battlefield you’ve caused. And they come to rest on your crumpled form, smack in the middle of it all.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart…” He mutters softly. And he means it. You know he does. The words were simple, yet you know that if he could, he’d take your pain away in a heartbeat. But he can’t. Because for some reason, despite all the supernatural crap you get to deal with on a daily basis, this isn’t an option.

Damn you Chuck.

You make a sound between a whine and a sigh at the grave conclusion, at which Dean’s eyebrows pull together.

The bed dips down beside you and next moment the warmth of his body presses against your side. He slowly runs his hand over your shoulders to rub your back in soothing circles.

“Anything I can do to make you feel better..?” he asks.

“Rip it out. Use it for your next blood sacrifice. Sell it to Crowley. I don’t care- I don’t want it no more.” You wail while crawling into his lap, your face burying into his grey shirt and the blue jacket that’s partially covering it.

“Jesus,”– Dean laughs softly, his deep voice rumbling under your cheeks –“Yeah, not happening.”

His arms wrap around you to pull you closer. The familiar smell of his fills your senses when you nuzzle your nose into the fabric of his clothes. A combination of his musk, fresh lemon and a hint of sweetness of his cologne clouds your mind.

Your muscles relax for a fraction. Melting into his heavy embrace. It’s odd how just a smell can have such a calming effect. As of right now, you wished you could just climb into his shirt, buttoned-up, and pressed flush against his body. All safe, warm and fuzzy.

But Uterus-Lilith had different plans. The sharp wince you try to bite back, doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean.

“My poor baby… C’mere…” He leans down to place a tender kiss onto your crown while he cradles you on his lap like a wounded animal.

His chin comes to rest on top of your head. Lips press against your hair. “It’ll pass… You’ll feel better soon… My brave girl…” He murmurs softly and you sigh.

Another twinge to your abdomen. Your body jolts, then caves in. Dean startles for a moment but then tightens his arms around you, pulling you up against his chest.

While he continues to rub your back, his other hand begins to card through the back of your hair. “Shhh, it’s okay… I got you…”

“It’s like the damn thing is committing sepukku.” You lament with fingers curled into his shirt. Nose buried in his chest. Trying everything to physically ground you until the cramp goes by.

At that comparison, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and his lips twitch into a pressed smirk. “Damn it, don’t make me laugh.” His stomach contracts and shakes beneath you.

In response, a disgruntled noise gets huffed into his chest. And Dean can’t help a short, surprised snort.

“Sepukku?” He tries so hard to sound serious and to hold in his chuckles, but finally loses his battle. “Seriously?” He shakes his head lightly and his green eyes crinkle slightly when he continues to tease you, “You telling me, you got a wee little Samurai down there?”

A wee little Samurai throwing a tantrum in your uterus? Okay, that image carried a smile to your lips. Sounds a lot cooler than Lilith feeding on your unborn child.

Unfortunately the wee little Samurai was not amused and rammed it’s katana once more into your uterus.

Another jolt goes through your body. Another strangled sound follows. You burrow your face even further into his arms in hopes that his smell will just work like some narcotics.

Perhaps it’ll just knock me out when I dig my face deep enough into his shirt? A weird thought. But you guess that’s just what menstrual hormones mixed with pain does.

“Yes.” you wince, “And it failed to conceive a child,” then groan in agony, “So now it wants to punish me for it.”

Now Dean actually has to bite back a hearty laughter. “Oh, sweetie.”– he taps your head lightly with his finger –“Look on the bright side. At least we know I didn't knock you up. It's like a free monthly pregnancy test.“

That jab would have earned him a deadpan glare of yours if it wasn’t for the next attack on your inner walls and your body jerked into his arms this time.

Dean’s light-hearted expression contorts into a pained one. Jaws clenched with a twinge of guilt.

“Want me to get you some painkillers? Or – uh – maybe some whisky?” he inquires, his head tilted down in an attempt to meet your gaze. But your eyes are scrunched up, face still hidden in his bunched up shirt.

“Baby, can you look at me for a sec?” he pleads, while his hands slip underneath to cradle your chin now, coaxing you out of your den. You lift your head, just enough to meet his concerned eyes.

“None of that helps…” You mutter. Although you did wonder whether whiskey might even do the trick. Get the wee little samurai bitch a little tipsy down there, hm? Maybe it would pass out?

No – no, now you’re thinking like Dean. That’s a terrible idea.

