#this seems like the kind of piece I'm going to come back to in a year to remaster | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wingedfuncomputer · 2 months ago

Text

The Outskirs of Town

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: Living far from town with a father who treats you more like a maid instead of a daughter proves itself exhausting. Secluded like a bird in a cage, a boring cycle life becomes until a random man shows up one night striking up an innocent deal. In name of your chicken coop you accept letting him in. Though as time passes & whispers of violence roughing a sweet couple up around town has you rethinking this weird relationship you have created with the Irish stranger who seemed to come out of thin air.

WarningsNSFW: slow-burnish, naive!reader, if you squint fluff, racist undertones, racism, reader has a mean father, manipulative! Remmick, blood, dub-con, fingering, oral (fem!receiving), corruption kink?, somnophilia, No actual P in V, violence, vampirism, death!, nightmares, injury!, biting, Angst, spit, !reader is not black due to family dynamic

Word count: 14.6k Fic playlist!

From a far his eyes locked on her. Right as the sun set tending the little chickens, ushering them into the coop. Softly, she tried her hardest to close the door as if not wanting to scare them. A regular passer by wouldn't glance an eye she was a normal little thing, but not to him, not to Remmick.

It was primal how he always found himself being dragged back to her every time the sun decided to hide behind the horizon. Her sweat, her skin, her pulsing blood enticed him as if he'd known her before. She was too sweet to ravish like all those ol' people he had left a mess of before. He let himself get enveloped in the idea that his human mind,what little of it remained had.Affection. With that utterly disgusting revelation he decided to knock on her door to put an end to the feeling once and for all. Heavy, knuckles contacting the chipping paint of the wood.

You had been sweeping the floor when you heard a noise coming from the front door. A little startled you had halted confused by who would be visiting your father so late at night. Most people weren't out after sun down. "The floors ain't gon' sweep themselves keep at it girl". His gruffy voice made you grip the wooden stick tighter negating the fact it caused splinters to get stuck to your skin. It was old, long due to be thrown away but your voice was nonexistent in this house. With a small creak a hesitant humble very male voice spoke, "good afternoon... sir". You whipped your head around intrigued but found your father's body blocking the man behind the door. "State your business". He had never learnt kindness, it was a foreign thing to him. "I'm just a lowly traveler going on by, was wonderin' if you could offer some hospitality". A huff emitted from your father as the man continued. "My wife she's no longer with us.. I must find myself across the state but the sun is beating and unforgiving". Your heart ached for him, he sounded defeated. Your father surely would say mean ol' things to him and get violent. But suprisingly he laughed barking your name then orders at you, "fetch this man a cup of water". Only for a split second when he turned were you able to capture a glimpse, the man already looking directly at you. His features resembled your father's, except for his frame he looked thinner his face covered in what seemed to be a mix of dirt and sweat. You nod and quickly keep your eyes down. Whilst you grab a tin cup and fill it with water by the sink you hear the small hushing of their conversation asking where he was headed to and why. Your steps are weary making sure you don't spill the water.

"The Catholics did a number on my people kindness is hard to come by. Could you let me in don't want to bother the young lady ?" His first comment is what makes your father's demeanor change, you see it from a few feet away as his back tenses. He ignores the man's request, "Where you from boy?". Once only a few inches away you decide to lay down the cup by a piece of furniture near by. Eyes creeping behind your father's shoulders it was obvious to see the man was not a boy. There's a glint of a smirk in the strangers lips as he glances at you, "Ireland". That's when your heart drops, with poison your father spits "get your filthy Irish ass off my f*cking property".

"I don't mean no disrespect, I'd still appreciate that water" he takes a step forward which makes your father push him. You yelp afraid they'd have a full brawl and the innocent man would end up in his grave. "You won't get nothin' here ! Leave my property". Your hands goes up to your fathers arm as you can see his anger exalted, his fist itching to make contact with the Irish man's face. "Father please..." his face full of anger weighs in on yours before shoving your hand away and instead drags you inside once more. "It's best if you learn to keep away from men like that ." He speaks as if the man wasn't there, you can't help but take a look once more offering a look of apology.

That whole night you couldn't bring yourself to sleep tossing and turning, imagining what that poor man was going through. You didn't hear about him the following day or day after that until you found yourself reluctantly putting yet another dead bird into a sack. They were being ripped to shreds, you made sure the coop was secured each night so what could be killing them? It was sundown, the night air hitting your skin in a way that made your hairs stick up. " 'coyote... or fox" your body jolts hearing someone break the silent spell in the air. Immediately letting the bag fall and taking steps back as you twist to see who the voice belonged to. "Apologies I didn't mean to scare ya". It was hard to see in the darkness but the moonlight along with your small lamp on the ground allowed you to see enough to say, "your the man from a few days ago". He was standing behind the fence that surrounded your chicken coop. "Guilty as charged" you couldn't help but laugh along with him. "I'm Remmick" he extends his hand towards you which you can only just stare at. It would've been appropriate to say your name and envelope his hand but you don't. Remmick. "My Irish hands too dirty" he murmurs to himself which makes you start to ramble in apologies insuring his heritage nothing to do with your lack of a response. " of course not It's just that, no offense sir your a- your a...." Your stuttering makes heat flood your cheeks. "A stranger?" He says it so casually no anger laced in between his words just light heartedness. You both stare at each other in an awkward pregnant pause before you find the courage to nod. Guilt weighs in your soul after reflecting "I'm truly ashamed about what happened last time... that is no way to be treated". He just smiles a little huff of air being exhaled as he leaned into the fence, "it happens more than you know darlin' nothin' personal". His deep voice grumbles nicely when he calls you by that little pet name making your stomach flutter. It must've been as clear as the night sky you weren't allowed around men often let alone other people.

Remmick seems intrigued by you growing quiet, tilting his head to the side as he quirks , "the way across the state ain't an easy one.. staying around these parts is easier. would help if I had a place to rest... ". You would offer him your home in a heartbeat but you knew how your pops wasn't fond of him, let alone yourself. He could barely tolerate you. The strangers eyes are trained on your every twitch, chest constricting and trembling hands playing with the loose fabric of your skirt. It was quite nice really it felt like you were a lil' rabbit troubled by your surroundings. Yet You were unaware that the greatest danger wasn't your father, no not your father. It was the devil himself looming over you in this instant.

He smacks his lips making you look back at him once more. His pointer finger is near his mouth faking thought, "well I might just got a deal that could work for both 'f us". Your eyebrows furrow in confusion but you still hear the poor man out. "I can help ya with the lil' chicken problem... in exchange I get a piece of shelter". His eyes nudge at the forgotten sack beneath you then trail up your frame to your face. Your teeth grind trying to thinking If he helped manage the death of these chickens father would probably lay off my back, let me go back out in town for food or what not for he farm.

"So what da ya, say? You gon' let me in?"

You still hear it even after many days of accepting. The way his finger nail clicked on the fence doors metal handle, his words not menacing or inviting just there looming behind your brain and the stillness that overtook the night. He was your secret, like a little frog you hid beneath your bed covers from your father when you were younger. Except he took cover in the coop with the chickens and he was no frog... just a man with everything he'd lost weighing on top of his shoulders. And like those slimy little animals you gave him food and water usually late at night when your father wouldn't suspect a thing, not that he cared much for your safety.

The arrangement went well the chicken massacre was over in just short of days. You were given permission to go back in town and here you found yourself in the shop owned by colored folk. Your pops would be yelling at you through the top of his lungs but he wasn't here who would scold you then? He couldn't tell the difference between the white peoples and the not so white peoples food. It was all the same. You got a few stares here and there but didn't pay much mind your eyes were encapsulated by a nice pocket watch. Not too big to cost lots of money but still a good size your sure Remmick would benefit from this for his travels. "Well well don't tell me the fine lady got a man now?" You clutch the fine piece of metal in your hands but relax once you realize it's Genevieve a worker of the shop you've grown fond of. You shake your head trying to fight the blush surging on your face, "oh no nothin' of the sort just for a friend!". Her arms cross in front of her chest giving you that look of suspicion. "That's how it starts then next thing ya' know you'll be popping those babies out like a damn industrial machine". She speaks with a reminiscent tone. She was a mother of a new born with a doting husband they didn’t have much they were all she ever needed.You can't help but stifle your giggle, the idea of being that way with the Irish man hiding in your barn seeming much too far. Not that it hadn't cross your mind you were just a woman after all and he was a handsome man. "I barely even know him, just a few days n' countin". Her eyes widen with a smirk, "so there is someone!". You both walk towards the register that seemed to be isolated from the other part of the establishment. "He must be real handsome to be worth all this money. A real dream," she says sarcastically while she has the watch in her hand. You lay the rest of your groceries on the isle next to the register. It was pretty but out of your tax bracket maybe not your fathers but You're sure he'd notice right away on your big spending when the plentiful groceries were baren when you'd bring them back. "...your right, I'm dreamin' far too big " you let out self deprecatingly

"Aint nothin' wrong with dreamin' big, though I have to admit this gift is more of a husband typa gift. Unless... he be your husband?". "No...". She can see you grow a bit ashamed so she puts the watch back in a secure place before she brings out a straw cowboy hat. "You don't see these round here much, but very good for hard workin' men. Keep the sun out their face n' everythin'. Less than the watch... I'll even give ya a deal". If Remmick was traveling by foot your sure the sun would be unforgiving, could be easier to disguise the buy for yourself. Pops wouldn't bat an eye. "You make a good bargain I can't resist Genevieve". Well most bargains you fell victim to. As you pay for your things she puts the food in your home bag and places the hat a bit too big for your size on your head, flicking the edge. "Now go tell your man he'll have to make you a wife after this gift" you both laugh as you start walking away until her voice calls out to you right as your a few inches from the door. Turning around she gives you a tight hug which you try your best to return, "stay safe alright people goin' missing round here don't be one of 'em".

Her voice was soft and dripping with concern you thought about her warning as you walked back home. Still an hour or two till sun down which meant your father would be home soon. So quickly you got to cookin' dinner, a potato soup with corn on the side. Not the most cohesive plate but enough to fill the stomach up. With a rumble of an engine coming to a halt you knew he was home. Not so long after dragged in your father with no words exchanged sitting down to eat, you joined him in silence. Your heart was palpating as the sun finally set, in excitement of being able to see Remmick and giving him the hat you had bought him currently tucked away in your room. "Serve me 'nother plate" gruff cut and dry. "Yes sir" you got up going to the too small to even be considered pot with his bowl serving him more. As you placed it on the table there was no gratitude so you went back to your own bowl which you ate slowly. Once he was finished he left his plate deserted going upstairs to the washroom, the trickling of water alerted you to pass by the same room he was in to grab his clothes. The cold bucket of water outside was a perfect contrast to the slight humidity in the air. You tugged the large pants and shirt against the makeshift slab of wood and metal that helped scrape the clothes new. Even with the hair tie a few pieces of hair got in front of your face which you tried your best to shoulder out of the way. Maybe one day you'd run far from these grounds and start living not just slaving away doing chores. You squish the clothes riding them of the water extending them before laying them up in the clotheslines. With a deep breath you take a chance to intake the sweet oxygen. the small sweat building up proving the job was just a bit harder than it seemed

He was watching from the darkness in the trees, the adrenaline once fresh in his veins now soothing and left nothing but a linger. It became a ritual he could never get enough of. Having kept you alive was fun. Not something that only lasted a few minutes but could be dragged on for as long as he liked. He was the reason you were standing there right now tired from your chores. Your pulse seeming to call him like some sort of siren in the ocean. His feet silent beneath the summer grass.

You pondered of what Genevieve had said earlier about the towns folk going missing. The hollowness in the air along with the hanged clothes obstructing your view of the forest surrounding your house urged you to go back inside. With a quick turn you didn't expect for Remmick to be at your side. Automatically you slapped your hands over your mouth successfully hiding your yelp. "You gotta stop doin that!" You try your best to whisper. His creeping was perfect no evidence of sounds being heard as if he were some sort of ghost, maybe a warlock with witchcraft tricks. He tries his hardest to bury his small laugh inside the depthless of his chest throwing his hands up in surrender noticing your frustration. "Ya must know I can't help myself doll". You notice the sweat buildup on his forehead and the little dirt on his face. Swiftly you take the cloth wrapped around your waist dipping it in the clean water remaining then stepped closer to him, wiping it across his skin. "I know you can't seem to keep yourself clean either" you expected him to sass back but instead he just stares adoringly at you as you finish up focusing on his sweaty bangs. "Why would I? It'll probably be the only time you put your hands on me willingly, I'm trynna cherish it". his hand lifts up to your face caressing your cheek lightly before tucking that stray hair behind your ear. "That's not true.." your words died with his touch. His fingers on your skin make your heart skip a beat, body freeze and your throat run dry. He was being a flirt purposefully. Right? I mean he was usually this way just never so straight forward and touchy. As if knowing you were having a revelation he can't help but tilt his head and let his eyebrows raise.

"-your soup" you blurt out retracting your hand. Trying to unakwardfy the moment you clear your throat as you slowly walk away, "I'll bring you your soup, you must be real hungry n' I don't wanna make it grow colder". You don't give him enough time to respond shutting the door behind you, back pressed against the firm wood. Your hands come up to your chest, finally letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. Uncertainty was growing in your head along with the small tingles that ran through your back from being do close to him .... Being able to see every pore, feel his touch his eyes and lips you'd bet he'd kissed many women in his life and you knew they had enjoyed it...how would it feel- enough! You push yourself off the door and get to pouring Remmick a bowl in a hastily manner. Your father's weight creaks under the wood floors but he pays you no mind instead goin' to sit on the small couch with his radio and newspaper in hand. The small grumbling of the static of voices was oddly comforting allowing you to carefully wrap a piece of corn on the cob around a rag. Before going outside you go upstairs to your room scouring for your knitted cardigan. It was a pretty shade of dirt brown with little specs of beige. As you slipped it on your eyes catch a glimpse of the cowboy hat you picked out for the ol' Irish man but decided against removing it from the edge of your bed. He’s just a stranger the voice in your head reminded you.

By the time you go outside once more you expect him to be waiting for you, in that same stance resting against the fence you've grown fond of but to no surprise it seemed he'd gone into the chicken coop early. You weren't sure why it made your heart weigh down on your chest. Though disappointed you don't let yourself fret, placing the bowl and corn right ontop the fence knowing he'd come out whenever possible. Maybe you should knock never know what if he just forgot. Your knuckles softly tapped on the wood not the one that belonged to the chicken coop but the fence. It wasn't to signal for him it was to merely trying to build courage for yourself to actually do so. Ultimately though you retreated back into your home.

Had he taken your abrupt leave as rejection? Was he bothered? Worse what if he no longer wanted to speak to you! Were the thoughts plaguing your mind throughout the day after. Juvenile ones you were ashamed to admit. "Tell me I'm a fool. Tell me I'm doomed please Genevieve" you whined to the woman you always came to bother. She was just a few years older but there was a certain maturity to her you loved like a mother. "Who's not when it comes to love, though I'd push back on the doomed.". "I wouldn't even say love, he's a complete stranger not even from here..". She halts the clothes she was folding completely, turning to look at you, "ya said he was your friend what do ya mean complete stranger n' not from 'round here ? ". It was stern as if the little small details you had mentioned about his appearance, sweet gestures and his "nightly visits" held no validity now. "Well he's not exactly my friend I've known for ages that's why I said stranger". But your poor excuse of a lie didn't faze her, immediately you cracked. "Alright I lied! I only know this man for a little less than 2 weeks he was just so sweet n' needed help but my papa don't like him so he's been staying in the coop where I keep all my chickens!". It was as if she was the one trying to catch her breath at your confession. "Before ya judge he's a very honorable man, he ain't do nothin' weird yet he helps keep the predators away from my small feathered friends n' I just provide him food, water ya know the basic necessities-" That's how you start telling her the whole story from start to finish of how that night when you met went down. All the nitty gritty and the pointless details.

"Oh child may the lord bless ya heart". You were unsure on how to react to her words, an akward smile hanging on your lips. "Is that meant in a good way or-?" She cuts you off before you can finish. "What in the world ya thinking'! You must wanna visit your grave early girl". You try to scratch the nervousness away behind your neck as you dash your eyes around the store. "It's not as bad as it seems Gene I swear". "Let me get this straight a man who came begging at your door, which your father kicked out, is now living in your barn house because he caught you late at night offered to help you protect your chickens so now your bending over backwards for him?". Even though you're afraid to you just nod. She sighs deeply, "I swear with the crimes appearin' round town I'd wish you'd be more careful". There's real sincerity in her voice which makes your tone turn a bit defensive. "I live on the outskirts news like that don't reach me so easily..". Theres a bit of silence in the air to make the gears in your head turn. "what exactly happened anyway?"

" some lady n' her husband near the outskirts aswell, don't know exactly where she lives.. or lived. No sign left of 'em just blood n' their baby. Many said it was a Horrible horrible sight wouldn't wish it on anybody" your body can't help but let out a small tinge of sweat afraid of exactly what fate the babe had met . "So are both of 'em alive?". "No one knows.. as I said lots of blood but yet no bodies" there was a linger of thick air between the both of you, unspoken yet very heavy. "Should probably get home then, I'll keep myself safe". You both said your goodbyes and off you were right as the sun met the edge of the horizon. The walk back had been nothing but peaceful, a weird ambiance of sorts seeming to loom, even the quiet of the house had grown intimidating. Though rinse repeat of the previous days as you made dinner and your father came in the door, eating then leaving you be busied you away such thoughts. While your pops went to sleep earlier, you on the other hand find your place outside once more leavin' Remmicks food out on top the fence like you always did. You were collecting the hens eggs when you noticed the grid near the top of their little home was slowly but surely ripping off. While you stood up to inspect the spot you caught glimpse of Remmick far away walking towards you. You lift a hand up and he does as-well It makes you notice something wrapped around his back. Throughout his stay he would busy himself in the day, you never pushed yourself to ask. You didn't think it would be quite appropriate to know his day schedule, he never asked yours... well not that he had to ask, you always told him the night before.

"Busying yourself with the hens now are ya". You smile at his introduction to starting a conversation. He joined you inside the fenced perimeter. After just a day or two you had grown to miss his voice. "You may protect 'em but I still gotta clean 'em n' their small home aswell. What's that you got?" You can't help but let your curiosity get the best of you especially when it came to something that looks like an instrument. He swiftly tilts whatever he has around so what looked like a guitar is now In front of him. With a small lean towards you he professes as if he were about to tell you something sacred, "this ol' thing is called a banjo, keeps me company late at night". Your eyes light up, repeating the instruments name in your head and the fact he hadn't lost his spark from a few days prior. Pops never allowed these kinda things here he told you a home was meant for quiet not to be filled with loud yapping and music. "Well you must play somethin' for me now". His fingers tap the edge of the banjo eyes locked onto yours before his voice grows husky. " beg real nicely n' I might just do it" your breath hitches at his words, eyes trailing down to where he was slowly rubbing small circles on the surface of the banjo. This minuscule action had you in a trance. What was he doing to you? What was this you were feeling growing deep in your bones at the depthness of your belly?

You did end up asking him, begging so sweetly he just couldn't resist to let you hear him play . A sweet tune you can't even remember the rhythm to, or his humming he offered. The only thing you were able to remember was the way his fingers strummed softly as you lay in bed. It was the last thing on your mind before the night gently coaxed you to sleep.

It was a fever that overtook your senses as you shifted back and forth in bed, sweat accumulating on your neck and forehead. An unexplainable throb growing between your legs while something wet slithered between yourself like the slits of a book. A plunge invading your most intimate part made you cry, head thrown back as your hips and hands tried to wrestle with this new feeling. It felt sinful, violating, a light sting causing pain, yet addicting. You didn't want it to stop, you didn't want the attack on your folds to end. A rumble, like a laugh made vibrations, shocks travel through your cunt inching that tightness in your stomach close to absolute destruction. You didn't want whatever was happening to stop. That's when you looked down, hands digging into a full set of sweaty hair, pulling to at least reveal the object of your greatest pleasure. Those ice cold eyes, toothy grin with a peculiar fang, his nose bridge. "Beg real nicely f’ me " he hushed his fingers still working overtime. But that's all you needed the puff of hot air on the place he had just been feasting right over your pearl. His eyes never leaving yours. Your moans grow, his name dying on your lips as all you can let out is strings of abnormal sounds as you feel your peak finally falling over.

A loud bang immediately has you sitting straight up in your small bed. "Sleepin' in is for the f*cking birds. Are you a bird?" You rub your eyes, still dazed from what your mind had just made you experience. Yet you know better than prioritizing regaining yourself quickly you groggily speak, "no.. no, I'm not sir". "Right your not so get your ass out the bed and start cleanin'!" He mumbles out strings of insults as he finally leaves the confines of your room. From the way the sun is blaring you were sure it was closer to noon than your regular wake up time.

You do what he orders ignoring the wetness between your thighs. He leaves and you were sure he wouldn't come back till next morning or next days midnight. He always had the habit of leavin' when the weekend came. Who knows where, all you knew is when he'd come back he'd be drunk out his mind n' rage enough to feed a whole herd of cows with his hands... you find yourself with infinite amount of free time finishing with cleaning the whole house in records time. So you sit near a window gazing at the sunlight, the birds, grass and faint butterflies here n there. It was quite odd really you had never gone past the perimeters of your house grounds only sticking to your home, the trail leading to the town and the town itself. The woods surrounding your home were quite dark, the trees even from where you were sitting seemed to have claws for twigs, all sorts of poisonous plants were just a few distance away and the wild animals.. the ones who had killed 1/4 of your chickens. All danger, you didn't have to put yourself in front of. The chickens invaded your view making you realize you hadn't treated the hens to a proper clean. With a small groan you lift yourself off the window ledge grabbing the cowboy hat you had bought a few days ago. You still hadn't found the courage to give it to him, even though a bit loose around your head it had really proved itself useful with blocking out the sun just as Gene had promised. Especially like now that you were grabbing buckets of water back n' forth, cleaning with rags the outside of the house along with the old broom. Even with the shade created on your face it didn't stop the relentless rays from causing unexplainable heat.

"That darn metal wire" you huff out, mouth dry. When you had believed to be done you took notice of the even wired fence on the top of the hens coop looking in worse condition than before. Did I not take care of this? Before your anger can get the best out of you, shame takes over it instead trickling in big waves. Remmick and his banjo... that's what got me distracted. You bite your lip scouring for pliers your father kept in a tool box near the coop. The sun was going down soon you told yourself you could catch a drink after you finish this last job. You have to really force your eyes to focus when extending yourself to try and reach the metallic fence. I won't replace it completely just wrap it around itself to keep any unwanted creatures out. Then I'll rest..

Your hands start to shake a bit and your calf's hurt due to you being on your tiptoes. Focus it's not that hard. Successfully you close 3 out of 4 wires needing one left. But then you hear a snap then a sharp sting running down your finger. You hiss in response and let the pliers go abruptly, which causes them to land on your foot. The overwhelming situation makes your breath lose evenness not helping the fight of lack of oxygen your lungs had already been dealing with. Your vision stars to be invaded by growing black splotches. "Sit.. I've gotta, do that..." so you do, hand tightly wrapped around your thumb both covered in that red essence. The sight of your not so little cut makes you grow even more light headed. Before you can even protest the darkness envelops you, too weak to even fight it your eyes gently flutter shut.

You feel it before seeing it. There's a huge pounding in your head that forces your lids to be no more than one centimeter open and a throb. Not a painful one, no one that expresses want on the southern side of your body. It's familiar, like the feeling you had freshly in the morning except unlike in your dream you clench on nothing. Only tingles you can grasp onto but it doesn't create satisfaction. what makes you drift your dazed eyes downward is the pressure felt on your thumb. It was hard to focus, everything was a blur you just catch the sound of wetness. Something holding your hand, it was draining you not just emotionally but physically. Subconsciously you moan it's soft and covered in the many layers of your throat yet this makes whatever is beneath you stop. As it looks up your corneas put in the work even if it's for just a split second. You see the silhouette of a man, unrecognizable with bright red eyes, mouth lightly covered in your dark essence and sharp teeth. It was human n' monster combined n' it was staring straight at you. Your system was beyond exhausted shutting you forcefully down again.

Your left in darkness for a while till you start stirring awake, something cold running across your forehead. "C'mon gotta see you wake up" that voice delights your soul a light murmur of his name under your breath. It earns you a warm grumbly laugh from the depths of his chest, "the one n' only darlin" . You identify the object pressing against your cheek as his hand you can't help but lean into it. Though you did not find absolute warmth you still enjoyed it. He brings a small cup up to your lips urging you to drink which you do. Your dry throat rejoices in the new source of water to quench your thirst. The slight flex to your hand which alerts you of a slight sting sends flashes of faux memories through your brain. The animal the thing sucking your hand or your thumb whatever it had been made you involuntarily jolt subsequently some water spilling on you from the cup. "Sorry, sorry" you quickly say between breaths your low energy not equipping fast reflexes. He quickly puts the cup down comforting you by rubbing his hands down the side of your shoulders. "Are you alright what happened?" You try to cough to hide the embarrassing way your voice wobbled. "I'm good 'just- I'm skittish remember?" You try to laugh it off but you can tell he doesn't buy it. He plays along though. This moment of silence allows you to completely regain your senses to see you were still outside, next to the coop in the last position you remember being in.

"I wrapped your thumb real good, shouldn't bleed no more ... what happened to ya? I swear when I walked up I thought ya were just bein' silly with me" ,you pull your injured hand closer to you at its mention. The pliers not so far from you push you to speak, "I was trynna fix some part of the chicken coop, cut myself, must've lost track of time given I've been out all day in the glazing sun..." the cancerous rays, the heat that seemed to be burning you from inside out. Your healthy hand slaps at your head finding it empty the ground at your sides makes contact with your hand aswell. "Lookin' for this sweet old cowboy hat?" His voice is cocky once you look up you realize why. The straw you bought for was on his head. Fits him perfectly not just around his skull but the way it also frames his face makes you believe it was made specifically for him in mind and he knows this. He can't miss an opportunity to tease, "Might keep it suits me well, your little brain don't fill it" now it's your turn to not laugh at his attempt to bring light heartedness into the air. You were still disturbed by the weird dream like nightmare you had experienced, adding on your injury aswell both weren't a good combo. Yet even with this you try not to dwell on the way the edges of his mouth tilt downward at your lack of enthusiasm. "That's actually for you.. I was meant to give to ya some time ago 'just was a coward". His mouth does a whole 180 his frown no more instead plastered on is a bashful smile. One that didn't have arrogance, teasing or any ulterior motives behind it. "Well aren't you just the sweetest doll face". You can't help but let the blush roam freely at his praise until that warmth in your belly returns along with a headache. "I should get to bed" as you try to stand a light whince leaves your lips the fact your foot was aching due to the heavy metal pliers that fell on them earlier coming to your attention. Remmick aids you in order to walk out the fence. The chickens were locked in the coop already, his plate of food gone. You don't realize any of this since having your body pressing onto his makes your brain mush.

"I can take it from here, I had just forgot those stupid pliers fell on my foot" you say as you finally reach the houses back door. He lets you go, "don't forget to clean that wound up tomorrow should help without your pops nagging early mornin'" you laugh and say goodnight the weakness in your bones catching up to you.

The next day right as the sun rises you sit in the kitchen table in silence. A news article from town you had collected left at your door and Alcohol from your father's stash on the table as you stare at the oddly physically pleasant gash infront of you. Something was odd, you've received your own fair share of cuts, scrapes and injuries none of them compared to this one. It was as if where the skin broke was just an illusion, no blood left to clean or seep out just your pink flesh beneath your skin. You shift in your seat recounting the lapping at your finger that sent tingles down to your feet. It was all so weird, you never had vivid dreams like those and you could still feel its presence around you. It's hunger, need to suck you dry... but was it your blood it wanted or your soul? You sound like a kid overanalyzing your nightmares. It was just a nightmare that was all, you told yourself. Plus if any weird animal had been near you Remmick would've of noticed. He would've done something. Would he?

