my blerg

You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.

“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”

“—right there,” he cuts in.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”

He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”

You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”

Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.

“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.

You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”

You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.

“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”

You try not to smile. You fail, a little.

“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”

“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.

You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”

He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”

You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”

“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”

That earns you a look.

“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”

You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”

“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.

You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”

“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”

“Debatable.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.

You hand him a fork.

“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”

He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.

You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”

He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.

A pause.

Then—

“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.

You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”

“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”

“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”

Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”

“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”

Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”

“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”

“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”

“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”

“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.

“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so pent up.

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.

Jack doesn’t answer.

Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”

“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”

“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”

Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.

Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.

“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”

Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”

“Ambulance crashed!”

The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.

He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.

But this. This thing you were doing…

The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.

From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.

And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake. 

Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.

You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.

Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.

Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.

“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.

Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.

“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”

Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”

Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”

Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.

Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

You were already moving.

Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.

You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.

“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”

Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.

Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Then you leaned in.

Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.

Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.

Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.

“We’re heading out,” he said.

Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”

Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.

You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.

And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.

And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you. 

It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.

★★★

Day Six.

He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.

The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.

The second— You.

On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.

And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?

“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.

The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.

He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—

—and you shift just slightly.

It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.

A beat.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”

There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.

“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”

You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”

“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”

“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”

Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”

“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.

“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.

Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.

“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”

He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.

“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”

“You could just… not text her.”

Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

You smile slightly.

“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”

“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.

“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”

There’s a pause.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.

Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.

The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.

He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.

His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.

You startle just a little, then relax.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”

“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.

He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.

“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.

“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”

His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.

You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.

He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.

“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”

You don’t answer.

Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.

His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.

“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”

But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.

Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.

“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”

His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.

“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”

The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.

You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.

You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—

You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.

It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.

If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.

You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie. 

Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.

It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”

★★★

Day Twelve.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”

“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.

“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”

The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”

He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.

They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.

Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”

“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”

Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. I kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”

Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”

“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”

Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.

Locks. You.

At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.

You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.

“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”

Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”

“You aren’t going there.”

“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”

“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”

“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”

“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”

“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”

Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.

Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.

You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.

Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.

Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.

“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”

“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.

“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”

McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”

“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”

You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”

“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”

“Santos encouraged it.”

“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.

“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”

Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”

You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”

You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”

You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.

“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”

You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”

Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—

“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”

“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.

“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”

You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”

Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”

Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.

You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.

Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.

Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.

“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”

He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.

You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”

He stands there for a second. Then another.

Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.

★★★

Day Eighteen.

You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.

Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.

“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.

You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.

He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”

You hum like you believe him. You don’t.

He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”

“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.

“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”

You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.

Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.

He’s trying to be good. You can see it.

Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.

You keep going anyway.

“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.

You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”

You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”

You glance at him now.

“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.

“Whatever you want do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.

“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.

You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.

He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.

“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”

You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.

“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.

You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”

“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds. 

Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.

“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”

Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.

You shouldn’t.

You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.

“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”

A pause.

“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.

You kiss him again properly.

It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.

Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.

His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up. 

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.

He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”

You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.

You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.

“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”

“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.

You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.

He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.

You glance down.

He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.

You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.

“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”

“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”

You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”

“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.

Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.

We resist.

You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.

So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.

So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly. 

So you added structure.

Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.

You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.

You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.

But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.

You’ve also tightened everything else.

Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.

The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.

“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.

He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.

And still—you function.

You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait. 

The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity. 

And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.

The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.

Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.

You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.

Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.

“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.

“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”

“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”

You nod, moving in.

The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.

You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.

“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.

You.

He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder. 

Three weeks of this… discipline.

And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”

“Now.”

You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”

Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”

“Good. Splint.”

You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.

Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”

You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.

“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”

Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”

Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”

“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.

“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”

Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”

“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”

“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”

You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.

“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”

Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”

“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”

You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”

“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.

Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.

“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”

“Debatable.”

“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—

“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”

You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”

You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.

“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.

“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”

You huff. “How is he doing?”

Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.

“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”

You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.

You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”

Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”

“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.

There’s a small pause, then—more casually—

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He called it punishment.”

“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”

You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”

You laugh under your breath.

He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.

You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.

“See you at home in a few hours.”

He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.

“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.

You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.

“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”

Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking. 

“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.

McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.

“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”

You glance over. “Why?”

“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”

“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.

McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.

“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”

Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”

“You brought her up first.”

“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”

McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”

You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”

“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”

McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”

Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”

You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”

McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..

Santos, however, immediately does.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”

McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.

Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”

You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”

“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”

You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”

McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”

Then, casually—

“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”

McKay exhales through her nose.

Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a you problem. We host singer parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”

Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”

Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”

Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.

Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”

Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.

Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.

You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.

He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”

“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”

He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”

“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”

A beat.

“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.

Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”

Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”

Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”

Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”

“…Did I what?”

Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”

“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.

“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”

Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”

Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.

“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.

“I salted it.”

“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”

Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”

“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.

“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.

“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.

You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.

You pull back just as fast.

“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”

His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”

“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.

You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.

“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”

Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.

He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.

“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.

“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.

“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.

“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”

You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.

“C’mere,” he says.

You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.

“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.

You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.

His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.

“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.

You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.

“Mhm.”

He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.

“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.

His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.

“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”

You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that. 

You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.

“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”

He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”

“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.

“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”

You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.

You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”

His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”

You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.

“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.

“What else?”

“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip. 

You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.

“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.

He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you. 

The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch. 

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.

“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.

“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.

He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass. 

He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.

“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric. 

He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement. 

“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”

You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.

He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.

“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe. 

He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.

“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.

His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.

You shake your head.

“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.

He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”

He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”

You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.

“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”

He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.

“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.

You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.

 “Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.

You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.

He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say, 

His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.

“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man. 

His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.

You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”

You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.

“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”

“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head. 

You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him. 

You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.

“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.

“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.

“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”

“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.

“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.” 

He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”

“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”

You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.

“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.

“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.

Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect. 

His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back. 

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good." 

You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch. 

He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?" 

“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.

He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.

Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”

He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar. 

He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him. 

He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.

“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.

He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.

“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”

You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them. 

You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. 

“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.

You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp. 

You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense. 

You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.

He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. 

His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.

His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?" 

His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”

“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.

“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.

“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.

“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”

His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.

"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely. 

You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.

You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”

There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.

You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.

“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.

You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”

He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”

“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.

You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.

It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.

You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.

“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.

You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”

“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”

You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”

He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”

“I can help, I’ll—”

“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.

You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.

When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.

“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.

He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.

You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.

There’s a pause.

“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”

He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”

You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.

“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.

He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.

There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”

“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”

You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”

You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.

“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.

“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”

His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.

The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.

You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.

Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

He purses his mouth involuntarily when a girl sitting in front of him on the bus has her hair gathered in a ponytail that reveals the nape of her neck. She’s wearing a thin chain necklace that pulls on the tiny hairs. His hands itch to brush the skin and untangle the mess carefully, then place the whole breadth of his palm there, from tendon to tendon, to ease the sting. Before he gets to live his life’s most torrid affair, the girl yanks on the chain viciously, plucking out singular strands with a small hiss, and gets off the bus.

When he falls in love again, he is disastrously unready for the prospect of permanence. Handshakes and congratulations muttered over keys passed to the flat next door have far too much of long-term arrangement about them for his peace of mind. Duncan’s beloved of today is wearing paint-stained dungarees, the knees pushed out and sagging with age. Her hair is messy and her cheek smudged with dust. Her socks do not match either. She’s thanking the building manager with glassy eyes and a smile pulled so wide she looks about to cry.

The manager delivers one last pat to her back, then reveals Duncan’s presence by bidding him a quick, “Morning.” Duncan nods once, then keeps his head down as he passes by. Before descending the staircase, he allows himself one last glance: you sigh, pause, and step into your flat. Certainty floods him cold: he’s in love with his neighbour.

He spends the day at work trying to reason with himself. You are only one girl who happens to live on the other side of his bedroom wall. Duncan hardly ever sees the other neighbours as it is. For all he knows, you keep odd hours and spend weekends elsewhere and have a boyfriend already hanging pictures in that flat in his head. If luck is willing to show him some mercy, he will not be sentenced to pine after the girl next door. By lunch he has bargained himself into a kind of peace. By the end of the day, he almost believes it.

Then he comes home.

Your door is ajar. Passing by, Duncan catches through the crack the beginning of a new life. The hallway yawns open to the room beyond, where a mattress—not nearly wide enough for two—lies on the floor with its sheets crumpled up in a twist. There is a mug sitting on the windowsill with a teabag string dangling over the rim. A charger. A few cardboard boxes hunch by the wall, half-opened and all of it kills him a bit with tender, domestic ache. You’re really here, starting from scratch.

From deeper in the flat comes your voice, frayed by an argument with a consultant. It grows louder. Nearer. Duncan finds what is left of his wit and slips past as quietly as he can, key already in hand. He is through his own threshold and turning the lock on a held breath before you come into view. A second later, your door slams shut hard enough to carry through the wall. He hears you thank someone over the phone tightly and end the call. Then, he catches the cutest little growl of frustration he’s heard in his life. When he closes his eyes he can see you again in all your disarrayed glory and decides the girls from cafés and pubs and buses may as well pack it in, and Duncan is in trouble.

He wakes the next day hoping the universe will spare him permanence, only to get sucker-punched by the sight of you fighting your post box in the main hall. The same girlish growl he already knows leaves you when the box will not budge (despite you asking it very nicely by rattling the lock with the key stuck inside it). He tries to disguise his gasp and it comes out as a dumb, hiccuped chuckle, which, of course, gets your attention.

“Is something funny?” you ask, face dangerously frowned, yet still the prettiest thing Duncan’s ever seen.

“N-no. No,” he gulps, loudly. “You have to, uh… bully it a bit. Here—can I?”

His hands come out and you step away at once, making Duncan wonder whether it is because you believe his good intentions, or is it merely his intimidating size.

He leans in, presses on the little door and turns the key between his fingers until it clicks.

Your eyes are on him, bewildered. “That’s ‘bullying’ in your world?”

Duncan shrugs. “I mean…”

“Good to know.” Before he realises what is happening, your palm is out and disappearing in his, and he learns your name, and from this moment he will remember it forever. “Thirteen C,” you add, as if he has not noticed.

“Duncan,” he says. “Fifteen C.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, smiling.

“So, err… how’s it going?”

“Alright. Just getting to…” Your eyes drag to the post box, then back to him. “—you know. Oh, um… it might get a bit”—your fingers pinch together to present what a bit means—“loud over the weekend. I’m having furniture delivered and I have to assemble it.”

That is it. Duncan’s heart behaves as if it has somehow acquired a brain of its own and is currently attempting an escape by slicing his chest open, lest he say something normal. Words pour out of his mouth and, to him, they sound like begging.

“D’you need a hand? I could—” As he speaks, you go still. Your eyes drop, and Duncan falters at once. “Unless you’ve that sorted already,” he says. “I only meant—I’m good with carrying, is all.”

After a beat, there’s a nod. “Yes,” you say, and Duncan realises you are nervous. “God, okay, yes. I’ve no one. I’m not even going to pretend I’m competent, or that it’s an easy job. My delivery company insists that we’ve agreed on a downstairs drop-off and it’s a ton of bookshelves. If you were just being nice, that’s absolutely fine though. God, sorry,” you mumble, holding your throat. “Moving is stressful.”

He has never seen awkwardness to match his own packed into someone so lovely. He feels an impossible urge to hug you, but knows that could make his affair fleeting, and suddenly finds himself wanting the opposite. “I wasn’t. I mean—I was. I’d gladly help. I’ve the weekend off.”

“Wicked,” you say, a shy curve on your mouth. “They come at eight on Saturday. That works?”

“It does. Yeah,” Duncan says, nodding once, then again, as if the second one might make him sound less like a man who has just been handed a winning lottery ticket in broad daylight. “That works. I’ll, uh… catch you later.”

He turns on his heel and starts back upstairs like a fool.

“Weren’t you heading out?” you ask.

He stops so abruptly he nearly misses the next step. “Right,” he says, and clears his throat. “I was actually—” Jerks a thumb towards the front door, then has to come back down past you with what dignity he can gather. “Going to work.”

Your smile does something unhelpful to his insides. “Thought so.”

“Yeah.” He gives a small nod. “So. Saturday.”

“Saturday,” you echo.

“Deadly.” The word slips out on its own. Duncan feels his ears burn. “I mean—good. Grand. I’ll see you then.”

He goes before his tongue can betray him any further, out through the front door and into the morning with his heart beating high in his throat, having managed to turn a straightforward goodbye into a full display of personal deficiency in under thirty seconds.

And deadly he is. You’re left smiling and so struck, it takes you another thirty seconds to clock that you are wearing an absurdly torn T-shirt, pyjama shorts and mountain climbing boots (classic just going to check mail assembly). Then another five to release a breath.

You were a bit too overwhelmed by the sight of your own four naked walls and a slice of floor to sleep on when you first saw him to assess him properly. Now, though—eyes, first and foremost. Huge, and blue and with lashes that belong on a doll rather than on a grown-up man. Proportional to the rest of him, which is also huge in a way that makes you feel safe and taken care of, not hunted.

Then his voice, which sits warm in your ear after he is gone, low and soft and careful with every word. His face: freckles over the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks, hair that cannot decide whether it is dark blond or ginger, and a blush that rises so easily it almost seems unfair on a man built like that. And his arms—Christ on a stick. They look as if they could hug any worry clean out of you. Crowning all of it is the most endearing smile, all crooked teeth, which he seems to reach for whenever the colour in his face becomes unbearable. Absolutely dear lad.

And he has agreed to spend the weekend with you, playing adult Lego with IKEA bookshelves. An offer you probably shouldn't have accepted, but he’s a sweetheart who, by all rights, ought to take up space more confidently than he does. Instead he ducks his head, fumbles his goodbye and flees, leaving you with your lip bitten raw.

You know damn well it is entirely unwise to develop a crush on your neighbour. Nevertheless, the tiny voice in the back of your head is already chanting, please don’t be a psycho, please don’t be a psycho.

The rest of the day you spend pointlessly cleaning the space that will get obliterated by dust and cardboard come weekend anyway, then listening to his footsteps through the wall in the evening. Saturday, you realise, while you have been busy making goo-goo eyes at him, you completely forgot to give him any actual logistics. Where are you meant to meet? Who carries what? How much time does he have?