“Imagine you’re getting stabbed in the stomach and the blade gets twisted. Repeatedly. For hours.”

Dean winces inwardly at your description. A hand instinctively clutches his stomach. He doesn’t have to imagine what that pain feels like. He knows.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to snap out of some memories from downstairs, his eyes back on you just when you writhe again with a stifled groan.

“Okay, that‘s enough. I‘m getting you off the rack,” he declares and you don’t even get the chance to react when he’s already scooping your curled up form up into his arms.

“W-what? What are you going to do, Dean?” you ask confused while he pulls you to your feet and starts leading you out the bedroom and down the bunker's hallway.

"I'm going to distract you," he replies, glancing back over his shoulder at you while he leads you to the main bathroom, "I did some digging this morning... to see what I could do to help with your period cramps, and it looks like an orgasm might do the trick."

You stop in your tracks. Quick enough for Dean to almost stumble into the bathrooms doorframe.

"N-no," you squeak, eyes wide.

"No, what? No it won't work or no you don't-"

"No, I'm fine."

"So it does work?"

"Well- uh-" you trip over your words when the heat rushes to your cheeks, "It's - it's different when I... uh..."

"Hey, it's okay. Nothing to be ashamed of," he chuckles softly and brings up his hand to cup your cheek, "Is it 'cuz of the blood? You do know I don't care about it, right? You really think I won't touch you just 'cause you're on your period?"

"No, but... it's awkward... and gross..." you mumble, eyes averted as you can feel the heat going both ways now.

Because, even if you wouldn't admit it, you did feel a bit horny. It's just one of those many fluctuating emotions a period entails. In those blessed days, it feels like your mood is being regulated by a pinball machine. And as of right now, it hit the tingling nub at the very bottom.

"Gross? Honey, I've been covered in guts, sludge, crap and all sorts of other nasty stuff. Do you honestly think a little blood's gonna phase me?" He tilts your head up to make you look at him, his lips twitch in amusement but his words are genuine, "You're not gross, sweetheart. Not to me..."

"But-" the next argument forms on your lips when he dives down to muffle them with a kiss. Your cheeks cradled by his large hands. Tender, soft, but enough to shut you up and make you melt into him.

When he finally pulls back, his plump lips still hovering inches from yours, he speaks softly.

“Why don’t you just let me take care of you?”

His green eyes flick back and forth between yours, intense and yet calming. And really, how could you ever say no to him when he looks at you like you'll break his heart if you don't let him help you.

A sudden twinge in your stomach has you hunch over, and it's enough to finally convince you to let go of your tribulations with a weak nod of yours.

“Okay," you wince under your sharp exhale. The pain in your voice has Dean's hands dart down, one to your contracted stomach and one to the small of your back.

"Alright then, c'mon, sweetheart..." he mutters. Then gently guides you towards the shower after he closed and locked the door behind you.

When he notices how your teeth pull at your lower lip the way they always do when you're overthinking things, he grabs both of your hands. He squeezes them to get you to look at him, just to bestow you with one of his trademark grins. Confident, cheeky and oh so lovable.

“You trust me, right? It won't be awkward, promise. Nothing wrong with giving my girl some relief. Besides... This is purely therapeutic,” he quips and winks at you.

Once both of your clothes are piled up in a corner, you pad over the cold tiles and into the shower. Dean slides in after you, his naked body flush against your skin, his body heat a warm welcome in the cold air of the large bathroom. His arms envelop you from behind, one hand splayed out on your stomach to try and sooth your cramps, the other reaching for the shower head to pull it from its holder.

“Lean back, I got you baby,” he assures you while tugging you gently further back into his chest.

He turns on the shower, tests the temperature until it's the perfect heat and then slowly brings it down to the level of your stomach with the spray of water still pointed to the floor.

“Spread your legs a bit for me, sweetie,” he gently nudges his knee between your thighs, coaxing you into a wider stance while he continues to hum above you, “Mhm, that's it. Now just relax and lemme take care of you...”

Dean rests his chin on top of your head, the stubbles tingling your scalp as he does so. The air around you slowly begins to mix with steam while his body holds you close. Save and protected. The world reduced to just the two of you and the warmth hugging you from head to toe. Your thoughts and worries are drowned out by the rhythmic pattering of the droplets hitting the smooth shower floor as the sound echoes off of the tiled bunker walls all around you.