Your brain seems to be enjoying playing devils advocate forcing you to shake your head and stand from the chair in disagreement. Though you connected that the newspaper you had read. 'Couple missing child dead' was who Genevieve must've been talking about. No longer wanting to let your brain to spiral out of control you decide a shower would probably serve you well. So you do just that letting the comforting hands of the water caress your naked body while the wound on your hand isn't affected by the soap. You hum to yourself a tune one you've never heard of before, didn't even know the words to yet your brain simultaneously did. Something so normal you did everyday made you wonder back to the couple from town. 'Bert and Joan' the article of their tragedy had mentioned their names. Were they vigilant knowing something would happen or were they doing their daily tasks like you were right now? They were probably enjoying day until someone decided to make a mess of their lives let alone a baby. Whoever had done that deserved the worst penalty a judge could offer. It sadness your heart too much that you push the subject to the back of your brain. After you brush your hair out and put a new pair of fresh clothes on you decide to take a look at the small box you kept hidden away in your closet. It was your mother's. The only thing you had left of her.

There's few letters you read over too many times to count while growing up, miscellaneous objects and a photograph. It was in black n' white starting to peel right over her face. This photograph had been the only thing that connected you to your mother. now all that was left was a still picture of her beautifully clothed frame and one quarter of her face. Maybe it was for the best, you didn't know much about her and your pops said she just up n' left one day. You still held onto hope. The way she wrote, expressing her emotions just didn't seem to coincide with the woman your father portrayed her to be. What catches your attention though is this book, very dusty n' old. The secrets of the past, your hands trail over the title indented on the cover. Looking at the table of contents it seems to be an explanation book for medicinal recipes, herbs, then towards the end of the book you see "creatures". While trying to flip the pages over to that section you go downstairs. It's past mid day, the sun still strong so you lay down on the couch. With the book in your hand you start reading about wendigos and skin walkers of the sort. Their stalking abilities, ways to manipulate their prey, sharp teeth, their need for human flesh. That specific part was underlined, someone had read this book with passion, little notes on the side, phrases circled. Maybe your mother or a familiar... while you continue your investigation somewhere along the way you knock out. Cold and surrounded by darkness there’s Voices that start to whisper in your ear. They're indescribable except for the way it sounds like they're reciting a prayer. There's no fear just tranquility their hushness proving comforting. You can't relish in it long until they start getting louder a tone of desperation infecting them. Then your name being repeated. You try to move, stir yourself awake but nothing works. Your heart beat rings in your ears taunting you along with their cries, blood curling screams. A voice overtakes all of them in screaming your name.

You sit straight up gasping for air, chest rising and falling dramatically. It felt too real the vibrations of their voices still living deeply inside your ear drums. There's no time left to help yourself focus on calming your tremors down until a knock echos through the living room. Your blood pressure spikes from the sound but you force yourself up. It was dark out making you realize your nap took more than what you believed. The floor creaks underneath your bare feet with every step you take. Once you reach the door you hesitate. What if I'm going insane with stress and you're just hearing things? It was dark out, you were alone with no way to defend yourself... you decide on the next best course of action. Peaking through the medium sized window the door had your fingers pushed the drapes aside eyes coming in contact with a man facing away but you knew that sweaty hair anywhere and the banjo strapped on his back.

Quickly you open the door relieved to see Remmick as he turns around the cowboy hat you'd given him in hand. "Hey sweetheart" but you don't give him a response. He notices your eyes darting left and right the way you fidget with your fingers as if trying to tie a rope. Due to the lack of communication back he speaks again, "you alright 'seem on edge?". You try to brush it off but he moves forward on the little steps located at the front of the door. "I'm here for ya, 'can tell me anythin' ". He was at your doorstep, close to your house something he never did because he was overly cautious of your father catching a glimpse at him. An unspoken rule. "don't forget to clean that wound up tomorrow should help without your pops nagging early mornin'"

"Should help without your pops nagging early mornin'"

"How'd ya know?" You ask before thinking. He's a bit taken back by the out of the context question. "What da ya mean?". "How'd ya know my pops wasn't here?" You can see the warmth in his eyes falter for only a split second subconsciously you stopped leaning towards him. He laughs in your face making you rethink the sudden hostility on your end. "Cars gone, got hurt yesterday with no one to help, he'd done somethin' similar last week? 'Don't know darlin' don't take a genius to figure this one out". You sigh in disappointment at yourself joining him in a chuckle. He was the only one who cared for you, never hurt you, someone you considered a confidant sort of like Genevieve back in town. "Sorry, don't know what's wrong with me I've just been havin' these nightmares must be the stress.." you rub your temples dragging your hair away from your face. He quiets down his voice more cut dry and for the first time since you met him you heard him sound unsure "What these nightmares about... if you don't mind me askin' ". You look up at him once more eyebrows scrunching trying to recall. "I'm not sure.. uhh monsters, voices or somethin' it's odd" it's not that you didn't want to tell him, you just weren't so sure of it yourself."Well good things they're just nightmares" he hums as he seems to be analyzing you. His gaze made you surprisingly uneasy but this feeling dwindles as he chirps . "There's this place over by the forest, it's where I find myself more often than not ... throughout the day of course. It's real sweet with a stream, nice little area to sit n' sing where the air hits nicely. Would love to share my place of paradise with ya if ya'd want to f'course".

It seemed enticing, intimate, but the crickets in the air and darkness that seeped from the forest haunting the background made you shake your head softly, "sorry.. not today". You had never been one to deny him you were always so eager to please. He forces a smile, "I understand, im a man here asking a lady to take a stroll along the concealed forest alone in the late of the night" you can see him take a few steps down the small flight of stairs. "It's not that Remmick, I really would love to it's just..." you can't find the words, the excuse, because it didn't exist. "... just can't" The last string of events had scrambled your brain like eggs in the morning. You weren't sure what to put faith in. With this rejections you can feel the disappointment In the way his shoulders drop. "It's alright.. I'll be, heading to sleep then, go catch your own z's ". His poor excuse for a laugh following his words was awkward. You should reach out to him, grab his hand before he goes too far for you bare feet could reach. But you never do watching as he settles inside the fence you can only murmur a small "goodnight" that doesn't even reach his ears. the small click back from the door signifies your end of the night as you lock it. You don't glance at the clock just dragging your feet on the floor all the way up to your room. Unlike before where you would just knock your self out with boredom instead you are subjected to torture by your lack of a dormant brain. The inability to succumb to sleep being the perpetrator. You wasn’t insomnia just the fleeting thought of danger being near never leaving, it was like you knew something was bound to happen something terrible, but couldn't pin point exactly when. Your father hadn't come home, the stressful nightmares, remmicks odd behavior or was it yours? This was all too much to digest. You sit up from your bed abruptly standing no longer being able to force your eyes shut to pretend sleep. Hours have already gone by. A glass of warm milk would ease the nerves.

You didn't want to waste anymore time putting a small metal pot over the kitchen stove and fetched the milk pouring no more than a cup and putting the white gallon back in its designated space. With a repetitive tick the flames came to life putting in the work to heat up the milk. You sigh, the nightgown you had on was very weightless, soft and borderline sheer but breathable. It allowed the air from your bedroom fan to save your overheating skin in the night. The sudden feeling of your hairs sticking up from your arms and neck have you holding yourself in a hug. Face darting left and right to find anything to explain the cause but only the endless darkness is to find. You grumble turning off the stove not caring if the milk was treading the fine line between cold and warm. You chug it, big gulps no complains, it wasn't that usual warm feeling that traveled through your intestines just bland mildness. You slam the cup down having to drag your forearm to remove some of the excess. Sleep. Now go to sleep, your bedroom. You take steps to go back, the lights being right before the stairs working in your favor. Once you you hear the click your vision returns to being useless. Mind set on one goal finally catching sleep but a shuffle very soft that could be easily missed if not paying attention makes you freeze in place. There's an urge to turn but you tell yourself to keep going on your way for your own sake. Eyes forward move forward. You don't though, instead you slowly twist your head behind you out of curiosity. It was the same sentiment as being adamant on seeing a spider hiding below your bed instead of living in blissful ignorance and pretending its presence wasn’t there. Except this wasn’t a 8 legged friend. You were seeing eyes glowing back at you as clear as the stars in the night sky. They weren't a beautiful shinny white, odd green or blue like a wild animal.. no a menacing blood red. This should've sent you flying up the stairs but they're hypnotizing persuading you to stay a little longer. It doesn't move making sure you know that it sees you too. With the obscurity of the lack of light you can't make up much apart from its eyes, too far away near a window to even see if the creature was inside the 4 walls of your home or outside. A light breath leaves your soft lips, you could feel the blood rushing in your veins the way your pulse beats. Hesitantly you turn yourself back towards the stairs. This time you do what you told yourself, what you should’ve done in the beginning. Walking up you forbid yourself from looking back, making your way back to your bedroom you finally crawl back into the cold sheets. Your Dazed, staring at the ceiling while pinching your own arm to make sure you weren't in a dream. You were convinced you had officially gone insane. Nightmares are one thing, hallucinations are another. Must be the lack of sleep. You landed on that excuse and finally after a few long dragged minutes you felt the heaviness of your eyelids stars to weigh themselves down. You let it consume you but peace didn't follow.

There's a thud making shuffle but it doesn't sound loud enough to make your eyes open wide. Just squint until inevitably you groan, choosing slumber over worrying. Sleep.

A whisper tingles the shell of your ear . A breeze makes you shiver subconsciously clutching the sheets to keep you warm. That masculine voice around your ear is back again wrapping around your brain like a blanket of safety and security. Something slithers inside your inner thigh, caressing, teasing the supple skin making your breath hitch. It was soft and felt so right. You craved more, opening your body and soul up to the feeling letting it climb up and take as it pleased. No hesitation just need. An offering is what you were, letting it build a home inside, beneath your skin, allowing it the privilege to consume you. And it did, a sharp sting your mind can't even process correctly develops somewhere in your body. A sound comes from your mouth but was it from pleasure or pain?

Your eyes scrunched, a groggy moan ripping from your throat out of frustration. The bright day light hitting your cornea forcing you to wake. Whilst sitting up you crane your neck back and to the side feeling a temporary relief. You shut your eyes, smiling from feeling so free. Even if you were sleep deprived there was some sort of energy helping you feel content. Opening your eyes you pulled the covers off, standing, it isn't till your changing clothes you feel a cold sweat invade your body. While lifting the weightless satin dress you see two bigger than normal bites on your wrist. You could've brushed it off as a bug bite, some spider but you knew that for it to hold validity the spider would've had to been a huge tarantula and craving human flesh or blood. You feel your eyes water, this wasn't caused by a human or animal. So like some afraid child you quickly make haste putting on the necessities skipping brushing your hair and run out of your room ignoring a light stench in the air because your father was of greater concern . It wasn't long till mid day surely he'd be downstairs. "Papa..?" You hesitantly speak once in the living room but only silence greets you. In desperation you go to grab the back door to check outside and you find it unlocked. It was already a weekday today you had forgotten, he was probably at work probably came home and left, that would explain the unlocked door. But he if made it home he would've woke you up early. He hates when you oversleep. There's many thoughts racing in your head as you pace back and forth. You'd just go to the last place you knew he had probably visited, the town.

The roads hug your shoes as you walk by the side walk. As each person passes by you ask if they have seen your father describing him even trying to show them a a picture from home but they all either ignore you or seem far too uninterested. You had wrapped your arm tightly with a bandage to cover your bite which you couldn't help but tug on. It was creating an uncomfortable friction. There was a familiar sign across the street the likes of the people were much kinder there, Genevieve was a great example. But you knew you father wouldn't be caught dead on the other side of the road let alone in a shop full of "foreign useless people". So You go inside the white owned shop instead knowing he'd surely buy his liquor here. While going in you hold the door open for a woman and her child, the child mutters a cute thank you which you try to reciprocate with a 'your welcome' but the mother gives you a nasty look tugging them away.

You stand there at the entrance a bit weary as you finally have to face the many side eyes people were giving you. A particular man stands out who was walking your way, a smile comes up to your lips, rehearsing your lines in your head but he makes contact with your shoulder roughly instead. There's a slight clench of your heart at this, but he goes on as if nothing, paying the cashier for his booze and leaving. Your left there looking stupid and lost. The past days had been miserable leaving you with little will. Should've gone home-should've just waited and stayed home. As you're beating yourself up you don't notice the cashier coming from his side of the counter to you. His kind eyes looking at you snap you out of your thoughts realizing he greeted you, even with a stutter you greet him back. "Is there someway I can help you?". The first person to ask, you try your best to not let your voice wobble, "I- yes.. I'm trynna find my father he's missin' ". He's listening to you muttering out a small, "that's terrible". " it is haven't seen him for days n' I've gotten concerned. But he's usually along these parts of town especially durin' the weekends so I'm sure someone has spoken to or atleast caught sight of him" while your rambling you don't see how he's luring you outside, using the fact you were following him to his advantage. His expression is one of understanding or so you thought, "look I'd really love to help you just can't be bothering the people in there". "I wasn't- that wasn't my intention I.." you realize what he's doing now, feeling the heat of the sun once more. There's a pause in the conversation both of you staring at each other. He simply tilts his head in 'I don't care what you got to say just leave I'm trying to be nice'. Then someone calls out to you from behind with cheerfulness, it isn't till you turn you see finally who it is. "Haven't seen you round' no more how has your chicken coop been?". Her warm voice provides some instant relief from the stress. You allow Genevieve to envelop you in her arms. You even squeeze a little tighter. "Don't come back near my store again or it won't be pretty" the sudden hostile voice of the once delightful cashier leaves you a bit angry but you don't voice it.

"It be best if we go back to mines," she grabs your hand leading you to the other side of the road but you dig your feet in the ground not letting her. Whatever it was inside you or around you it was always following not so behind form your last step. You didn't even know if whatever had bit you was contagious so even with her oh so soothing hand consoling yours you abruptly let go. "I can't.." she turns confused, "what do ya mean you can't?". The top of your teeth catch your bottom lip in a nice grip. For once in your life you wished she wouldn't be so caring so tender and concerned for your well being. "What's wrong?" Yet another question of hers that meets no answer instead you slowly add space even if it's a just a few centimeters. She sees the picture of your father in your hand and the way your eyes were on the brink of tears something was undoubtedly wrong. "Girl don't be silly with me now n' answer me" she grew loud frustrated with your silence garnering attention from the townsfolk. Your hand fumbles with the edges of the band around your wrist. If she just knew maybe she could help me I wouldn't have to deal with this alone. It happened so fast her hand tugging the cloth , you pulling away in attempt to prevent it from slipping away revealing the two puncture wounds that were now accompanied with purple and yellow hues. You can't help but gasp slapping the skin, covering it with your hand desperately looking around.

Genevieve's eyes were wide a look of disbelief or was it fear overtaking her face? She had heard the murmurs of creatures far beyond the physical realm from her ancestors. When the two people from town went missing it was all the people around her could talk about . The creature with sharp teeth, serpent split tongue Who's diet consisted of consuming human blood. It seemed far fetched but it was all true and now one of her dearest friends have come in contact with the being and bitten. Under her breath she whispered, "vampire".

You felt exposed like Eve had felt under the gaze of the lord in the garden of Eden; Shame, guilt and Alienation all in one. When you feel the cold tear run down your hot cheek is the moment you start running ignoring the calls for you to stay. The adrenaline pumping from your heart makes you run miles, with no brakes just your legs pushing till they finally make it to the only place that seemed to cause all these problems. Your home, but you don't go inside. Instead you go to your chicken coop wanting to be enveloped in its darkness, the constant patter of the chickens feet simulating a tune and the smell of pleasant must. It reminded you of Remmick. He'd surely come home soon and rid you of your worries, destroy the chaos. You sniffled into your shoulder, cowering like defenseless animal in the corner of the chicken coop. The small gurgles of the chickens offer you an environment to be able to sleep even if it was just pretend. You lose track of time, sun finally setting and wake up when you can't catch a break from the chickens pecking at your skin. The stiff chips of wood stick to your skin but you don't mind releasing them as you stand. With the small creak you stumble outside praying to find your pops car out front and his harsh voice reprimanding you for not having cleaned the house so you could erase the anxiety running rapid through your body as a terrible dream. There's no sight of any of those things though just the lousy cicadas in the night air.

Psst. The noise made you whip around only the darkness present. "Hello?" You speak daringly into the void of the night, heart thumping. "Still gotta work on the not jumping like a little rabbit every time ya'r scared" you can let out the trapped breath in your chest as you see a very care free remmick walk up to you from the outside of your fence. You would've gone to him in an instant if it weren't for the two people behind him. Noticing your hesitance to get closer he experimentally spoke, "brought some friends with me too if you don't mind". They were smiling warmly at you but it felt so empty, their faces reflecting that of the nullified night surrounding them. "Remmick-" you were about to tell him to make them go away, that you just needed a moment alone with him. The whole day you had been waiting. Though picking up on your distress he caught you off guard asking a rhetorical question, "is it the nightmares again?" . You foolishly try to answer "yes but-". "Well your in luck that's why I brought my good ol' couple from in town to try n' cheer ya up" as if on que the 3 of them readied their instruments ignoring your protest and they started playing. It was harmonic very beautiful but to you in this moment it sounded like sharp metal scratching on another metal surface. Undoubtedly Irking your soul. "I picked poor robin clean" the 3 of them sang at the same time but in 3 different tones that came together skillfully. "Picked poor robin clean". You bit your lip in bubbling anger their voices becoming more irritating than their instruments by the second. Certainly you'd explode into a fit of rage, we'll that was until the next line, "picked his head, I picked his feet, I woulda picked his body but it wasn't fit to eat". Their joy, their genuine smirks especially Remmicks when singing those words unnerved you. A jolly tone with odd words that traveled down your spine "oh I picked poor robin clean...

they continue, their words fade out in your head eyes unfocusing as you get sucked into the back of your mind where your thoughts remained. You didn't want to believe it or even consider the very fact that the young couple in-front of you could be who the towns people had whispered about like some sort of myth. If they were what was Remmick doing with them? Was he the one who terrorized them and their babe? your mind recalled many of the times you had found his behavior odd. He only met you in the darkness of night, disappeared during the day, he was the only one who had access to your home. The bruise on your arm he hadn't even pointed it out. He was innocent you pushed back against your thoughts. And you would prove it.

As their song comes to an end stillness hangs in the air. Remmick stands there waiting for you next move. Realizing how guilty you looked you tried to cough the hesitance stuck in your throat. "I never caught y'all's names". Having all 3 of their eyes on you felt like you were back in the town. Except this time it was much more carnal like predators surrounding their prey. You shift on your feet, remmicks demeanor changing as he leans into the fence form the outside. The couple doesn’t answer just staring ahead as you hear Remmick chuckle, "well.. this right here is Joan and he, he's Bert". You feel your heart drop to the earths core at this revelation, face full of alarm. you try changing it but God knows it's far too late. He notices and knows that you know.

"Took ya so long" your confused at his words but he doesn't waste a beat to quickly diminish your doubt. "I was startin' to think that little brain of yours wasn't good for much". You're unsure if to be offended and hurl a venomous insult back or cower away . His body defies gravity for a second as he lifts himself over the fence standing between the both of you far too easily. "W-what did you do?" There's still hope inside you that this was just a big understanding. "What I do to them .. or to you?" He nudges his head behind him then to you. His eyes trailing up and down your frame until getting stuck on your wrist. This time you don't cover your wound unlike back in town. When his eyes finally lift themselves to yours you see them shine a deep red. The same deep red that tournamented you yesterday night and dreamed about belonging to that creature who sucked your thumb feverishly while his mouth was covered in your blood. A dream. you can't help the way your chest starts to constrict, eyes stinging. He lets out a cold laugh faux concern, "oh please don't cry doll I'll love it too much n' I'll just be forced to make more pretty tears come out of ya." As he takes a step forward you take a step back. It becomes a twisted game he enjoys while teasing your desperation. The sadistic way he showed worry yet loved your helplessness left you disheartened with the idea of this going back to normal. The way things had been when you met him"Stay away.." your voice is weak and wobbly, hands coming up to signal his halt. He doesn't listen leaving you back to the fence as your hand touches his chest. Remmick wasn't a tall man just average but when he got this close to you it made him feel giant. "Thats not what you wanted last night" his empty breath hits your face, an act you may have yearned for before but not anymore. There's a shudder running through you as he presses his body into yours, his leg between your thighs inching your skirt up. You turn your head in shame, knowing exactly what he meant. Despite the mental acknowledgement of the danger this man posed your body still desired him responding eagerly.

He thrived seeing you like this the woman so poised and respectful he had met in tears from her own disgusting desires. An infection he grew to become, corrupting not just your thoughts but body, mind and soul. Nothing could sadate his carnal lust just like you but he wouldn't get ahead of himself yet.

His hand drags your sight back to him with only a finger on your chin. Your pliant submission was back but out of fright not real trust. This time you notice his appearance change again apart from his peculiar eyes. The clear, thick liquid seeping from the right of his mouth. Spit. And the sharp fangs his k-9's became as he smiles at you. It clicks in your head the last words Genevieve had muttered out to you "vampire". You expect him to take a bite to end your life but instead he takes a step back leaving you to fend your weight against gravity. "Should go see if daddy's all good upstairs, haven't seen him out here all day" his voice drips with sarcasm. You take a step back expecting him to play with you more but he doesn't. While you slowly walk away, opening the fence door you take one final look behind him. The couple he had came with was still behind the fence sitting idly by as if they were hypnotized.

When your a good feet apart you dash inside and up the stairs having to fight the growing stink in the house especially when you reach the second floor. "Papa!" You call out to him , the hall seeming too dark and longer than usual. There was the adrenaline rushing through your veins that urged you to be faster . As your warm hands grab the handle of your father's room opening it wide the stench of death hits you before the sight. You have to cover you mouth from the smell and absolute horror. There was blood all over the walls, bed his body and his head... it didn't seem quite attached to the rest of him. Eyes wide in shock staring directly at you as if he had kept the face from probably seeing the monster Remmick was. You didn't let yourself see the specifics of the plethora of wounds on his body slamming the door shut. You have to fight the gag trying to push its way out from the bottom of your stomach. A light headedness winds you as your walking away hand over your stomach from the unsettling scene you had witness forever engraved in your brain. One wrong step as your going down the stairs has you tumbling down. You grunt and let the tears you have kept at bay finally spill rushing down with no limit. You weakly get up close to the kitchen table where the liquor from the morning still laid. Your heart clenched at the reminder of this bottle always being around your dad's hand along with his pestering. He may had grown rude and absent for most of your life but he would always be your father. The man who once was a child who did wrong but was still half of you. You bite you hand in an attempt to get rid of the overstimulation of your lymphatic system. Not caring if it drew blood. "The sadness will subside, will weaken with time. sacrifices must be made for freedom".

Your mood soured hearing his voice. He sounded like a fucking preacher what was he now your savior? Is that what he tought. That he had been doing you a service murdering your father like some wild animal with no dignity? There was an unexplainable fire starting to build in your chest. "I can offer freedom that never dwindles, never ceases to exist. Ya won't be anyone's caged bird anymore-". With not another thought you let your instincts take over swiftly grabbing the almost empty liquor bottle and swinging it behind you. He doesn't for see your sudden action not moving out of the way fast enough all you hear is a big thud. The bottle still gripped tightly your hand with no crack. His head is turned toward the direction of your swing, eyelids twitching as he seemed to be taking in the hit. You stand fiercely a mere a feet or two away. You expect anger a violent action back in response but instead he chuckles condescendingly. "you’re letting anger cloud your judgement doll" . You wished you would’ve never been nice to him, never let him in your home and watched him rot out in the wilderness. “Let that go” he commands seeing the way your grip on the bottle doesn’t lessen. “No..” your eyebrows furrow “ya just don’t get ta decide things for me, y-ya can’t just do this ‘didn’t ask for any of this! ” even through the sadness is still evident in your body, you still find your voice. His words your genuine protest made him displeased . He had seen you marble at utterly anything normal, his instrument, himself and the way you responded so sweetly to his touches. You were a bird in a cage. Your father had willingly created your life to revolve around him and he had simply given you the choice now to be with him instead. Were you just plain ol’ stupid? “Ya needed this, I saved you from your helpless nights, the endless chores, the boring ol’ cycle of your insignificant’ life became”. This is when you see him start stomping over to you with a glint of fire behind his eyes. “I didn’t need no saving” you spit out while your lower back was pressed on the floor able. He calms down before grabbing a hold of your jaw before uttering out, “oh my sweet little dumb thing, you do”. Those crimson eyes slice through your wrath realizing no matter how much you protested there was no way out of your predicament. No matter the many ways you sliced it he couldn’t be moved, like some heavy boulder restricting your path. “You all do..” his sharp nails dig into the skin of your cheeks making them sting. There’s a small but heavy knock at the front door that doesn’t make him react just letting your calmly go. Retracting himself from you he watches as you wrestle with the choice of opening the door or not. His look was forbidding but would require trust from you which he had run out of. It was ultimatum that hung in the air without being said , ‘open the door and your reject him or leave it be then open your arms to the sweetness of “salvation” ‘

Another heavy knock seeming more desperate had you turning and directly heading to the door not caring for Remmick any longer. You weren’t sure who you were quite expecting maybe a passer by, another stranger. “You had me stressing’ girl why’d ya not answer fast enough?” Her honeyed voice and her careful glance was such a contrast to the way you looked now. “My lords heaven’ what happened to you!” Genevieve tries to come inside and grab your cheeks now decorated with little droplets of blood streaming down. But you semi close the door on her not completely but just enough to stop her from coming in. “Gene you have to leave- you can’t be here” your hands shakes on the door knob. You didn’t want her to be affected by the consequences of your own actions. Seeing how far it got you father you didn’t want her to meet his same fate but she didn’t listen. “Look I know what I did back in town was horrid I truly apologize for that.” Every time you try to open you mouth to interject she elongated her sentence. “ I came here to make things right to make sure you okay and to say I can help you I know-“ she’s caught off being pounced on like animal by something or someone out of your line of sight with a thud. You were about to react until a hard hand comes to the door from your side slamming it loudly closed. All you are left to do is be willfully tormented by her screams of agony as Remmick locks the front door. “Promised my ol’ couple some food, they were just hungry as dogs” he says this sentiment with sort of lightness, even letting out a small ‘woof woof’. Your stomach twists in disgust and terror having to create distance between the both of you.

He tsk'ed in disappointment at your choice. Noticing your desire to push him aside he doesn't shy away from twitching his upper lip to show you his gnarly fangs. "What a shame I really did like Genevieve" he mocks you slowly moving forward. Another blow to the muscle pumping in your chest called your heart wetting your dry cheeks once more in tears. What would you say to her husband and her kid if you walked away alive. You wouldn't have the courage to look them in the eye and tell them about your cowardliness. How you watched their mother die whilst you were inside in the comforts of your home.