You knock on his door at 7:45 a.m. and might as well just kiss the doorknob. Nothing. Try again, and still nothing. By the time the phone starts vibrating in your hand with an unknown number, your stomach has already dropped low enough to bruise. The delivery driver is downstairs. They are waiting for a signature. You swear, apologise, swear again and hang up feeling like an absolute clown for ever believing a kind stranger was something that just happened to you.

When you get down to the main hall, Duncan is already there. Waiting. In jeans and a white T-shirt with paint stains set so deep into it they look permanent. The sight of him hits you hard enough to wipe your mind for a second. Broad shoulders. Sleep still clinging somewhere about his face. Hair not fully decided yet. He turns at the sound of you coming and your heart gives one awful, hopeful kick.

“I thought you, uh—hi,” you say.

“Morning,” he says, straightening. There is a crease between his brows, like he has been wondering where you got to. “Sorry. I went down when I heard the van.” His eyes flick over your face quickly, then away. “You all right?”

That lands badly enough in your chest that you have to clear your throat before answering. “Yeah. Yes. I just thought you’d changed your mind.”

The blush comes up at once, easy as breath. “No,” he says. “No, I’m here.” His eyes flick to the heap of boxes crowding the entrance, then back to you. “And thank God, it seems. How many bookshelves d’you need, anyway?”

You shrug, already flustered. “I have a lot of books?”

Something in his face gives. Worse than a mockery—a smile. “Right.”

The delivery men are in no mood for inept romance. They want signatures, directions, confirmation that yes, all of this misery belongs to you. Duncan takes the handheld scanner from one of them before you can fumble it, passes it back, then bends to the first box with the ease of a man picking up a child’s toy. You stand there a second too long watching his forearms jump under the weight and have to jolt yourself back into usefulness.

So, it’s carry the lighter things. A flat-packed desk. Narrow boxes of shelves. Bags of fittings that clatter and bruise your shins. Duncan gets the proper monsters: the long boxes that seem designed to take out the ankles of whoever dares lift them, the thick ones packed with boards, the pieces that turn every staircase into an insult. By the second trip, his white T-shirt is sticking to the middle of his back. By the third, you have learned that the muscles there move under cotton in a way that ought to be regulated. He goes up the stairs with a box balanced on one shoulder and one hand free for the rail, and every time he turns sideways to clear the landing, you get some fresh reason to stop believing in a merciful god.

“Sorry,” you mutter for the fifth time, wrestling a carton through your front door.

“What for?”

“For owning things.”

He ducks under the doorframe with another box. “Bit late for that.”

You laugh despite yourself. He smiles without looking at you, sets the load down exactly where it needs to go and is gone again before you can decide whether to stare at his back or his hands.

Eventually, the entrance hall gets empty, so the one outside your flat can look as though a Scandinavian warehouse has exploded. Inside is worse. Cardboard everywhere. Thick white foam. Plastic corners. Long, baffling pieces of wood in shades with names no tree has ever deserved. You are sweaty and breathing through your mouth. Duncan wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead and leaves a pale streak through the dust there.

You lean against the wall and attempt a joke through your lungs. “If you’re fed up, I can probably handle the rest alone.”

His head comes up at once. “What, you’re kicking me out before the best part?”

“You think this is the best part?”

The blush arrives with such force it nearly does him an injury. “I meant—” He huffs a laugh at himself and looks down. “The building. The shelves.”

“Right,” you say. “The shelves.”

“Mm.”

You let him suffer for one beat longer than strictly kind, then rescue him. “Tea?”

He looks at you with real gratitude. “Go on, then.”

The kettle buys you both a little grace. For a while, it works. He tears through cardboard, stacks the big pieces, gets the general logic of things faster than seems fair. He is excellent at the parts requiring weight, reach or brute confidence. When you come back with two mugs though, Duncan is crouched in the middle of your floor among split boxes and hardware, reading the leaflets with an expression usually reserved for bad news from the doctor.

You pass him a cup, and he mutters an absent, “Ah, thanks, luv,” making your stomach twist. Goes back to frowning. Squinting, while holding the paper a little further away. Then further still, arm almost fully extended. His eyes narrow into slits. He turns the page one way, then the other, like Satan himself may be written on the back in clearer print. Under his breath, he whispers, “Shite.”

You are beginning to enjoy yourself immensely. “Everything all right there?”

“Mm.”

That is plainly a lie. His jaw sets, and finally he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. Out comes a pair of glasses so practical and slightly old-fashioned they look as though they have been with him longer than some friendships. He puts them on with the air of a man making a grave concession to weakness.

You nearly go through the floor. The lenses give him the most ridiculous, endearing bug-eyes. Not distorted exactly, but gentled, opened up. Softer, somehow. Boyish in a way the rest of him does not allow. He glances up and catches you looking.

“What?” he says, already half-defensive.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.” You set your mug down very carefully. “You just look…”

He waits. There are a hundred things you could say and none of them are survivable. Dear. Ridiculous. So lovely it hurts. You land on, “Serious.”

Duncan snorts, unconvinced, and looks back at the paper. “This thing was written by the devil.”

You kneel beside him and lean in. The leaflet rustles between you. Up close, his shoulder is warm. So is the line of his thigh where it nearly touches yours through old denim. He smells of soap and sweat broken by honest work.

“I thought it was the best part,” you say, forcing your gaze onto the tiny drawings instead of his glasses.

Duncan glances up. “Best part’s the company,” he says, and with those huge eyes behind wire frames, your crush leaves the realm of manageable things entirely.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. This, leastways, feels natural: helping. And it gives him enough space to push through anxiety and have something like a conversation with you. Nothing that would make his ridiculous in-love feeling flee has happened yet, so Duncan allows it to persist. At least as long as he gets to spend time with you assembling bookshelves.

That goes as expected: he’s tormented by your hands brushing his whenever you pass him a screw. Then by his own indignity at being unable to work with the smaller bits, where you step in—much too close for safety—with your nice-smelling hair and cute jokes. “Whatever would you do without me, hm?” you say, turning the smallest Allen key Duncan’s ever seen.

He clears his throat. “Uh… let’s see. Watch telly? Go down the pub for a game? Go running?”

“How utterly boring,” you mutter, focused on the task.

Duncan nearly rests his chin in one hand. “I know. I consider myself saved.”

You smile. Huff at the key refusing to go any further and deem your job done. “Alright,” you say, then deliver one more nail to his coffin. Your hand comes up to lift the hair off the back of your neck and cool off. He immediately goes to judge the kissability of it. Duncan, who in his lifetime has inspected necks’ napes in abundance, considers himself an expert on the matter. The verdict: yours is everything-able. Grabbable. Lickable. Kissable, and when he focuses enough he can imagine it smells heavenly too. Before he can blink himself out of it, you turn and ask, “Hungry?”

“Always,” Duncan says, and curses internally at how breathy he sounds. “Where d’you want these?” he asks, pointing at the whopping four assembled bookshelves, which currently create a little maze in your living room/dining room/bedroom—a room serving as all three.

“Oh, wherever you think,” you say, already scrolling through the food ordering app. That one hits him square in the gut, being allowed to do something domestic in the home of a girl he’s known for not even a week and is still deeply, hopelessly fallen for.

When he’s put everything where it looks best, you reappear with two beers in hand. He’s managed to find himself a spot on the floor where he’s sitting cross-legged, fully engrossed in the manual of the furniture already assembled, and your mind briefly goes to what it would feel like to wedge yourself onto those thighs.

You pass him a bottle, plop down next to him, and say, “Got us pizza. Fastest.”

“Grand,” he says. Leans back, trying to find something to stare at that is not your feet. “So—” The bottles clink. “How’s it feeling?” he asks, then pauses to watch you down half of yours in approximately five greedy gulps and chuckles, all helpless.

“Jesus, sorry.” You stop when you catch him staring like you have grown horns. Wipe your mouth. “It’s, um… less echo-y. Weird. But good. Like I’m starring in a rom-com. Oh shi—”

One of the shelves tips and starts falling face-flat. Duncan is up before you can properly register him moving, catching it with one hand.

“Got it. Got it. Yeah, the floors.” He wedges a folded bit of cardboard underneath to keep it straight. “They’re round as the earth.”

You blink, then slam the bottle onto the floor so hard some beer erupts from the neck. “Fuck, so I was right all along? It does feel like I’m going downhill from that corner.”

“Seems you were,” Duncan says, sitting back down. “Got to screw those to the walls, or you might get flattened in the night.” He points out the trajectory of it. If it went, it would go straight for the mattress. “We can do it tomorrow?”

“Two days in a row? Guess I bought you dinner, so everything’s by the book,” you mutter, and Duncan chokes on his beer. “Sorry. God, sorry. It’s the beer, I promise I’m not an obnoxious neighbour.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “If that’s obnoxious, I’d say I’m managing.”

You blink at that, then smile fully, teeth and all, and Duncan counts them before licking the backs of his own in a poor imitation of what it might be like to kiss you.

You turn towards him and lower your voice. “So you’re saying I should keep plying you with pizza and lager?”

There is a crust of dust in the corner of your eye. A strand of hair curled at your temple. The hinge of your jaw, where he would gladly suck a pretty pale bruise, just so you’d remember him as a man who leaves souvenirs. The collar of your T-shirt is darkened with sweat, and he can smell it and wants to press his nose there. On the floor between you, your hands point towards each other, fingers a hair’s breadth apart. He has half a mind to lean in.

The buzzer goes off roaring so suddenly you jump.

“God, that’s… loud,” you say. “One minute.”

The pizza arrives in a flurry of apologies, change, the brief humiliation of you having to shoulder the sticking front door with your hip. By the time you come back, Duncan has schooled his face into something he hopes resembles a man here for neighbourly reasons and not because he is one missed interruption away from pressing you into a wall so you can learn another purpose for all this strength.

You sit on the floor to eat because there is nowhere else to do it. The box goes between you. Grease blooms through the paper. Your knee knocks his once and stays there just long enough to keep his heart misbehaving.

The conversation comes in starts. Where you moved from. Whether the building is always this loud. How many books is too many books. He tells you he works mornings more often than not; you tell him this move has already shortened your life by a year. He laughs when you do impressions of the delivery men. You laugh when he tells you the names of the shelves sound like obscure illnesses. It should feel awkward. It does, a little. It also feels good enough that Duncan keeps forgetting to be shy until his own voice brings him back to himself.

He does not want to go. He knows he should. So he puts on the fakest yawn of his life, stretches his arms over his head for effect and says, “Right. Better leave you to it.”

Your face falls so slightly he almost calls it back.

“What time d’you want me tomorrow?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

That brings you back at once. “Whenever works for you.”

Duncan nods like a man with options. “I could do ten?”

“Ten’s perfect.”

“Good.” He gets to his feet and brushes nonexistent dust from his jeans. “I’ll see you then.”

When he leaves, it is with pizza marrying lager in his stomach, your laugh in his ears, and the growing suspicion that the universe has no intention of sparing him permanence at all.

He lies awake in bed, acutely aware that you are just behind the wall, and snorts helplessly into his pillow when a loud Fuck! follows a loud bang—presumably a toe fallen victim to one of the corners in the dark.

There is something insanely erotic to Duncan about a girl who lets him in and allows him to see the raw bones. No objects yet to hide behind or define yourself with; all he gets is your personality, stripped right down, and the version of you made intimate by imperfection. The one whose socks are nearly brown on the soles from cardboard dust, whose fingernails are dark beneath the crescents from handling metal bits all day, who stops herself from downing a whole bottle of beer only because he, in his dumbness, looked at her sideways.

And it feels nothing like his other crushes, which lived in perfect sealed-off vignettes, girls caught on their way somewhere else. You are going nowhere. Better: you are trying to stay. And Duncan has the honour of watching and helping it happen.

On Sunday he is ready at ten sharp and knocking on your door. His hair is still wet, and he is standing there with two coffees because he has no idea whether you have managed to unpack the coffee pot yet. That is the only reason.

Your voice comes muffled from inside. “Coming! One sec—”

He hears fumbling. Water running. Something hits tile and you hiss, “Shit!”

When you open the door, you look like you have only just dragged your shirt down over your back. Your hair is lifted with static. Your feet are bare, and Duncan has to force his eyes up from them. There he finds the corner of your mouth whitened with a trace of toothpaste.

“Hi. Sorry, I overslept,” you say, flattening your hair down with both palms.

“D’you want me to come back later?”

“No! No,” you say. “I’m up, promise. Also, is that for me?” Your finger points at the cups.

“No, luv. Brought them so I could drink two coffees in front of you.”

He presses one into your hands. You snort, then step out of the way. The hallway is narrow enough that he has to turn sideways to get through, and your stomachs still brush faintly. Duncan stops dead, points at his own mouth. “You’ve got a little—”

Your hand flies up and scrubs at your mouth with alarming force. You huff, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t drool, it’s just toothpaste.”

“Thank God.” A smile, unguarded and crooked and just so dear you want to squish his cheeks. 

He steps in fully and is met by the sight of the place properly gutted this time. Boxes split open. Books in tottering stacks. Fragile things wrapped in newspaper. Clothes half-freed from bin bags. He crouches over one of the boxes nearest to him, whistles low, and lifts out a hardback thick enough to stun a horse.

“What have we here? Remember how we talked about how many books is too many books yesterday? This—”

Then he leans further into the box, and mind leaves your body.

His shirt rides up over his loins. The muscles there rise in two thick ridges either side of his spine. They deepen the groove between them, pull his waistband tight, make a gap between skin and denim that would fit a flat palm perfectly. Fucking biteable, is what they are. Unbearably hot. You could live there, happy and fed and entirely unbothered, your cheek resting in the well of his back. It doesn’t help at all that his butt is as round as your floors which are as round as the earth.

It takes him a second to turn. When he does, he looks almost pleased with himself. “This is too many books, lass,” he announces. The lass does not help either. His brow pulls in. “Hey. You good?”

“Hm?” you hum, and bury the lower half of your face in the coffee cup in a futile attempt to hide the heat of it. “Yeah. Hunky-dory. And there is no such thing as too many books, Duncan.”