You feel yourself relax against him, despite the occasional, small jolts of pain which keep reminding you of that fact.

At last, a heavy sigh drops off your lips. The signal Dean has been waiting for.

He tugs at the hose, just enough to guide the water up your legs, then your thighs...

When the first jet of water hits right on your bundle of nerves, you almost buckle over with a gasped, “Oh shit-”

Your fingernails bite into the skin of his forearms, drawing a hiss from him. He moves his free hand to your hip, his grip on your squishy flesh gentle but strong. Steadying and grounding you.

“Feels good?” he asks while playing with the angle of the shower head.

You nod. Jolting whenever one of the water jets grazes your sensitive spot.

“Want me to keep goin‘?”

“Mhm,” you hum.

The hand on your hips slides over the bump on your bones and dips down between your legs. Next moment, calloused fingers slip along your folds to spread them open.

You shiver under the touch of his rough fingertips and at the feeling of him coating them in some of your arousal.

He angles the shower head slightly lower now, until a row of water jets skim your entrance. Your breath hitches. Then comes out in a shaky whimper.

Your legs start to go weak, feeling like jello.

Dean gently tugs you up again and pulls your back flush into his chest to keep you upright, making sure he's your anchor in this tidal wave of pleasure he's drowning you in.

“Just let go... that’s it…” he coos, now his head angled to nuzzle his nose against your temple.

Another shockwave travels through your body and tightens your coil even more, to the point it feels like it’s going to explode soon.

Your head drops back onto Dean‘s shoulder. Neck draped over his collarbone, just where his anti-possession tat lays. Shaky and ragged breaths mingle in the damp air of the shower.

“Just relax,” he places a kiss to your temple, his stubbles tingling the wet skin as he murmurs, “I got you.”

His fingers spread you further while he brings the shower head closer, allowing some of the water to push past your entrance.

“Oh fuck- Dean-” you gasp and whine at the same time.

„Language, young lady,“ he chides playfully, „This is purely therapeutical, remember?“

You choke on a giggle when he moves the shower head a fraction lower and the water jet grazes your sensitive nub just the right way, enough to send an intense jolt of pleasure through your body.

“Ah, so that's the magic angle, huh?” Dean laughs softly, his chest rumbling against your back.

“Uh-huh,” you manage to get out in a weak whimper as Dean's making sure to keep the right angle.

The intensity has your nerves on fire, like your core's being hooked up to electricity with hundreds of little needles tingling your most sensitive spot.

“M-move - p-please,” you beg in a shaky voice that has Dean's smile next to your cheek widen.

“Guide me,” he prompts softly, the hand on the shower head waiting for your instructions. You slip your hand along his strong arm, over the bump of his wrist, until you cover his hand with your tender fingers.

Slowly you begin to guide his hand into small, circular motions. The water jets brush your nub now from all sides, the overwhelming sensation enough to make you whimper weakly and your head loll to the side to bury your nose under his jaw.

“Too much?” he asks, his head tips to the side to look down into your eyes. You shake your head, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as they meet his. Hair’s stuck to your damp, flushed, skin, pupils blown wide, gaze intoxicated from pleasure.

The corner of his lips tugs into a smirk at your blissful expression. It's such a stark contrast to what you'd looked like moments ago when you were doubling over from pain. And if it wasn’t for the special circumstances, he’d make sure to keep you in this state all day and night. The growing pressure of his own arousal heavy against your back is evidence of his thoughts.

But this is about you now. His needs will just have to wait for – for… how long did a period even last? A day? Two? Hm, maybe if you’d feel comfortable enough, he wouldn’t need to wait this long. But one step at a time.

When your legs begin to shake, Dean presses his lips to your ear, murmuring into it, deep and hoarse from his own arousal.

“You’re doing so well for me… Now close your eyes, sweetheart. I want you to just relax and feel…”

You don't have to be told twice. The intensity is enough to make your eyes flutter close, squinting them even as your face contorts from the jolts of pleasure coursing through your body like a firework.

“Now I want you to imagine it's my mouth down there...”

While he keeps you distracted with the images he's painting in his husky voice, the hand on your folds leaves you and he reaches for the tap, increasing the water pressure.

“Y'know... the way I like to wrap my lips around you… and suck on that cute little bean 'til you're sobbing.”