With a scream you rely on instincts jumping on Remmick . This time he expects your fit of violence being able to take your arms in his grasps. You try pushing and pulling to break free but nothing budges. He wasn't a big man so why in the hell could you not be strong enough to fight his hands? It looked like a dance you both were having with your twisting and turning making you really live out the ambiance of a juke joint wild but free. It isn't until your able to kick him that your able to make him loosen his grip to break away. His rough voice calls out as you dart to the kitchen trying to find something to arm yourself with,"All this fightin' wont end up pretty for ya" you ignore him now scowering the plethora of eating utensils in the cabinet. "givin' ya a warnin' you should really heed darlin' " his cockiness, the pet names is what you wanted to wipe clear from his face forcing his mouth to never speak again. You turn to face him standing in the middle of the room with a knife. Shiny and anything but dull. His eyes seem to light up at the thought of you wielding such a dangerous object. Not a spec of fear in his nonexistent soul as you walk up to him eyebrows furrowed, a scowl on your face and all. "Don't be silly and give me that thing" He had played this game before long ago. Your genuine hatred was being conveyed in one single long look, fingers clenching in dire need to cause damage. He extends his hand up for you to lay the knife in his hand to submit.

Instead once you're close enough with no hesitation you pierce his hand not just slashing but digging it in until you could see it from the other side. With haste you twist it back at him so the sharp metal is now threatening his chest. With a burn in your thighs and all your might you push forward successfully overtaking any attempt of a protest to your attack. There's a loud grunt from him as the fact the knife dug deeply into his upper chest. It's quickly overtaken by the fact he loses his balance, back against the small sofa sending him backward into it and taking you along with him. Somewhere while taking the fall you let go of the knife to protect yourself instead. Winded you try to catch your breath looking over to the side you realized you had missed the edge of the coffee table by an inch. What terrifies you is seeing Remmick stand up, his unwounded hand grabbing the knife handle twisting out of his chest and hand simultaneously with a squelch. You think this is when he’ll get his comeback digging the knife into your heart as he stands above you. Bracing yourself your eyes close but instead you hear the cling from the knife being thrown aside. His Hands coming to the collar of your blouse lifting you up with no difficulty and harshly sending you crashing into the coffee table. The glass breaks instantly some of the wood creating a hard surface to simulate a hard punch to your gut. “Thought you’d be different but you’ve got a fire that never dies just like your mother”. He’s out of breath as he speaks and when he mentions the woman you have never met you wish nothing more than to commit cold blooded murder. Your hands extend in-front of you carefully to attempt to lift yourself up but his foot comes to press down on the skin on the other side of your palm. “she wanted nothin’ more than to desperately live that’s what made it so much more excitin’ to snuff her out”. You cry out in agony as the pressure of his foot causes specs of glass to carve a home into your palm. He decides it’s enough when you pathetically paw at his shoe. You’re able to take a glance at the disgusting wound before you’re being dragged from your collar again. No care for the way the destroyed table poked and burns your knees or body. He brings you all the way up to the wall facing the front door and forcing you on your feet. Your knees are giving out but he makes sure to hold you in place steadily by your neck

“What do ya desperately want hmm?” He teases with a tap to your cheek as he watches you became the defenseless rabbit he knew once again. Red teary eyes defeated just accepting what would be made of you just like your father and Genevieve. This sight arouses him inching his face closer he breathes onto you obnoxiously, “could’ve had so many delicious nights with ya stuck on my mouth oh do I miss your heavenly taste” you spit at him for talking about you as some sort of object. Realizing all those “dreams” you believed to have had were nothing of the sort. Just your mind trying to make sense of events happening to your sleeping body to warn you of the violating creature you’re ashamed to call a man infront of you at your wake. His wet muscle slides out from his mouth, tongue split in two like some sort of serpent to lick it up from the side of his cheek. A big grumble of satisfaction form his chest. “Now I need me some more”. His lips come to yours not in the doting way you expected your first kiss to be but hungry and lustful. You fight against him the sloppy kiss making spit smear all over your lips. Your teeth chomp down in order to make him stop biting his lip , hard.

he curses letting your neck go sending your sliding down. You thought of fighting again or fleeing but your body was far too tired. So instead You're stuck in place fighting the heaviness of your eyelids and tasting the irony substance in your mouth. He squats down infront of you with a lip decorated in red.

Forced you are to look at the man before you that you once considered a friend, dare you say lover, finding him to be completely unrecognizable. He fixes your sweaty blood specs covered hair whilst grazing your cheek tenderly like he had done a few happy summer days ago. "Every time you wake up in the mornin n' take a breath of fresh air, maybe even while looking at the sun setting with a child on your hip" he starts. The once gentle hands griping the back of your head, hair and all, harshly craning your neck back. You can't even let out a whine properly without your lungs hurting . " 'want ya to remember ya don't get to do that because ya were brave or strong enough" he can't help but grumble at the sentiment of you believing these things about yourself. His tone grows dark as he hushes the final dialogue onto you like something sacred only for you and his ears only.

"no ....it's because I allowed you to"

he licks a long stripe up your cheek relishing your sweet blood before he abruptly lets go of your head and leaves you helplessly on the ground. His light steps barely even leaving a track of sound in your ear drums as he opens the once closed door. He walks over your dead friends body only her legs visible from your spot. His body isn't tense, instead he strolls away with a pep in his step, the hat you had given him on his head and you can faintly hear him hum that song. Pick poor robin clean. As if it were a regular Monday night. As if he hadn't turned your life upside down just for fun. The couple from earlier appear from the sides of the door covered in blood Bert taking a hold of one of Genevieve’s weightless legs. Joan give you a smile and a wave with her sharp canines before they start walking away your friend dragged in the dirt along with them. You reap the consequences while Remmick was walking away Scot free. Your heart burns, skin boils, face scorns, mustering up all of your strength you let out a scream of pain, anger and agony all at once. Not caring if it scratched your throat painfully. He keeps moving unfazed until his body is a mere spec in your vision. Your Pathetically Left behind feeling the ache in your bones deep inside, the blood oozing out of your body the stinging tears trailing down your sliced skin. Choosing the mortal cage called your human flesh.

You knew he'd always be hiding in the shadows of the night, waiting, and in some twisted way that brought you comfort.

Authors note: this was so long in the making! I I tried my best to interpret the character of Remmick to the best of my abilities without having seen the movie. I apologize for any spelling mistakes and if you asked to be tagged but weren’t it’s probably because your acc didn’t show up when I tried tagging you. Apart from that I enjoyed writing this and I hope y’all enjoyed it too! :)

————————————————————————————————————————————

Tags: @duckyhowls @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore @thecutestaaakawaii @akumazwrld

#remmick #remmick sinners #remmick fic #remmick x reader #remmick smut #x reader #x female reader #x fem! reader #fanfic #sinners fic #sinners x reader #sinners #sinners 2025 #fanfiction #vampire #vampirism #jack o’connell #Jack oconell

3K notes · View notes

writer-logbook · 5 months ago

Text

Random pieces of advice about worldbuilding and plot.

If every story is worth telling, there are some elements to take into account to make it right.

Every cause has consequences. A story is logical in one way or another. Whether you plan your story or go with the flow, if you ask about: the origins, reactions and actions to be taken following an event, the pieces somehow will ‘click into place’.

Everything has a cost. Magic system, war, life in general... Don't forget that resources are not unlimited. Consider the societal, social, natural, (magical, if need be) limitations.

Challenge the statut quo and the villain's motivations (if there's a villain in the original sense of the term) : Ask yourself why the villain wants to ‘change the world’ (and really question his legitimacy) and what the world should look like after the final confrontation. If we come back to the original point, it's that the plot didn't serve any purpose, being no more than a ‘historical aside’. Remember that everything happens for a reason, so make that reason a good one.

Make actual research about geography and climate: forest, desert and especially rivers can't pop out of nowhere, they must respect certain natural principles. For example, a river must have its source somewhere, often high up in the mountains. So it seems logical that a river should be close to a mountain. Be careful if you want to incorporate a map in your story !

Be careful when you rely on chance, fate or whatever you call it. I still can't work out whether it's worse than deus ex machina - especially if it's done badly. As far as I'm concerned, if you work well enough with the cause-consequence chain and have a good grasp of the limits of your universe, you won't need to rely on this kind of process. this one is actually pretty personnal, you have every right to disagree.

2K notes · View notes

butyoudidthis4what · 2 months ago

Text

Quiet

Widower!Jack Abbott x Widow Single Mom!Reader

19.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: sick baby; sick mom; mentions of needles; inaccurate medical knowledge/descriptions/tests etc.; reference to past pregnancy; reference to past miscarriages but no graphic descriptions, just a mention they occurred (reader does not actively experience one in the fic); Jack was in the army; reader's husband was in the army and died while deployed; discussions of IVs and needle sticks; reader gets an IV and is not afraid of needles; mild description of IV insertion; shy reader; discussion of possible peanut allergy; mentions of covid, influenza a and b and RSV; mom guilt; discussions of loss of spouse; lots of grief and self hate for a bit; Jack is vaguely suicidal and ideating at the beginning; healing; reader and jack are human and not perfect and make mistakes; reader can't cook; baby is a boy but is not named; DOMESTIC JACK

Summary: Widower Jack and widowed single mom Reader meet in the Pitt when Reader's baby gets sick. What follows is healing, patience and becoming ready.

A.N.: Inspired by this ask. This was so inspiring and I went totally off the rails. There will for sure be a part two. I really wanted to do something with Jack being a widower but was unsure of how to. This ask came in and the idea came to me and I felt like it was a good way to work with that piece of him. The beginning is quite emotional, I'm not going to say angst, there's just a lot of emotions and sadness and grief as we define Jack and Reader's reality. I PROMISE that the end gets fluffy and happy and (I hope) funny! Part two will be more fluff with a dash of emotion sprinkled in as we watch their relationship develop and the two get their happily ever after together!

You make it to about ten before you decide to go in. It’s not a long drive and by 10:15 p.m. you’re parked and walking into the ED.

You bite your lip and bounce just a little to help keep him asleep in your arms while the woman behind the plexiglass processes your insurance and co-pay. She gives you a warm smile, says to take a seat and it’ll be just a few minutes and they’ll get you back.

Thanking her you grab your cards and do as she says. You’re surprised by how quiet it is. There’s a few people in the waiting room but it seems more like they’re waiting on people as opposed to be seen. Small mercies, you suppose. You’ll take what you can get.

You can only imagine what you must look like right now, how bad you must look. You wish your husband was here. Wish he had been here for it all. He’d reassure you. Tell you that you were doing the right thing by coming in. Better to be safe than sorry. You can hear him telling you it.

A call of your last name dissolves his voice playing in the back of your head. You follow a nurse back and get settled in a room. All the basics are done, everything you expected. And like you expected the second you set your son down so that his vitals can be taken he starts to cry. It makes you want to cry.

Bridget reassures you that it’s okay, is quick taking his vitals so you can get him back in your arms and calm him. You know you must look like a mess, hair messed up, eyes reflecting how exhausted you are and the lack of sleep, wrinkled clothes that have at least one stain somewhere, probably more. And you’re sure that your face reflects how you feel inside, how frazzled you are, how guilty, how scared, how upset, how sad, how out of control you feel.

Bridget dims the lights for you and leaves you to hold your son against you in the hospital bed. “I’ll have a doctor in as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, “and I’m sorry for being kind of a mess. Well, not kind of at this point.”

She just laughs. “I understand, but trust me, you’re doing just fine.”

You manage to give her a small smile back and nod. She walks out and then it’s just you and your son. Like it always is. Your husband isn’t here, he’s never going to be here. His absence is pronounced as you lay in a hospital bed in an emergency room with your sick nine-month old. You do your best to not think about it because if you do, you’ll lose it.

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

He’s missing her tonight, more than usual. Maybe it’s not so much that he’s missing her more than usual but he’s more aware of how much he always misses her. It’s more acute. Like some flareup of a chronic illness. Thinking in medical terms helps.

He knows he shouldn’t do that, try to understand it like it’s some illness he can study and understand. It’s just grief. It’s just there more than others some days. Sometimes he can articulate why and others he can’t.

Tonight he can’t.

He bends his thumb inward and puts it on his wedding band, thumbs at it so it rolls around his finger. Nervous habit. That’s what he calls it now. When she was alive it helped ground him, reminded him she was there and he’d be going home to her, could make it through whatever was in front of him. And then she died. So now he tells himself it’s a nervous habit because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to call it.

To those who don’t know him he still looks like a husband subtly using his wedding band to ground himself or remind himself of his wife or because he’s thinking about her and so he’s subconsciously playing with his ring.

If only.

Jack inches a little further and looks down over the ledge of the roof. The ground looks so inviting from the roof sometimes. It would be so simple. He could be reunited with her, if such a thing was real.

Sometimes though he wants to be selfish and not care how she’d feel about it because she, unlike him, isn’t around anymore to feel fucking anything. Sometimes his grief comes out in anger because she got it fucking easy, she didn’t have to lose him, she doesn’t have to be here, doing all this feeling while alone. He always hates himself after that even though his therapist says it’s normal. But he’s stuck here and has to do the feeling because when he tried to bury the feelings he nearly self-destructed.

So Jack stands on the roof. Stands and feels. And Jack is tired. Tired of feeling. At least like this anyway.

He knows she’d hate it, hate him walking off the ledge of the roof so he doesn’t. Not tonight.

Instead he slips back under the guard rail and leans against it, lets his head fall back and the chill in the air bring him back down.

It’s too quiet, he realizes. Maybe that’s why his awareness of how much he misses her is so high right now. He likes noise. Keeps his mind quiet. The Pitt is too quiet. Even the City as he stands on the roof. And so his mind is loud.

It makes him uneasy. There’s always a reason for silence. For quiet. It always means something. Always brings something. Rarely, if ever, is it good.

Jack lets out a heavy sigh and then leaves the roof, heads back down to the Pitt hoping to find something to do. He’ll take anything at this point. “There you are,” Bridget greets him as he walks back in. “Sick nine-month old waiting for you,” she nods at your room, tells him your son’s name, a general overview. “Baby doesn’t seem too bad. Mom is stressed.”

Jack nods, says a quick “thanks,” as starts walking towards your room.

He looks in and sees you through the glass and stops. You are beautiful. Strikingly so. And Jack hasn’t even met you yet but feels like he’s known you forever, is drawn to you. It feels like he just understands you, or maybe more like he knows you’re going to understand him. It’s the strangest feeling.

You start to glance up from looking at your son and Jack quickly resumes moving, knocking slightly on the door since you’ve already seen him and walking in, shutting the door behind him. “Hi, I’m Dr. Abbot,” he introduces himself.

And god, now that he’s in your space, in here with your energy it’s even more intense. It’s like he’s supposed to know you, supposed to have met you. Like some kind of palpable fate in his brain. He briefly wonders if he’s hallucinating because this is not shit he really believes in, not normally.

Quiet, Jack thinks. It always brings something. Or maybe someone.

“I hear we’re not feeling well.” He looks down at your son who is asleep in your arms, head on your chest. “Mom, right?”

You nod, tell him your name. Nearly trip over it because this man is so handsome it is unfair. Then you feel bad the second you have that thought. But then you start to feel pulled to him. He’s just comforting and you struggle to understand how because you don’t know him. It feels like you do, but you don’t. You’re drawn to him. You feel like you actually need to know him. Like he and you are here for a reason.

You immediately chastise yourself for having those thoughts. Your husband, you remind yourself, your husband. He’d have wanted you to move on, to grieve and then find someone. You don’t even have to assume that or just think it. You knew it. You knew it because of that fucking video he left you that you were never supposed to have to see.

You bring yourself back into the present.

“What’s been going on to bring you in?” Jack asks as he logs into the computer and pulls up your son’s chart. He glances over at you and catches a look in your eye. Jack thinks you feel it too. Whatever is between you and him, the connection. It feels like you know it’s there too. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.

You tell him what’s been going on, symptoms your son is showing. Jack alternates between typing on the computer and looking at you. “I, um, I called the nurse hotline, you know, on the back of the insurance card before I came in, I really didn’t want to waste your time, I know you guys are so busy. She said that it’s probably okay to wait to get in with the pediatrician, but that if I was concerned I could go to the emergency room and I really tried to wait, I did, but I just, I don’t know. I felt like he sounded more wheezy.” You shrug at him, eyes round and showing how distressed you are, a hint of glass at them that suggests you’re close to tears. “It’s RSV season, you know? I mean I know you know. And god, I don’t want to be like, doctor WebMD or whatever, I trust you and your expertise, it’s just why I came in, they tell you about it so much at all the appointments and I, I don’t want anything to happen to him. But if you think this is too much you can just say and-”

“It’s not too much,” Jack cuts you off, nodding gently. “I promise. Better to be safe than sorry especially if you feel like he’s been a little more wheezy.” You nod at Jack who keeps looking at you intently. It makes you clear your throat and look away. But when he doesn’t say anything after a second you look back up at him. “You did the right thing,” he tells you when he catches your eye contact again. “Can I?” He gestures to your son.

“Oh! Yes, yes of course! Here, let me get out of bed and lay him down.” You give a breathy laugh that reveals how out of sorts you are. You’re clearly thrumming with nervous energy, frenetic and flustered.

“No, it’s okay. You can stay, I’ll take him and get him on the end of the bed if that’s okay?” He holds his hands out to take your son.

“Of course, yeah, whatever is easiest for you and best for him!” You gently pull your son from you and he starts to wake and fuss. “I’m sorry, he hates not being held right now and he hates being held by anyone but me it seems like sometimes, so he might not…” you trail your sentence off when Jack takes your son and he settles against Jack as they walk to the end of the bed. “Settle.” You sit up and cross your legs to give Jack more room. “I guess he likes you,” you laugh softly.

“Good taste in people already,” Jack quips absentmindedly as he lays your son down. You give a soft laugh and the corners of his lips pull up. You get his humor. He likes that. Not everyone does especially when he executes it so stoically sometimes. There really is a draw there.

Your son starts to fuss again and Jack can see you stiffen a little and start to look like you’re about to apologize. “It’s alright, little guy, I’ll have you back to mom soon.” He keeps a hand gently on your son’s tiny stomach and chest while putting his stethoscope on with one hand and rubbing the chest piece on the side of his scrub top for a few seconds to warm it up before putting it to your son’s skin. “I know, I’m sorry,” he murmurs in between listens, gently pulling your son up into a sitting position to listen to the back of his chest. “I’m the worst, I know, you can tell me all about it, won’t be the first or the last.”

You sit there watching the whole interaction stunned. You don’t know why, you just never expected to get a doctor who would be so good with your son, with you. There’s something about him. Something you could never hope to articulate. You’re just drawn to him, he feels like some sort of kindred spirit which you tell yourself is crazy because you’ve known the man all of four minutes.

Jack takes his stethoscope out and finishes his exam. “You have his clothes?” He glances up at you as you ask.

“Hm?” You lean in a little towards him. Before he can repeat himself the words process. “Oh, yes!” You grab them from beside you. You’d taken them off earlier with Bridget so she and eventually the doctor could examine your son.

“Thanks.” Jack grabs them from you and gets your son dressed again.

“No, thank you. You… You didn’t have to do that.” The smile you give him almost reads embarrassed.

“Least I could do for upsetting him so much by laying him down.” Jack picks your son up and brings him the few steps back up to you as you stretch your legs out again. Your son has already started to settle in his arms again.

“So,” Jack reaches over for the rolling stool in the room and uses the pressure of his fingertips to slide it over to him before sitting down on it and rolling up to be closer to the midpoint of the bed so you can talk. “You’re right, he’s a little wheezy. Nothing terrible, but it’s there. His fever is still pretty low grade and I saw he’s about due for some acetaminophen, so we can recheck after we give him some more in a bit. Is RSV a possibility? Yes. So is a common cold. So is influenza A or B, so is Covid.” Jack can see you getting more panicky.

“I…” You shake your head and look at Jack. “This is my fault.” Jack furrows his eyebrows at you and cocks his head a little. “I, I’m a single mom. It’s just him and I and I have to send him to daycare so that I can work and I don’t have any family around to help and I can’t afford a nanny, daycare is expensive as it is and I don’t want to have to send him to day care, even though I know that’s a normal thing and lots of parents do it and are good parents, are great parents, it doesn’t define how good of a parent you are, but I just think in this case, it’s me. I let him get sick. I exposed him. And I never wanted that, I really didn’t I just don’t have other options and it’s so hard and I spent months researching and touring locations to try and find the best one I could afford, but at the end of the day it’s still a cesspool of germs and I don’t know. I know that it’s mom guilt and daycare guilt and I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do and you know, nothing can happen to him.” You hold your son a little closer to you. You know if something happened to him you’d be gone within minutes. “Nothing can happen to him,” you repeat, a murmur.

There’s a small silence and then you look up. “Oh my god,” you look at Jack horrified. “I just dumped that all on you and said all of that out loud. You’re a doctor. A busy doctor in an emergency room, you so do not have time for this, and god, fuck, it’s not even your job to listen anyway. I am so, so sorry.” You fight back tears because you are not doing this, you are not losing it here in an emergency room with your son in your arms. Because if one tear falls all of them will.

Jack can see how you’re trembling. He noticed you were a little when he came in the room, noticed how chapped your lips were.

“Hey, it’s all good.” Jack’s voice is soft and he tries to catch your eye to reassure you more but doesn’t force you when you avoid it. “I have time, you picked a good night, okay? And I know that nothing I can say will help with the guilt and I know you know but this stuff happens. They get sick. You did what you’re supposed to do, brought him in, called the hotline, monitored him closely.” You close your eyes for a second and take in a few breaths. He can tell you need to move on and not dwell here or something will open up that you can’t close and there is nobody who understands that better than Jack. “I don’t think anything is going to happen to him. I’m going to give you some choices, okay?”

You finally look back up at him and nod, give him an apologetic smile. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Jack nods. “First option is we give him some acetaminophen here and keep you guys here for a couple hours to monitor him and see how he does. That’s the least intensive option. Second option is the most intensive option. We test for RSV, rhinovirus, influenza A and B, Covid. That would be a swab test, one for all. We draw some blood and run a few tests just to check on everything. And then we do a chest x-ray to see if anything’s going on. Third option is a middleground. We start with the swab test. If it comes back positive for one we discuss more options. If it comes back negative then maybe we decide to do bloodwork. Choice is yours. None of them are wrong.”

You swallow hard. Your mind races as you try to decide. What if you make the wrong choice and something happens?

“What would you do if he was yours?” You ask Jack, voice so, so small, so scared. Jack barely knows you but his heart aches for you. It’s like he understands you somehow even though he’s not a parent, has no reason to feel such a pull or connection to you.

“Uh, wow, I… I don’t know,” Jack stutters a little because the question throws him so much.

“I’m sorry if that was inappropriate, you don’t have to answer. I thought maybe you and your wife had kids and maybe that’s inappropriate too, god.” You cringe at yourself. But yeah. You’d noticed the wedding ring when he took your son from you.

“No, no, it’s not inappropriate and we… I,” Jack looks almost pained. It’s familiar, the expression he wears. You feel like you know it well even if you can’t place it in the moment. “No kids,” he finally settles on, “I don’t have any kids. And I can’t say I’ve thought about… this, what I would do before.” He brings a hand up to his head and runs it through his hair before crossing his arms over his chest for a second before moving them back down to rest on his legs. “It’s hard,” he shrugs, and gives you an apologetic look. “The doctor in me who knows all of the possibilities says option two. But the doctor in me also knows that’s probably a bit overkill and that realistically option one is fine, and that option three is the best, that middleground.” He looks away from you and down at your son, studies your little boy whose small hand clings to your shirt. “I can’t say I’ve ever really tried to access the… paternal side of me,” Jack clears his throat, “not in a long time anyway. But I think I’d have to go option two, even though it’s overkill and involves a needle stick. I’d want the reassurance and to see the numbers and images.”

You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly and look down at your son. “Yeah, I think that’s what I want to do. I just needed, I don’t know. Not permission but… something.” You look back up at Jack and your eyes glaze over a bit. Something he recognizes, something he’s been told happens to him when he talks about his wife. His head tilts slightly at the thought. “Input.” You finally whisper. “I needed input.”

Jack watches your bottom lip tremble and you bite it to stop it from doing so.

Because you don’t have input. Your input is in the ground. Six feet in the ground. You never really got to have any input. Not from the one person whose input mattered most.

And you don’t miss how you feel this connection to Jack and now he’s your input. Guilt and sorrow and grief and some vague flicker of anticipation slam into you. Anticipation is a new feeling, you haven’t had it since you gave birth. Even the way you phrased the question. Not what would he do with his child or if it was his kid here what would he do. No, you’d asked what would he do if your son was his.

You have to stop thinking about it.

Jack leans back a little and runs his palms down his thighs. “Okay, then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll go ahead and put in the orders for the tests and acetaminophen. You can go to x-ray with him and wait behind the door, the rest we’ll do in here. I can swab,” he says with a small smile as he grabs one of the testing kits they have out of the cabinet in the room. He quickly types an order into the computer.“But I’m going to have one of our nurses come and grab some blood. I’d do it but nobody wants that. They’re the best sticks in the place, I promise.” He gives you a small but reassuring smile.

You can’t remember the last time you genuinely felt reassured by anyone’s smile. That’s a lie. You can. It was the last time your husband ever smiled at you. The thought makes the smile you give him in return falter a bit. Jack wonders if he did something. Said the wrong thing.

Your son fusses a bit for the swab, but you’re able to help hold him still so that Jack can get it done as quickly as possible. He settles back easy enough. Bridget walks in with some supplies while Jack continues typing.

Jack was right, Bridget is a fantastic stick and the needle is so small your son makes just a little whimper before resting on you again. You feel bad when you have to wake him a bit to give him the tylenol. His small hands rub at his eyes and he tries to move his head away but you coax him to it so easily, so naturally, Jack thinks to himself. “Thanks Bridget,” he says quietly as she walks out.

“Alright,” Jack says through an exhaled breath as he finishes on the computer. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” he starts as he grabs some hand sanitizer, “I’m more worried about you, mom, than I am about the baby.” He turns to look at you as he sits back down on the stool, tilts his head at you.

You blink at him, like what he said is still processing. “Me?” Jack nods. “I’m fine, I feel fine. I’m just maybe a bit tired because, you know, sick kid but… I’m fine.”

Jack pushes his bottom lip out a little and pulls down, nods just a little. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. “When’s the last time you ate?”

You look at him again for a moment and for a minute Jack thinks he’s gone too far, overstepped, has been imagining everything he’s felt since he saw you. “Um,” you finally say. He realizes you’ve been trying to think when it was, not that he upset you or anything. “I, I don’t know, probably I had something for lunch, I’m sure.”

“You’re shaking.” Jack points out. You furrow your brows, unsure if he’s right and if he is how he could possibly know that. “Hold out a hand.” You do as he asks and sure enough, you can’t keep it still. “When’s the last time you drank some water?” He gives you a look as he says it and tilts his head at you. “Your lips are chapped. It’s been a bit, I’d guess. You’re dehydrated.”

You look away from him, can’t decide if you’re uncomfortable with his scrutiny or if you kind of like it. It feels wrong to like it.

“Listen, I’m not trying to be a dick, okay?” He goes to continue speaking and stops, what he just said hitting him. “I probably shouldn’t have said dick in front of a patient, so I apologize for that,” you laugh at that and shake your head telling him not to. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be doing this by yourself. But you have to take care of yourself for him, and again, I know you know that,” he holds his hands up, “I just wanted to say because I’m sure it’s easy to lose sight of, especially when he’s sick.”

You nod and let yourself look back at him. “Yeah,” you nod. “It is.”

“So, game plan for you is to get some food and water in your system. What do you like to eat?”

“Oh, wow,” you laugh a little. “Dr. Abbot, that is-”

“Jack,” he interrupts you to tell you, “call me Jack.”

“Uh, okay. Well, Jack, that is very kind of you but I’ll be okay, and I can grab something once we get home. I will grab something.” You try to give him a reassuring smile. “Promise.”

Jack shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “No, you’re going to be here too long for that to be a deal. Between the x-ray and blood test results and monitoring him. Food and water or I’m going to create a chart for you and give you an IV.” He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s something he would do for any patient.