“You can call me Dunk. Friends do.” He stands then, book still in hand, and your body takes that as fresh bad news. “Right,” he says. “You ready?”

“As ever. Are you? I see no glasses.”

Something bright flickers across his face. He sets the book down, reaches into his back pocket and produces the case with a little flourish. Flips the arms open with both thumbs and settles the glasses on his nose like a man about to perform surgery.

“There,” he says. “Happy now, lass?”

“Very.” You clear your throat. “Okay. What should I do?”

He looks round your flat, glasses low on his nose, taking stock. “Might be better to clear some of this first,” he says. “Leave the drilling till later. We’ve the desk still, don’t we?”

Yes, unfortunately. So you unpack the desk while Duncan deals with the cardboard. He breaks boxes down with an efficiency that ought to be illegal, folds them once, twice, then stamps them flat under one boot. It should not do what it does to you, that sound, that force, that careless certainty of a body built to make stubborn things give way, but it does. Repeatedly. By the time he hauls the broken-down mountain downstairs, you need a moment so badly it arrives without asking.

You end up spread flat on the floor, muttering, “Fuck, fucking fuck,” into the air, heels of your palms pressed into your eyesockets hard enough to make your vision exist only in shades of black.

The front door opens quietly. A few steps, and: “Tired already?” Duncan asks.

Off with your head, then. When you look up, he is standing over you with the ceiling nearly on his shoulders. Not really. It only feels that way. A sigh. “Just… regrouping,” you say.

His mouth twitches. He puts a hand out. “C’mere, wee thing. It’s nearly done.”

It stirs your lower belly hot. So does the sight of his hand waiting for yours, broad and open and patient. You give him your arm because the other option is to reject it and scramble yourself up in an entirely undignified way. His palm closes round your elbow. Instead of yanking, he lifts steadily, calmly, as if you simply have no weight. The pressure of him stays even once you are upright. He is still holding you when you straighten fully, and for one daft second you let him.

“Right,” you say, smoothing your hands down your jeans. “I just need some water. Do you want some?”

He nods and follows you into the kitchen.

You reach up for the glasses from the top cupboard. There are only two unpacked. Duncan notices that at once. Notices, too, the way your shirt rides with the stretch and catches there above your hip, folded back on itself, leaving a strip of stomach bare. He feels it clean in the chest. Affection and neighbourly feelings that somehow have managed to fester into want, plain and greedy. He wants a lot, he realises. And he’s certain he’s obvious as daylight in it, and so engrossed in his own inadequacy things elude him.

What he misses is that you are no less obvious, only quieter. The way you hand him the glass so your fingers drag against his and stay a fraction too long. The way you drink from yours fast, quenching thirst that water has nothing to do with. The way your eyes travel down the line of his jaw to his throat as he swallows, unabashed for a second before you blink and pull them back.

Thank god he cannot read minds. Yours is all clatter. He looks right in here. In your kitchen, such as it is. A bit sweaty. A bit messy. Big enough to crowd the room without trying. The flat already warmer and more lived in for having him inside it. And you want him to stay so badly it makes your palms damp round the glass. Spoken aloud, it would sound ridiculous. Inside your head, it has already settled into fact.

You clear your throat and look anywhere but at his mouth. “Right,” you say. “If we stand here much longer, that desk will build itself out of spite.”

That gets a smile out of him. Small. Crooked. Ruinous. “Can’t have that.”

So, the desk gets built. The shelves end up arranged into a final, satisfying shape which, if everything goes to plan, will make a small home library. Duncan measures them up, shifts them by inches, squints, steps back, shifts them again, makes them line as evenly as the old building allows and does the bulk of the work with the drill. You end up his nurse, passing him sleeves and screws when he asks, holding things steady where he tells you, fetching the bits that roll away.

At one point he grunts and squints at the wall with such offence in his face that you ask, “Did BILLY say something rude?”

He snorts. “No. But I might need your hawk eyes here, luv.”

“I see,” you tease. “I’ll tell you a secret. Can’t see shit from afar. I suppose that makes us one properly sighted person between us.”

The prospect of making something whole with you is so enticing Duncan nearly misses the fact that you have slipped under his arm and then between his biceps. From there he gets your neck again. The shape of the space behind your ear. The little hollow where he decides his fingers would sit perfectly, cradling your head while he kissed you stupid. He puts all his strength into pressing the shelf to the wall while you screw the tiny bits in, holds his breath and prays for his body to behave. The space between his stomach and your back is so narrow he could close it in one step. Then he could bury his nose in your nape. Then—

He blinks against the thought so hard something scratches his eyeball. “Bloody fu—” he mutters, trying to wipe his face against his shoulder.

You feel the shift and turn your head a little. “You all right?”

“Yeah, just… something in my eye. Dust, I—”

You crane your neck first, then turn in the cage of his body. Set the screwdriver down. Dust your hands off on your jeans. “Hold it,” you say. “Come here.”

Dear Lord above.

Your hands reach for him. One finds the bridge of his glasses and pushes them up till they catch in his hair. The other comes to his cheek. Then both of them are there, cool skin, cradling his face as you pull him down to your height and look straight into the ruined eye. Duncan goes still from boots to teeth.

“D’you see it?” he chokes out.

“Yeah. Just an eyelash. Long one,” you mutter.

Your knuckle comes to his lid and draws it down gently. The eyelash—a brown curved thing, outrageous in its prettiness, like he has put a bloody curler to it—works itself loose, catches him once more for spite, then blinks far enough free for you to pinch it between thumb and forefinger. You hold it up in front of him, forgetting he likely cannot make out a thing without his glasses.

“There,” you say. “Better?”

“Can’t see it, but I believe you,” Duncan breathes.

He stays bent over you, close enough that the freckles show one by one. You could count them if given the time. You want the time. All day, if possible. Or a year. All year to count them and then find out whether they continue elsewhere. He licks his lips once and then keeps very still, save for the faint trembling in the arms.

You pull him a fraction lower. Then another.

Duncan looks like he wants to say something and rejects each option in real time. His mouth opens. Shuts. When he thinks you are about to kiss him, you slide his glasses back down onto the bridge of his nose and he makes the smallest wounded sound in his throat, near enough a whine to count. But you keep coming. Closer. Closer. He can feel your breath wash warm over the tip of his nose, over his upper lip. Then your mouths are there, set together already, the contact made and held. Soft and dry with the day. Neither of you moving. Both of you letting the other back out if they want it badly enough. There are no takers. 

Duncan closes his eyes. His voice comes out low and strained. “C’mon, girl. Give me something.”

“This?” you say, and then move. And god, what a movement that is. He feels it everywhere. In his toes, where you step on them to lengthen your reach, and he welcomes that weight. On his scalp, where your fingernails scratch him so deliciously a shiver skitters down his spine, making his hips move forth. On his upper lip that gets framed by both of yours and then his mouth opens and his tongue slips out and Duncan is so trustful of his own work his palms finally leave the shelf. They come to gather what there is of you. He wraps you all tight and around in his arms, sets his hands on your waist and hip and with it you lift a little, and in that lift Duncan’s kissing his neighbour.

His glasses get skewed. He steps away from the bookcase and to the nearest wall, where he presses you in. One tug, and your legs know exactly what to do—they cinch him, ankles crossed in the small of his back, and you’re airborne, clutching his neck, thighs supported in his grip. He keeps kissing, because this is simply impossible and if there is news about to be broken to him that permanence is not an option he’d rather receive it later than sooner.

“Wait,” you mutter. “God, I’ve been trying not to do that.”

“Y-you?” he stammers. “Why?”

“Because you’re my neighbour,” you say, swiping hair off his forehead. For once, your faces are level. He’s so damn gorgeous it’s nearly absurd for him to be unaware of it. Angular where it matters, soft where it’s unexpected. You can think of another arrangement where height will not exactly come into play, but first—

You’re overcome with need to glue yourself to him, so you hug him into a full-body shackle: tighten your arms and legs where they keep you up, and bury your face into his neck to mumble a wishful, “You’re not a player, are you? You don’t go around calling women lass like you know what it’s doing, right?”

His palms twitch on your thighs. Face moves towards you, then stops, held there by caution so naked it shreds. He lets out a breath that is a quizzical chuckle. “Jesus, no,” he says. “I can barely talk to you.”

A laugh breaks out of you, and then out of him too. He tips his forehead to yours for a second, still holding you up like it costs him nothing.

“Are you?” he asks, quieter. “A maneater?”

The thing is, you were struck with him from the start. There was lust in it, greedy enough to startle you with your own nerve. But the rest has come on slower and worse. Out of use. Out of kindness. Out of watching him take the weight of things without making a show of it. Out of seeing him go soft-faced with concentration, seeing how badly he wants and how carefully he handles the wanting, as if it is something that could do damage if let loose carelessly. You have known him three days and already the flat feels rearranged around his presence. Maybe this is what blessing looks like in real time. Proximity. Repetition. Two people getting an unfairly clear look at each other too quickly.

You lean back enough to see him. “Do I look like one?”

His eyes go over your face as though the answer might be written there if he studies hard enough. “No,” he says, with such immediate certainty it almost hurts. Then, because apparently that is not enough for him: “You look pretty. And kind.”

A smile tries to happen. Your throat goes tight around it. “That so?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You smooth your thumb over the heat in his cheek, the rasp of ginger stubble there. His glasses are still crooked. His mouth is still open the slightest bit from the last kiss. Entirely too dear. Entirely too much.

Oh, and does he. The second time it comes with all his better judgement buried alive beneath it. He gets his mouth on yours like he has finally understood the point of having one. Bolder now. Hungrier. Your lower lip catches between his teeth and there is nothing neat about the way he bites it, only care and the lack of enough care, both at once. Crooked teeth bite just fine, you learn. Better than fine. He mouths you until your breath goes thin, then drops to your neck and inhales so deeply it feels dragged out of the soles of his feet. Nibs, and whatever was warming in you goes past that. Burning now. Clean through.

“Bed,” you mutter, fingers twisted up in his shirt.

Duncan had no idea that was even possible, that one word from you could turn his whole body into a set of orders barked and obeyed in the same second. He does what he is told. Walks with you held high on him, your weight gathered tight and easy, and when he reaches the mattress on the floor he goes down with care, one knee first, then the other, until your back is sinking into bed that is still only a mattress and a fitted sheet half-pulled loose at one corner. He stays over you, breathing hard enough to show it, one hand planted by your head, the other still hooked under your thigh.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod too fast, then colour. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just…” Your face does something shy and pained. “Sweaty.”

Duncan looks at you. Thoughtfully. Like this is a thing worth considering from all angles. Weren’t he the biggest sweetheart god ever let loose on the public, that look might be labelled as menacing, too.

“I know,” he says. Then, lowers his face to your belly.

Words leave your body. That is all. They just go. He presses his mouth to you through the shirt first, then rides it up with both hands, bunching cotton inch by inch until your arms have to lift. The chance is taken: his hand slides to your wrists and sets them above your head. Your breath catches so sharply it nearly cuts. Duncan’s nose goes to your skin and he smells you like he means to learn something useful. Belly first. Then higher. He drags slow through the middle, mouth open now and then, breathing in. Your chest. The damp little hollows under your arms, where the tickle of his breath makes you squirm and laugh helplessly. Higher still, until he reaches your throat. He sweeps your hair aside with his cheek to get a clean stripe of skin and settles there, breathing you in as if he has come home to it.

“I like the way you smell,” he says against your neck. His voice roughens on the last word. “Bloody maddening, if you ask me.”

It does something murderous to your insides. You twist under him, wrists flexing in his hold, just to get closer. His grip tightens by a hair from pure absorption. Nose traces the line under your jaw. Another small bite. Your heel drags against the sheet.

“Duncan,” you say, and it comes out wrecked enough to make him lift his head.

Hair is falling into his eyes. Glasses sit crooked on his nose. His mouth is wet and pink from kissing you, cheeks spill red all over his skin and you wonder if that blush exists below the T-shirt too. Sensitive. There is a look on his face like he is trying very hard to keep being good while every part of him is begging for permission to stop.

“Yeah?” he says.

You swallow. Feel his thumb resting on the inside of your wrists. The whole blunt weight of him held off you by restraint alone.

“More,” you tell him.

Lances him clean through, that one. Duncan’s eyes drop to your mouth, then lower, as if he means to be sensible about it and catalogue the options. “Where?” he asks, voice thick. “Tell me where, lass.”

You could laugh at how decent he is, kneeling over you in a state that ought to excuse much worse, still asking like the answer matters more than his own pain. Instead you lift your wrists a little in his hand and he understands. Lets them go. Your palms land on his shoulders and stay a second. On the impressive spread of him and the hard work of holding himself up. “Everywhere,” you say, then, because he looks like he may pass out from being too good, “Start with here.”

You guide him back to your neck. The instruction is taken with shameful gratitude—he might go down as a man who leaves souvenirs after all. Mouth finds the place he’s already put some mind into, perfecting the bruise with focused lips, then the edge of his teeth, then the flat of his tongue to soothe what he has done. Then, he shifts—nose wedging the collar of your shirt aside, finding skin hidden all day under cotton and sweat. Every new inch offends him with how little of it he had before.

Sounds get born in his throat and die into a hiccup every time your body speaks up. There are fingers in his hair. Little gasps. Movement under his groin is particularly unbearable when your leg brushes him. No matter how old and stretched, jeans were simply not made to contain a boner, and Duncan learns it the literal hard way.

“You’re doing me in,” he says into your throat.

It bounces off your pulse. “You seem alive enough.”

He laughs, a breathy little snort. Lifts his head just far enough to look at you. His face is flushed down to the neck. He reaches between your bodies with obvious reluctance and catches the hem of your shirt in both hands. Stops there. “Can I?”

You nod. It still does not satisfy him.

“Mm. And now can you tell me that I can?” he says.

“Yes, you can,” you tell him. “Take it off.”

He strips you with the care of a man undoing bandages. Your shirt goes up in stages, dragged over your ribs, your bra, your face, until it is gone. He stares long enough to make your stomach jump. It’s slower than everything—than a quick skim of current wants or broad hungry looking. Almost dazed. Like each small part of you has to travel the whole way through him before he can move to the next one. His thumb runs along the underside of your breast through the bra, testing nothing more scandalous than weight, and his eyes close briefly at the feel of it.