“O-oh my God-” you mewl after the hard jet of water swallows your pulsing nub, causing your legs to buckle. The feeling's like a lightning bolt has just hit you. And it just keeps striking. Your other hand darts to his thigh behind you, fingernails biting into his skin in an attempt to ground you. But the jolts of pleasure set the nerves down your legs on hot white fire now, with everything from your stomach downwards tingling.

“That’s the reaction I was hoping for…” he chuckles and keeps going with his sweet words of praise somewhere outside of your clouded mind.

Images of Dean kneeling between your legs pulse under your eyelids. How his broad shoulders shove your knees apart, keeping your legs spread as they begin to fight him from the intensity of his mouth on your core. How the soft flesh of your thighs is squished under the force of his fingers, how you witness the veins on his arms pop as his muscles work relentlessly to prevent you from squirming away. How he holds your gaze the entire time, pupils blown up wide from hunger and lust as they eat away the deep emerald pools circling them.

Ragged breaths leave your lips. Another row of jolts has your body shaking in his arms. Each one driving you closer to your climax until you’re teetering on the edge. When your body begins to fight him and thrash around, Dean quickly tightens his grip around your hips to hold you in place.

He moves his lips to your temple, planting a tender kiss there, prickling stubbles brush the side of your face while he continues to talk you through it.

“You're doing so well... Let go for me, sweetheart... I've got you, I'll catch you, promise.”

Just when you feel yourself tip over, his free hand leaves your core to the constant onslaught of the circling water jets and moves it to your hand. His fingers slide between yours, intertwining them.

Then the tidal wave crashes down on you.

Dean's hand squeezes yours. The corner of his lips still pressed to your temple.

A guttural sound leaves the back of your throat when waves after waves of ecstasy course through you, enough for your knees to give in as your body goes limp.

“Oh- we goin' down?” he jokes softly as he follows your movement.

As promised, Dean catches you right after you've dropped some inches. Chuckling lightly above you as he pulls you back to your feet. Legs still shaky like a newborn foal’s.

“C'mon, bambi...” - he teases and slides the shower head back into place before he wraps both of his arms around your waist and turns you to face you with a soft smile - “…there you go.” You smile back at him, your hands finding purchase on his hips, gaze still a bit woozy.

He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, head tilted down to your eye-level, “Hey there, sweetie. You feeling better?”

“Yes,” you sigh, one of relief at the missing pain. At least for the moment. You melt into his embrace, feeling how your wet and naked bodies lock together like a perfect puzzle piece. “So much better.”

“Good, that’s good…” he murmurs into your hair after your forehead had dropped to his chest.

After a moment of peaceful silence, a mischievous grin creeps onto his face.

He clears his throat.

“You want me to battle that wee little samurai with my sword now?”

It takes your dazed mind a moment to catch up with his rather creative innuendo.

Once it hits you, you sputter an amused chuckle, “Please don’t.”

Dean huffs through his nose, feigning disappointment.

“Aw c’mon… Y'know, I’ve always wanted to fight a samurai… I’d make a pretty good Nathan Algren, don’t ya think?” he quips, then his lips quirk into a boyish, innocent grin as he adds, “...and my sword wouldn't mind getting bloody either.”

Now this has you raise your head to meet his cheeky expression and burst out in laughter.

“You do us both a favour and keep your mighty sword in your pants for now, you hear me? Idiot-” you playfully slap his chest, the wet sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. Dean’s grin doesn’t waver, instead his hands on your back slide down your spine until they reach your ass cheeks.

He clicks his tongue.

“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, s’all I’m sayin’,” he jabs softly as he pats both your ass cheeks. His eyes crinkle at the corner, and he's got a secret smile on his face, proud of how he made you not only smile, but laugh, despite the hell trip you’re on. Maybe he’s not as helpless as he thought.

His features suddenly harden, eyes narrowed as they dart down to your stomach, a pointed finger now prodding the spot below your bellybutton.

“Now back to you,” he growls, you giggle, and he has to fight to keep a straight face and his voice especially low and warning as he continues, “You leave my girl alone now. Or else I’ll personally come down there and take care of you, Tom Cruise style. You hear me you evil little bitch?”

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES May Dean bring some relief to all of you poor, fellow victims of Uterus Lilith. <3

And thank you, @ambiguous-avery for your help with the correct name for the shower head lol 😌

Dean Tags List

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99 @supernotnatural2005

@youdontknowe @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @123passwort

@champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!