You both know he wouldn’t.

In part because having this much time is a rarity, beyond a rarity even. In part because any patient isn’t you.

You open your mouth to speak a couple of times and then close it again. “Okay,” you whisper.

“Great,” Jack smiles at you. “What do you like to eat?”

You look at Jack and you look so overwhelmed he starts to feel bad. “Jack, I, honestly?” you laugh, “I have no fucking idea. Like none. I don’t remember, I don’t have the ability to even pick.” You’re still laughing because it’s so fucking ridiculous. A simple question. And yet you can’t answer it.

There’s a sorrow to your laugh that resonates with Jack. It sounds familiar. Sounds like his laugh sometimes.

“Alright, well,” Jack laughs a little with you, keeps it light, “I’d say I can work with that but I think it’s really more like I’m gonna have to work with that.”

You shake your head and cringe at yourself. “You must think I’m a disaster. God, I’m sure I look like one.”

Jack presses his lips together and squints a little, shakes his head. “I don’t think either, nor is either true.”

Jack leans back and it stretches his shirt against his chest, pulls it tauter. The outline of two familiar pieces of metal and rubber silencers becomes visible, just for a second. You’d been feeling a little better. Now you’re about to be sick. About to lose it.

Your smile falls, and Jack furrows his brows, goes to ask if you’re okay.

“Do you have dog tags in your pocket?” You glance down at his chest pocket.

“Uh, yeah, yeah I do.” If Jack had stopped right there you would have been fine. You would have been able to breathe through it, shut yourself down emotionally, and kept it all in. But he doesn’t. And you’re exhausted and your baby is sick and your husband is dead.

Jack pulls them out of his pocket and flashes them at you. Quickly, but long enough.

Jack knows something is wrong based on the look on your face and the way you stare at his dog tags and then his chest pocket when they’re back away. You start shaking your head, squeeze your eyes closed. “Hey,” Jack starts softly.

You shake your head faster, try to say something but all that comes out is a soundless sob as you devolve into tears. Quiet ones because your son is asleep in your arms but big wracking ones nonetheless.

It clicks into place. The draw to you. Feeling like he understood you and you him. Recognizing the way your eyes glazed over just slightly. The familiar sorrow to your laugh.

You’re a widow too.

And if Jack was a betting man he’d put a whole lot of money on your husband being deployed when you lost him.

Jack’s up quickly, grabbing the box of tissues and setting them on the bed near you while reaching for your son wordlessly, only a nod and gentle motion of his hands to offer. You’re torn between whether having your son out of your arms will help or hurt, but you know it’s not fair to him and that eventually he’ll wake up because of your sobs, no matter how quiet you are.

Jack takes him from you and sits back down in one of the chairs this time, pulling it over to be closer to the bed and kicking the stool out of the way. Your son stays asleep as Jack settles him on his chest. He feels a bit cooler too, Jack notes.

“I’m so, sorry,” you choke out quietly between sobs, “you can give him back and go, this is, this is not your problem to deal with.” Jack doesn’t reply, just nudges the tissues closer to you.

And so you keep crying. And Jack keeps holding your son.

Eventually you cry yourself out and are so numb you’re left with just shame and embarrassment for doing this here, in front of Jack and your son.

As the sniffles stop, you try to look at Jack but are too embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat. “I’ll take him back and you can go.”

Jack stands up and hands you your son back. A wave of relief and calm washes over you at having his familiar weight back in your arms and on your chest. But there’s a pang of sadness too, you really thought Jack might stay. You don’t know why you care.

But Jack surprises you, sits back down and pulls his phone out for a second, sends off a couple of messages. He turns his attention back to you. “I’m gonna stay for a bit. The uh,” he struggles to find a word that won’t jinx everything, “patient census,” he makes a face when he says it like he can’t believe he just said those words, “is low tonight. I have time.” He lets out a long breath through his nose. “And you have nothing to apologize for,” he shakes his head slowly as he speaks.

You give him a slight smile at patient census and the look he pulls, a little nod and he doesn’t push for more. He gives you time.

But after a while he puts it out there so you know that you can. “You wanna talk about it?”

You look at him and see understanding, feel like you’re really being seen for the first time since your husband died and you don’t know why Jack is the one.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. Shrug at him with a watery smile. “I don’t know how to.”

Jack nods slowly. Pauses for a moment and takes in a big breath he lets out, a little shaky. A shaky you feel like you recognize. “My wife died five years ago, so when I say I know what you mean, I promise I really do.”

You shut your eyes and grimace as it all falls into place. The connection you felt with him. The pull. Why he makes you feel seen.

“God I am so sorry, when I asked earlier, about kids and if you and your wife had any, I just thought with the ring, god I of all people should know better than that.” You shake your head at yourself.

“You had no way of knowing,” Jack shakes his head. He looks down at his ring. Then to your ring finger which is empty. That deep set confliction and need to explain starts to rise. “I still wear it because… I think… It’s-”

“Hey,” you say softly. “You don’t have to explain. Not to anyone, and certainly not to me.”

Jack nods. You sit in the quiet for a few minutes.

“I would probably still have mine on, but,” you sigh, “I guess it requires more backstory.” You pause to collect yourself. “Long story short is he was in the army. Scheduled to be deployed. Really short one. He was done after it too. Would have been out.” You take in another shaky breath. “We’d been trying for a baby for a while. I kept miscarrying. Little under two weeks before he was leaving I found out I was five weeks pregnant. And this one felt different. I had morning sickness. There was so much cautious optimism and he hated that he had to leave but he was supposed to be back in time for birth as long as everything went as planned.” You shrug. “He died when I was ten weeks pregnant.”

Jack closes his eyes at that. His heart aches for you in the way only someone whose heart has been through that same loss can.

“Yeah, pretty fucking sick of the universe. The one time I keep the pregnancy I lose the husband.” You wipe at your eyes with the tissue in your hand. “Anyway, late pregnancy my hands swelled up. Rings didn’t fit. I had to take them off. And once I had him and knew they would fit again I couldn’t bring myself to slide them back on. He was supposed to be the one to do that, you know?” Jack nods. He gets it. “So I think that’s probably the only reason I’m not still wearing mine.”

“It’s not been five years though,” Jack points out.

“There’s no timeline on when to be ready and take them off. I’m the newbie to the widow game here, but even I know that.” You give him a lopsided smile and Jack lets out a little laugh.

“No timeline to any of it.” Jack offers. You raise your brows and lower them, nod as to wordlessly say true.

You’re interrupted by Bridget bringing in some water and food for you. It’s obvious something has happened between the two of you and that you’ve been crying. “There’s an incoming,” she says quietly to Jack. “ETA four. We need you.” He nods.

Bridget steps out and Jack stands up, puts the chair back and looks back at you, rolls his eyes. “Patient census comment coming back to bite me in the ass. Shoulda known better.”

You let out a small laugh. “I thought it was very Scottish Play of you.” Jack smiles at you. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.” He walks over to the door and puts his hand on the door handle, pauses, thinking.

Jack turns back to look at you. “What’s done cannot be undone,” he says with a little smirk.

You laugh almost properly at that. It makes you feel, maybe not totally happy, but okay. It’s been a while since you’ve felt either.

“Oh wow, okay, well go get ‘em Lady Macbeth.” Jack laughs softly, more of just a smile with some air breathed out of his nose as he shakes his head a little at you.

He doesn’t say to eat and drink the water and that he’ll be back to check on you. He doesn’t need to. You know.

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

A few weeks pass. Your son recovers without incident. You can’t stop thinking about Jack. Jack can’t stop thinking about you. He has to talk himself out of looking up your info in your son’s chart and going to stop by and make sure your son recovered okay.

You get sick. Really sick. You finally get your son down for a nap and stare at the piece of paper Jack had given you as you left.

“Here,” Jack hands you a slip of paper with his name and number written on it. “If you ever need anything, call me, okay? If you need help fixing something at home or someone to watch the baby for an hour so you can grab a shower, or for however long it takes you to get your hair done, or whatever. Don’t hesitate to call.” Jack swallows. He doesn’t know how this part is going to go. “Or, you know… just call me.”

You look up at him wide-eyed. “Oh, wow,” you laugh nervously, “wow Jack, I am so flattered, truly. But I just,” you look away from him, suddenly somehow even more shy, like the man hasn’t seen you sobbing and snotty and is still interested in you. “I’m not ready. I don’t know when-”

“That’s okay,” Jack nods, “I just wanted to put it out there. But still. I want you to call if you need something, okay? I respect your answer and so if you call I’m not going to expect anything or badger you about it or try and force it on you. I just want to help.” He looks to the side for a moment and then back at you. “One vet helping an active.”

You feel so bad about it, are so conflicted. But you could really, really use some help. So you text him, tell him it’s you.

You - Are you at work?

J - No.

J - Everything okay?

You - Did you just get off work?

J - No, string of off days.

You chew your lip as you pull up his contact and stare at the number. You just tap randomly at your phone and let the universe decide. If it calls him then it calls him, if it doesn’t then it wasn’t meant to be.

It calls him.

“Hey,” he picks up on the first ring, sounds concerned, “you okay? Baby okay?”

You clear your throat and he can already hear it, is already standing up to throw on some real clothes and grab supplies. “Baby’s great.” He cringes at how bad you sound. If you feel as bad as you sound he’s genuinely astounded by how you’re taking care of a now ten-month old while being so sick. “Me, not so much. You said to call and I… I didn’t want to and I know this is so unfair, but I don’t have anyone else and I could just really really use an hour to get a shower and tidy a few things up.”

You need more than an hour to shower and tidy up, you need to sleep for as long as you can, Jack thinks to himself. “Text me your address.”

There’s a beat of silence. “You sure?” You ask him, give him an out.

“Positive. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? Within the hour.”

“Okay.” It’s so quiet he almost misses it. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Text me, okay?”

“Yeah.” You hang up and do so.

Jack stops by the hospital before he comes over, grabs a couple bags of saline, a couple of banana bags, and a few IV kits, tosses them in his backpack. Tells a raised eyebrows and confused Robby to tell Gloria to bill him for it and he’ll bill the hospital for the use of his supplies and tech during Pitt Fest before walking out.

Then he stops by a grocery store, picks up some food and over the counter meds and then he’s on his way to you.

The knock on your door startles you even though you know it’s just Jack. You open it and his eyebrows raise as he takes you in. You look like death warmed up. Maybe not quite that bad but Jack’s judgment of that is skewed because it’s you and he doesn’t like seeing you sick he has decided.

“Hi,” you whisper as he walks in. “He’s down in his room, if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the monitor while I shower and then I’d really love to just tidy up a bit.” You move your hand to reference your living room and kitchen, both visible with the open floor plan. “It’s a mess. I’m sorry about that too, it’s normally not this bad.”

Jack takes the space in. It’s not even that bad. It’s very sick single mom with a baby. Not dirty, just cluttered. He notes the sparse decoration, wonders if you moved after your husband died. “It’s really not that bad,” he tells you softly and takes the baby monitor from you. “Come here.”

He steps towards you and you freeze, not sure of what to do. He just raises his hand and puts the back of it to your forehead. Jack flashes you a concerned look. “You’re burning up. Easily 102.”

You try to laugh it off but it just triggers a coughing fit. “I’m fine, it’s okay-”

“No,” Jack says firmly. “It’s really not.” He walks over to your couch and sets his bag down, slides the baby monitor into the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a forehead thermometer and nods at the couch, asking you to sit down.

You hesitate for a second, feel like this is too much and he’s doing too much and you should say he can leave, that he should go. But instead you go and sit on the couch.

Jack scans your forehead and frowns when he looks at it. “102.8.” His eyes flick to yours and he can see you going to say something, and he knows it’ll be something like you’re fine or it’ll come down. “Look,” he turns the thermometer around so you can see the reading. “The light is red. There’s a frowning face. So please don’t say it’s okay and you’re okay.” His words are firm but compassionate and he isn’t condescending at all.

“Well, once you leave if he’s still asleep, I’ll try to grab some rest.” You give him a weak smile. “Promise.”

“Oh no,” Jack shakes his head. “No way. If I wasn’t a doctor and didn’t have supplies with me, you’d be going to the ED.” He starts looking through his bag.

“Jack, this is really nice of you but unnecessary.” His eyes snap back to yours when he hears his name come off your tongue. He likes it. Too much. You said no, that you weren’t ready. But Jack can’t help how he feels, only on how he acts on those feelings.

He ignores your protests. “Plan of care is to have you shower if you’d like. Cool, please. And then I’m going to give you some meds, get an IV in you and a banana bag going and you’re going to go sleep.”

“I, I really think just a shower and some tidying will help me feel much better.” Another half hearted protest. It feels good to have someone want to take care of you. To have a man want to take care of you. To have Jack want to take care of you. Those are all feelings you haven’t felt in a while, and they’re from Jack Abbot. And a piece of you hates yourself for that, especially when your eyes wander to the folded American flag displayed on a shelf.

Jack tracks your eyes to it. “I’m not trying to overstep,” he starts to explain, “just, you’re a lot sicker than you think.”

“No, no, I know that, and you’re not, I’m just not used to it.” You try to find the word but it’s hard. “The attention, I guess. Or maybe the help. Pregnancy and labor and birth and coming home with a newborn while recovering were all alone, so it’s just… strange.”

Jack shuts his eyes and lets out a breath. His heart hurts because he knows what that kind of alone feels like. He knows how hard it can be to survive and live with. And he’s never had to experience alone everything that you have. He hates that you were alone. He’s even more in awe of you, honestly, that you were able to. There’s a sense of pride too, one he knows he has no business having.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I really don’t-”

“I know that, Jack, I promise and you’re not, I’m just.” You shake your head and look away for a second. “A mess,” you laugh softly, manage to not trigger a coughing fit.

Jack shakes his head a little. “You’re sick.”

You shrug, take in as deep a breath as you can. “Okay,” you nod. He knows you’re acquiescing in his treatment plan.

“Good.” Jack pulls his stethoscope out of his bag. “You mind if I listen to your lungs before you shower? Just to have a before and try to get a read on what it might be.”

You nod at him. Jack places his stethoscope on your chest, is careful to hold it so that his hand doesn’t come into contact with you because he knows he already expressed interest and that you’re not ready and the last thing he wants is for you to think he’s using this as some weird chance to touch you or make you uncomfortable. “Deep breath.”

Jack walks you through all the deep breaths he needs, frowning to himself a bit and not pressuring you when the deep breaths trigger your cough and he has to wait a minute to continue. The first time it happens his other hand automatically raises to go and rub your back but he catches it in time.

You don’t acknowledge it, don’t want to draw attention to it and in part don’t know how to react to it but you appreciate it more than he’ll ever know. He’s a gentleman. It’s nice and you really try to let yourself have that and let it feel nice without berating yourself over it feeling nice. But something feeling nice is so foreign and somehow feels so wrong. Like nothing should ever feel nice again because your husband isn’t here.

“Yeah, those are junky,” he mutters as he puts his stethoscope back in his bag. “Wish I had brought a breathing treatment for you.” He looks like he’s thinking about how he could get one here. He pulls his focus back. “Shower?”

You nod, stand up and start walking towards your room. “Hey Jack?” Jack looks up at you with raised eyebrows, body tensing just slightly like he’s ready to run towards you. “Thank you. And um, make yourself at home and help yourself to anything. I don’t know how much there is, but what’s there is yours.” You give a little nod and turn and walk off before he can say anything.

Once he hears the shower running Jack takes a better look at the place. He finds it strange how certain parts feel like you but the overall place doesn’t in a way. It feels like someone scared to settle in, scared to make this space their own. It feels like his first apartment after his wife died did for a long time.

He starts to tidy up, it’s really nothing major. He puts toys in the little toy bin you have, places the baby books on the floor on the bottom storage space of the table. He picks up the baby blankets and onesies laying around that he’s guessing need washed, sets them in a pile on a counter. He does the same kind of stuff in the kitchen, just picks up, wipes down. Again, nothing is dirty. It’s lived in. It’s a sick single mom with a baby who sets down an empty water bottle or paper plate and forgets to throw it away. He loads the dishwasher with the bottles and few plates and utensils in the sink. He’s not sure if what’s in there is clean or dirty but it’s fine, if it’s clean it can just get washed again. He waits to start it though, makes a note to do so later once you’re out of the shower and the hot water has had time to build back up just in case your water heater isn’t great.

You let yourself stand under the water for longer than you probably should. You try to keep it cool like Jack said, but at some point right before you get out you let it get really, hot, just need to feel it, feel a little sterilized almost. You think about how Jack is here and doing all of this for you and what would your husband think and does this make you a bad wife. You try to get yourself to believe that your husband would be happy you’re getting help, would be happy Jack is a veteran and that you’re not a bad wife because your husband told you he wanted you to move on and find someone and it’s not like it happened yesterday. It’s been over a year.

Once you’re out you slip on some modest pajamas, deal with your hair and put some lotion on your face, brush your teeth. You feel a little better, only because you feel clean, but still.

Jack gives you some time once he hears the shower turn off. After a bit he knocks on your door and clears his throat. “Hey, um, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to start the IV out here in the living room or in your room.”

Your chest clenches for a moment. You hadn’t even really thought about what it would mean for him to start it in here, just kind of assumed he’d come in and do it. But it means there would be another man in your bedroom. A man who is not your husband.

He gives you a moment to decide because he knows the magnitude of the question he asked.

You’re at war with yourself, but you know it’ll be better to have him do it here and have him figure out a way to get the bag to hang. “Um, you can do it in here, I guess. Unless you’d prefer to do it out there.”

“Wherever is best for you.” There’s a pause as Jack waits for you to come over and open the door. You’re so zoned out sitting on the edge of your bed you don’t even realize. “Should I come in?” He finally asks gently.

“Oh! Oh yes!” The way you breathe in at surprise and almost startle at having your zoned out thoughts interrupted makes you start coughing, so Jack slowly opens the door, trying to give you time to change your mind, walks in and over to you with his supplies just as slowly.

He sets some stuff out next to you. “Shower help?” He cringes internally the moment he says it, hopes it doesn’t make it seem like he was thinking about you in the shower.

“Yeah. Feeling clean has helped I think.” You watch as he gets everything ready. He has big hands, long and thick fingers that should make working with small pieces of medical equipment a bit difficult but they’re so dexterous and he has so much control over them that it’s not. Once you catch yourself daydreaming about his hands you look away, shame and guilt washing over you.

“Take these, please,” Jack says softly, handing you a few pills and holding an open bottle of water. You nod and do as he asks. “Good gi-” He stops before he can finish, some pink flooding his cheeks. It’s adorable, you think. He’s adorable and he’s trying so hard to respect you and just be here as a friend helping you out. You also think about the reaction you know you’d have had if he finished the sentence. More shame and guilt.

“How do you sleep?” Jack asks as he finishes setting the supplies for an IV up and kneels in front of you. You furrow your brows at him. “So I can put the IV in a good spot!” He rushes to explain. “Like if you sleep on your side I’ll put it on the top arm.”

“Oh.” You think about it and tell him.

“Hand please.” He points to the correct one and you offer him it. “Hands hurt more but it’ll be the best for sleeping. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me doing it.” He pulls a pair of gloves on. They fit nice and tight. Once he gets a tourniquet in a slip knot nice and tight around your arm he has you make a fist.

You shake your head at him as you watch those long and dexterous fingers run over and feel the back of your hand a veins beneath your skin. Satisfied he found a good one he opens the alcohol swab and wipes the back of your hand, lets it dry for ten or so seconds while he grabs the needle introducer. He feels for the vein again and looks up at you. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” You nod at him.

He’s quick with it. You like the expression of intense focus he gets as he does it. “Okay,” he draws the word out a little, slips off the tourniquet. “Needle is out,” he places a tegaderm dressing over it, “and we’re good.” He looks up at you. “You okay?”

“Barley felt it,” you murmur.

Jack gives a little laugh. “It’s okay, you can be honest. My pride can take it.” You just give him a look. “I’m gonna flush it. Some burning and maybe a weird taste.” He doesn’t explain much, knows you almost certainly had one when you gave birth.

He does and then stands up, looks around near the head of your bed. “I think I still have a really old coat rack in the spare room,” you volunteer, knowing he’s looking for a way to hang the bag.

“That would be perfect,” he nods at you.

“Second door on the left when you walk out.”

Jack steps out. He already knew that through process of elimination but he doesn’t tell you that. He went to the bathroom while you were in the shower, placing his ear by each door to figure out which room was the nursery. Left one room to be the spare room.

He brings it in and gets it set up. You offer him a hanger to place the bag on and he smiles at you. You give him a little one back.

Jack puts on a different pair of gloves and sanitizes everything before spiking the bag and priming the line. He hooks it up to your IV and sets the drip rate, keeps it fast enough to get what you need into you but slow enough so that you hopefully won’t have to wake up to go to the bathroom for a while because he knows you’ll likely fight going back to sleep.

“You need something to help you sleep?” He asks, a touch of concern in his tone.

“I think I’ll manage.” You give him another weak smile.

“Figured,” he nods. He grabs everything off the bed making sure to keep track of where the used needle is and then walks to your door. “Rest well.” He nods at you again and then steps out, closes the door behind him quietly.

You let yourself settle into bed, feel your heart slam against your chest with every beat as emotions whirl through you. Guilt, for having some kind of feelings towards Jack, for asking Jack to do this, for not being there with your son, shame, grief, embarrassment, anger at yourself for quite literally everything, and the faintest glimmers of hope, happiness, contentedness and a kind of longing which are all new and in turn fill you with fear.

You’re right though, you do manage to fall asleep. And fast. There are a few times you think you hear your son crying but it stops quickly so you don’t fully wake up. Another few times where you swear you hear someone in the room with you and them whisper “it’s just me, go back to sleep,” when they notice you stirring. If they’re real you let yourself listen to them and drift back asleep.

Jack is surprised at how long you sleep. He thought for sure with all the fluids he has been giving you that you’d wake up to go to the bathroom, but that must be how tired you are. He lets you sleep. You need it. And for whatever reason he really, really cares about you and doesn’t like seeing you sick. It worries him, if he’s honest with himself. Seeing you sick. He worries about you.

When you do wake up it is because you have to pee. You turn the lamp on to get there and close your eyes and flinch away from it until they adjust more. It starts to come back. The IV. Jack. Jack watching your son. You grab the bag of saline and go to the bathroom before walking out of your room. You have to stop at the doorway because it’s so fucking bright, let your eyes adjust.

It makes you realize how fucked up your sense of time is. You have no idea how long you were out and you hope you hadn’t been keeping Jack a prisoner in your place for too long.

When you walk into the living room Jack is on the floor with your son, some soft blocks knocked over the floor, your son on his back and cooing up at Jack, giggling like babies do at Jack every time Jack leans down over him and tickles his belly with one of Jack’s large hands and makes a funny noise at him. There’s a dirty diaper on the floor next to Jack, empty bottle on the table.

“You slept well, didn’t you little man?” Jack sits him up and keeps a hand on him, your son pretty good at sitting up by himself but still getting the full hang of it. Small hands reach out for Jack, trying to pull him close. “Oh yeah, and now you’ve had a bottle and have even more energy to burn, huh?” Your son giggles again as Jack takes him into his lap as he straightens his legs and rests your son’s feet on one of his thighs so that he can bounce as Jack supports him to keep him standing.

It’s the cutest scene. It’s so adorable your heart aches. It’s all you ever wanted for your son. And that’s why your heart shatters at the same time. Because your son doesn’t have it. Not normally. Your son doesn’t have a father. You don’t have a husband, the person you should be doing this with. This scene is a total one-off, a byproduct of you being sick and needing help. You appreciate Jack and all he’s done and how he’s being with your son but that’s supposed to be your husband.

That’s supposed to be your fucking husband on the floor with your son and it’s not.

It’s Jack.

It’s Jack and you don’t hate it.

Quite the opposite. You like the sight. Would like to see it again. Would like to see Jack again. And that makes you feel a little sick and a lot guilty. But you don’t stop liking it or wanting to see it and Jack again. You tell yourself you don’t though, that you don’t want to see it again and don’t want to see Jack again. You lie to yourself. The turmoil threatens to tear you in two.

You wipe a few tears away silently and then sniffle to announce your presence. You can get away with it because you’re sick. “Hey,” you say softly, make a face and try to clear your throat. “I’m sorry I feel like I probably slept longer than I meant to.” Clearing your throat didn’t help. You still sound awful, your voice totally going.

Your son squeals when he sees you, arms reaching for you already. You smile down at him. “Hi baby,” you greet him in the best voice you can manage, grab him from Jack. “How’s my boy?” You tickle his tummy because you don’t want to kiss him and get him sick and it makes him squeal again and babble at you.

Jack stands up and you notice there’s something off about the way he does, just slightly. You wonder if he suffered a back or hip injury while serving. He clamps the saline bag all the way and removes it from your IV so that you’re free. “What time is it? I hope I haven’t kept you here too long.”

Jack looks at his watch. “9:17.”

You blink at him for a moment. The sun filtering in through the curtains assures you he means in the morning. You make a face like you’re trying to pour through past memories. “What time did I make you come over? It must have been so early, I, I didn’t even realize I’m so sorry.”

Jack smiles as he steps around you and goes to set the bag on the counter, throw the diaper away and the bottle in the sink. He turns back around and leans against the counter, holds onto the edge of it with his hands. He already knows you’re going to freak out.

“First, you didn’t make me come over yesterday. Pretty hard for anyone to make me do something anymore. Second, I got here sometime around 4.” Your confusion deepens. “P.m. Yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” You look at him, stricken. “Oh my god, Jack, I am so so sorry! You should have woken me! I genuinely never meant to steal this much time from you and keep you hostage here, I am so sorry, I-”

“Hey, hey,” he steps closer to you but doesn’t touch you. “It’s okay. You have nothing to be apologizing for. I know I could have woken you and I never felt hostage here. I was okay with it.” He gives you a reassuring smile.

You shake your head at him a little. “God, where did you even sleep? That awful couch? I know how bad it is, I’m so- I feel terrible.”

“Don’t,” Jack laughs softly. “I promise you I have slept on much, much worse. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t…” You trail off because you haven’t really stopped to evaluate that. “Better I guess. Still sick but not as bad, at all.”

“Good.” He takes another step closer and holds his hand up, gestures to your forehead. “Can I?”

You nod, still lost in thought and shocked about how you could have slept that long. “Good, fever’s still down. It broke during the night.” Your son reaches for Jack’s hand, one of his small hands wrapping around one of Jack’s large fingers. Jack lets him keep it and play with it, but steps back a little. “Shit, I promise I only went in there to change your bag and take your temperature with the thermometer.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. You hadn’t even thought to care about him coming into your room when you were asleep, hadn’t even realized that could be a line he might have crossed. “I just feel so bad.”

“Please try not to.”

“I have to, you have to let me at least make you breakfast or something! You just watched my baby overnight for me.” You nod. “Yeah, let me make you breakfast, please.”

“I’d like that,” Jack nods slowly, face pulling into a knowing look with a little smile because you’re adorable and going to be upset. “But I don’t think that’s going to work,” he shakes his head and then gently nods at the refrigerator. You know there must be nothing in it.

“Fuck,” you sigh. You turn your head and rest your cheek on the top of your son’s head as you try and think. He continues to coo and babble away, at Jack now, whose finger he still holds on tight to. Jack makes a little face of surprise and noise at him and your son laughs.

“Let me order something then, yeah?” You offer. You watch as Jack argues with himself in his head. Part of him wants to say no, he should get it for you, for no real reason other than he wants to take care of you, and part of him wants to say yes because he knows it’ll make you feel better. “Please.”

“Alright,” he finally nods.

“Okay, great!” You start looking around for your phone and find it plugged in and charging. It hits you then. How clean and tidy the place is. “Oh my god,” you mumble.