“Jesus,” he says under his breath.

“What?”

He opens his eyes. “You’re…” Then stops, mouth twisting, unhappy with every word available. “A lot.”

You grin before you can help it. “Good a lot?”

His answer is to lower himself and press his face between your breasts, right into the warm cleft through the bra, as if language is a thing failed beyond repair. The sound you make at that goes straight to his hips. Duncan exhales hard, rubs his cheek on the lace, then wedges his fingers between your back and the mattress, to the clasp at your back with more hope than skill. The first try gets him nowhere. The second worse. He pulls away far enough to glare at your tits like they have personally insulted his family.

“Need help?” you ask.

He looks embarrassed for exactly one second. “Need a miracle.”

You laugh. Arch and bend and press your belly out and your arms briefly make it look like you’ve grown small wings. That is worse for him somehow, watching you undo your own bra for his benefit. When it loosens he sighs like he is the one being let out of it. He peels it away, lets it fall wherever, then just looks again. His hands come up and hover, huge and uncertain, before settling on your ribs. Warm. Shaking faintly.

“Still alright?” he asks.

“Yes.”

You find him. Guide him higher. The effect is immediate. Duncan’s breath leaves him in one stunned pull. Then, it’s roughness on skin. Palms large enough to divide equally, a tit per one. He holds you and smiles like an absolute goof.

“There,” you murmur. “That’s better.”

His mouth opens. Nothing useful comes of it. Which, really, fair.

You slide one hand down from his neck to the hem of his T-shirt, bunch it in your fist and tug. It lifts enough to show a strip of stomach, warm and furred and indecent in its ordinariness. A man’s body right there in your hands. “Can I take your shirt off, Dunk?”

That sobers him by half a shade. Makes his eyes search yours. “Yeah,” he says. Then, because permissions have to be balanced: “You can.”

You peel it up and over him. Duncan helps in the last second, ducking his head, pulling one arm free and then the other. The shirt lands somewhere by the mattress and suddenly there is too much of him at once. Chest broad enough to lay a proper grievance on. Shoulders built for carrying things that have no business being carried by one person. A scatter of pale freckles over the tops of them, which feels like information the public should not have access to. Hair dusting through the middle and down his stomach, where it disappears under the waistband of his jeans and leaves your mind to finish the route unsupervised.

“Oh, Jesus,” you say before deciding whether you mean to.

The colour in his face deepens. As you suspected, it bleeds down: stains that bloom like bruises sketch his neck and lower. “What?”

“Nothing,” you lie. Your hand goes out, palm to his chest, just to see. Warm. Slightly damp. Hard and alive under skin. His heart is going like a thing trapped. “You’re very…”

He watches you try to land it. Offers, “Big?” and somehow even that comes out apologetic.

“Hot,” you say, and the laugh that breaks out of him is so helpless it nearly kills you.

You kiss him to put him out of his misery. Or yourself. Or deepen it. Hard to say. His hands wake up after that. One stays on your breast, thumb dragging over the nipple until your back leaves the mattress. The other travels down your ribs, your waist, the notch of your hip, then lower still until he reaches the button of your jeans and stops there like someone brought up against a locked gate.

His forehead drops to yours. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

The button goes. The zip next. Duncan’s fingers slip below and the sound you make at the first pass of his knuckles is enough to make him shut his eyes. There’s no rush in it, just checking. He decides one yes about bottoms is probably enough, so instead of cramming a palm into denim, he hooks both hands over the waistband and slides your jeans down to your knees. You kick the rest off.

A quick examination of conscience later, Duncan realises he is the victim of the mysterious ways the universe works. One day he sees a girl in a corridor and thinks all the unhelpful thoughts about her. The next, he offers to help because he’s built like that. Now the same girl lies below him, naked as day, clearly wanting him back if he’s learnt anything at all about why girls get wet between the legs. This is the part he wasn’t prepared for. Pining over a face with no name to it is one kind of torture. Being desired is another, because desire asks something back.

He runs a hand the whole length of you, ankle to knee to thigh, until it lands there. The skin is damp, curls glossy, and when he squints hard enough through those goddamn stupid glasses he can see your muscles clenching, impatient. Impatient for him. Your hands get impatient too: they come for his buttons, shake there a little. He lets you fumble a bit, even allows one clumsy tug, until, inevitably, his trousers stay locked round his thighs.

“We in a hurry?” he asks.

“N-no, I just—” Your brows furrow; throat bobs. You inhale, then sigh out, “want you.”

His mouth pulls crooked with it, because the sweetness of being wanted hurts him a little. He comes down next to you, onto his side, one arm sliding under your neck so your head has somewhere proper to go. He kisses your temple once, warm and brief, then the corner of your eye.

“Soon, lass,” he says.

You only huff at that, offended on principle. The offence does not survive long. His hand drops between your legs and one finger presses inside with all the patience he has got, and your whole body gives a startled little jump.

“Oh—”

“Good oh?”

“Best fucking oh,” you say, and a cute smile blooms on him.

He works it slow, watching your face with such naked concentration it ought to count as indecent. The glasses are slipping again. He nudges them up with his shoulder, fails, gives up, so you help by plucking them off. His thumb finds the place above and your breath leaves you in strips. He swallows, looks faintly green around the gills with the effort of saying the next thing, then says it anyway.

“You got a condom?”

“N-no, but—” A sharper thrust of his thumb splits the thought clean in two. “Fuck—I’m on the pill.”

Something truly frightful must cross his face, because you rush to fix it.

“Nothing whorish, I promise. Just health reasons. I’m all alone like a country dunny otherwise.”

Duncan shuts his eyes for half a second and bows his head, not out of judgement but because the opposite has arrived too hard and fast. A blessing to him, that. A crime, otherwise. He gets half a mind to entertain the daftest thought alive—that maybe it was always meant to go this way. You, alone like a country dunny. Him, not much better.

Second finger joins the first. You make a sound into his throat and the silly thought dies happy.

He works you open by degrees so thoroughly you start wondering if there’s going to be a follow up to that condom question. Not that his fingers don’t feel good—the fucking do, almost too much. But from where you’re cradled you can see exactly the way his cock is jerking in his underwear, still framed by the fly of his jeans. Simultaneously you know he’s the kind of guy who’d close your trembling legs after you come, then cuddle into your neck until he softens, because this is not about him. So you try again.

“Duncan,” you breathe. “Enough, I—”

“You’ll need more than that for me,” he says. Abashed. I’m sorry that my cock’s too big to fuck you right away and there will be no quickies in our life kind of embarrassment. It’s unbearably sweet. Insanely hot. Blood pumps your cheeks plump and warm already, and then Duncan nearly ends you by saying, “Need to sort you out first.”

And it’s the first time in your life a man has told you his size might be a problem while making it sound like care came first and ego didn’t show up at all. He’s everything but swagger. Your heart does something daft and soft around the edges while the rest of you clenches hot around his fingers.

“Okay,” you say, cupping his face. “Okay, one more. Just—” A swallow. “Fair warning, I might come.”

It startles a grin out of him. Mean by his standards. Lovely by any other. “How’s that a bad thing?” he asks. Kisses you once, hard enough to shut you up for a second, then gives you that remedy for a cock-too-big problem of his and your vision bleaches.

God, you’re full. If girth blesses every part of him evenly, you may indeed be doomed. You would be already if he wasn’t this thoughtfully slow. You can feel in real time how your muscles adjust round him, then take a second to unclench when he withdraws to the first knuckle.

“You alright?” he asks, and his own voice tells on him. Tight. Thinned out with strain. You look so pretty it’s becoming unendurable. Hair dragged wrong, mouth open, eyes gone bright and glassy in a way that makes him so hard it’s difficult to think with any dignity.

Your nails dig into his nape. “I’m so good I’m gonna lose my mind in a second,” you breathe. A swallow. “Can you please take your pants off?”

He nods, nose brushing yours. “Alright,” he says. “If anything hurts, you tell me, yeah?”

Then he has to do the humiliating bit. First, he drags the shoes off his feet by pressing a sole to each heel. Then, shimmies out of the jeans, dragging the underwear down with them. Kicks that off too, and one leg catches, stubborn, round his ankle. By the time he joins you in nudity, he is red right up to the ears and flat on his back, camped next to you in all his difficult truth, cock heavy on his stomach.

Your eyes drop and your breath does an audible hiccup. You can feel his stare burning a hole through your forehead. He lies there tense, arms pinned to his sides like they are itching to cover himself up. God, what a waste that would be. It hits you then that he is boyish in random places so he can be an exaggeration of a man in others, and somehow all of that adds up to just a lad.

And since the opportunity has presented itself, you take it.

He is large enough that the head reaches near his navel, and yes, the girth is something to reckon with—but haven’t you just been worked open for this exact occasion? There is something insanely lovely about a man who would have half a locker room struck dumb standing for verdict, only to lie there with tension standing out in his forearms like he expects to be judged instead of wanted. He is not carved out of marble either, thank god. There is softness to him. Hair lies over his chest in an even, soft spread and trails down his stomach, which has the smallest give to it, a swell around the navel that looks made for a cheek to rest there. A vein runs the whole length of his cock, and with the pulse inside it he twitches, lifts off his stomach and falls back again. Heavy thing. Solid. Human. Entirely too much and, for that very reason, exactly right.

You put a palm on his arm. Murmur, “Come here,” and squeeze till he gets the message.

Duncan rolls back onto his side to face you, still halfway looking like he might apologise for the state of himself. You hook a thigh over his hip and pull him in until your groins meet. The contact draws a raw little grunt out of him. Good. Let him suffer a bit too. You kiss him—once, slow enough to make it stick, then again with your mouth smiling into his.

“I like you,” you whisper. His face does a helpless thing around the eyes. “Come on,” you say, nudging his nose with yours. “I’ll take it easy on you.”

“Will you?” he asks, while suffering internally. Both a promise of bliss and a difficult animal before him, he fists himself at the base and lines up. Your lips kiss the crown. Arms yoke his neck until noses flatten against each other. He can feel where your thigh, the meat of it, spills over his hip bone, quivers and settles heavier than he’d suspect it can. First inch, and he’s breathing hard. A bit more, and you join him.

“Shit,” you mutter. “Keep… keep going.”

He does, but so slowly it nearly stops counting as movement. Your body loses the line between pain and pleasure. There is excruciating sweetness in his hand. He manages to hold man’s favourite handle (your ass) while rubbing his thumb in compassionate strokes. Mouth hums and lashes tickle your cheek, eyes search for signs of sore that’s unwanted. The stretch he delivers burns, the opening is downright rude in its bluntness, but Duncan remains gentle, and that’s what turns this whole thing so total.

Underneath the turmoil, deeper, stranger, comes fullness that puts your musings about fingers to shame. There’s weight to it, length to it and, fundamentally, intent that makes your body waver between flinching from it or gathering it closer, so it tries both.

Duncan sees the whole war pass through your face and stops dead. “Too much?”

“N-no,” You breathe through it. Feel the wait in the whole of his frame. “Stay a minute. Just let me—”

He goes still at once. By force of patience, and by that old art he has been made to practise all his life and still has not mastered. A man built like Duncan does not get much leave to move through the world carelessly. People take one look at the size of him and hand him a part before he has opened his mouth: lift this, carry that, mind yourself, do not crowd, do not startle, be gentle. So he learns slowness. Learns to take the edge off himself before it reaches anyone else.

Now all of that gets spent on holding still while your cunt drags on the little of him already inside, hot and slick and so tight round the crown and upper body of his cock it feels like a clean seizure. He had let himself think of this in useless scraps. The sight of it. The permission of it. The prospect of being taken in where he has wanted to be since that first day. The actual feel is another beast entirely. The yielding comes by increments. The muscles take him, think better of it, grip again. Heat packs close enough to border on pain. If this much is enough to strip every spare thought out of his head, Duncan has no idea what shape he will be in when you let him deeper.

When your hips start making little lawless attempts at settling further onto him, he asks, “What’re you doing, hm?”

You huff at him. “Bouncing on it crazy-style, what does it look like?”

Insane, is what you are. He lets out a full snort, then another, and it all breaks into a boyish giggle. “Have I got a mad girl, then?”

“Yeah, I’m fully bonkers,” you grin. Sweat breaks on your forehead and it looks pretty. “Probably should’ve told you before—” The angle shifts, minutely. You sink deeper. Moan tears your mouth open and Duncan’s cock jerks inside you. “Oh fuck, it’s getting good. Oh, there—”

“There?”

“Yeah, right there,” you say, hugging him tighter and speaking into his mouth. “Oh God, you’re precious. You were right.” A swallow. “With that sorting-out thing.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You tell me,” he says. “Tell me if I’m being a bastard.”

“Impossible,” you whisper. “No chance. Fuck, Duncan—”

One of your hands comes loose from his neck and slips between your bodies. You press it low on your belly first, just above where the softness gives way to strain, and when you sink carefully again you can feel it there if you mean to. A hard shape. Buried enough that the knowledge of it makes your face go hot all over.

“Christ,” you breathe.

Duncan’s brow pulls in. “What?”

You catch his wrist and drag his hand from your hip to your stomach. Flatten it there. Make him feel it. Then, because the thing asks to be proved twice, you rock down on him again and pin his palm in place.

“Look,” you say. “Look what you’re doing to me.”

There he is, a proof of blood under flesh—filling you so completely it overspills. His fingers flare over your stomach, press, and Duncan can touch his own cock through the membrane of skin. His mouth falls open. Red surges up his throat so fast you nearly laugh.

“Jesus,” he says, stunned. “Lass.”

You do it once more, slower, both of you feeling for it. “That’s me,” he says, dazed.

You nod against his cheek. “That’s you.”

His eyes shut. One beat. Two. Then he makes a sound into your mouth that is pure loss of it. His forehead presses to yours. “Girl,” he says, thumb twitching over your belly, “you keep doing that and I’ll be no use to either of us.”

“It’s your turn,” you say, wrapping your arm back where it belongs. Wrapping him all over with your limbs until he’s shackled and happy about it. “Fuck me. Please.”