“What?” The alarm in his voice is clear.

“You cleaned.” You look around more. A laundry basket of folded onesies and blankets and other baby clothes on the loveseat. “You did laundry.”

The realization sends you over some ledge you didn’t realize you were standing on. Your heart races. Your feelings are too conflicted. There’s too much turmoil. You know this is normal, have read about it, spoken to other widows who described what it was like to start dating again, start falling for someone. And you’re really starting to personally get it now.

You don’t know what to do with it. And you know you’re not ready for it. But you can’t lie about it to yourself anymore and pretend that Jack doesn’t give you new feelings that you haven’t had in a long time and that you don’t want to let yourself feel them or at least try. Can’t lie to yourself that you don’t want to try and be ready for it.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” Jack says quietly, unsure of what exactly your reaction means. While he’s also a widow it’s a bit harder for him to put himself in your shoes. He didn’t have a baby to need help with while trying to grieve and find a new normal.

“No, it’s not that.” Tears hit your eyes and you close them, hate that they’re happening. It’s the emotional overwhelm you tell yourself. The having someone do something nice for you. The having to accept help. The new feelings. So many new feelings from one man.

But you know yourself well enough to know that it’s also the wanting, despite how much you try to bury it and lie to yourself. The wanting to let yourself give in to those new feelings. Wanting to let yourself enjoy the new feelings. Enjoy Jack.

“Let me,” you hear Jack whisper, feel his hands get closer to you to grab your son who laughs in excitement at the prospect of being in Jack’s arms.

You keep your eyes closed and then turn before you open them, walk over to get a tissue and dab at them. “It wasn’t too much.” You’re speaking to Jack but keep your back to him because you’re not sure how you’ll react if you turn around and look at him. “It’s just really hard. Everything is so fucking hard. Every second of every day is an emotion, every second requires feeling.” Jack understands that one too well. “And you get used to that. The emotions, the feelings become familiar. Because they’re constant. You know what they are, what to expect. You know the feelings. They hurt so, so bad, but eventually you realize that not having them would hurt more. Would be scarier. Because they’re your normal, they fill that void in your heart. What would you be without them almost controlling your life? And then one day a new emotion, a new feeling creeps in. And it’s paralyzing. You think it hurts worse in some way than not having the familiar feelings would, but you don’t know because you never get a second to not fucking feel. And it’s because it’s new and you don’t know what to do with this new feeling and it throws everything off and is another change and because it almost always feels so wrong, to let yourself feel something new, especially if it’s a good emotion. And I know you know this Jack, I know you know exactly how I feel, exactly what it’s like. I know you get me. I know you understand. And I like that. I think part of me needs that. To move on or whatever you want to call it.”

Jack’s heart rate ticks up. This is not at all where he thought this conversation was headed.

You take in a deep breath and squeeze the tissue in your hand before turning to look at the unfairly attractive and smart and funny and caring and playful and stoic and dry humored and witty and kind doctor holding your son.

“You make me feel so many new things Jack. So many things I never thought I’d feel again. So many things I swore to myself I would never feel again.” You swallow hard. “And I don’t know what to do with them. They paralyze me. Not for long because they send me straight back to guilt and shame and grief, right back to those familiar feelings. I don’t know how to have these new feelings you give me anymore. At some point I lost that. So I don’t know how to handle it. How to handle you.”

Jack’s numb. Frozen. He’s not sure what this means. He understands you because the first time he started dating and was attracted to someone he’d gone through the same thing. It was hard at first. To not feel guilty. To not revert back to the emotions you know well. He’s not sure what to say. He goes to say that he’s sorry and didn’t mean to cause you distress and will go but you start talking again.

“But fuck Jack, I want to. I didn’t want to admit it to myself because it feels so wrong and because it’s scary and hard and makes me feel like a terrible wife sometimes. But I do. I want to know how to handle you and all the new feelings you give me, Jack.” His eyebrows raise slowly, his focus staying on you as your son starts to mouth on his finger getting saliva all over it, not phased in the slightest. “It’s just going to take time. I don’t know how much time. And I don’t think it’s fair of me to ask to wait for some unknown period of time.”

“You’re not asking,” Jack says quickly before you can get out another sentence. “You’re not asking me to. I want to. But only if you want me to. You said that you weren’t ready, and I respect that. And you have to know that I didn’t come over here to help, or do laundry or tidy up because I was trying to pressure you or make you feel something or make you be ready or for anything other than just to help as a kind-of friend. You have to promise me that you know that.”

“I do,” you tell him softly. “I promise.” You give a small laugh and little smile. “I think that’s actually the part that made me realize I couldn’t keep lying to myself that you didn’t give me new feelings and that I didn’t want to feel them. That I know you came here just because you wanted to help, help me, my son and my husband. And I know you did the laundry and tidied and stayed overnight to watch my baby so I could sleep just because you’re kind, and you saw it needed done so you did it, which is so army of you by the way, and not because you wanted it to mean something or make me feel bad for not being ready or pressure me or any other possible reason. You just… wanted to help.”

Jack smiles at that. Really, fully smiles and fuck if it isn’t one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. You smile back at him. It’s clear that nothing more needs to be said. You both know that you’ll work on being ready and learn how to feel and how to handle it all and Jack will wait.

“I never said I was army.” He smirks at you.

“Didn’t have to.” You give him a small smile. Even after this you’re still so shy.

You go and grab your phone. “What does that mean?” He asks, tracking you with his eyes.

“What would you like to eat?” You ignore him. You know already that it’ll wind him up.

“No, what does that mean? I have a tell?” You shrug at him. He narrows his eyes at you playfully.

“No,” you say as you hand him your phone so he can pick something and order and take your son from him. “It means you have a recognizable backpack.”

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

Time goes on. You get better. You and Jack grow closer. You keep going to therapy, keep working on processing and figuring out how to handle the new feelings, how to stop feeling so guilty. Jack waits. Patiently. Never an ounce of pressure on you. He’s always so respectful, goes to great lengths to be so, immediately apologizes if he oversteps. And he does a couple of times because he’s human and nobody is perfect. But it’s okay.

Jack’s injury comes out over breakfast that morning when he apologizes for having his shoes on in the house. You hadn’t even really noticed, too sick for it to register. He doesn’t tell you much about it which you respect and he’s grateful when you don’t push for more. That’s something he guesses he’s not ready for with you. Isn’t sure why though. He brings it up with his therapist.

Jack is over more and more often. At first it’s to check on you and make sure you’re getting better because your cough lingers. And then somewhere along the lines it just became a thing. Normal. Normal for you to see him more days than not during the week. Normal for him to put your son down for the night. Normal for him to sleep in the spare room. Normal for him to cook for you and help feed your son. Normal for him to keep spare bottles of toiletries in a bin under the guest bathroom sink. Normal for black scrubs that didn’t get god knows what on them to be washed with onesies and blankets.

Normal for him to bring five epi pens, multiple vials of epi, syringes with needles, an infant intubation kit and a cric kit to your house when you decide to introduce peanuts to your son.

That one had gotten him an attempted, and skillfully dodged, third degree interrogation from Dana and Robby.

You don’t touch. Not at all, save when your fingers brush if you hand each other something or when you take your son from him or vice versa. You’ll sit on the couch and Jack on the loveseat. There’s no flirting. It’s not that the attraction and draw to each other has faded, because it hasn’t. Not at all. It’s that you both know you need time and you both respect that. Jack perhaps more so than yourself, because you get mad at yourself about it sometimes.

You do talk. A lot. About anything and everything because talking to each other is easy. It’s not work. Neither of you have to think of things to talk about or try and come up with something to keep the conversation going. It just does. And when it dies down the lull is comfortable. Then someone thinks of something or sees something on TV and it’s back.

Eventually Jack is able to tell you a bit more about his injury, how it happened. The aftermath. He’s able to take his prosthetic off in front of you and leave a pair of crutches at your place for when he doesn’t want to put it back on.

You talk about your spouses. Your therapist suggested it, thought it may help, to acknowledge both of your spouses and know about them. You approach Jack about it and tell him you don’t want an answer right away, you want him to really think about it and if he’s ready for that and willing to do that, and that he doesn’t have to say yes and that if he says no nothing will change. Both of you are aware it’s in a sense one of the most intimate things you’ll ever do with each other.

Jack says yes though. And means it. He’s okay with it, comfortable with it. So one night after you get your son down you take the baby monitor, a bottle of wine and sit out on your apartment balcony and talk about them. You tell each other about them, what they were like, things they liked and disliked, funny stories. Jack tells you how he proposed and you tell him how your husband proposed. You talk about your weddings.

You share photos you have on your phone, of your spouses alone and of the two of you together. You tell Jack his wife was beautiful, seems like an amazing woman who kept him on his toes and mean it. Jack tells you that your husband was handsome and knew how lucky he was to have you, that it’s obvious by the way he looks at you in the photos. You smile wistfully and get misty eyed together. But it’s nice, getting to know the other’s spouse, more about your past lives. It tells you a lot about each other too, as much as it does about your spouses.

You talk about how you each learned your spouse had died. There’s proper tears during that part, from both of you. It’s one time you do touch, and it’s brief, and you’re the one to initiate it, tentatively taking Jack’s hand and giving it a little squeeze when he gets a bit choked up. He squeezes back to let you know he’s okay with it. When you get choked up talking about your husband he holds his hand out over the armrest of his chair, just a little, just enough for you to know it’s there. You move yours over and let him squeeze your hand.

You talk about moving after your spouses died. Jack tells you he just couldn’t do it. He needed space that was his own, where he couldn’t picture her in it and so he couldn’t expect to walk around a corner and see her. You tell Jack that you had to keep the curtain of the living room window closed all the time because the last time you looked out the window you saw that car pull up and two uniformed officers step out of the car, and just knew. And it made the place so dark it was bad for you so you sold the house and found this place. You admit that you haven’t been able to bring yourself to really unpack completely or decorate but aren’t sure why. The nursery being the only exception. Jack tells you that it actually reminds him a lot of how his apartment he moved into right after his wife died looked for a long time because he was scared to settle in and make a space without her because that wasn’t supposed to happen, he wasn’t supposed to have to do that.

As more weeks pass you start asking Jack to help you hang things. At first it sends you flying backwards in your healing because you just asked another man to help you decorate your apartment. Jack doesn’t say anything for the couple of days you’re off with him because he knows and he knows you’ll work through it. He gives you the space you need without you asking for it. You work through it with your therapist and apologize to Jack who tells you not to, that healing isn’t linear, trust him, he knows.

Jack watches your son for you sometimes during a string of off days so that he can spend a bit less time at daycare, especially if another kid is sick. Your son loves Jack, is enamored with him. And Jack is just as enamored with him. Is so incredibly good with him. It’s a place where you struggle a lot and that you and you and your therapist discuss frequently, how to cope with seeing Jack in that kind of fatherly role and acknowledge all the feelings it stirs up for you.

One Monday, a holiday that you were supposed to have off, something comes up and you need to go into the office, but daycare is closed. You hesitate calling Jack because you feel bad asking him to do this, especially knowing he’ll be getting off shift and you’re asking him to stay awake even longer. You don’t even know if he’ll be able to, he might not get off on time, or he might have plans. But you call him much quicker and more decisively than you did when you were sick.

Jack’s talking to Robby when he feels his phone vibrate. He thinks it’s weird to be getting called at 6:45 a.m. so he pulls it out to check. His heart drops when he sees it’s you and he walks away from Robby mid sentence.

“Hey,” he answers on the second ring, “what’s up? Everyone okay?”

“Yeah, yeah we’re fine. It’s just, work needs me to come in, not for too long, just a couple of hours, but I can’t bring him and daycare is closed with the holiday and I know this is such a huge ask because you’re getting off shift and will be so tired and I don’t even know if you’re getting off on time-”

“Woah, woah,” Jack stops you. “Take a breath.” He can hear you do as he says. “I can watch him, okay? I’ll make sure I get off on time. And I often stay late so being up a few hours after my shift before he goes down is not going to be anything new.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” You let out a breath. “You still have to let me cook or something for you.”

“You don’t have to repay me.”

“No I know, but still.”

“Can I be honest with you?” Jack asks.

“Of course.” Your heart races because you have no idea what he’s about to say.

“You can buy me takeout. But you can’t cook.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

You make a noise of offence. “I can’t believe you just said that! I’m offended. Genuinely offended.” But Jack can hear the smile you’re trying to hide in your voice and it just makes him smile harder to himself.

“That I said it or that it’s true?” He’s smirking now.

You huff and then there’s a pause. “That it’s true,” you admit begrudgingly, making Jack laugh.

Robby has blindly swatted at Dana’s arm to get her to pay attention so that he doesn’t have to stop watching and so now both of them are staring and watching Jack go from extreme concern to laughing and smiling. It’s almost disconcerting.

“I’m going to have to drop him off at the hospital to make it on time. Is that okay?” You’ve gotten quiet again.

“Yeah.” Jack sounds a little unsure but not because of you, because of the two he can feel staring at him. “I’ll need a key. And I’ll give it back, I promise.”

“Oh! Yes. You will need that, okay I’ll have to find the spare. And yeah, that’s fine, whatever is fine, I know you’re not going to use it randomly.” You breathe a laugh. “You’ll be okay with holding him on the subway? I wasn’t going to lug around the stroller, if that’s okay.”

“We will be more than okay,” Jack assures you.

“Okay.” You let out another breath in that way you do when you’re stressed but coming down Jack has learned. “Thank you Jack.”

“Not a problem, you know that.”

“Yeah, but still.”

“Text me when you’re here and come wait by the doors, I’ll open them for you, okay?” You’re thankful he doesn’t dwell.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

“Bye.” Jack hangs up and puts his phone in his pocket then turns and walks back over to Robby and Dana.

“Everything okay?” Dana asks.

Jack looks between the both of them. “Yeah. I’m leaving on time though.”

“Ohhh,” Robby laughs. “Are you now? You just decided?”

“Yeah. Did you notice how it wasn’t a question Michael?” Jack deadpans. “Just a statement of fact. I know these are big distinctions for you to make before you’ve had enough coffee.”

“Deflection,” Robby hums, leaning forward a bit and still smiling like he can’t believe any of this even when he doesn’t know what this really is.

Jack rolls his eyes at him and walks to a different computer to finish charting. Dana and Robby share a look but don’t push him. For now.

Jack’s phone vibrates fifteen minutes later. You, saying you’re here. He walks over to the doors and pushes the button to open them, walks in with you a few steps, your son already happily squealing and babbling at Jack, reaching for him. Jack makes a surprised happy face at your son like he’s shocked to see him and takes him from you.

Back at the desk Robby slowly removes his glasses as he watches the scene unfold, Dana peering over the top of hers like she does, everyone else slowly freezing once they follow Dana and Robby’s eyes to you and Jack.

“God, thank you so much Jack, I’m so so sorry.” You look stressed, frenetic and full of nervous energy that makes you even more unsure of yourself, not unlike the last time he saw you in here. He finds it adorable, so endearing.

“It’s okay. Truly. You’re going to have to believe me one day.” Jack gives you a small but reassuring smile.

“No I know,” you breathe out. “I just… This is your work, I know. And I know you’re going to get a million questions based on the entire desk of people staring at us.” You shake your head a little as you try to find words. “And I know it’s hard to explain.”

“Good job I don’t feel the need to explain it to any of them, then.”

You laugh a little at that. “Yeah. Um, here.” You slide the backpack baby bag you have off and help put it on one of Jack’s shoulders. “There’s a key in the front pocket. He went down late last night and then I had to get him up early to get him ready to come here. Seeing you is the first time he’s smiled all morning. So he should probably nap earlier for you if I’m not home before then, and probably be pretty chill until he does.”

“He’s always chill,” Jack smirks at you. “You know that.”

“Let me make myself feel better, please,” you huff at him, clearly still flooded with nervous energy.

“Alright,” he nods for you to continue but doesn’t lose his smirk.

“He’s had a bottle, but that’s it, so he might be hungry when you get home, if he’s a little fussy.” You reach out and run your fingers through his soft baby fine hair to push it out of his eyes. “God he needs a haircut doesn’t he?”

“Probably,” Jack nods. “But I’m sure-”

“That the thought of my baby needing his first haircut makes me want to sob because he’s growing up way too fast?”

“Something like that,” he nods.

“Yeah.” You run your hands through it and sweep it out of his eyes one last time, trying to calm some of the nervous energy that’s making you feel like you’re shaking. “Alright, I should go.”

You lean up and kiss Jack on the cheek. By the time your feet return to the floor you’ve realized what you just did.

Jack freezes, stunned, but not upset, not by any means.

“Oh my god,” you gasp quietly, holding your hands up in front of you to the side. “I just did that. Right here.” You close your hands into fists decisively, incredulous at yourself. “Okay, well,” you titter, “I’ve gotta go now, so thank you again so much, and let me know you guys make it home okay, and I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.” You nod at a still stunned Jack, who then finally starts to relax a bit and lets a smile start to pull up. “Great. Okay.” You lean in and kiss your son’s face. “Bye baby, be good for Jack okay?” You give your son another kiss and pull back, immediately back to your nervous and incredulous demeanor. You pat Jack on the side of the arm holding your son and then cringe at the action. “Right,” you let out a breathy nervous laugh. “Bye.” You spin and walk to the doors and hit the button to be let out.

“Bye,” Jack calls back, still sounding a bit dazed. He takes a second and then looks down at your son who’s looking around the busy room and then looks up at him and smiles, grabs at his face. Jack laughs. “Yeah, bud,” Jack sighs, leans down and kisses the top of his head quickly, doesn’t even really realize he’s doing it, “you’re about to be the talk of the Pitt. We both are. And your mom.” He takes a deep breath in and looks down at your son and makes eye contact. “God help us all.”

Jack turns and starts walking to the breakroom. He’d go to the lockers but he already knows what’s about to happen. “Not a word,” he says to Dana and Robby as he walks by.

“Oh be for fuckin’ real Jack,” Dana laughs under her breath, already starting to follow him.

“No, he’s right Dana, not a word,” Robby says as he starts to follow, “so, so many words.”

Bridget walks up to the desk and looks at everyone quizzically.

“A woman just came and dropped off a baby to Jack,” Princess tells her.

After the words process a large smirk grows on Bridget’s face. “Oh did she now?”

Jack sighs to himself as Robby and Dana follow him into the breakroom. He doesn’t want to do this but it’s borderline inescapable now and he’d rather it be here than out by the lockers. He slides the baby bag onto a chair.

“First,” Dana says as she walks in, “let me see him!” She walks over holding her arms out to take your son from Jack. He leans into Jack for a couple of seconds, unsure, but then lets Dana take him. “Hello cutie! What’s your name?” Robby walks over to her and says a soft hi, gives your son his finger to hold onto while Robby looks him over, smiling at him as your son babbles some.

Jack tells her his name. “God, Jack, he is gorgeous. Look at that hair and those eyes!”

She turns back to the baby in her arms. “Yeah, you’re handsome and you know it, don’t you? I bet you use it to get out of trouble sometimes, huh?” She winks at him. It makes him smile and giggle a little, as he drops Robby’s finger and brings a hand up to chew on. “Gettin’ more teeth in, are we?” Dana smiles at Jack as she rocks your son a little.

“Yeah, I think so, he’s been real chewy and drooly the last two days,” Jack nods.

“He yours?” Robby asks.

Jack’s head snaps to him. “What the fuck man?”

“Oh come on Jack, a random woman just showed up, gave you a baby, kissed your cheek and left. It’s not a far stretch. Nor is it a bad thing.” Dana looks at your son. “No it isn’t at all,” she says in a bit of a baby voice.

“And you’ve been different the last couple of months. I think you’ve only been up on the roof twice and even then you didn’t look like you were seriously considering jumping.” Robby points out.

“Oh my god,” Jack mutters under his breath. “No, he’s not mine.”

They both accept that. But it doesn’t quell their curiosity in the slightest. There’s a longer pause though, your son really the only one making noise as all three adults watch him.

“Who is she?” Robby finally asks, looking up at Jack.

“Does it matter?” Jack shoots back quickly.

“I mean…” Robby laughs a little incredulously, “yeah, a little.”

“Why?”

“Oh come on, Jack,” Robby draws out as he takes your son from Dana. “You’re telling me if a woman showed up and handed me a baby and kissed my cheek before walking out you wouldn’t have questions and want to know who she is? Or feel like who she is doesn’t matter?”

“Of course I would want to know, but who she was wouldn’t matter and if you didn’t want to say anything yet to keep things private I would respect that.” Jack raises his eyebrows at Robby and gives him a pointed look.

“Jack, it doesn’t matter who she is really, if she’s in your life we’d just like to know. We want to support you and see you happy. And you clearly know and spend time with the kid, enough for mom to feel comfortable leaving him with you and to know he’s been teething for the last couple of days. You spending time at her house?”

Jack doesn’t answer for a moment but then finally gives in. “Yeah.” Dana’s eyebrows raise in an invitation for more. “Yes, I spend time at her house. I help her out. I sleep in her guest room sometimes, watch him some days. So what?”

“So she matters,” Dana smirks at him a little. “She matters and she kissed your cheek so clearly there’s something.” Jack grows a little more serious and Dana and Robby both know she just hit some sort of nerve there. “Who is she? Please. Let us be happy for you.”

Jack takes in a big breath and looks at them for a second before resting his hands on his hips, slightly cocking one and looking down at the ground like he’s about to admit something. “My therapist.” He says it deadly serious and just loudly enough for them to hear.

He doesn’t need to look up to know the expressions they’re wearing, but he does anyway because Robby’s face of incredulity and concern is too funny to miss. “Really?” Dana asks.

“No!” Jack emphasizes the word with his head and a little brow furrow as he moves from his position to pace a little. “Of fucking course not! But thank you for this little exposé into what you think of me.”

“Hey, that’s why I asked,” Dana puts her hands up in defense. “I couldn’t believe it.”

“Yeah, you couldn’t,” Jack looks over at Robby, “but he sure the fuck could. And he knows my therapist is a man, we go to the same god damn one!”

“Well I didn’t know if you found a new one!” Robby says in his own defense. Jack rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna tell us? Anything? Or are we really wasting our time here?”

Jack stops pacing and sighs, looks at the baby boy in Robby’s arms. “It’s complicated,” he offers.

“We deal with a lotta complicated here.” Dana reminds him.

“Yeah well you’re not going to believe the truth,” he mutters.

“Try us.” Robby looks at Jack with a little knowing smile and tilts his head before looking back down at your son and making faces at him to keep him entertained.

Jack shakes his head a little and looks away as he tries to think about how to explain without giving away too much because he doesn’t want to totally destroy your privacy. “She’s a friend. Seriously. Just a friend who I help out because she’s a single mom with nobody in the area and she needs help sometimes. Her…” Jack debates on whether this reveals too much but it would explain to them why he’s so reticent to talk about you. “Her husband died while deployed. So, we have the widower widow thing in common and there was a kind of connection there, and yeah maybe it leads to more one day and maybe it doesn’t.” He shrugs at them. That’s all he’s going to say.

There’s another moment of silence as everybody takes in what Jack just said, himself included.

“So this is what the five epi pens and vials of epi and infant intubation and cric kit were about. He’s who they were about.” Robby looks down at your son. “Yes. They were about you, weren’t they?”

“Oh, peanuts,” Dana nods, looking from your son to Jack, “you introduced peanuts after you brought it all home.”

Jack just looks at the two of them and shakes his head. Some part of him wants to laugh at the way they went from pushing for information, to getting a little bit, to leaving it and not pushing for more and instead bringing up the supplies he took and fucking peanuts. He’s grateful for it.

“Yeah, we did.” Robby and Dana’s eyes flash up at him and they both have little smirks. It hits him. “She did. She did, she introduced peanuts. To her son.”

“With you there.” Robby’s smirk grows a little bit. “Ready to intubate.”

“I think it’s very sweet,” Dana says, smiling at him.

“I think we need to get home before his mom calls in a panic. I said I’d leave on time and text her when we’re home, so.” He walks over to Robby and opens his arms, your son all but launching himself at Jack, making all three laugh.

“He’s certainly a big fan,” Robby smirks.

“Of course he is, he has excellent taste already. Though he liked you, so we might have to have a chat when we get home about why our standards are falling.” He says it in his typical deadpan demeanor.

“I was being nice and then you ruined it.” Robby throws a hand up at him.

Jack picks up the baby bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I didn’t ruin it, I spoke the truth.”

“You’re so mean to me.” Robby looks over at Dana as they all move towards the door. “He’s so mean to me.”

“I am not mean to you.” Jack replies, stepping out of the door.

“A little bit,” Dana agrees with Robby.

“Thank you!”

“But he’s a little bit mean to you too, so it all evens out.”

Robby scoffs. “I’m not mean to him!”

“Just like I’m not mean to you.” Jack walks towards the lockers with your son. Robby and Dana stop at the desk, giving looks to everyone to tell them to go back to work.

Jack swings by his locker and grabs his backpack. He pins it against the lockers with one hip so he can open it enough to shove the baby bag in it and zip it back up. “Alright bud, you ready?” He glances down to check on your son. Your son gives a little smile and then lets his head fall against the front of Jack’s shoulder, almost like he’s shy. Jack has to laugh a little as he walks back by the desk.

“We’re out,” he announces to everyone, finding the way they all glance up and try not to look shocked or stare funny. “Say bye!” He says to your son, picks his little hand up and waves it. Your son smiles for a second before turning his head away, shying away from the attention.

Jack looks at Robby and Dana. “Thank you.” He doesn’t have to elaborate. They know what he’s thanking them for.

The two make it home easily and without incident. Jack texts you to let you know.

J - Made it home and are having breakfast.

He includes a picture of your son in his highchair eating some pancakes Jack made for him. When you get it the photo makes your heart squeeze, your boys.

The world stops for a second and you get a little dizzy when you realize what you just thought. Your boys.

Jack is not your boy. He’s not yours in any capacity. And that thought is one you know you would have had about your husband and son. That panic comes back, the intense shame and guilt. You try to think back on all you and your therapist have talked about, try to convince yourself that it’s okay. That it’s okay to have that thought.

That it’s okay to like the thought and even to want the thought.

You’re able to handle it much better than you were before and you know that means something. That you’re closer to being ready.

Once you’re not so lightheaded from all the emotions you reply.

You - Thank you.

It’s odd, Jack thinks as he reads it. Almost clipped. Three dots appear.

You - I’m sorry about this morning and the cheek thing. I know we haven’t discussed anything like that and I don’t really know what happened for me there in the moment, so I’m sorry. And I hope you can forgive me.

He’s quick to respond.

J - You have nothing to apologize for, so there’s nothing to forgive. I didn’t mind it at all

He smiles to himself a little, especially once three dots appear. But then they go away only to reappear a couple of seconds later to disappear again. Shit, he thinks to himself, was that wrong? Did it cross a line? Fuck, was it suggestive?

He tries to think of what he can say to apologize and let you know that he really didn’t mean for it to be suggestive or pressuring or weird. But then a message from you.

You - Well good. I didn’t either

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

A couple of nights later you sit on the couch next to Jack. It’s the first time you’ve sat next to each other like this. Jack was not the one to instigate it of course.

You decided to watch a movie together. It’s not the first time you’ve done that. Not the first time you’ve made popcorn without asking if he wanted any. It’s the first time you don’t split it into two bowls, though. Instead you pour it all in one and come sit next to him on the couch. Not touching. But close enough to share the popcorn between you.

He almost expects you to move once the bowl is empty and you set it on the table but you don’t. You just stay there, curled up in your blanket next to him as you watch, commenting to each other at times. He notices you comment less and less, are less responsive to his and are leaning closer and closer to him.

He can see you falling asleep and when you blink back awake he points it out. “You wanna go to bed? We can finish later.”

“No, no, I’m good.” You look at him and give him a smile so he knows you know how close you are to him.

He nods and you keep watching. But twenty or so minutes later you slide a bit and your head rests against his tricep.

Jack freezes. He doesn’t know what to do. Does he let you sleep? Does he wake you? Is it wrong if he doesn’t wake you? When he knows you might not be ready? But then the sleepiest, “s’okay,” comes from you like you knew what he was thinking. You’re out again so fast he wonders if he made it up.

He knows you have trouble sleeping sometimes. Trouble falling asleep and staying asleep. So he’s hesitant to wake you from it when you’re getting it. You’d been so in and out of it with the movie he decides to just wait a bit, see if you wake up.

But then Jack falls asleep on the couch with you resting on his arm. He wakes when he feels you stirring. “Shit,” you whisper, sit up and off him. “We fell asleep.”

“Yeah,” he yawns. “I meant to wake you but must have fallen asleep before I could,” Jack says slowly as he wakes back up. “I wasn’t sure if you were okay with…”

“Oh.” You blink at him like the thought hadn’t occurred to you. “Yeah. No, yeah, it was okay, I’m okay. I, I hope you were. You definitely could have woken me if you weren’t!”

Jack nods. “I know.”

You nod back, the magnitude of falling asleep on him hitting you even though you’re not sure it should really hold any particular magnitude. “Okay. Good.” You look around and check the monitor, chuckle a little and show it to Jack. He chuckles with you at the silly position your son is sleeping in. “Probably best to get to bed.” You give him a small smile.

“Yeah, probably.” You stand up off the couch and toss the blanket onto it, grab the bowl and put it in the sink to deal with tomorrow. Jack stands too and stretches a little. “Are you going?” You ask, almost sound a little sad at the thought. You are a little sad at the thought.

“I wasn’t going to,” he shakes his head. “I was just going to head to the spare, but I can if you’d prefer.”

“No! No.” You shake your head. “No, I was going to say it’s late and so you should stay and not try and get home at this hour. It’s not safe.”

Jack gives you a little smirk and you have to look away. “After you,” Jack calls your attention back, sweeps his hand at the entry to the hallway leading to the rooms. “You want me to take him in the morning?” Jack asks as he follows you. You know he’s talking about the monitor.

“Oh, no. You have to work tomorrow so you should sleep as much as you can.” You’ve learned his schedule. The reality of that hits you both at the same time. You clear your throat. “Good night, Jack.”

“Good night,” Jack replies, smiling to himself as he walks into your spare room. You know his schedule. Jack realizes he knows yours too.

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

A week or so later you ask Jack if he has a certain day off, as if you don’t already know that he does. And he knows you know.

“Yeah,” he answers, looking up from the floor where he’s playing with your son.

You nod. “Well, so.” You try to start but stumble. You’re nervous. Flustered in that way you get. Like both times you were at the hospital. “That’s his birthday,” you look at your son with a smile, “and I was wondering if you’d um, if you’d like to, you know, spend the day with us?”

Jack doesn’t realize he’s doing it but he stares at you for a few seconds. You just asked him to spend the day with you and your son on your son’s first birthday.

He nods. “Yeah.” He nods a little faster. “I would love that. If you’re sure. I know it’s a special day and-”

“No, I’m sure. And I know he’ll love it.” You look at your son fondly and then back at Jack. The fondness in your eyes doesn’t go away. “He loves you.”

Jack flushes a little at that and it makes you get butterflies. Jack Abbot is blushing in front of you. Doesn’t matter why or what you said. He’s blushing and you’re swooning like you’re a teenager. And, you realize, you don’t hate yourself or feel guilty about it. You just feel it.

“Well,” Jack laughs a little, looks down at your son and brushes some hair out of his face. You still haven’t brought yourself to get it cut but you really are going to have to here soon. “I lo-” Jack stops himself. You can see him trying to think of what to say instead.

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, understandingly. “You can say it, Jack.”

Jack nods and swallows. “I love him too,” he says just as softly as he looks back down at your son.

When Jack finally builds up the courage to look at you he’s greeted by your smile. The one that really meets your eyes and makes them sparkle a bit. The one that he’s seen more and more recently. The one that gives him butterflies.

Jack Abbot blushes again.

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

The three of you spend all day together. Your son is one, so the day is more for you than anything.

You decide on the zoo. Your son loves animals, it’s a weekday so it’s not super busy, the weather is perfect. And you can take it at your own pace.

Lots of pictures get taken. Of your son. Of you and your son. Of your son and Jack. Of you, your son and Jack. That one threw him a little when you first brought it up and asked a stranger to take a photo of the three of you.

Jack is patient and would never pressure you and very deliberately does not ask where you’re at in healing or if you’re feeling like you’re closer to ready or anything of the sort. He lets you lead, lets you set the tone and the pace. He knows if and when you’re ready you’ll communicate that.

You and Jack sit in the aquarium when your son needs a nap and falls asleep in his stroller. You talk about your upcoming weeks and Jack tells you stories of patients he’s had recently that he hasn’t had the chance to tell you about.

“Have you… had to explain anything about him and I? At work.”

Jack’s eyebrows lift slightly and he shakes his head. “No. I’m sure they’re all dying to know but like I said, I don’t feel the need to explain anything to them.” He shrugs. “Well, actually,” he lets out a little breath. “The day you came in I told Robby and Dana. Not a lot. Just that you’re a friend I’m helping out because you’re a single mom and don’t have anyone here.” He bites his lip and looks at you. “I told them that you lost your husband while he was deployed, so we had the widower widow connection. I’m sorry if that was too much.”

You laugh a little and shake your head. Jack has talked to you enough about Dana and Robby to know that Robby is his best friend and effective brother and Dana is his second best friend and like the Pitt mom. “It’s not.”

“Dana said he’s gorgeous.” Jack doesn’t know why all of this didn’t come out once you got home that day but he was asleep when you did and then life was just busy and moved on. And now you’re talking about it. “He actually liked Robby, so he and I had a little conversation when we got home about bringing his standards back up.”

That makes you laugh, properly. Jack thinks he could get lost in the sound forever. Spend the rest of his life chasing it. He tells himself to get a grip. You’re just friends. Nothing more.

“Well,” you smile at him before looking away and shrugging. “Maybe one day I can meet them. Judge for myself.”

Jack pauses for a second only because he wasn’t expecting it. “Uh, I mean yeah. Of course. Dana will lose it if she gets to see him again.”

“He is the cutest and best if I do say so myself.” You smile down at your sleeping one year old. “God, I can’t believe it’s been a year.” It’s been over a year and a half now since your husband. “He’s so big,” you whisper. “He was so tiny, fit on my chest so nicely. And I love watching him grow up and see him do new things and learn and thrive, but damn it’s hard.”

Jack gives you a little hum of empathy, not entirely sure what to say. He notices how big your son has gotten and he’s only been in your lives for three months.

“Will you come with us when I get his hair cut finally?”

Jack looks over at you, a little confused. “Yeah, course.” He presses his lips together and shakes his head once. “Any particular reason why?”

“To be my shoulder to cry on.” You say it so simply, like it means nothing when you both know it means something. You both know you’re inviting him to another thing your husband and your son’s dad would probably go to with you.

And Jack gets stuck on it a little. To be my, you had said, you want him to be your something, even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on right now. “I suppose I can manage that.”

You share a little laugh about it. “Thanks, Jack,” you murmur.

“Any time.”

Once your son wakes back up you finish walking around the zoo. Jack buys him too many toys at the gift shop, all the stuffed animals he so much as glances at, much to his delight. You make your way back home together in Jack’s truck. Jack’s truck that now has a carseat in it.

But you don’t go inside, instead you decide to leave the stroller and walk around the City. You find a place to eat and it’s weird to think about. To all the people walking by and seeing the three of you, you probably look like a family. And even though you feel some guilt, especially on your son’s birthday, you don’t completely hate yourself or let that guilt consume you. You like the idea. A lot. So you let yourself feel it.

After dinner at dusk you decide to take your son to the park for some swinging before heading back and getting him to bed. He loves to swing. You take photos of him and Jack and Jack takes them of the two of you.

You’re so involved with your son and swinging and making him laugh that you don’t notice Jack slip away for just a second. Your son yawns. “Aw,” you give him a little sad laugh. “Tired baby? You’ve had a big day.” He reaches up for you and you pull him out of the swing, hug him close to you and kiss his head.

When you turn around Jack is back and standing where you assumed he would be but he’s holding a single rose. You stay where you’re at, almost frozen but not in a tense way. And Jack is just as nervous that this is crossing a line when he doesn’t mean for it to be.

“Day’s about you as much as it’s about him,” he calls to you. He starts walking towards you and you meet him halfway. “You did all the work a year ago today, mom.” He offers you the rose. “We should acknowledge that.”

You look at the rose and then back up at him again, a bit stunned still. It’s so incredibly sweet and kind. It’s so incredibly Jack. And you know for sure then.

You take the rose from him and give him a sappy smile. “Thank you, Jack. For everything. The rose and today and the last three months.”

“Don’t mention it.” He gives you a small smile.

“Accept the thanks.” You give him a pointed one in return.

“Alright, alright.” Your son has started to fall asleep in your arms. “Want me to take him?”

You nod. “Sure, yeah. You only need one arm to carry him still. I need two now.” You bring the rose up to your nose and smell it, smile to yourself about it. Let you and the butterflies in your stomach swoon.

The three of you start walking home, your son fully out on Jack’s shoulder within a couple minutes. You walk back in silence. It’s a comfortable silence, a comfortable quiet. And while quiet hasn’t been as foreboding to Jack since he’s met you sometimes it still is. Like now.

This quiet, while comfortable, is thick. There’s something about it that feels anticipatory. Last time the quiet felt like this, made him feel like this, this uneasy, it brought Jack you.

Something about that makes him even more uneasy. Because Jack knows there’s always a reason for quiet. It always means something. Always brings something. Rarely, if ever, is it good. And he got good last time and Jack doesn’t trust the world or lightning to strike twice.

He worries this time the quiet will bring something else. Something worse, like it always does.

But before he can completely spiral and become even more hypervigilant than he always is, Jack feels your fingers brush against his for a second before they disappear and then come back, your fingers playing with his like it’s nothing, and then, in the quiet as you walk back to your place, you lace your fingers together and you’re holding hands and you give him a little squeeze that tells him you mean it. That you’re ready.

Quiet. It always means something. Always brings something.

This time it meant you were working up the courage. Is bringing the start of something more than just friends.

Lightning strikes twice.

Jack stops walking when you squeeze his hand and you stop with him, looking up concerned and a bit panicked, ready to draw your hand back.

“You ready for this?” Jack asks, genuine concern in his voice as his eyes dart around your face, looking for the slightest sign of hesitation. But you can see it there too, the excitement, the happiness. The hope. “And by this I mean this,” he squeezes your hand. “Nothing more. Not until you’re ready for more. Not until you tell me you’re ready for more.”

You bite your lip as he talks because he’s so cute when he’s concerned and he’s such a good man, wanting to make sure you’re ready and know he doesn’t expect more. And the smile that’s slowly pulling up on his face as you look at him and nod is so adorable you could scream. “Yeah. I’m ready for this.” You squeeze his hand back. “And maybe a little more.” You pull on his hand and start walking again, lean into him a little. “But only with you.”

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

If you made it this far thank you so much for reading and I hope it was okay and got fluffy and funny!!

You can find my Masterlist here for more Jack! Requests are open!

Taglist: @moonshooter @whiskeyhowlett-writes @smallcarbigwheels @hawkswildfireheart @blackwidownat2814 @yxtkiwiyxt @viridian-dagger @generalstarlightobject @andabuttonnose @beebeechaos @pear-1206 @starkgaryan @travelingmypassion @marvelcasey05 @daydreamingallthetime-world @millenialcatlady @iamcryingonceagain @loveyhoneydovey @a-stari-night @acn87 @moonpascal @lostfleurs @thelightnessofthebeing @beltzboys2015-blog @pouges-world @tinyharrypotterkpopfriend @roseanddaggerlarry @pearlofthepitt @niamhmbt @thefangirllife10 @star017 @marvelousmissmaggie @misartymis @clem9216 @distantsighs @rocker-chick-7 @mayabbot @taylorswifts-cardigan @sammiib444 @livinthevidaloca-ish @morallygreymaniac @woodxtock @shaydawgsblog @deadneverlander @imonlyhereformemes14-blog @sleepingalways @generalstarlightobject @dudewithastick @thatoneawesomechicka @rebeccasaurusrex

2K notes · View notes

dazedantics · 3 months ago

Text

Mark knew he'd mess up his chances at some point. He wasn't prefect. In he fact he was always messing things up for himself.

But did it have to be now!?

Right now when you were sitting oh so closely on his lap, kissing him breathless in a way you hadn't before. God, he could spend days here, hands squishing you softly as you pushed him back onto the bed. You were so warm, and you smelt so good, tasted good. Everything was just so good about you. He hoped you thought the same about him.

Wait, what was that? You were saying something. He's not sure what though.

But he knew he liked that thrill running through him as you whispered in his ear, kissing sweetly down his neck, hand dragging down his chest.

His eyes were shut, smile steady as he took deep breaths. He couldn't get enough of this feeling.

You grabbed the hem of his shirt, kissing his lips once more, sucking in a way that had him unconsciously gripping the sheets.

This was heaven. This was what he was gonna remember right before he dies. This was ... this was amazing.

You hand was under his shirt, rubbing the second layer cloth separating his skin from yours and laughed breathily. God that laugh ....

You pulled back, saying something again before lifting up his first shirt.

He raised his arms to help you out.

Hm? Wait ... did you stop? But why? You were so close ...!

"Hey, what's wrong?" He breathed out, looking at you finally.

You were looking down, hands still holding up his shirt to his chest. You looked ... shocked?

Why? What'd he do?

"Wha-"

"You're Invincible."

He froze.

"Wh-what?"

"You're Invincible." You iterated again, meeting his eyes. "You're the Invincible!"

Uh oh ...

He quickly pulled his shirt back down to hide that familiar suit of blacks, blues, and yellows. He had completely forgot that he wore the damn thing underneath all his clothes.

"What? No, no, I'm not. It's just uh ... uhm ... I-I'm just a big fan! Yeah ... yeah. But I'm not Invincible!"

His voice had reached an embarrassing falsetto in some points. Face pink for different reasons now.

You grabbed his chin, forcing him to look back at you. Your eyes were wild with ... well, he's not entirely sure what. But he hoped it wasn't something bad.

"Yes, you are!" You exclaimed.

Then you took your other hand and raised it up to cover the upper part of his face.

"Yes you are!" You insisted. "Where's your mask? Lemme see!"

He sighed. Guess the best thing he could do was just tell you the truth and hope you'd understand.

Much to his disappointment, he guided you off his lap, stripped -in a not so sexy way- and put on the final piece of his costume.

"Listen, I know it's kind of a big secret to have kept from you, but please try to understand why I did it. There's so much that people don't know goes on with heroes and I just ... I couldn't ... I didn't want to risk you getting caught up in it ... I ...."

He was being his most sincere. Prepared to say more to try and convince you to forgive him, to give him a chance.

But you didn't really seem to be listening. Covering your mouth with both hands as you stared at him.

"Mark." You said.

And he felt himself deflate, like a puppy about to get reprimanded by his owner. He opened his mouth to say something else.

But you cut him off with a grin, giving happy little hops before running up to circle around him.

"Mark! Do you have any idea how cool that is? You're Invincible!"

He held a finger to his lips, brow sad and worried behind his mask. "Don't say it so loud."

"Sorry. But Mark!" You were sparkling.

And that really confused him.

You started going on and on about something or other about his heroic side. While he was preparing himself for that switch, for the prank to come in, the sting of your anger and hurt for lying to you for so long.

That never came though.

Just a gasp followed by a, "Can I try it on?"

What?

"I'm sorry? Should ...? Shouldn't you be like ... planning to dump me or something?"

"Why would I do that? If I said you were stuck with me before, I really mean it now. I got a superhero boyfriend!" You whisper yelled the last part.

Then you gasped again, running over to the book shelf, pulling out some comic, flipping through the pages and pointing to the images.

"We should totally act out this scene at some point!"

What?

"You're not ...? Mad?"

"What? No! Why would I be? Mark we should totally do this scene too!"

You went on and on, explaining some other thing the hero did after their partner got saved.

Your enthusiasm would've been quickly picked up and drawn out by him had this been a different time. But he was so ready for the worst reaction, he was a deer in headlights after getting the best.

"You're ... not messing with me right now?"

"Huh?" You watched him for a moment, seeming to notice his reaction now, then went over with a soft smile.

You put the book down then took off his mask. "Mark, if you think your gonna give me the biggest surprise ever and think I'll be upset, then you got a few screws loose in there."

You ran your fingers through his hair, the action causing him to close his eyes and lean into you. "Sure, there could've been a better time to have told me, but I would've been excited either way. I mean, how often do you think I get the chance to be the hero's love interest? Never! Wouldn't you be happy too if I said I was a hero to my ordinary boyfriend?"

"Yeah ... I would." He murmured.

He rested his chin in your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist in a familiar motion. It was a comforting action that always made his worries melt away. He smiled, taking in that nice scent that he knew belonged to you.

"Exactly."

You stood there for a moment, quiet and content under the streaking moonlight coming from beyond the curtains.

He couldn't have asked for a better you. Maybe now he wouldn't have to feel so guilty for needing to reschedule all of your plans. And since you know his secret, there's no reason he can't use his powers to surprise you even more. Maybe now he could fly you out to that niche little shop in that far off country you've been talking about this weekend. And maybe you could start acting out all of those romantic scenes you two read about.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?" He loved when you weren't mad at him.

He felt your fingers tracing along his hips. "Don't you think you should still take this off though?"

... Woah ...

Maybe he didn't ruin his chances tonight after all.

#Invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #x reader

1K notes · View notes

cherryyluvs · 3 months ago

Text

Little Notes, Big Feelings

Notes in your locker, simple, and anonymous. A little bit sweet. You never expected Mark Grayson confessing that he likes you. ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

It started with a note, neatly folded and tucked in between the vents of your locker. Just barely sticking out and impossible to miss.

You were half asleep still rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. grabbing the little slip of paper “Pop quiz in Johnson's class today. Hope you studied. (I didn't, Whoops.)"

You blinked at it, turning it over just to see no name, no clue on who wrote it. Just a simple, neat handwriting, and a tiny smiling doodle of Seance dog in the corner. You glanced around the busy hallway, scanning faces. But no one seemed to be watching you. Just students going to their class, laughing with their friends, and stuffing books into their bags.

Weird. But sweet.

After that notes kept coming, little messages that made you smile. “Did you see the new episode of Seance Dog? Crazy right?” Other times they would be personal. “You looked really happy today.” You kept every single one, tucking them into your notebook like they were little treasures. You found yourself looking forward to them, and you wanted to know them too. So one afternoon you decided to write back, slipping a note into your own locker. Leaving it right where the mysterious writer had been placing theirs. “Okay, secret admirer, your turn. Who are you?”

The next morning a reply was waiting. “If i tell you. It ruins the fun doesn't it?” You let out a huff, fine.

If they wanted to play, you’d play. The back and forth went on for weeks! You had asked what their favorite color was (Yellow but sometimes blue) . Some were rants about a new superhero sighting or how the cafeteria’s chicken nuggets are a danger to society. “The cafeteria nuggets are definitely a health hazard. Stay safe out there”

There's a response the next morning, “RIGHT?? I'm glad someone gets it. Also I can neither confirm or deny that I saw one of those nuggets move.” The messages became part of your daily routine, a little secret, something that made the school day a little brighter.

And one day you found a note that made your heart drop.

“Would it be weird if i said i kinda like you?” Your fingers trembled slightly as you held the small piece of paper. This wasn't just playful anymore, this is real. At this point you needed to know who it was.

You waited, keeping an eye out at your locker, hoping to catch them in the act. Whoever they were, they were good at being sneaky. So you tried a different approach.

You left a note in return, simple and direct. “Not weird. Kind of sweet, but I think i'd like it more if I knew who you were.”

The next day there was no note, and after that, nothing. Your heart sank, had you scared them off? Had they changed their mind? It gnawed at you, making you realize just how much these silly little notes meant to you.

And then it finally happened. You were at your locker, gathering books for your next class, when a voice behind you cleared their throat. “Uh… hey.” You turned around to face the stranger and there he was. Mark Grayson, moving nervously on his feet, his easygoing confidence nowhere to be found. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes but you could see the pink creeping on his cheeks.

It clicked instantly. The handwriting on the notes, the way he always looked in your direction in class when you weren't paying attention. Mark, who was sweet and awkward, always rambling about comics and superhero movies.

“You're-”

He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for days. “Yeah it's me.” Your heart fluttered, warmth flooding into your chest.

Mark Grayson, you'd noticed him, you never thought if he had noticed you but he had. And for a long time apparently, “So.. was that too weird? He asked hesitantly. “I can stop if-” You shook your head, a small smile creeping onto your face.

Pulling out a pen from your purse and grabbing his wrist, before he could question it, you scribbled onto his palm.

“No, not weird at all.” When he read it, his entire face lit up.

#mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #invincible #fluff #comic nerd #mark grayson

2K notes · View notes

bi-writes · 11 months ago

Note

i NEED to know how simon would react to his mail order bride getting all pretty one night.... like maybe the night of their wedding... and she's all nervous because she thinks he expects sex and she's so paranoid about offending him or making the wrong noises or just being a nuisance

mail-order bride

simon and mail order bride did not having a wedding; they are married before they meet. have a peek into their first evening together. (18+)

simon laid your suitcase down onto the floor of his bedroom. you look around anxiously, eyeing the bedroom that is supposed to be your own. there's a king-sized bed in the middle of the room, matching dark-wood nightstands on each side. there's one that's clearly being used, a phone charging there and a half-full glass of water.

there's a dresser on the far wall, littered with picture frames and small trinkets, seemingly from other countries. little russian dolls and different fabrics from different places, wooden elephants and small dishes of wonderful patterns. there's a few drawers open there, and when you make your way closer, you can see it's because they're empty. he must've emptied them out for you to use.

there's one picture frame that's face-down. you pick it up to peek at it, and you smile when you look at the picture there. it's simon and a few similarly-looking people. simon is in uniform, face clear of scars. there's an older woman on one side of him, and then on the other side is a little family of three, a sweet couple and a little toddler on the woman's hip. you put it back down facing up before turning back to your suitcase.

you were supposed to just put your pajamas on. simon had been cleaning up the kitchen, and you figure that meant it was time for bed. you rummage through your suitcase, going to reach for your pajamas when you see the little lingerie set you packed.

it still has the tags on it. it's a red pair of lace panties with a matching bra, complete with little crystal bows and lots of detail. you clutch the lace in your hands, looking towards the door. simon doesn't seem like the kind of man to ask you to do something you wouldn't want to do. but you don't know what his expectations might be. you don't know how he intends his wife to behave.

you stand and take the undergarments with you to the bathroom. you change into them, sliding the pieces on and adjusting them until they fit you nicely. you swallow hard as you look in the mirror, smoothing your hands over your body; your tummy, your thighs, over your breasts. you don't know if he'll even like what he sees. you don't know what he expected you to look like, if he got to choose, if he knows what you are underneath and wanted you because of it or in spite of it.

when you come out of the bathroom, simon is rummaging through one of his drawers. when he turns around to face you, he immediately turns back around.

"fuckin' christ--what the fuck are y'doin'?"

you flinch at the bite of his voice. you wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt to self-soothe, your eyes tearing immediately as you take in his reaction.

"i..." you stutter. "i...i-i thought--"

"you thought wot?" he snaps, and when he turns around to come closer, you panic, taking the straps in shaking hands and starting to pull them down your arms for him. "no, fuck, stop that--"

he puts his hands over yours before your breasts can spill out of the bra. he narrows his eyes at you, shaking his head, and you start to cry softly.

"s-simon, i'm sorry--i-i thought--"

"shhh," he shushes you. "just...quiet."

your bottom lip trembles as he takes the lace straps of your bra delicately and brings them back up, smoothing them back onto your shoulders. you close your eyes when he cups your cheeks, big thumbs wiping at your face as he soothes you silently.

when simon emerges in the bathroom, he tries to be subtle as he cups himself through his boxers, sighing deeply as he flicks the light on. he jumps a little as he steps back, the cat sitting on the edge of the sink and staring at him knowingly.

simon gives it the finger before shooing it back outside.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #order up

3K notes · View notes

usedtobecooler · 5 months ago

Text

the sinclairs' new neighbour arrives out of the blue on a random friday night in may and subsequently becomes the object of eddie munson's desires.

tw: explicit sexual content, 18+ minors dni. virgin!eddie, oral male receiving, eddie's pov. pathetic amounts of pining. no use of y/n.

you've been around after every hellfire meeting for a month now, waiting with legs crossed and swinging from a fold-out table as you sit patiently for them to wrap it up, and fuck if you're not the most distracting thing eddie munson has ever laid eyes on.

you join in on the end-of-game conversations every week, a genuine little interest in the lilt of your voice as you ask questions and join in with the banter, which usually consisted of ribbing mike wheeler for being a little shit.

and, eddie's not dumb, okay? he knows you're only here because you're picking up the sinclair siblings every week, taking a bit of the load off steve harrington, who's been designated chauffeur for a year now, much to his own dismay.

but, sometimes, he thinks you maybe like being here and spending late friday evenings in their presence. and it's a nice little delusion for eddie to live in until he's home and safely tucked under his sheets, thinking of your cute laugh and your flirty smile when he slides a hand under his sleep shorts.

he's only a man. a pervert of a man, absolutely. but he'll feed into his delusions and feed into his daydreams, because it's not hurting anybody but himself in the confines of his room.

things are shadowy and hazy this particular friday, and eddie sure as shit is not on his game. he's stuttering and fumbling over his words, which wheeler is using to his advantage like the dickhead he is, mocking eddie with every fuck up with that stupid fucking face he makes.

eddie calls it a day earlier than usual because his head just isn't in the game damnit, and henderson claps him on the back on his way out, giving him this sincere smile which eddie kind of hates because dustin usually takes every opportunity to add himself into their shithead-ery.

oh god, he was worse than he thought. he needs to hang his hat up and give his job over to zombie boy byers immediately.

eddie doesn't get out of his head quick enough to realise that harrington arrived and left with all of the kids in tow, the sinclairs included.

so when you arrive at the door a half hour later, a confused look on your face, eddie's face fucking falls.

"damn, did harrington want his old job back that badly he kidnapped my kids?" you laugh quietly, all sincerity and jokes as you look around the empty room, eyes landing on eddie with a sparkle.

"it's my fault, i let everybody go early and i-" eddie groans, putting his hands on his hips then dropping them to his sides, "i didn't think. sorry, sweetheart."

sweetheart. why'd he fucking say that? someone needs to get the shotgun and put him down like old yeller.

eddie makes himself busy by packing away all his stuff, pointedly not looking in your direction because he's an idiot piece of shit, and who knows what other mess will come out of his mouth if he keeps letting himself look at you.

"you seem stressed, eddie," you observe quietly, a statement. you cross your arms behind your back, fingertips linking together, "is there anything i can do to help?"

eddie lets out this little self-deprecating laugh, a mirthless smile on his features, "unless you stop showing up here, no, there's nothing you can do."

a hurt look flashes across your face momentarily before it disappears again, masked over with a confused furrow of your brows, "oh. i'm sorry, have i done something wrong?"

eddie's fucking this up. he's a fucking idiot, who apparently can't talk to any girl who isn't ronnie or little erica sinclair.