“Okay,” Duncan says. Swallows. “Okay, just—can you tell me again? Please,” he says, hoping you’ll catch the meaning. That’s it’s not about smugness, but for a big bastard like him, needing to hear it twice before he believes someone truly wants him this bad.

“Come on, Dunk. Fuck me.” There’s a kiss on his forehead. “Nice and slow until you come, yeah?”

Before he knows it, he’s nodding like a daft thing, and his hips start moving. Gentle thrusts, deep, fat rolls of pelvis until a smile pulls your lips. “Just like that,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good. God, you feel good, fuck—”

“Take it easy on me, lass,” he breathes. “You promised.”

He holds you, or himself onto, the dip of your hip. Kisses you through it, badly at first because neither of you can keep the rhythm of your mouths and bodies straight, then better, then worse again when the feeling climbs. The heel of his palm presses on your stomach where he bulges you out and the fingers he keeps pointed down so they can brush you whenever you decide a twitch from your side is due. Crude little arrangement, but effective.

“Shit,” you grunt. “How you doing, hm?”

"Barely," he says. "You?"

The truth of it is written all over him. The tremor in his thigh and the way his breath snags. The slow loss of that thoughtful caution he has worn like a second skin all day. He is trying, still, to be good. It only makes the strain of it show more plainly.

"Close," you tell him, feeling your own spine prickling with it. "Fuck, so close. Will you come inside me?" 

His whole face changes around it. “Jesus, luv,” he says, nearly bitten off. Wedges his nose into your neck. Then, lower: “Yeah. God, yes.”

You can tell exactly how sore you are going to be tomorrow and expect your insides to have a different shape starting now. But your body has already made up its mind about him. It is learning him in real time and keeping the record. From the look of him, he would let himself be kept if asked, so you have a growing feeling that this must be the place. And then another thought comes, equal parts romantic and foul: that if he finished there, if he gave you all of it, the ache might turn kinder.

And Duncan, god—he's truly barely holding. He tries to think of neutral things but whenever his lids part your mouth is there, blurred and lovely, and you smell so good skin is about to melt off his cheeks. His balls ride up a notch, tense, and go hard with the strain in the sack, and the whole of his length burns so bright he feels it in his temples. It’s hard to keep his thigh from quivering and his hand from misbehaving. Fingers dig where he holds you and there’s a growing worry he’ll leave you with a palm-shaped bruise on your ass. He hopes you’ll forgive him.

“F-fuck,” you grit. “Duncan—”

You tighten like you mean to choke the soul out of him. Everything—arms, legs, cunt—seizes around him. The skin goes taut under his touch and you stare him dead in the eye from under eyelids so fuck-drunk he’s never been granted a sight like this in his life.

In this entanglement of trembling thighs and shoulders working so hard they seem knocked senseless, he feels it pulled out of him by force. Comes, and keeps coming, with his face pressed into yours, panting, and muttering yes, girl, yes, until his toes go cold and Duncan realises he’s way too long for your mattress and his feet kept touching the floor the whole time he’s been making love to you. 

He blinks and feels the resistance of skin against his eyelashes. Learns that he’s crushed you in a bear hug so tight your breath has gone shallow. His arms loosen. Face comes up to scan for damage and instead of asking if you’re alright, Duncan hears himself saying, “I’ve been half gone on you since the hallway.”

Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth does that helpless pull that’s a smile around something overwhelming. One that happens when people burst out laughing instead of crying.

“I hope I lived up to expectations,” you say. “Because I’ve been half gone on you since the post boxes and now I’m fully.”

“My girl,” Duncan says, swiping hair off your forehead and disbelieving his own boldness. “Are you my girl?”

You nod and hold your arms out for him. It does something quiet and final to his face. Duncan folds himself back down into you, gathers you up proper, then draws back just enough to look. His hand runs the line of your side, careful and searching.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

You shake your head. “No.” A laugh, weak and warm. “I’ve learnt a thing or two, though.”

That gets one out of him too. He ducks his head, grinning into your cheek, then lifts it again with some practical thought arriving behind the eyes. “Hold on a sec.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

He glances down at the mattress, the sheet, the general state of things. “Because that bed’s poor enough without me making a full show of it,” he says. “I don’t see another in here, so I’m trying to save you the mess.”

You do hold on. Arms and legs go round him at once, locking him in place so completely it startles a pleased little huff out of him. Duncan plants a palm behind him and gets to his feet with you wrapped round him. The lift goes through his whole body. A hard breath. A tightening in the jaw. One small adjustment of grip when your weight shifts. Then he is up, broad and warm and breathing a touch harder than before, and you are still exactly where you want to be.

Still, you ask, “I’m sorry, and what exactly are you going to do? Pull out over a bin?”

Duncan looks mildly offended. “You strike me as a lady,” he says. “I had the shower in mind. If you’ve one of those.”

You smile into his mouth. “I’m tempted to say no only to make you march us like this to your flat.”

He fixes his grip by hitching you once higher on him. There’s a small girlish yelp. His nose rubs along yours, playful and mean and soft and—

“Will you take it easy on me, lass?”

You nod with your face still tucked close to his. “Will you?”

He will, or lightning may as well strike him where he stands. Because Duncan is in love with his neighbour, and this one is not going anywhere.

you're watching the tourney with dunk and egg when fighting breaks out with the spectators. dunk's got a hand on egg's shoulder steering him out and you're following behind holding dunk's hand, but you get shoved away and he loses you in the crowd. dunk's got to get egg out first but soon as he's deposited somewhere safe and told firmly not to move, dunk's going back for you. and he's not losing you again so soon as he finds you he's pulling a harwin strong and tossing you over one shoulder like it's nothing.

***

dunk who offers to help you on to a horse and you think he's just going to give you his hand but instead he puts his hands on your hips and lifts you directly onto the horse without a second thought.

***

riding a horse with dunk and you're in front with him pressed behind you and you are aware the entire time how Big and Tall he is. distracted the entire ride thinking about how if you just angled your hips a bit you could feel him rub against you. it Does Not Help when one time he instinctively bucks his hips to direct the horse to go, accidentally humping you (you're both blushing hard). also does not help that he keeps calling the horse a good girl breathing all deep and low in your ear (he's oblivious).

***

you needing to wash your dress and let it dry so he gives you his shirt to wear. so now he's shirtless and you're absolutely swallowed up by his much bigger shirt and neither of you can look at the other. he gets his shirt back later and gets hard when he realizes the collar now smells like the herbs you wash your hair with. and then he's imagining the shirt material being rough against your nipples and soft skin and body hair and now dunk is having to go for a "walk" from camp.

***

dunk and having his hand rest on the small of your back to guide you or help keep you sheltered in a rowdy joust crowd. the sweet part of me envisions it similar to the 2005 p&p darcy hand touch where it's the first time he's touched you and man is Overcome or him absent-mindedly stroking a ribbon tied around your waist aka like bingley with jane at the ball. the slut in me thinks dunk puts his hand flat against your back very innocently to guide you when you're walking in front of him, but he suddenly notices how small you are compared to his hand. and he knows roughly what the size of his cock is like compared to his hand (man is lonely ok) and now all he can think about is the size of his cock against you.

***

the worst part is, you wouldn’t even have noticed, because even when he’s trying to avoid you, it’s in such a jud way. still too kind, too sparing of your feelings. 

he still asks about your day, and nods periodically to let you know he’s listening, like always — nothing out of the ordinary. 

until a lull in the conversation leads to you looking at him for a sustained five seconds.  then he’s stammering a half-assed reason on why he has to leave, hightailing it out the door with the tips of his ears bright red. 

but you could chalk that up to jud being in a rush yet still making time for you, even with so much on his plate. besides, he’d listened so attentively despite being unable to meet your eyes. surely, he was just busy. 

he’s missing at lunch. the kitchen in the rectory is empty when you get inside, even though he’s always made it a point to align his schedule with yours. you find the note he leaves, stuck to the fridge door with a sacred heart magnet — rain check on lunch? duty calls :)

but why would jud lie? he’s never had a reason to, so it’s easy enough to tell yourself it’s fine. the first time, at least. 

the next time gives you pause. jud has cleared out from the nave with suspicious efficiency before you can arrive to tidy up. the place is spotless, not even a crumb of communion on the altar. maybe you’re later than you realised, and he’d just cleaned up while waiting? but a glance at the time easily shoots down the flimsy attempt at rationalisation. you spend the rest of the day overanalysing every interaction you’ve had with jud, and it always ends up in the damned garage and your hand on his arm.

it’s really only by the end of today, when you’re on your way out, that these barely-formed suspicions are confirmed and transformed into a full-blown, gut-twisting guilt. 

the sky is a grim shade of grey that bleeds into everything else. the rain gets heavier as soon as you step outside, threatening to soak into your socks — the least of your problems. 

you’ve just gotten to your car, distracted by another day without jud offering to walk you out. as you stand there, fishing through your bag for your keys, there’s a flash of movement — slow and dark, just out of the corner of your eye. 

instinctively, your head tips back to look. raindrops pelt at your cheeks, even with the church-loaned umbrella (jud’s) as you follow the blur all the way up to jud’s attic room. there, in the miniature stained glass window, is the face of none other than the father in question. 

it’s dark enough that you need to squint, and the relentless sheet of rain is like static in your vision, but even with only the dim lamplight emitting from his room, jud is unmistakable. 

on a good day, just seeing the shape of his back makes your heart stutter in your chest. finally catching a glimpse after two whole days of missing him sends a jolt down your spine, a feeling so palpable it makes you freeze in place as you stare, lips parted on an inhale. 

the window obscures half of jud’s face, but what you can see — pinched brows, lips downturned as he worries it between his teeth. 

his blue-green eyes look almost black from where you’re standing, and while the shadows cutting across his scruffy jaw make him look more stern than you’ve ever seen him, he doesn’t look angry. 

no, you realise as he drags a hand over his mouth. he’s thinking. you know that pensive look, how his eyes tend to narrow and the creases in his forehead deepen as he gets further lost in thought. 

that should make you feel better, knowing that jud’s not glaring through his bedroom window as you drive off. 

you watch him watch you, and the weight in your chest pulls tight when something in his eyes shifts. the whites of his eyes become visible when they widen, comically large. even though you can’t hear it from the ground, you can make out the beginnings of his startled “oh, shit” just as he stumbles back from the window. 

whatever bubble of relief you’d felt pops, right then and there. his silhouette gone entirely. the guilt and shame returns tenfold, making a home in the pit of your belly.

you don’t stay much longer after that. 

—

he could’ve asked you to stay. 

fuck. he should’ve asked you to stay. 

the television in the living room is alive with the ongoing report on the storm landing in the area. jud has to turn up the volume just to hear past the drum of rain. 

his cheeks had still been flushed from his blunder upstairs when he made it to the front steps, barely catching your taillights as you pulled off the property into the dark. he had half the mind to chase after you, on his bike and everything, but a window slamming shut somewhere in the house had jolted him back to reality. 

he’s still dripping from when he’d rushed through the woods to close up the church, but the small puddle forming on the rug is inconsequential when it really dawns on him that you shouldn’t be driving in this weather. 

a pang of frustration flares in jud’s chest — where did this storm even come from, anyway? if not for the torrential downpour, he might’ve been able to stop you before you drove off. then he could’ve apologised for gawking at you through the window like a creep. 

but jud knows he’s not really pissed off at the rain. if he were you, he too would drive far, far away from the pervert priest who looks up your skirt and stares at you through windows.

jud buries his face in his hands as a wave of dizziness hits him with how tight his gut twists at the memory of it. he wrenches his mind away from anything relating to you since he’s proven to himself he cannot be trusted with it.

so he decides to keep busy, roaming through the house to triple check the windows and doors, before the paradoxical shame of his lack of it can make him keel over on the spot. 

—

he’s only just slipped a dry shirt over his head when the knock comes. 

three taps, and then silence. it’s a little eerie, and jud knows better than to let his imagination run wild, but he swears he’s seen a horror movie exactly like this. 

the compassionate side of his brain outweighs the caution because what if it’s someone who got turned around in the woods, or someone hurt?

jud’s pulling the door open before he can think to brace himself for an axe-wielding killer. 

he should’ve braced a little though, because the sight of you there on his doorstep — soaked to the bone with your wet hair plastered to your face — actually punches the air out of his lungs. 

“i’m sorry,” your voice cracks, shoulders caving from the weight of your wet clothes. “i know you’re mad at me and you have every right but my- my car broke down and there’s a tree in the road and i didn’t know where else to go—“

jud can practically hear his heart shatter from the shakiness of your voice. your chin wobbles, and when he looks past your shoulder, he hopes against all hopes that your car will somehow manifest into existence because he can’t bear the thought of you walking through this storm. all the while he’d been safe and in warm shelter, standing there like an idiot debating whether to call you. 

“jesus,” jud sucks in a breath through his teeth when you visibly shiver. “c’mere.”

he draws you into his chest with an arm hooked over your shoulder. doesn’t care that his fresh set of clothes are getting wet. his other arm winds around your waist, effectively locking you against him. 

the relief is instant, the way you melt into his warmth. your cheek is pressed to his sternum — you can hear his heartbeat like this. 

his long fingers stroke over the curve of your shoulder, as he speaks, lips just barely brushing over your hairline. “‘m not mad,” he murmurs, “could never be mad at you, angel.”

jud is almost bewildered by how you’d think that, but he finds himself reduced to the base instinct of needing desperately to make you feel better. 

your head lifts, glassy eyes searching his, and when you find no deceit — that he’s not just lying for your benefit — your face crumples, because you simply don’t deserve him. 