"just, y'know, consuming my brain so much that i can't focus on anything else lately, so." eddie admits, deflated as he slumps into his chair and rolls his neck until he's looking up at the ceiling. his throat clicks audibly, dry and scratchy.

"oh." you say again, a relieved sigh escaping you as you kick a leg out to bash his shin lightly with the toe of your boot, "why didn't you say something? that's- that's okay. lucas kind of figured, he told me your moon eyes were annoying him."

eddie's kicking them all out. hellfire will be no more. he's sick of these damn kids.

he covers his face with his hands, rubbing against his two day stubble with calloused fingertips. a useless groan escaping him, "sorry, i wasn't trying to be obvious. girls don't. hmm."

eddie stops himself with a grunt, trying to narrowly escape the word vomit that threatens to spill out. he's nervously jiggling his leg, the chains on his jeans clattering together obnoxiously loud in the otherwise quiet room.

he feels your presence enter his orbit, the soft press of your hand on his knee stopping the motion of his jerky leg.

"don't be so nervous," you scold playfully, voice light like you're trying to hide a smile, "i'm not anybody to be nervous around. i like that you noticed me, that i'm somebody you're interested in."

eddie's hands fall away from his face at that, and he blinks blearily, head lolling until he catches sight of you crouched down in front of him, staring up with these gorgeous eyes that eddie just wants to get lost in.

"really?" he asks dumbly, brain short-circuiting at the sight of you knelt down like this in front of him, his stupid mind wandering into filthy territory.

"really." you nod, smiling up at him with this thousand-watt thing that he's sure could power the whole of hawkins, "i'm interested, too. in case i wasn't being obvious enough by hanging around here willingly every week."

you weren't obvious at all. not at all. or maybe you were and eddie's just a fucking moron.

"can i help relieve some of that stress now?" you ask, head tilted to the side in question, "i'm only down here anyway."

eddie's brain melts out of his ears, he's pretty sure. his tombstone is sure to say here lies eddie munson, killed by the insinuation of a blowjob.

"oh, you don't have to- you really don't have to, ha, your hands are on me, fuck-"

the conversation kind of fades out after that, and you're all action dropping from your deep squat to thud your knees against the floor softly.

and you're so pretty on your knees for him, eyelashes fluttering across the apples of your cheeks that are flushed and warm. eddie practically melts into his chair as you paw at his jeans, fluid motions and featherlight touches like you've done this before, and god he doesn't want to think about that right now, that you've done this for other guys before him. not when you're laid out below him and nudging in between his spread legs with pursed lips, spitting over the flushed head of his dick to dampen it further.

"you should- you should know i've never done this bef- fuck, fuck," eddie stutters over his words, fingers clawing into the arms of the chair when you begin mouthing hot and wet over the leaking slit that continues weeping pathetically with every lave of your tongue.

he tried, okay? he tried to tell you, but he's a weak man and - and you're fucking looking at him with these pretty, knowing eyes like you had a clue from the beginning, and fuck was it really that obvious?

he clenches his eyes shut, trying to will away the images of a neon sign over his head that scream eddie munson, adult virgin.

you start off slow and savouring, lapping at him with these kitten licks and mouthing down the bulging vein on the underside. eddie thinks he's delirious, because he's surely imagining the way you're inhaling the musky scent of him, moaning prettily as you do.

"mm, fuck," eddie groans quietly, hips shakily punching up when you finally sink down over the head of his cock properly with your lips wrapped tightly around your teeth, the wet heat of your mouth enveloping him in a way that makes him feel fucking insane.

he didn't know it would feel like this. his brain is gonna explode, scanners style.

your hand reaches blindly for his, guiding his fingers to slide into your hair, and his eyes fly open to meet yours, a pretty haze covering your orbs as you nod slightly to give him the go-ahead to curl his fingers.

"ha, you're gonna fucking kill me," eddie murmurs, but he's gently pulling ever so slightly from the root at the base of your skull, because he may be a virgin but he's not fucking clueless, right? he's read enough skin mags to know how to pull hair properly.

you whimper high pitched and your eyes finally flutter closed, letting eddie move you up and down with his firm hand as you alternate between sucking and drooling all over his length.

he's aware that he's looking at you like he's in love, okay? he can't help it. you're literally sucking the soul out of him, moaning around his girth and running your tongue over him like he's the best thing you've ever tasted. like he said before, he's weak.

"you- you're so good at this, oh my god," eddie's eyes roll back into his head when your free hand runs from where it's gripping the meat of his thigh to slide between his obscenely wide legs and cup his balls, rolling and squeezing them between your fingers.

the room is filled with the whining, high-pitched noises that eddie's really trying his best to hold in at risk of sounding like an absolutely pitiful virgin, and the wet noises of your mouth working over his cock, the slick slide of your fist jerking off what you can't quite reach.

eddie's stomach clenches, and holy fuck this is over too quick, but he can't find it in himself to be embarrassed because, because-

"i'm coming, you're making me come, holy fuck-" eddie's words die with a groan that sounds breathy and pathetic even in his own ears, his fingers burying so tight in your hair and pulling as he arches in on himself and jerks his hips in aborted little thrusts. he feels the plush of your lips brush against the wild, untamed curls at the base of his cock and he lets out a weak grunt, feels his length throb and spurt out another weak dribble of come at the sensation.

he's so delirious when he finally comes to that he's all but dragging you up from where your knees have to be aching on the floor, dragging you into his lap, and fuck sake his soft cock is still out and covered in spit and come and-

your mouth is on his in a hot press of lips and teeth and tongue, eddie's so out of his element here but the taste of his own spend on your tongue is as addictive as it is mildly disgusting.

"you got a mattress in the back of that van of yours?" you mumble between kisses, smiling into it.

"mhm, yup, a-ha," eddie nods wildly as he chases your mouth with his own, "i think i need some more stress relief. i hear burying your face between a pretty things legs helps."

eddie definitely does feel like he's dying when your thighs wrap around his ears and lock him in face-first.

and what a way to go that is.

#eddie munson fic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfic #x reader #mine #my fanfic #he possesses me mind body and soul #virgin!eddie makes a comeback in a new way #virgin!eddie munson

1K notes · View notes

555rare · 1 month ago

Text

ASTROLOGY OBSERVATIONS PT.14

(Continued from my old account @777rare 🥂)

Teeny tiny 18+ themes here and there kids so scroll past it please, even though I know damn well you won't.

THESE NOTES ARE ONLY A STUDY OF MINE AND HAS/HAS NOT BEEN PROVEN YET, SO IF IT DOES NOT RESONATE WITH YOU, FORGIVE ME AS IT WAS ONLY A STUDY/OBSERVATION OF MINE.

I DO NOT PLAGIARIZE, COPY OR REWORD ANY OF MY FELLOW ASTROLOGY OBSERVERS POSTS AND I DEMAND THE SAME IN RETURN.

• There are two kinds of voices for a Pisces Mercury native. Actually no, Pisces Mercury natives have many voices for different occasions like they are good at mimicry or changing their voice. But out of them all, we have 2 original voices. The Siren and the Siren. Yes, I know same word but different connotation.

જ⁀➴ The Siren🧜voice is the way they speak when they are calm and even happy. They have a sweet and soft voice that people often are drawn to as If they are Sirens but on land lol.

જ⁀➴ Then comes the Siren 🚨 voice when they are pissed off as hell hahahah. When they scream or shout while angry, believe me, they sound like sirens. You know the ones in an ambulance and buildings 😭😂.

• Capricorn Moon natives' moms are the type of moms who value finance or money very much. They are very hard to please and these natives find it so hard to impress them or make them proud of them. These natives just wanna hear their mom say 'I'm proud of you' for once at least in their life 😮‍💨🥲.

• I have never met a Capricorn big 3 who wasn't reserved and distant when it came to sharing their feelings with just anyone and crying in front of others. These people go through so much in private and they make it seem like being them is so easy on the outside to others but deep down, nobody can actually be them or take on their problems the way they do 🫣🫡.

• Leo big 3 are so so good at entertaining people. This is FACT. They are literal moods who can grab literally anyone's attention without trying and just like their sign ruler, The Sun, life often seems like it's revolving around them 🥂💃.

I have also never met a single Leo Big 3 who has never been treated like royalty, be it by literally anyone. They often get things their way and people just treat them like an expensive souvenir lol 🤌😂.

They are that one person (esp. Leo rising) who's always spoken about and praised even if all they did was lift up a piece of trash and throw it in the bin 😭🤣.

• My advice to Pisces or 12th house Sun's are just go and chill in a graveyard for a while. Trust me, this is the best medicine for you all because the energies there are actually the purest form possible.

Why? There are only souls there and everything negatively attached to the souls detach in a Graveyard because the body is returning back to its soul mother, making the soul leave the negativity of this world so there are no negative energies in a graveyard. There is only pure energy, the kind of energy that is untouched or unaffected by human presence.

Being a Pisces or 12th house Sun makes you highly sensitive to the energies around you so being in a Graveyard for a while can be very healing for you. You can meditate for a while here because you will truly connect with the divine without blockages here.

As a 12th house Sun (VEDIC CHART), I once visited a Graveyard in 2023 (That was the first time I ever visited one😅) and I felt so at peace and ease lol. I didn't wanna leave the place at all and I felt like I was myself detached from the energies of the world 🙂‍↕️.

• Taurus or 2nd house Saturn natives have a problem with feeling valued by others in their life🫠. There's always this doubt that creeps in or this underlying insecurity where they think they aren't good enough or they have to try harder to keep others in their life.

There is this insecurity that people can replace them easily with someone else. These natives fear being looked down upon and they just want someone to appreciate how much effort they put into their work 😮‍💨🥺.

These natives love being appreciated and recognized when it comes to their talents and how much value they add to others' lives. They are truly a gift to have in ones life because once they have you, they will always invest energy in your connection without a doubt unless you degrade them or insult their hard work and talents.

They are very talented indeed with an ability to never give up no matter how hard situations get for them. They just wanna be told now and then that they are valuable and appreciated 🫂🫤.

• Mars in the 12th house or Pisces go through so many hidden battles 🫡😭. They are very private about their problems and they usually choose to suffer in silence and handle it all alone because they don't find it helpful to share their problems with others as others just give them advices.

One of my friend has this and she is very very private about her pain and her problems, but since I'm someone who she trusts, she shares her problem with me as I don't give her advice, I give her comfort without words.

The same goes for all Mars in 12th house and/or Pisces because they want comfort, not words coming out of someone's mouth and since they do not get it, they choose to deal with it on their own 😶😕.

• I have noticed fixed Mars signs (Taurus, Scorpio, Leo, Aquarius) are actually possessive and so protective of the ones they loveee ayee💃🌹. They won't just stand there and see their loved ones going through shit or being treated like shit by someone, they will literally stand up for them or become their protective shield 😤🛡️.

They also find it hard to digest the fact that there are people out there who share their romantic partner with someone else, like these natives just cannot do that 🙂‍↔️. They love a committed partner who is only theirs to love and who loves only them in the relationship. They absolutely HATE 3rd party involvement🫸.

Although, Aquarius Mars natives are very kinky in bed and are open-minded and experimentative, they choose a partner who is loyal in love 💪💖. That's the difference, they like being playful in bed but they are serious in love and prioritize loyalty.

Not to forget fixed sign Mars natives are very much fixed in their approach to sex and intimacy as well. They find it hard to be flexible or to allow absolutely anything in the bedroom, that is if you don't have heavy Pisces or Virgo placements 🥂👍.

Thankyou for reading through this today! 😊✨ I hope my sweet cherries, all had as much as fun reading this as I had making it! Love you all so much and I can't wait to see you in the next one!! 🌝

A Tarot Pac reading is coming soon by the way my cherries! Stay tuned! 💃💝

961 notes · View notes

chronically-ghosted · 7 months ago

Text

i'm empty without you, so come grow within me

AO3 Link | main masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

rating: explicit (18+)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

word count: 9K

summary: with winter approaching, joel takes stock of what he wants and what he has in his life. he wants you, but he's not quite sure he has you, not in a way that only a life in Jackson can afford. joel's an old-fashioned guy, so he's looking for an old-fashioned love . . . if he can only remember how to do it right.

inspired by the songs 'why don't we just dance' by Josh Turner and 'the kind of love we make' by Luke Combs, this fulfills a request from @handsomehelmet for my 1k celebration (creativity struck and now i'm going to make it everyone's problem)

warnings: the nastiest thing i can possibly imagine which is romance and sincerity, some willie nelson lyrics, established situationship, no age of reader specified, body insecurity, feelings of unworthiness/shame, survivor's guilt, blatant disregard for old man knees by eating pussy on the floor, unprotected piv, a teenager bullying fully grown adult to quit being stupid.

a/n: i know everyone gets into a tizzy when Joel doesn’t name what Tess is to him in front of Bill and while there probably was a heaping amount of guilt that accompanied that omission, i wonder if it might be a bit more complicated: he simply couldn’t name one thing because she was all things to him. A friend, a lover, a guide, a support system, a protector, a partner. So he says it the best way he can: “she’s mine.”

come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

By the fourth bag, all you can think about is a warm shower.

A chance to scrub away the dirt smeared on your arms, your neck, probably your face. You’d brought your own work gloves to bag fresh dirt for the greenhouse, but the longer you work, more sprinkles of dirt find their way down the lip of your gloves. You can feel it against your palms, under your nails. The cold winter air lurks beneath the crack of the door, stifled from invading by the artificial heat provided by the generator just outside, and it stifles you too with its oppressive weight. You’re fairly sure the dirt on your forehead has turned to mud, sweat and damp earth encrusted on your dry skin.

By the sixth, you doubt your shoulders will ever move again without popping.

You know Joel’s already do.

Never a particularly chatty man even in his best moods, the greenhouse had become stuffy with heat and silence, both you and Joel too lost in the work to find the energy to even fake idle chatter. But, knowing this about Joel and a certain degree yourself, silences with him were never a bad thing. That was one of the things you enjoyed most about being with him; you two could do your own things together. Many snowy days were spent with him stretched out on the couch, reading, and you working on writing your sheet music on the floor, his knee hovering over your shoulder with your back to the cushions – spent in total silence, and they are some of the fondest memories you had since coming to Jackson and falling into the third and final piece of the Miller-Williams household.

Like with the end of the world, you weren’t sure how you got there until everything had fallen into place around you; Joel and his adoptive daughter had been just another group who were taken in by the town of Jackson . . . until they weren’t. Ellie was just another foul-mouthed kid who had seen too much and had too much taken from her . . . until she wasn’t. Joel was your occasional patrol partner and a fellow Willie Nelson fan. . . until he wasn’t.

Until that unmistakable line, one that seemed to be lost on a global scale beneath the blood and the gore and the grief, had been crossed when he asked you out for drinks and the both of you knew the evening wasn’t going to end in a nightcap.

And then you were partners, even outside of patrol. Partners in re-enforcing a weakened part of Jackson’s outer walls. Partners in cooking, attempting to recreate an enchilada recipe Joel only vaguely remembered from a Tex-Mex hole-in-the-wall fifteen minutes from where he used to live in Austin. Partners when it’s snowing heavily outside and there’s not much to do except to read and, well . . . Joel was a fantastic partner in that.

Joel Miller was a great partner for a lot of things. He worked diligently, quickly and, unless the conversation was started by someone else, silently.

He, in short, was not someone who was easily distracted.

Which, in combination with your own exhaustion and a desire to scrub the first layer of your skin off with a loofah, is why you feel a flare of annoyance when you look up and see him staring off into the distance. His fingers loosely grip the handle of the shovel, his palm resting over the curved point, Joel’s expression is nearly unreadable, except for the small crevice between his eyebrows. He stands, fixated on the greenhouse wall, as if watching the blurry Christmas lights from the town square, suddenly oblivious to the work you two have been doing for the past hour and a half.

“Joel.” Nothing. “Joel!”

You raise your hand to smack him on the leg when, without looking down, he asks:

“When was the last time I took you out?”

“What?”

His weight shifts, holds the shovel by one hand now. You catch a sliver of frustration in those deep brown eyes as he looks at you. He wears what you and Ellie secretly refer to as his “pouty-mouth”, a classic expression when he isn’t getting his way about something but won’t draw attention to the fact that it annoys him.

“Tell me about the last date I took you on.”

You huff, standing up with a pop in your hips. Your knees are aching from kneeling on the cold winter ground and your skin fluxes between overheating under your jacket and stiffly frozen on your extremities.

“Joel, c’mon, be serious. We’ve got three more –,”

“I am being serious.” Dumb-founded, you watch as he digs the tip of the shovel into the ground with a hollow chunk. Crosses his arms and continues to frown at you like you just suggested doing away with the Christmas holiday entirely. “We’ll get to this, but I want you to tell me right now what we did on our last date.”

You roll your eyes, humoring him. “Fine, I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but okay. On our last date, we . . . we did . . . you took me to . . .”

It’s your turn to frown. He raises a petulant eyebrow and it’s eerie how many times you’ve seen that exact expression on Ellie.

“Okay, fine, so it’s been a while. We’ve been busy – we’ve all been busy with the winter season coming. All of Jackson has been out battening down the hatches. What does it matter if we’ve let things slide a bit?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, quiet in his Joel way. He glances out through the blurred greenhouse glass and maybe he was actually staring at the string lights hung over Jackson’s square. Normally, you didn’t mind being unable to dissect his every expression, every sigh, every carefully wielded silence, but when it came to you and his feelings about you – feelings that were always implied in those silences – you wished you had a little window, some hint, as to what rumbled on behind those earth-dark eyes.

Joel drums his fingers on the handle of the shovel, unease rolling through his body as he shifts his weight.

“Matters some,” he tells the ground. “With the holidays comin’ around . . . matters for Ellie – her first winter here in Jackson. Matters for Tommy, with that new baby of his . . .”

“Your nephew,” you supply as much as prod. Sometimes the only way to get an honest answer out of him was when he was just a bit pissed off and less guarded. Instead he just nods, gloved hand on his hip, thick jacket widening his already confounding broadness.

“It matters because it’s important. To me. It’s important to me.”

He meets your gaze and you’re struck full force again with that feeling like you drank too much of the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey too fast. Same feeling that couldn’t be drowned even with the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey when you shared a drink with him for the first time. When you managed to laugh when he bet you a whole day of stable cleaning duties that Willie Nelson and Chris Stapleton survived the apocalypse somewhere in a shack in Tennessee. Joel Miller was disarmingly funny when he wanted to be.

And even worse, disarmingly sincere.

You take his gloved hand in yours. You feel the sensation of his fingers threading through yours but not the heat you’ve grown so accustomed to.

“Alright, then. What do you want to do about it?” You ask quietly, to the upturned collar around his neck, his green flannel peeking out from behind the zipper of his jacket. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a lot of snow on the ground so that makes our options for date night kinda limited.” You scrunch your nose at him because you like to see the light in his eyes bloom when you do.

He chuckles, a rumbling sound, and he drops his forehead against yours, fingers tightening their grip around yours. Suddenly in your throat, your heart pounds. He’s never this affectionate in public. Maybe it’s those miraculously blurred greenhouse glass walls.

His breath smells like that peppermint toothpaste that came in last week, infused with the warming-coil smell from the greenhouse.

“Dunno yet.” He admits. “I’ll think of somethin’.”

“No ideas yet?” You raise your eyebrows against his forehead and he grins, shaking his head.

“Not yet.”

“Then can I make a suggestion?”

“‘Course.”

“We finish bagging this dirt, then head home for a shower. In a really sexy way, obviously.”

He huffs, smothering a laugh, and quick as lightning he kisses you on the cheek. But in the same movement, steps away and grabs the shovel again. You don’t have time to react to the fact he just kissed you for the first time outside of the four walls of his house before he’s scooping up dirt. You drop to your knees to pick up the bag again, your legs already weak.

“We both know you’re going to pass out on the couch the second we’re home.”

Your voice is steadier than you feel, as you look up at him. His face is flushed and that worry line between his eyes is gone.

“You got me pegged, Miller. You got me pegged.”

Two days later, he stands in the middle of his living room, hands on his hips, surveying his handiwork. All of the furniture has been pushed to the far ends of the room, up against the walls or against the staircase out in the hallway. He’s kept the overhead lights off and put the standing lamps in the corners, bathing the room in a despondent glow. He thinks, after a quarter of a century never even entertaining something like this, it might be interpreted as romantic. He hopes you’ll see it that way at least.

He hears it now, in his head, even though she’s out in the disconnected garage, snug and warm as he could have possibly made it – you worry too much, old man.

Ellie knows there’s something going on between you two. Hell, the entire town has cottoned onto whatever this is; you’re often seen leaving his house early in the morning, and he’s been seen on occasion strolling up to your house with flowers. It’s not new, it’s not a secret, but it is . . . it just is and that’s about as far as he’s gotten.

He hasn’t had you over for dinner with Ellie in that very specific way that very much needs to happen, as it often does when there is a new presence added to an established dynamic – as Maria often reminds him. But that almost feels like presenting your head on a silver plate to Ellie to either sniff with disinterest or tear into – both terrifying scenarios, even though they seem unlikely. Ellie does in fact seem to like you very much, as her riding teacher and occasional greenhouse buddy. But would she continue to like you in the context of you being one half of “You and Him” as a pair? Together. As a couple . . . of people who are seeing each other, whatever that means in a world filled with the most aggressive form of fungus imaginable.

This life in Jackson, this fragile second chance to remember and rekindle his own natural instincts, is too precious to bet on a question like that.

So he doesn’t ask it. At least not out loud.

That’s one of the things he likes so much about you: his silences aren’t entirely indecipherable and often are encouraged by your own. Except this silence about this particular thing doesn’t feel like one of your shared, comfortable moments and instead it’s encroaching rapidly into avoidance.

Standing in that greenhouse and seeing the string lights over the town square reminded him of a long ago Christmas, dancing with his favorite person under a Christmas tree, and how good it made him feel. How special it made him feel. All these years later, safe in a way his body has almost forgotten, there’s an urge he has to share that feeling, to recreate it under entirely different circumstances, with someone new. Someone else. To not try and fight the smile that constantly threatens to buoy up every time he’s around you.

It’s foreign, that feeling in his chest, but it’s not entirely alien, at least not of late.

He knows he’s white-knuckling it because he knows firsthand how painfully quick it can all be gone. Taken away. Left and buried by a black river while the world burns.

But he’s worried he’ll crush it with how tightly he holds on. How hard he begs a silent universe for it to last just a little bit longer.

His knees ache, his left shoulder goes tight when it rains, his body is not what it once was, but his mind is still there, still clear, and he remembers how romance used to feel, where it used to reside in his younger body, and as he stares out at the cleared room, listening to your footsteps overhead as you attempt to follow his vague instructions to “make yourself feel pretty” (because you already were to him, even covered in dirt and sawdust), he thinks this feels like the old world. An old world romance. It’s foreign, that feeling, but for the first time in a long time he doesn’t want to hold it at arm’s length.

“Joel?” You call from the top of the stairs, your voice tentative and cautious. But not cautious like you peeking around a corner to look for clickers. But cautious as in unsure, doubtful. You are a woman made up of a lot of things, with foundations unlike he’d ever seen before, but doubt is not a part of you. You never doubt him.

“Yeah, baby?” Your nerves make him nervous and he futzes with a lampshade while waiting for you.

“Are you done down there?”

He has to breathe slowly through the fluttering beneath his breastbone before he can answer. “Yeah, baby, all finished. You can come down now.”

“Okay . . . but you can’t laugh.” Him, laugh at you? There’s the instinct to smother the faint grin that spreads out across his mouth, but he told himself he wasn’t going to fight whatever came across his face tonight. If you see it, then you see it and he’s come to accept that.

(Maybe even want that.)

He shakes his head, his only pair of nice boots (a thank you from a former rancher when Joel fixed his family’s heater) clicking on the hardwood floor as he stands at the bottom of the stairs. You must be hiding behind the wall because he can’t see you.

“I’m not gonna laugh, sweetheart. Why d’ya think I’d laugh?”

Silence faces him at the top of the stairs, and then:

“Because quite frankly I forgot my tits could look like this and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

The snort that comes out of him is a poor attempt to muffle the chuckle. He thumbs the wood finial at the top of the bannister.

“Can’t remember ever having any complaints before and I don’t think I’ll have ‘em now, no matter how they look.”

“Whatever, Miller, you’re just a horn dog.”

He rolls his eyes, fingers rubbing anxiously together at his side, as if he could tug the fluttering out of his chest. He leans on the other foot, the one with the bad knee, to adjust the slightly uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. A dark swirl in the second step of the stairs has become wildly interesting.

“Baby, just come down here. I’m not gonna laugh. Promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” you grumble, still out of sight. “I know where you keep your feral child and I will not hesitate to let her loose on you.”

Joel nods, grinning faintly, still focused resolutely on the whorl in the floor. “That’s a real big threat from someone who –,”

The words die in his throat.

In fact, he’s quite sure he won’t be capable of speech for a very long time.

That foreign feeling – that feeling he’s worked for twenty years to suppress – is ignited in his chest.

You walk, no, maybe you float down the stairs in the most stunning red dress he’s ever seen. It’s definitely not yours – he knows every inch of your closet because he had inspected it studiously when you offered to keep some of his clothes at your place and he was trying very hard to delay putting a handful of his belongings beside a woman’s things in a move that felt heart-stoppingly domestic.

No, he has never, ever seen you in this dress.

Come to think of it, he’s never seen you in any dress and you were entirely correct that your tits look wildly different. Fantastically different, but –

“Maria didn’t have any heels that fit me to go with the dress,” you announce airily, your chin up. But your eyes dart over his face as if looking for something you need to find. “But it’s fourteen degrees outside, Joel, and I’m not doing whatever this is in just socks because that’s ridiculous so you’re just going to have to deal with the boots.”

The Boots. The ones you wear while crushing clicker skulls and tending the stables. They still bear damp spots from where you tried to clean the blood and dirt from the leather.

It’s rather incapacitating how arousing he finds this particular combination.

So much so, he doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything in a full minute until you bark at him, a cold tinge of panic in your voice.

“Joel!” His eyes snap to yours. Of course, you’re fucking beautiful – your eyes seem bigger, cheeks pinker, mouth wet – fucking Christ, where did you get make up?

“Say something!” Those rosy lips drop down and to his horror, you’re upset. “Please!”

“B-baby, you look . . .” He doesn’t mean to grab your entire ass in one hand; he just wants to feel as much of that velvet on your skin as possible. You stumble into his arms, another something that is so unlike you, as he tugs you forward. Bends his lips to your ear to discover how fast you’re breathing. How fast your pulse races in your neck. The shudder that breaks the rigidity of your body when he brushes his mouth, the short bristles of his beard, against your skin is no surprise; you told him exactly what that sensation does to you in no uncertain terms the first night he ate you out on the table of your kitchen. “You look incredible.”

Your fingers bite into his biceps. Push back out of his arms, despite the obvious warmth in your cheeks. You level his arousal in a single glare. “Joel, I asked you not to tease.”

Tommy once told him he was a pain in the ass to be around sometimes because he displays every negative emotion as anger and so it’s damn near impossible to figure out whatever it was he was so bent out of shape about.

Sadness as anger.

Shame as anger.

Guilt as anger.

Fear as anger.

With your fingers balled up, it's the tremor in your fists that gives you away.

He had genuinely intended this to be a quiet night away from the cafeteria, away from the Tipsy Bison, away from anyone else. He wanted you all to himself and in his greed, he didn’t see it until he saw it in your eyes.

How vulnerable being pretty made you. How vulnerable privacy made you.

How being vulnerable made you so deeply, deeply afraid.

Almost as afraid as he was.