“hey,” jud’s voice is soft, and he has to try really hard to not smile at how you feel in his arms considering your tears are falling freely now. one hand comes to cradle your cheek, catching the tears in their tracks. 

you sniffle, momentarily distracted by how his hand covers the entire side of your face. “are you sure you’re not mad? you’re not just saying that?” 

jud can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes his chest. “promise i’m not mad,” he shakes his head, smiling to himself because he’s the farthest thing from it. “we can talk about that later, okay? let’s get you warm first.”

and part of you is still unconvinced, because he’s confirmed there is something to talk about. but he leads you up the stairs with his hand in yours, and he doesn’t let go, even as you come to a stop in front of his room. 

you don’t have time to hesitate, nor do you even need to glance up at jud for his assent before he pulls you over the threshold, and there it is. 

you don’t even bother trying to hide how you look around, taking in the space entirely his. the coat rack with a single coat, the empty duffle shoved underneath it, the pictures he’s stuck on the wall next to his bed. 

you come to a stop in the centre of his room — sitting on his bed feels… overzealous. 

jud’s eyes squint when he gives you a reassuring smile before he turns, letting you snoop in peace as he rifles through the small wardrobe. 

it hits you then you’ve never actually seen jud in… normal clothes. the all-black is nice — you’d be the last to argue it isn’t — but something about the way his t-shirt sleeves pull tight across shoulders, and how the thin grey fabric does so little to hide the rippling of his back. his sweats hanging low on his hips, drawstring lopsided — it’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him. 

he turns back to you with a stack of clothes in his hand and a towel in the other. 

“i hope you don’t mind,” jud says, and he knows he could probably dig up something better fitting in the church basement, something that doesn’t belong solely to him, but, alas, the rain. 

you shake your head, eyes still wide from trying to take everything in, like this is the last time you’ll be in this room. you’re glad he doesn’t know just how much you don’t mind. 

“thank you, jud,” you tell him, moving to take the stack of fabric from him. your fingers brush his, and when you look up, his eyes are already on you. the intensity nearly makes you flinch, fingers tightening around the clothes just as he blinks quickly, jerking his hands back. 

“sorry- i’ll, uh, i’ll be downstairs,” jud stutters, and nearly bumps into the doorframe in his haste to leave, cheeks dusted in a familiar shade of pink. 

you’re left alone in his room with a stack of his clothes in hand, and the thought that maybe you should’ve just stayed in your car. but he’d held you against him so easily, and it had felt so right to be cradled against his chest. 

his hand on yours, big and warm as he pulled you through the halls of his home, as if you didn’t know the place inside and out already.

and now you’re about to strip down and put on his clothes, in his room. and you know it’s wrong, so wrong, but you send up a thanks to god for the storm. 

—

jud busies himself in the kitchen, working on autopilot as he flicks on the kettle and prepares your tea the way he remembers you like it. 

he’s standing there, watching the water boil when the soft padding of footsteps come up behind him. you’re still blotting your hair dry with the towel, but you’re mostly dried and your cheeks have been washed of the mascara tracks. 

now that jud knows you’re safe and sound, he should be relieved, but standing there, with a mug in hand, he feels as if he’s walked right into a trap of his own making. 

you, in his clothes, nearly fells father jud.

god, and he’d hand-picked the clothes too — his old sleep shirt, worn thin from use and gingham boxers. the sleeves fall nearly to your elbows, and the collar’s long been stretched loose, revealing the dip where your neck meets your shoulder. 

he should be better than this. jud curses whatever remnant caveman dna is making his mind go blank at the idea of you wearing him, smelling like him-

“tea?” jud chokes out, holding the mug out in a last-ditch effort of keeping himself from you at arms length.

mercifully, and to his disappointment, you take it from him – this time without your hands touching. he catches the edges of a smile across the steam billowing in front of your face, and when you turn towards the den, he’s following like a dog with a bone. 

you settle on one end of the couch, and jud tucks his large frame into the other end, pointedly leaving a respectable gap between his leg and your bare one. jud doesn’t let himself linger on the sight of your soft skin, just curls his fingers into the fabric of his sweats and waits, because by now he knows it’s not a matter of if, but when. 

your nail absentmindedly traces the lip of your mug. you pretend to watch the news for a little, trying to remember the words you’d practiced in the car, but with every shift in his seat, your attention flickers over to jud.

he perks up when your throat finally clears, and you set the mug down on the coffee table. he follows your every move, in the hopes he can get a better sense of what you’re thinking. 

you twist to face him directly, leg bending as you scoot just the slightest bit closer in the guise of settling in. jud mirrors you, leaning his side into the couch as his arm come up to rest along the back. bridging the distance, yet still so far away. 

“jud,” you start, and it feels a little pathetic how he wants to sigh at the sound of his name from your lips. 

“i should apologise. i know you’ve been avoiding me–” you shoot him a look when his face scrunches, sheepish as his mouth opens to protest. “– i know you have, and i know why.”

jud’s heart drops to the depths of hell. do you know? did you overhear him in his bedroom that day? his face pales, mortified at the notion that you’ve been forced to work in proximity with your utterly corrupt priest every day since. 

“you do?” jud’s voice is weak, dread filling his lungs.  

“it was so wrong of me to corner you in the garage like that!” you blurt, hands coming up to cover your face, “-especially after you helped me with the ladder, and said all those kind things about me. i’m so sorry, jud, i was being completely inappropriate.”

jud’s mouth falls open, and the repenting on the tip of his tongue dissolves into thin air. his head tilts, eyes narrowing only slightly as your words sink in. 

you’re frowning, hands wrung in your lap as your gaze fixes on his shirt, all too self-conscious to look him square in the face after naming the elephant in the room. all the while you’re none the wiser to the hiccuping delight spreading in jud’s gut because he thinks you might be the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. 

this whole time, you’ve been worried you were inappropriate?

if only to assuage your guilt, he has the sudden urge to tell you the reason he’d had to avoid you in the kitchen every day was because all he could think of in there was pressing you against the counter and kissing you stupid. among other things. 

like how he couldn’t be in the nave alone with you because it would’ve felt too raw, like picking at a fresh wound for him to be thinking of you in all the ways he shouldn’t under the watchful eye of christ on the cross. 

jud worried it would’ve felt more sinful to deny these thoughts in front of him. because if the lord had put you in his path, not as a test, but as a blessing, would it be worse to turn away from the gift, than into it? 

jud catches himself before he can lay it all out, even thought he knows he should. the only way out is through, this much he knows. it’s only his luck that his way out is staring up at him with watery eyes and a pink, guilt-ridden pout. 

“it’s okay,” jud soothes, low and gentle like approaching a wounded animal. 

your head shakes, sniffling as you protest, “it’s not okay. you’re a priest, i should know better, and- and this is your home! if i’m making you uncomfortable you have every right to fire me, or-“

“woah, hey,” jud can’t help it, he shifts closer down the length of the couch, hands coming over yours as they wave frantically through your spiral. “i’m not going to fire you. take a breath with me, c’mon.”

you follow as jud’s chest expands on a deep inhale. on the exhale, the weight of his hands on yours hits you, and your fingers curl tighter into him. 

“that’s good,” he smiles, “listen to me for a second, okay?”

when you nod, albeit reluctantly, he sweeps a thumb over your knuckles in reward.

“i’m not mad,” jud tells you, with all the certainty in the world. your shoulders drop a little as relief starts to take hold. 

“you didn’t make me… uncomfortable, either.” jud shakes his head. quite the opposite, he thinks, and feels his ears burn in consequence. he tries to conjure the right word for what exactly you made him feel — everything comes up too simple. no single word to explain how he’s been kept up for nights on end because he can’t stop replaying every conversation he’s had with you. how can just one word describe the devout, pathetically hopeful way he scans the pews at every service, hoping to see your face among the rest, even when he knows he won’t?

jud’s always considered himself a man of faith. faith in himself to pull himself out of the ring, all blood and teeth and gore; faith in the lord to embrace him when he least deserves it. and now, with your hand in his, he believes in his very core that the decision he’s making is the right one. 

“i should be the one apologising.”

your brows furrow as your expression quickly grows puzzled. you can’t imagine he’s done anything to you to warrant an apology. 

“i haven’t been honest,” jud’s voice is uncharacteristically small, and you lean in to hear him better because god forbid you miss a single word. your fingers squeeze his, as though urging him to spill his deepest secrets. if you asked, he would. 

“about what?”

the question lands like a punch. jud knows how to take one, but this one feels like there’s no getting back up from it. 

your heart is hammering hard and fast in your chest. a hopeful thread begins to unfurl somewhere deep, and the rational part of your brain that screams to not get ahead of yourself, to expect disappointment, is smothered by jud’s thigh bumping into yours. when had you gotten so close?

jud’s chin dips, steeling himself with a breath as the last vestiges of sense lose its grip on him. 

“since the day i met you, i’ve been lying through my teeth,” truth pours from him, and he feels himself getting lighter with every word that escapes. 

“to you, and to myself. and i’m tired,” jud laughs quietly, because damn, does it feel good to finally breathe his feelings to life. 

you’re only slightly concerned, just for a moment, that he could be building to something bad, because it sounds bad. but then—

“i’m tired of pretending i’m not in love with you.”

your ears ring with the confession. love, love, love. jud is in love. jud is in love with you. your head swims as  his face softens, lines smoothed in relief. he sits a little taller, filling out his end of the couch as the weight visibly leaves his shoulders. 

it’s only when one moment passes into another, and you’re still rooted to your spot, eyes wide and darting all over his face that he begins to feel a little worry. 

his hand drags against yours, half like he’s trying to snap you out of it and a little too much like he’s pulling back. both your hands fly to keep him where he is, cradled in your lap.

his eyes flicker up to your face, where you’ve thawed and your mouth is moving with barely-formed sentences. 

“you- this whole time? when did- are you-” you stumble over the words, and jud lets you with an perpetual fondness that he’s only now freely letting show. 

“are you sure?” you manage, searching for any hesitation in the man sitting before you, knee tucked against yours, letting you take his hand hostage. 

jud’s face brightens in a grin, laughing like it’s the easiest question in the world. “yes, i’m sure.”

the corners of your lips droop, unable to stop the doubt from creeping in, even with how quick he’d been to answer. and you really don’t want to ask, afraid to pop the lovesick bubble you’ve found yourself in, but no part of you wants jud to suffer in the face of your actions. 

“what about…” your hand waves weakly towards the ceiling. 

before he can think better of it, jud’s arm resting on the back of the couch lifts, coming to cup your cheek instead. makes it so you can’t look away when he sighs your name, soft around the edges. 

“the lord knows what i feel,” jud tells you, voice hushed but firm with certainty. it reminds you of when he’s up in the pulpit, speaking with gentle conviction. “i’ve asked for signs, for guidance, and every single time, there you are.” 

you worry your lip as the possibilities bounce around your head. he could be defrocked, excommunicated, shunned from the community he’s spent so long cultivating. everything he has, put on the line for you. 

but he doesn’t seem worried, not the way you are. he looks at you with the peace of a man who’s made up his mind, regardless of the consequences. 

like he can read your mind, he lowers his face, all that much closer to yours, and murmurs, “whatever happens to me, it’ll have been worth it.”

nobody could blame you for surrendering. not when the pad of his thumb pulls at your bottom lip, smoothing over the indents left by your teeth. his forehead presses to yours, slow, like you might bolt if he moves any faster. 

“i don’t want you to regret this,” you whisper. to regret me. 

jud’s head shakes — the barest turn of his face that nudges his nose against yours. you shudder on an inhale as his breath warms your lips. 

the last thing you see is jud’s lashes fluttering as his eyes shut, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he speaks. “never going to happen.”

your lips quirk on the ghost of a laugh. for a moment, neither of you move. the house is still, and even the rain seems to have calmed, if only to hear the shared breaths in the space between waiting lips. 

you’ll never be able to tell who closed the gap, but does it really matter, when jud’s mouth is finally on yours? his lips press into yours softly, as if he’s scared of getting it wrong. just a little self-conscious, because he’s more than a little out of practice. 

but you’re moving with him, falling into it — easy as breathing. that’s all he needs. he kisses you like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. pulling you in with a hand on the side of your neck, your pulse jumps under his digits with every slot of his lips between yours. 

your hands lift from your lap, finding a new home in jud’s hair. fingers curling against his scalp, his mouth opens against you with a groan. to his utter delight, you waste no time in licking into his open mouth, tongue sliding against his as you shuffle closer.

braced on your knee, you lean over jud like this, and he’s quick to grab you by the waist to haul you into his lap. he doesn’t even bother with the pretense of pulling away — not when you’re practically melting into him, lips soft and wet and tasting like a fucking dream. jud’s dignity disintegrated the second he saw you in his clothes, and now he’s greedy, tugging at you like he can’t get enough. 

“jud,” you sigh, settling your weight comfortably atop his strong thighs. his lips chase yours, and he manages to sneak two kisses before you’re parting again. blue eyes blink open at the lack of you, but when he’s met with the sight of you atop him, panting and lips swollen, his mind goes blank. 

“say it again,” your request follows your fingers lacing at the nape of his neck. jud looks up at you, eyes glazed and blinking slow. his answering smile is content, and just a little too pleased. 

“‘m in love with you.” jud murmurs, and before he can finish his sentence, you’re descending upon him again. 

his own hands draw a lazy path up and down your sides, less frantic than he had been just moments ago. he wonders briefly if this is a dream, because it wouldn’t be the first time. he kisses you slow and deep, memorising the taste of you just in case it is. jud thinks he could do this forever.

your hips shift just so, and the flimsy boxers do little to disguise the growing hardness beneath you. you feel more than hear jud’s sharp inhale, the sound adding to the heat stirring in your core. his fingers grip at your hips, locking you firmly in place so he can grind up. his head is thrown back, a shameful moan tearing from his throat as his semi nudges at you through the layers of fabric. 

“shit-” jud’s voice cracks when you offer one in return, hips drawing slow circles if only to coax more of those sounds out of him. the seam of your boxers nudges at your clit when you drag yourself along his length just right, and you’re whimpering into his ear as you lower your chest to his. 

“jud,” you pant, unabashedly riding your priest through his clothes. he chokes back a sigh at the breathy sigh of his name, and slips his fingers up the back of your shirt. 

“you’re sure about this?” you ask again, dizzy with the effort it takes to form a coherent sentence as your inner thighs grow sticky. 

jud nearly whines, a huff of exasperation as his hardened cock juts into your thigh. “yes,” his big hands span the length of your spine, and you actually feel him twitch when he realises you’re not wearing a bra under his shirt. “you don’t feel how sure i am?”

your eyes roll, capturing his lips with yours once more. when you part, jud’s eyes sober for a moment as he catches your chin, and asks earnestly, “do you want this?”

your fingers play with his hair at the nape of his neck as you pretend to mull it over. jud’s face scrunches at your exaggerated expressions, because if he still can’t tell, then you’ll just have to show him. you tell him as much, pecking him once. “i want you, jud.”

the smile that breaks across jud’s face is like the sun. he carries you up the stairs, and you have to hide the way the easy display of strength has your cheeks heating.

jud’s bedroom door is kicked open, just as your lips latch onto his neck, tracing the tattoo with your tongue the way you’ve always wanted. his grip on you tightens, digging into the backs of your thighs when he feels the light drag of teeth against the sensitive skin. 

you finally get to see the tattoo in its entirety, now that jud’s out of his clerical collar. the cherub and its devil counterpart, serendipity inked underneath. jud shivers when you make a happy sort of hum, because serendipity is exactly it. moving back home, taking the job nobody else wanted — it all led you here, straight through those church doors and into jud’s arms.

something possessive swirls in your heart when you’re struck by the desire to leave your mark alongside the permanent. lips sealing just under the angel, you suck at his neck until he whines, or bruises — whichever happens first.

you hadn’t noticed when jud lowered you onto his bed. it smells like him, clean and soft with the mingling of his soap and the old spice deodorant sitting on the nightstand. you shuffle back to give jud space, but the man lowers onto his knees. you’re rendered speechless at the sight of him knelt between your thighs.

“will you let me make you feel good?” jud all but whispers, cheek pressed to the inside of your knee. his pupils have taken over the pretty blue-greens you so love, reverent gaze entirely darkened as he peers up, faltering at your covered core. it makes you clench around nothing, watching him try to drag his eyes up to yours only to flicker back down. 

“please.” it comes out a little desperate, and when jud doesn’t move, you think for a split second to be embarrassed. until his entire chest heaves with a deep moan, and presses his face into the inside of your thigh. he leaves a lingering kiss there, murmuring under his breath — thank you, thank you, thank you.

his hands slide up your legs, smiling at the gooseflesh that follows. he finds your eyes, glassy and hopeful, when his fingers tug at the leg of your boxers. “can i take these off?”

your hips lift in response, and he muffles a grateful chuckle that sends heat to your face. “always so helpful,” he hums. the fabric is tossed somewhere behind him, and your head goes fuzzy with anticipation. jud’s warm breaths fan over your core, entranced. 

his head dips, and then his mouth is on you. glides his tongue up your folds, and jud thinks he’s died and gone to heaven because you taste better than he ever dreamed. tells you exactly that with his brows pulled tight, muffled by how he can’t seem to drag himself away from your weeping pussy. 

he suckles at your clit, and smiles to himself when your hips lift off the bed. any worries of his inexperience quashed as your heavy breaths delve into drawn-out keening. jud eats at you like a man starved, drawing out more of your slick and those pretty moans. 

“s’fucking sweet,” he’s practically purring into your pussy, vibrations shooting up your spine when he groans at the feel of your fingers winding through his hair and tugging.

“fuck,” you choke on a moan when that familiar heat begins to stir in your tummy. your head lifts to say something, anything to warn him, but whatever words on the tip of your tug die on a gasp when the tip of jud’s finger sinks inside and curls.

the cry of his name is cracked and utterly broken. 

“there?”

you can practically hear the cheeky smirk in his voice and nudge him admonishingly with your knee. he does it again, and your walls clamping down around him is answer enough. 

jud doesn’t even need to look to know there’s a growing wet patch on the front of his sweats. it feels so fucking right to be exactly on his knees for you, drinking you in — not even god could drag him away now.

“jud, i think ‘m gonna-” 

he pulls away only long enough to say, “let me have it, honey.” he leaves a sweet kiss at your hipbone, mouth shining in the dim lamplight. “please cum for me.”

when you do, you can barely tell apart the rain outside from the rushing in your ears. jud clutches at your hips when your back arches, instinctively trying to move away from the source of your blinding pleasure but he doesn’t let up. lapping at your release with a grateful sigh, he rides you through your high until you’re tugging his head away with your nails in his scalp.

jud looks entirely pussydrunk — dazed eyes, hair mussed, mouth and chin glistening with you and those signature red-tipped ears. his tongue darts out, tasting the remnants of you and wanting more. 

“was that- did i do okay?” 

you watch, bewildered, as jud rubs at the back of his neck — the same man that had you clawing at his sheets. your hands cover your face, because you can’t stop the giggle bubbling in your chest.

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” jud pulls your hands away with a grin, and face-to-face again, suddenly you’re shy. cheeks blazing, you pull his face to yours and kiss him hard, if only so he doesn’t get the chance to tease you. 

you can taste yourself on him, licking into his mouth for more. jud sighs, content to just lay atop you like this and kiss you for hours. 

his mind is quickly changed when your hand starts a path down, palming at his cock through his sweats. jud’s mouth drops open, physically unable to keep up with kissing as you loosen the drawstrings and slide under the waistband. 

jud pulses in your grip, skin so feverish and soft as you give him an experimental squeeze. his breath stutters as his body draws tight, like he’s bracing for a hit. 

your thumb glides over his tip, and the reaction is instant. jud flinches with a surprised groan, head falling into the crook of your neck to hide the way his face tightens at the building pleasure, all from your hand alone. his stubble tickles, but the wet breaths he’s gasping against your jugular is worth it.

you stroke him slow and long with one hand, the other coming up to card through his messy locks. “what do you want, jud?” you whisper, lips brushing his ear while his hips twitch with little thrusts. “-hm? we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

maybe it’s something about the tone of your voice. how you’re cooing at him as you cradle his head to your neck, so tender and patient even as he fucks into your hand. jud’s brain goes static, images of everything he does want to do flashing before his eyes. but he knows he doesn’t want to cum like this, with only your hand and layers of clothes separating you. 

so he lifts his head, kisses you once and presses his forehead to yours. “i want all of you.” 

“you have me.”

something in the air shifts. jud moves against you, still hungry but lacking the hurry, the greed. hearing you say it out loud makes something click in his brain, slows him down. like this, with you in his bed and the storm outside, he can fool himself into thinking he has all the time in the world.

his shirt comes off, and he lets you trace the tattoo across his chest, run your fingers down the planes of his abdomen. in turn, your hands raise for jud to drag the shirt up and over your head. 

“you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, lowering his lips to your sternum and kisses his path down. savours the low mewl he earns when he drags a nipple into his wet mouth, and another when he flicks the other between calloused fingertips. 

“jud,” now you’re the impatient one, shoving at the band of his sweats as he stays blissfully lost in your chest, sucking lovebites into the tops of your tits. mumbling more to himself, “been dreaming ‘bout this.” 

jud hums placatingly at the call of his name, distracted, oblivious to your struggle to not flip him over and have your way. you push up on your heels in search of friction. trying again, this time lacing your plea with a needy whine. “jud.”

“yeah, baby?”

“are you going to fuck me or not?” 

it’s bratty enough for jud to pinch your side — not hard, just enough to make you arch even further into him with a surprised yelp, 

“i was getting to that,” he tells you with a soft laugh, and finally kicks off his sweats. his cock, flushed an angry red hangs heavy against his thigh. on top of everything else, jud is big.

the sight of all of him bare steals your breath. his body tells a story, scars and ink and lithe muscles coming together to form the man kneeling over you now — your jud. kind, sweet, good jud duplenticy. 

he tries his best not to blush, but it’s hard not to when your eyes are roaming over every exposed inch of him. nobody’s looked at him like this in years, and he’d wholly believed nobody would again.

“you’re perfect, jud,” you say it like it’s a fact. he shakes his head, smiling as he looks away, like you’ve just told him something funny. that only strengthens your resolve. 

“hey, i mean it,” frowning slightly at his albeit gorgeous side profile, “look at me.”

jud follows obediently, fondly. leans into it when your palm comes up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking under his eye.

“i love you,” you say, because you want him to know. if within these walls, now, is the only time you get to be with jud, you need him to know.

jud’s head lowers in the softest kiss you’ve shared so far. it’s chaste, and somehow feels like the first ever. jud pours all his heart into it — he’s always been better with action than with words. he thinks about every time his heart’s stuttered because of you, the hours he’d counted until he could see you again, and seals each silent confession with a kiss.

the weight of jud’s body above yours is grounding, because with the way he’s parting your lips with his tongue, you feel like you might actually float. the tension in the room thickens, the sloppy sounds of his kisses reaching your ears.

you’re all too aware of his length between your bodies, slotted by the seam of your inner thigh. he’s so warm, and coats your skin in slick — you don’t think he even realises how he’s rutting against your leg, too engrossed in tasting your spit.

“want you inside,” you pull away for breath, murmuring against his open mouth. his cock twitches on your thigh, and you can see the moment it all hits jud. he thinks there’s something magic about your lips, because the throbbing between his legs returns tenfold the second he’s separated from you. 

“mmph- shit,” jud bites his lip to muffle the surprised moan when your leg shifts and his length comes to rest atop your mound. his tip nudges at your clit, and just the slightest contact reduces you to near tears. you’re so wet it hurts, and the sight of his leaking cock so close to where you need him has you clenching around nothing in anticipation. 

“please, oh my god, jud,” you cry, chasing the sensation with your hips, “need you– pleasepleaseplease.”

jud’s head clears, tunnel-visioned on how you need him, and how he can make it better. driven by the primal need to take care of you. he nods soothingly, smoothing the sweaty strands of hair out of your face and parting your thighs to slot himself between them. 

“don’t have to beg, angel, i got you,” he hums, taking his length in hand and notching it at your entrance. he watches you for any hesitation, and when you call out for him again, he pushes in — slow, for both your benefit.

the stretch is intense, even with your first orgasm. but jud is moaning, loud and unabashed in your ear, and you can feel yourself getting wetter — with each broken whimper, the deeper he sinks.

“oh, god,” jud’s voice trembles when his gaze lowers to where you end and he begins. eyes the way your lips stretch to take him, and the next thrust is involuntary, driving himself almost all the way to the hilt. “you feel so good-”

your fingers fly to his biceps, digging your nails in as he carves a space for himself within you. he’s so big, you feel his blunt cockhead nudging at the spot inside that you’ve always struggled to reach yourself. he watches you go speechless, eyes rolled back into your head.

“taking me so well, honey,” jud whispers, head falling to your collarbone with a guttural groan when he bottoms out. he can feel you pulsing around him, and the gripping wet heat makes him falter before he can even begin to move.

“i’m sorry, i- it’s been a while. don’t think i’ll last long,” jud whines, breathing hard as your nails trail down his shoulder blades. he shudders, and his hips roll experimentally. the drag out makes him see stars, the way your pussy clings to him like you don’t want him to go. 

“it’s okay,” you reassure him. a gush of wetness soaks his cock at the image, and jud thinks you really are an angel. 

his thrusts start slow, shallow thrusts that give him a fighting chance. when your thighs twitch, he lifts them to his waist. it pulls him in further, and as each thrust grows quicker, harder, your breathing grows more ragged.

jud swears freely under his breath, drawing you up in his arms as he locks you against his chest.

“mhmm- like that,” you whimper, face smushed against his shoulder. he hits that spot with every push inside, and the sticky sounds of his balls hitting your ass makes your ears burn.

“shit- i’m close, so close- i’m sorry,” jud whimpers, sniffling as he actually goes a little misty-eyed from how good it feels. he’s trying so fucking hard not to cum before he can get you there again, but you’re not making it easy with how you keep panting his name like it’s the only thing you can think of.

his fingers drop to your clit, rubbing tight circles in a last-ditch attempt as he feels his orgasm closing in on him. you’re drooling on his shoulder as you jolt, bucking in time with his staccato thrusts. 

jud moves to pull out, but your legs stay locked tight around his waist. his brows pinch in panic, but he doesn’t stop. “baby, i have to- need to pull out-” 

your head shakes, a hair away from tipping over the edge yourself. staring up at him with tears in your eyes, so, so close. “inside,” you whimper, “‘m safe. want to feel you fill me up.”

jud’s vision goes white, burying himself as deep as he can go when he cums, releasing rope after rope into you. you’re all too happy to soak it all up, milking it out of him as your orgasm hits in quick succession. your back arches, nails cutting into his shoulders as you cling onto him for dear life. 

he moans sharp and raw, riding out the aftershocks with gentle thrusts, pushing his release deeper inside your womb as you shudder below him. it all gets too much, and his arms give out, bringing his chest to yours. 

the remaining air in your lung whooshes out of you, because jud is heavier than he looks. he laughs, equally breathless. he rolls off of you, still nestled in your heat as he drags you atop him.

“hi,” you grin, leaning in to kiss him, relaxed and familiar. he smiles into it, running a soothing hand up and down your back.

“hello,” jud chuckles. you’re both sweaty, and more than a little sticky, but neither of you can even fathom moving right now.

“that was fun,” you hum, tucking your chin under his as his arms curl around your waist. jud huffs in amusement, lips pressed to your hair. 

“that’s one way to put it,” jud’s chest rumbles, and it’s so comfortable like this, curled under the covers, you feel your eyelids drooping against your will. 

he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, and lets himself blatantly stare. he still can’t believe this is real, a little scared to fall asleep in case it really is all just a dream. he wonders if he could go back to before, when having you like this was nothing but a doomed, sinful fantasy. 

jud gets his answer when you mumble, “have to get my car.” words jumbled together as you fight the edges of sleep, he knows there’s no going back.

“i’ll take care of it,” he promises.

jud must drift off too, because the next time he wakes, the room is cloaked in darkness. you’re still clinging to him, out cold and snoring softly. it’s still raining, and the world is still turning. he thanks god for the path created for him, and with an angel holding his heart in her hands, jud thinks he’s where he was always meant to be. 

jud doesn’t ask why you’re never among the faces lining the pews, and he doesn’t expect you to tell him. he extends the invitation, anyway.

“well, you’re always welcome,” he reminds you, and because he already knows your answer, he’ll quickly add, “if you ever feel like it.”

he never pushed, but with him sitting you down almost every sunday to go over his pile of talking points, two mugs of steaming coffee between you as you watch him come alive rehearsing the important bits in the warm evening light, you think you’re starting to get the appeal. 