Without a word, he turns to the record player, strategically hidden behind the couch and puts on the carefully selected record. The silent scratches for a moment before –

Your eyes widen as Nelson begins to sing his most beautiful love song (in Joel’s humble opinion). Your shoulders slacken, hands lose their grip, you blink up at him in total bewilderment. You aren’t an indecisive person, you’re quick as a whip, rarely confused – so this befuddled look on your face is kinda cute.

Tucking that rare look on your face away for another time, Joel wanders to the center of the room, in the heat of the light from the fireplace, his good boots clicking over the wood. He opens his arms, hand out to you.

“Let’s try something new tonight.”

I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest but you are the trees

The decision you make is a visible one.

Your palm is warm, weighted as it slides over his. This time his hand respectably settles on your waist, then on your low back when (to his surprise) you come closer. He’s delighted to watch you smile at him, distantly aware of the stretch of his own on his face.

Willie strums on his guitar, crooning softly, the sound warm and deep. With the weight of you against his chest, that feeling crackles like the flames over the wood logs in the fireplace. You drop your head, turn your cheek, and just before you come to rest on his shoulder, he sees your smile slide into a smirk.

“New, huh? What’s new look like for a sixty-five-year-old man at the end of the world?” Even with teasing, your voice is soft and sweet, the soft powder of cinnamon. Slowly, as if not to startle either one of you, he leans his chin against your forehead.

“You n’ I’ve been burning both ends, keepin’ the lights on. New to us is having a goddamn break.” His voice is low, meant only for you, and in the tremble of his deep bass, the words elongate in his mouth. He brings your intertwined hands just under his chin and when that goes well, he tightens his grip around your back, drawing you flush against him. It reduces the dancing to more of a sway but Joel can’t find a single thing to complain about. You gently tap the pad of your middle finger in the hollow of his collarbone to the beat of the song.

I'm empty without you so come grow within me

For I am the forest and you are the trees

And the heavens need romance so love never dies

“‘N ‘m only fifty-six, jackass.”

You grin, twisting in his grasp, rub your nose on his chest to wrap your arms around his neck. He clutches to your back like a key finding its lock.

You'll be the stars dear and I'll be the sky

And should any of this find us let them all be forewarned

That you are the thunder and I am the storm

“This is nice, Joel,” you murmur in his ear. The backs of his arms are growing warm by the fire. He presses his lips to your exposed shoulder, unsure of what to say, or what not to say, only nodding. He closes his eyes, trying to hold this moment forever in his memory. The soft flare of your waist, the winged-spread of your ribs, beneath his hands brings him back into your arms.

"Yeah?" Quiet, into your skin as if to muffle the question entirely, to muffle the unsure wobble in his voice. "It's good?"

He feels you nod beneath his chin, the smell of fresh soap escaping from the back of your neck, and the clamp around his throat loosens. He breathes, unimpeded for the first time all night, a low exhale taking the tension from his body as the air leaves his lungs.

Relief. A sinking down into the moment, into your arms.

You chuckle with your cheek against his chest and he feels the vibrations down to his stomach.

"Yeah, Joel, you did good. Really good." With the hand he holds in the air, you rub your thumb over the knuckle of his thumb, soothing. It used to bother him you could read the lines of his emotions as well as you read a book, as well as you write your own name, effortlessly, as if you had been given a guide no one ever thought to show him. But now, now that you understand how much this means to him, that you know he needs to be told he made you happy, it's more than relief. It's an unburying – a resuscitation of pieces of himself (seed-like bone fragments) that he thought had long since died in the soil of his ribs. "Thank you. I needed this."

He wants you to see the whole of him. Lift up an antiquated silver plate and show you the dents and scratches in his reflection. When you kiss his cheek gently, the hope floating in his chest flares, a solar explosion with tendrils that reach into the blackness of space and it asks him, what would you do to keep her?

Everything. Anything.

He shuffles closer, feels the warmth of your body lined up against his, the clean scent beneath the edge of your jaw blooming in his nose and throat. The hope hums, pitches dark like the forest floor in the rain, and grows teeth. His want for you digs into his skin and evolves into a needy, unsatisfied thing.

“Where’d you get this dress, hm?” He asks, lips half an inch from your shoulder. It falls and rises, never catching on your skin as he plays with the fabric. He runs his palm up your spine, the velvet coming with him, and watches as the swell of your thighs and the tease of your ass is revealed. Dirty old man. “‘N who do I have to kill to get you to keep it?”

You laugh into his neck. He wonders if you’re intentionally twisting his curls at the base of his neck to send sparks of arousal down his spine or if you are completely unaware of the cause of his insanity. Your hands are littered with scars and calluses and every time you touch him, he could melt through the floorboards.

“They found it in some strip mall and were actually going to strip it down for material. But Aaron at the sewing center owed me a favor and you said wear something nice, so . . .” You thumb the lip of his collar, your fingertips brushing the knot of his spine every time you drag your fingers back and forth.

And I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest and you are the trees

He knows you well enough to know that something lingers in your mind, but even after all this time, even after what he’s seen with you, been through with you, the things he’s done to you – he isn’t quite sure if he has the right to ask.

Instead, he squeezes you. He means to do it just with his hands, but ends up swallowing you in his arms.

Your mouth is pressed up against his chest when you finally go on.

“It just seems silly to keep, Joel.”

The high he’s been riding on all night falters, since you first walked down those stairs to him. Your eyes are wet when he pulls back and cups you by your cheek. He stops swaying with you.

“Why’s that?”

There it is, that all too familiar flicker of fear. You can’t look at him, despite his every touch, his every glance pulling you into him, to be near him.

“Because other people should have it. They should have a chance to . . .”

You withdraw your head from his hands, his thumb brushing your jaw as you retreat. He might actually lose a piece of himself if you let go now, but instead you clasp his wrists in your fingers. You stare at your hands and his between you, as if this whole thing between you could solidify at your feet, finally real.

Willie has stopped singing, only that musky drone on an empty track.

“Someone else should have a chance to feel pretty, to feel this way, because it shouldn’t be wasted and I’m afraid – I wonder if –,”

He knows he’s being a bit too rough when he takes your jaw and straightens your gaze to him, but his heart might fly out of his chest before he has a chance to say anything. His stomach turns, not knowing he’s not at the peak of a roller coaster drop, that he’s standing on solid ground, even if it swims under his feet.

“What you feel is not wasted.” A murmur, stern, as steadily and as serious as he possibly can be.

That feeling aches in his chest and you haven’t even gone anywhere. You haven’t left . . . yet. “What this is, is not wasted time. I spent twenty years wasting time, looking for something that wasn’t there, and with you . . . I can’t say I’ve found it –,”

“Why? Why can’t you say you’ve found it?” Your grip around his wrists tightens, eyes hard. “Why can’t you name it, Joel?”

“Can you?” He pulls his hands out of your grip and you let him go. “How can you ask for what you want when you can’t even ask to keep this dress?”

“Because I don’t deserve it!” It’s not silence that follows; it’s emptiness. You face away from him, pressing the heel of your hand into your brow bone, teeth slightly bared. Your arm bars across your stomach like you are literally holding in your guts. Finally, you lift your head, the few scant tears on your face sparkling in the firelight. “I don’t deserve you, Joel. I don’t deserve any of this. Ellie, the way she . . . I’m here, warm and happy, acting like the fucking world hasn’t ended. Playing house, playing pretend. Pretending like I’m your –,”

You swallow the words caught in your throat, gaze leaping away from him. At your side, your hand trembles again.

Oh, honey, the shit I’ve done . . .

With wide, wet eyes, you watch him approach. He doesn’t look at you, instead seeing exactly where he’d like to put his lips on your stomach beneath the fabric.

“Then what do you want, hm?” There’s a fold in the front of the dress and he runs his fingers along the edge of it. “We can’t fix it. Can’t go back ‘cause there’s nothin' to go back to. I don’t care what you had to do to get here, right here, with me because I’m so fuckin’ glad you are. I’m not pretending, not wasting my time, never was. ‘Cause you’re right.”

Your hand over his stills his endless roving and then it stays, scarred hand over scarred hand. Your gesture says something to him, something so meaningful he has no idea how to put it into words. He swallows his attempt and instead, slowly, drags both hands over your hips, where they stay. Heavy against the velvet.

You rest your own against his forearms, neither pulling him in or pushing him back.

“I was right about what?”

His eyes flick to yours and maybe it’s presumptuous, maybe he really is an old man afraid of his feelings, or maybe living this long – despite everything that ever tried to make it otherwise – living this long has granted him the privilege of knowing with perfect clarity what you’re thinking when you look at him like that. How he wants to whisper it back to you and he decides he will the next time your skin is warm and tacky, body helpless beneath his.

Your eyes shamelessly track the brush of his tongue against his bottom lip.

“That you’re mine. Just like I’m yours.”

The hands at his forearms glide up to his chest. The rims of your irises have gone a bit blurred, a bit unstable, and you can’t decide whether to look at his mouth or his eyes.

“Joel?” Suddenly breathy, all begging, pleading.

“Hm?”

“Get me out of this fucking dress.”

When your lips crash into his, his entire world narrows down to where on his body, yours touches:

your rough hand cradling his cheek, the other fisting the collar of his shirt. His fingers digging into your skirt, the heat from your thigh nearly driving him to tear straight through the fabric to get to you. Your sweet, perfect mouth smeared against his, lips puffed pink, nose to your cheek.

That warm, wet cunt he thinks he can feel through his boxers, jeans, the dress and your underwear.

It’s not enough.

The cry you let out is some mangled mix of a moan and his name when he licks the soft supple skin behind your ear and nips your earlobe.

“Baby, please – please – bedroom, we have to–,”

He grunts his disapproval at your words, overwhelmed by the scent that makes his mouth water as he stains the column of your throat with wet, humid kisses.

“Joel, c’mon, honey, just upstairs –,”

The last flickering tiny speckle of logic in his brain fights with itself; take your right here or haul you over his shoulder – which isn’t great for his back and, quite frankly, he intends to spend most of the night on his knees.

First option it is.

You mumble in confusion, eyes shut, chin brushing the thread of gray curls on the top of his head as he purposefully sucks a bright hickey into your collarbone, one hand cupping your breast, the other pushing you backwards. You go willingly, of course.

Until the backs of your legs hit the couch and there’s nowhere else to go. In the stumble, your dress rides up even higher and those thighs he’s actually lost sleep over appear to him. He drops to his knees, hands like meat hooks as they squeeze your waist, pulling that warm cunt even closer to him over the edge of the couch. You groan when he pushes the skirt up even higher, practically to your tits, as he explores your outer, then inner thighs with soft strokes of the back of his hands. He presses his nose to the crevice between your thigh and hip and inhales.

“B-baby, the windows,” you swallow thickly, slurring like you’re drunk, grabbing at his shoulders like you’re trying to steady yourself, or turn him towards the windows. “I mean – the curtains, baby, the curtains are –,”

“It’s a fucking blizzard outside,” he explains tersely with his eyes still closed, as if irritated to have a conversation instead of focusing every ounce of concentration he has to the heat and smell beneath your black panties. He drags his teeth over the elastic band around your hips and makes you whine his name for an entirely different reason.

You don’t make him stop or wait when he tugs those panties down your hips. In fact, you help, lifting your hips, the irises of your eyes so wide and black, you look halfway out of your mind.

Good.

He gathers the skirt he was once so fond of and stuffs it into the cushions behind you. You watch him as he moves, eyes half-lidded, finger scraping your bottom lip. Around his ribs, your knees dip back and forth, moving targets, like he’s forgotten why he’s here and needs reminding.

His big paw, the size of which makes you feel indescribably small, catches your knee and stills it, gaze dark and heavy. Do not test me right now. You try not to moan.

“Can’t believe I’m going to let you fuck me with my boots on,” you whisper airly, watching with delirious fascination as he puts one of your slender legs over his shoulder. His mouth is actually watering at the sight of your damp curls.

“Not gonna fuck you. Just gonna eat your pussy. You’ll know the difference.”

“Semantically, it’s the sa-a-me thi-ng, Jo-e – ah, Joel!”

His tongue up inside you turns you into a whiny, high-pitched, feminine mess. He eats like he does everything else: diligently, quickly, and silently.

Until you bury your fingers in his ash-flecked curls and tug.

That first deep, loud moan ripples through his body, rolling him up just off his heels, his crotch seeking some kind – any kind – of friction.

The feel of his mouth humming against your cunt has your eyes rolling back in your head. “Please, oh fuck, please –”

You are a grown woman. You should not be making these noises.

You also shouldn’t be using a man’s face to get off . . . but you do it anyway.

“Tha’s it, baby,” he mutters when your hips grind against his face. His nose catches your clit and around him, your thighs wobble. “Use me, fuckin’ use me.”

His grip around your calf over his shoulder turns rough and he knows he’ll bruise you, but fuck, the thought of you walking around town with a mark in the shape of his hand where everyone can see —

He briefly lifts his grip from your thigh to adjust his iron-hot cock in his jeans. From his view over your cunt, it doesn't seem like you noticed, or even saw him leave your skin. He watches you writhe, try to capture your breath, eyes crammed shut as your hips rock almost without your control. He takes a chance to lick the musky dampness from his upper lip when your cunt rolls back from his face a fraction of an inch — and then he sinks in again.

Call it age or the fact that you both are here at the end of the world, but the first night he ate you out, you told him exactly how and where you like it, unabashed and in control and honestly it’s the hottest thing he can think of in recent memory.

He would have written it down on the backs of his eyelids if he could.

He follows it to the letter.

“Joel – Joel, baby, please don’t stop –,” You buck and moan beneath him as he spells out your instructions with his tongue along your cunt. He dots the i’s with a tap of his tongue or a lick on your clit. Just inches above his head, your chest heaves, your fingers locked into his curls, gently pushing him closer to your puffy pussy as if he’d ever waste a drop of what leaks out of you.

With a flat-tongued brush against your suffering clit, you arch off the couch, your sighs now verging on desperate, high and whinging, because it’s just not fair how good he makes you feel. He can feel your foot curl against the planes of his back, the rubber heel heavy, your mouth open and wet, with your eyes locked on the ceiling as you try to ride out your humming orgasm with a semblance of control.

“Look at me.”

No other man has ever been able to make you come with just his mouth, you told him once.

And no other man ever will.

It’s sweet, the way your eyes soften briefly when you lock eyes with him, crouched between your thighs — before your head tips back, lips wrenched apart in a silent scream, and you come, as hard as he has worked for the flush of slick down his chin.

There’s goosebumps on your thighs, he notes. He rubs his thumb against your raised skin and you shudder, head rolling against the back of the couch.

He’s already feeling a slight twinge of shame at the noise his knees will inevitably make when he stands, but for now he’s content watching you glide down from your high, his head against your knee, shoulders still stretching your legs open wide.

To his delight, you manage to laugh, your hand draping over your eyes. You can see the shine of the dull light all across his lips, his chin, his nose and you have to close your eyes. He should make you lick it off him, but not tonight.

“Top marks, Miller, as usual,” you mumble, “but the threat of voyeurism really deserves the extra credit.”

He grins. Still waiting for your breath to slow, he wipes his mouth with his palm and slides the leg over his shoulder down in between his own thighs. Propped up on one knee, he begins to unlace your boot. He holds your calf like it’s delicate as he gently drags the boot over your heel.

He’s just as reverent with the other side.

And then your boots, the pair, sit at the end of his couch, like they were always meant to be there.

His heart, easing down from its own thunderous beat, squeezes and that feeling, that strange-not-so-strange feeling, the one that dictates practically every action with you, dribbles into his veins.

You open one eye. A flutter of lashes, coy and playful, the curve of your mouth guarding a hoard of secrets.

“Now, Joel Miller . . . will you take me to bed?”

It’s a question. A request. Your eyes, as dark as ever, on his warm his chest, all the way down his spine. You’re asking, politely, for a thing you both know he would never, ever deny you.

He cannot lose you, he just can’t.

He stands and, yes, his knees crack and pop, but he regains stability when he toes off his only good pair of cowboy boots. He nods, grinning, and offers you his hand.

The walk, half-run up to his bedroom is something his brain designates as not important enough to store away.

Instead, it languishes in the way you stretch out on his mattress before him, ass in the air, knees spread over his blankets and arms sliding through crumpled sheets towards the headboard.

The room is dark, the only light fighting its way through the downpour of snow comes from the lamp posts that dot the street outside. But the veil of snow warps the light and everything in the half-darkness is doused in blue.

The shadowy, blurred curve of your shoulder, blue.

The spread of your fingers on his mattress, blue.

The swollen bottom of lip of your mouth —

“Joel.”

The snow falls so fast and hard, it patters against the windows and the sides of the house. It’s the only thing he can hear over the pounding of his heart and the short breath in his lungs. He stares at you, soaking his blankets in your scent and slick, and you stare right back in utter and total silence.

You sit in the center of his bed, bare for him beneath the velvet dress that is red like blood, your patchy white socks at complete odds with your smeared make up and the fucked-out look in your eyes. But there’s something else there too.

Something softer. Gentler.

You reach out a hand to him and he goes to you, like always. The instant your skin touches his the instinct to fuck you hard until you’re bruised and crying evaporates. He doesn’t think you want that anymore either.

No, you need —

“Joel, please come here. I need you.”

You need him.

The mattress squeaks when he settles one knee and then the other on top of it, his fingers stroking your ear, brushing the tips of your hair, while he kisses you with an ache that is not physically manifested. Instead, it resides —

“I love you,” you whisper.

You pull back infinitesimally, just enough that your eyes are all he sees.

A patient silence hangs from the ceiling. The sound of snow falling. Of baited breath. The scratch of your fingers against at his beard —

“I love you too.” You smile and his body is no longer big enough to contain his heart. “I feel like I’ve always loved you. Is that strange?”

Your gaze traces the same path your fingers take when you think he’s sleeping; it runs over his nose, his forehead, his eyebrows, the plush curve of his lips. Like you can’t believe he’s there with you. Like you can’t believe he’s real.

That feeling — that feeling he had been fighting because it always was the only thing that would ever really do him in — is love. He loves you.

He loves you.

And you love him.

Didn’t think they told stories like this anymore, not in a world like this. So maybe, for once, Joel Miller just got lucky.

“No. It’s not. Just be sure you mean it.”

He can't tell if the glow in your eyes comes from within you or it beams out of him. “Every word.”

Eventually, he sheds you of his favorite dress of yours, your only dress, and he lays you back, fully bare in the nest of his blankets. In the corner of his bedroom, the heater hisses like the wind from a purple storm, the static crackle of warmth hovering in the air. You watch, with eyes that shine like stars, as he pops apart the pearl-snaps holding his shirt together.

And then his white undershirt goes next. He used to worry what he looked like, until he found someone else who had done exactly what was necessary to survive.

When he goes to unzip his pants, you sit up, hair mussed and the hickey he gave you earlier throbbing like a dream.

“I wanna do it.”

He lets you unbutton his jeans, slide the zipper down, at the edge of the bed, but your hands are shaking, your breath stunted.

“I’m fumbling like a teenager,” you huff, a small, flustered smile on your face. “It’s like I’m nervous, but what is there to be nervous about —,”

His mouth pressed up against yours creates the most beautiful silence of all.

How do you want me, you ask him and he thinks, all the time. But he takes you both under the covers and settles in next to you. He positions one leg over his hip and immediately you know exactly what he’s asking for. Quick as a whip, you are.

There’s a rustle of covers, the bed slats squeaking, and then he’s nearly nose-to-nose with you. You kiss him again, maybe nervous still.

He disconnects, when you slip between his legs and take his thick, leaking cock in your hand.

“Baby, wait, do you need — I know it’s a lot — I’m a lot –,”

He can’t fathom why he’s so nervous either. But you chuckle, shake your head, smile at him.

“Don’t need anything but you.”

Your leg wraps tighter over his hip, knee up to his ribs, as he sinks inside you. The palm wrapped around the back of your knee grips roughly only once.

This is true silence. The instant where the world goes muted, everything distant and muffled, when he’s first buried deep in your heat.

Your fingers thread through his curls and suddenly all sound is cranked up to an eleven. Your rapid, stilted breathing, the groan of the bed, your soft smothered moans, or are those his? —

“Fuck me, Joel.”

Eyes never leaving yours, he does.

Your fingers dig into his skull, nails biting, hand wrapped around his neck to hold yourself steady as he thrusts up into you. He thumbs your stiff nipple, half of his hand still grasping your ribs.

You meet him thrust for thrust, a slow steady pace that draws sweat to his hairline and endless gasps from his mouth. But your gaze stays strong, never falters. Your hand slips to his shoulder, to stabilize just a bit more, but then it's on his chest, twisting his chest hair and he thinks he feels that sparkle of sanity, of rationality, any restraint to hold back crack and shatter between the clench of his teeth.

“Goddamn–,”

He rolls, taking you under him and demanding a faster pace. You push your hand against the headboard, the bed knocking against the wall in rhythmic, hypnotic thuds.

He thinks you hiss his name before you bite down his shoulder.

The sharp shock of pain lights up his brain, channeling the sudden awareness that he liked that so fucking much all the way down his spinal cord where it presses hot against his groin.

He lifts up onto one elbow, skin sweat hot and sticky as it splits from yours.

“Tell me what you need to come,” he pants.

You whine again, your throat dripping sweat, but that’s not an answer. Knowing he has about a half-a-dozen to a dozen good grinds before it puts too much strain on his back, he uses every single one of them to drag you to the knife’s edge.

“What–,” grind, “do you need –,” grind, “to come?”

The wail you let out nearly makes him come on the spot. Your eyes have that same, out-of-this-world, off-this-planet unfocused gaze, any sort of language impossible. You plead with him in the silence. A silence loaded with damp moans, grit teeth, and skin against skin against skin against skin against skin. Best sound in the world, as far as he was concerned.

You arch until he lifts above you and, taking the hand that was by your head, tuck it down between your legs. You let him grasp around with spread fingers where you are wet, where his cock rocks into your body, watch as that pulls him apart faster with dark eyes, before pressing his thumb against your clit.

There, you say without words. There is where I need you.

Once, twice, he circles – he can feel the tightness in his back already settling in, his jaw fixed and locked, his body battling the two overwhelming sensations of dull pain and fierce, wild pleasure – and you hit your release and you soak him in it.

He falls then too, falls just as hard and as fast as you, the chronic pain he holds in his shoulders, his neck, his back, his knee fleetingly gone in the rush of heat that branches out of his body from his groin and it feels divine.

When he lies on top of you, face buried in the curve of your neck, the heat from your humid skin warming up the breath in his lungs, the throb of your body matching his, his mind wiped clean, the thought occurs to him:

It’s not silence he’s found with you, it’s quiet.

It’s peace.

Eventually, some awareness seeps back into his trembling body and he rolls off of you, but takes the curve of your jaw in his hand as he goes. He can’t settle into the pillows because he can’t stop kissing you, love bites occasionally against your lip, as if where his body fails, he proves his love for you won’t end so easily.

Eventually, you press your fingers into the base of his skull and, like a reset button, he groans and drops onto his back.

Eventually, the quiet returns. Only soft noises, murmurs of existence outside of this perfect little room, fill the space.

Eventually, he falls asleep with you curled up next to him.

He knows you love waking up in bed together, but he also knows you love fresh coffee even more.

Which is where Ellie finds him the next morning.

He nearly adds too much ground coffee to the pot because he’s distracted, lost in thought about the way your curves looked in the bright morning light, when the back door slams open and a little creature made of entirely scarves, mittens, and an oversized purple jacket stomps into his kitchen and clomps its snowy shoes on the rug.

“Joel, we gotta go!” She’s a little breathless, red-cheeked too as she unwinds the scarf around her head and her face is revealed. “We don’t wanna miss it!”

“Miss what?” Joel asks, this time carefully measuring how much water the pot needs.

His question is not met with her usually buzzy chatter. Instead, she’s stopped undoing her scarf and just stares at him like he’s been beamed down from another planet.

He realizes all too late that he’s still in PJs at 9AM (basically a sign of another apocalypse), he’s making more coffee than just for himself, and he’s smiling.

Shit.

“Ellie, um, I –,”

She rolls her eyes. Her scarf is flung off her neck and she starts yanking off her gloves, her plucky attitude back, if not a bit smug.

“Get your girlfriend up too. They’re lighting the big tree in town square in an hour. I know she’d be pissed if she missed it.”

So definitely caught. Time to be “The Adult” here and put it out on the table.

“Don’t call her that.” Joel eyes her. Coffee percolating, he grabs a slice of bread and Ellie’s favorite jam. “Makes it sound like we’re fourteen.”

She frowns at him, classic “pouty-mouth”.

“I’m fourteen — rude. But seriously, and I say this because I care, get over yourself. Call a spade a spade. You’re dating her, fucking her–,”

“Ellie!”

"– and you make gross ga-ga eyes at each other when you think I’m not looking."

She slides into the seat at the island in front of him as he pushes the toasted bread with jam across the marble to her. She takes a bite, chews with her mouth open, and shrugs. “That’s a girlfriend, dude.”

Joel turns back to the eggs that might be burning, his shoulders hunched and fist tight around the spatula. Hate it when the kid is right.

He salvages what he can of the eggs, plates them along with two strips of bacon on two plates, and balances a mug of coffee on each. He tries to salvage some of his dignity with a glare.

“When you’re older, you’ll see some things just don’t need labels.”

At that, she rolls her eyes again and snatches up the last strip of bacon from the folded, greasy napkins. “Whatever, you dork.”

Argument soundly lost, he gathers up the plates and heads back up stairs. She’s still mumbling to herself as he goes.

“'Girlfriend', pfft . . . much better than fuck bunny!” She yells to no one in particular.

You hear the entire conversation from bed, the door cracked open enough for the sound to travel. Muffling a giggle, you snag his white shirt from the floor and draw it over your head. You should probably be more embarrassed that Joel got caught in his Walk of Shame, even if it was to his own kitchen to make breakfast. But . . . you’re just not.

The smile is still on your face when his footfalls approach the door and he sticks his head into the room.

“Sounds like we’re busted,” you smirk.

Joel almost chuckles. “'Bout as busted as you can be.” He hands you one plate and sits on the end of the bed with his own. He takes a low, slow sip of coffee and you follow him. The eggs are nibbled at and the bacon is perfectly crunchy.

“So . . . girlfriend?”

He rolls his eyes. “Not you too.”

“I mean," you slip the plate and coffee onto the bedside table, then hug the sheets around your knees, "I agree with you on the bit about labels. It seems silly. And not wasteful silly. Just . . .”

“Silly.” Joel’s eyes are as dark as his coffee, warmer than it too. “Doesn’t really capture the whole thing, does it?”

An apocalypse and a half later, and a boy’s sweet eyes on you can still make your stomach swoop.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then what do you wanna say, if people start askin’?”

You bite your lip, eyes up in faux-thought. “Truth be told, I'm kinda partial to fuck bunny. Cute like with a little tail and ears —,"

The groan from Joel and subsequent head shake makes you laugh enough for you to take pity on the old guy. You crawl closer and his eyes slip from your face to where the sheet tucks under your knees. But a hand on his cheek returns his gaze.

"I like what you said last night." Your smile is soft, pleased. "That I’m yours. Like you’re mine.”

Joel’s warmth bleeds from his whole frame as he leans in close to put his mug on the bedside table, then leans in closer still to you. He drags his nose over your bare, exposed shoulder, in a way that is sweet and sensual all at once. He stops with a kiss on the hinge of your jaw.

“I like that too. I like saying that you’re mine.”

Ignoring the shiver that rockets up your spine at the low hum of his voice, the flutter of his lips barely against your cheek, you tuck an errant curl around his ear and it immediately springs back up again. You smile and he smiles back, a youthful shine in his eyes.

“Wherever you are, I am too.”

Listen to: I am the forest by Willie Nelson

2K notes · View notes