—

the congregation is nothing if not nosy, and when he has to reassure yet another elderly couple that no, that is not an unholy spirit disappearing into the supply closet, he decides enough is enough. 

the first sunday mass of summer is a busy one. for a lot of people, it’ll be their first with jud, and he really, really wants to make a good impression. he spends the night before pacing in his attic room (he has his choice of rooms in the rectory now, but something about the simple, unassuming space feels right), muttering quotes and openings and closings under his breath. 

it feels like half the town is packed into the pews — more than he’d anticipated. up in the pulpit, jud’s hands clench tight around the pages of his worn bible as he looks out at all the faces — some familiar, some new — and then down at the single cue card he’d prepared. 

a smiley face drawn in the top left corner, and squished in the margins is your handwriting — you’re gonna nail it! 

he runs a finger over the ink, tracing over the ridges left by the pen, by your hand. he can practically hear the way you would’ve laughed at your own joke as you put it to paper. 

it crosses his mind a second too late that he’s grinning to himself, up in plain view of the congregation. jud quickly schools his face into something more poised, serene even though his heart is galloping in his chest. he clears his throat, leans into the mic, and begins. 

—

towards the end of the hour, when jud would typically bid the congregation a good day, he clears his throat into the mic, breaking the hum of politely hushed chatter.

“before you all go,” he begins, rushing his words, for his sake or theirs — he’s not entirely sure, “as some of you may have noticed, we have a new member of staff here at the church who is very much real and allowed to be on church grounds after hours–”

he falters only a second, debating whether to give your name to the masses. his logical brain, the jud who knows better, says why shouldn’t they know your name? it would even do some good to take away the mystery from what he knows first-hand to be an imaginative crowd. it’s not like you’re a secret, and yet… 

jud doesn’t want to share. the worst part is he knows it’s completely wrong and downright possessive, which he’s not supposed to be — he’s not, anymore. but something inside that he believed to be dormant says once they have this piece of you, it’ll be one less for himself — and that’s ridiculous, because he doesn’t get to have you, at all.

your name ends up coming out hoarse, barely audible over the growing buzz in the nave. he can hear the questions bubbling up, and one particularly sharp voice stands out among the rest–

“is she part of the congregation?” 

the murmurs die down as the hall waits for jud’s answer. his eyes narrow, only for a second.

“that’s not exactly for me to share–"

“so, you’re saying she’s not? she can work in a church but not attend?” another voice pipes up, pitched self-righteously high.

jud can hear the blood rushing in his ears and wills himself to take a breath. “i understand your concerns, i really do,” his hands raise earnestly, “but everyone is welcome here. when you walk through those doors every weekend, you make the choice to be here, in god’s presence, right?”

the protesting voices blend back into the blur as jud spots heads in the front rows nodding. 

“she’s in here almost every day, much earlier than anybody, myself included, keeping this place in the best condition it can be for you, me and the person sitting next to you to come back to. she cares, and i think that matters, above everything else.” 

jud’s leans back from the mic with a soft exhale, chest tight as the nave fills with the sounds of hushed agreements and resolution.

“just… try saying ‘hi’, okay? i promise she’s very nice.”

and with that, jud knows it’s time to shut up before he says something embarrassing or worse, incriminating. the congregation files out into the courtyard, and after the few people who stay behind have spoken their fill with father jud, he’s the only one left in the nave, and the only one to see him groan into his hands. 

‘very nice’? really? of all the words he could use to describe you, he lands on nice.

‘nice’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. you bring baked goods into the office, claiming you overestimated the measurements and ended up with too much, but it happens often enough that there’s no way it’s an accident every time, right? 

you also stay much later than you need to. for all intents and purposes, you should be long gone by the time he returns to the rectory for dinner, but somehow you’re always conveniently tidying up in the kitchen, and whatever leftovers jud had saved the night before are being warmed up in the shoddy microwave. 

some days you’ll linger, distracted by how jud asks about your day and how his food goes cold with how intently he’s listening. you watch him lean on his elbows, and you wonder if he even realises he’s inching closer to where your own hands lay on the table.

and then there’s the time you find him asleep at his desk in the office. it’s already dark out, and you’re ready to head home after a long day, but his neck is craned far too low and it looks wildly uncomfortable. 

you can already imagine the crick developing in his neck. it’s all too easy, sickeningly natural to move across the room, debating whether it’d be better to wake him or leave him a pillow when he stirs, brows furrowing as he blinks back into consciousness.

“wha– hey,” jud groans softly, tinged with confusion as he sees you watching him with bated breath. “what time is it?”

“just past nine,” you reply quietly, still wondering if you should get him that pillow. his head still hovers over the desk, eyes squinted in a full-face scrunch as he adjusts to the lamplight. 

“go to bed, jud.” it comes out gentle, and you may as well be singing a lullaby the way his eyes are drooping again. he presses his forehead flat to the desk and shakes his head, stubborn and sleepy.

“mm– ‘s too far,” he mumbles, muffled by the crook of his arm, “don’ worry ‘bout me.”

but you do, and you don’t think he even notices how much you do, how often you think of the lone priest, left to keep the church running in the aftermath of such a mess. running on fumes, to the point where even sleeping on solid wood is better than making the two-minute journey to his bed.

you almost believe he’s fallen asleep again, when his head shoots up. he’s so exhausted the first place his eyes land is way off to your left. 

“are you heading out? i can walk you–”

“will you at least move to the couch?” you cut him off with a fond shake of your head. 

he grunts into his arms in agreement, and you take that as a win. you only get a second longer to admire his sleepy form, curled up in a chair a size too small for his long limbs. 

jud drags himself over to the far corner of the office where a rickety, worn-down couch awaits and plops himself down on it unceremoniously. it creaks in protest under his weight, but he curls into the cushions and he’s out like a light within seconds.

when jud wakes the next day, he’s covered with a blanket and all the lights are off — not the way he remembers leaving it.

it’s then he registers with a rush that he hadn’t dreamed of you returning last night, and the feeling of you draping the blanket up to his chin wasn’t conjured up by his sleep-addled brain. 

it becomes mortifying, when he recalls how he’d reached out groggily, catching your hand in his as he mumbled something that had made perfect sense in the half-asleep, half-awake haze.

(if he ever asks, he’ll find out he spoke all of two words of gibberish, and your name, while his thumb swept circles over the back of your hand.)

—

jud realises, belatedly, all alone in the nave, that you’re taking care of him. the notion punches a breath out of his chest. he turns his face up towards the cross, hand-carved and staring back at him as his features crumple in anguish.

it shouldn’t feel this good. to be looked after, to have the weight lifted from his shoulders by the hands of another. the warmth sours in his chest, because he shouldn’t want for this. he hasn’t needed to in a long, long time. jud knows he is taken care of, by hands he can’t see, the same way he knows the familiar weight of prayer spilling from his lips should be enough.

an icy streak of terror hits him, just as guilt settles heavy in his stomach when he realises he doesn’t know if it’s enough anymore.

jud’s breath comes fast, and he doesn’t know if this counts as a crisis of faith but it feels like one, and maybe he should just get struck down on the spot—

be it a divine signal or the world’s best timed coincidence — a muffled, sustained wail travels through the walls. 

jud, still in his vestments, wastes no time in following the sound. his own panic is muted now, temporarily overtaken by the concern for whatever helpless creature was emitting the noise.

by the time he gets to the back of the building, the sound has faded, and to his bewilderment, is replaced by… giggling?

jud rounds the corner with a rush of breath, and he’s met with the sight of you, smack dab in the middle of the hall door with a four year-old glued to your side.

“oh– hi, father jud!” you grin when the pair of you take notice of him, only slightly winded. jud’s eyes rove over your frame, giving you a onceover to make sure you’re okay–

“this is aiden.” you say to jud, before you lean down, whispering to the kid, comically loud, 

“that’s who i was telling you about.” 

the boy has your hand clutched in his tiny grasp, cheeks blotchy as both of you look up at him expectantly. 

jud blinks, blue eyes flickering between you and the boy, then back again with a questioning tilt of his head. “hey there, aiden,” he says, smiling kindly down at the kid, still wondering how he’d even gotten all the way back here in the first place.

“we seem to have an explorer on our hands,” you say, voice warm while shooting jud a look over the kid’s head as you mouth, “looking for mom.”

“ah,” jud nods, crouching so he’s eye-level with the boy, “let’s get you back to your. how’s that sound, bud?” 

the boy’s head turns to you with a dubious frown inherent to a four year-old, but when you nod encouragingly, he mirrors the motion to jud, who grins and leads the way out to the nave. 

the short walk there, you’re talking aiden’s ear off about the cool things you’ve found while exploring the church yourself. jud finds himself grinning lopsidedly amidst aiden’s ooh’s and ahh’s, eyes meeting yours over his shoulder with a wink when you mention getting locked in the supply closet once and waiting a whole hour to be rescued by the same man rescuing you and aiden now.

sure enough, when you make it back to the nave, there’s a woman rushing down the aisle calling out for her son. she thanks you and jud fervently, eyes glassy when she sweeps the boy into her arms. 

jud watches you wave to aiden as he goes, until he’s carried past the doors, and then you turn back to him with a wistful smile. 

“cute kid,” is all you say, “we should probably think about getting child locks, though.” 

jud hums in agreement, but his mind is elsewhere. far, far away, refusing to entertain the possibility that he’s already fallen too deep.

—

the sun’s almost at its peak when jud finds you the next day. he’s starting to think you might have taken the day off, but there you are — in the garage, no less. 

it’s hot out, stifling to an almost unbearable degree. jud’s sleeves are rolled up and he already feels his shirt sticking to his back within minutes of stepping out into the sun. 

he’s relieved to have found you so quickly, and in the shade, but then he clocks that you’re way higher up than you normally are, and just about has a heart attack on the spot.

you’re on a ladder — the wobbly one with a loose rung — perched precariously as your arms stretch, deft fingers twisting a lightbulb loose. you’re teetering (to him, you are), or maybe you’re only shifting your weight — either way, it kicks him into gear.

“jesus,” he hisses as he rushes over to the open garage door, closing the distance with large strides. “what are you–”

you glance down when the ladder suddenly seems much more firmly rooted to the ground. your brows raise, hands still raised above your head as you find jud with his own hands wrapped around the ladder legs, bracing his weight against it. 

“oh! hi, jud,” you grin, turning your attention back to the bulb, “what’s up?” 

“this thing is so old, ‘s not safe– you should’ve told me if you needed help,” he admonishes, breathless as his fingers curl tighter around the wood. his focus is cast low, making sure all four legs stay planted.

“i don’t,” you chirp, huffing in victory when the old bulb finally gives. you tilt your head down, finding jud with a triumphant grin that turns teasing, “but you’re welcome to stay, if it makes you feel better.”

it would, actually. and he raises his gaze to tell you exactly that, but you’ve turned away again to fit in the new bulb. it’s in that split second that it all goes to shit. 

it’s a hot day, and that’s probably why you’re wearing a dress. no ulterior motive, and you’re always telling him they’re more practical than you’d think, especially in this heat, but he distantly suspects it’s a new method of torture, and a highly effective one at that.

it’s a hot day, and the garage door is lifted to let in the odd gust of cool air. jud questions the ‘practicality’ of your dress, and his own sanity when the hem flutters up with the breeze, and he catches an eyeful of lace and soft, pillowy flesh curving up from the back of your thighs. 

the man chokes on a breath, blinking hard and fast to try and erase what he’s just seen. but it’s hopeless — he’s hopeless — jud doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it (nor will he let himself). 

he feels dirty, and it’s probably a complete violation of your trust, because this is the one place of all places you should be safe from wandering eyes and he’s just gone and become exactly that–

and god, it’s pathetic, but that one look shakes his very core. he’s been good, holding it together. refusing to let you see just how bad the cracks have spread in his resolve, all from the mere weight of the depth of his feelings for you. 

he wants so desperately to be good, but he’s already replaying the moment on loop, and his stomach plummets when he realises he’s actually getting hard, out here in the open, all from getting a two-second glimpse at your fucking panties.

“you doing okay down there?” your voice calls out, and he wonders if you know. would it be better, or worse if you did? if this was intentional, and you’re happy to let him look – would that somehow wash away his sin? 

jud hums, but his voice cracks and he coughs into his shoulder before you can question him. he needs to get it together, and he absolutely cannot look at you right now. not just because he can feel how his face is blazing and beet red, he also worries that if you look hard enough you’ll see right through him.

but it’s impossible. his eyes dart all over the garage, only to end up where he started. there are grass stains on the hem of your dress, and he can see up close the soil that’s smeared over your knees. 

he pictures you in the garden, on your knees in the dirt, darkened eyes staring up at him straight into his soul, and he has to bite his cheek to stop the ragged gasp clawing up his throat when it hits him that he’s been pressing his hips into the ladder.

he can feel himself throbbing, and he’s so fucking hot under his collar he thinks he might actually pass out. how long does it take to change a lightbulb? have you been done with it this whole time?

he’s both relieved and a little disappointed when you ask him to try the light switch. it offers reprieve, if only for a moment, where he’s not actively caught in your orbit and plummeting faster than he can catch himself.

he conjures up images of literally anything, runs through his to-do list for the day, forcing it to the forefront of his mind so he doesn’t turn back around with an obvious tent in his slacks.

the garage light flickers on with a low buzz when his hand reaches the panel. across the room, you shoot him a satisfied grin, and when you actually do wobble this time, he’s approaching you again without a second thought.

“let me do it next time, okay?” jud says, a healthy distance away from where he wants to be. “don’t want you falling and cracking your head open.”

he really can’t help it when he offers his arm for you to hold onto as you make your way down the ladder. your fingers close around his forearm, and his whole body tenses like he’s been shocked. 

a muscle jumps in his forearm, mirroring the clench of his jaw when your nails press lightly into his skin. like he’s watching from outside his body, his other hand hovers over your lower back, close enough to feel your heat as he guides you back to the ground.

he’s already making an escape plan — to hide away in the dark somewhere and have a stern talking to with himself. but your feet come to a stop almost between his, and you’re closer than you’ve ever been. your hand still on his arm.

jud’s chest heaves with the effort it takes to slow his heartbeat.

“thanks,” you say on an exhale, brushing away your hair as it sticks to the back of your neck. jud nods stiffly, thinking you’ll move on to your next task and he can scramble off to wherever he can be alone with his sick mind and that will be that. 

but you stay firmly rooted to your spot, going way off script when your gaze drifts over his face. how he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek and it makes his lips twitch, eyes pointedly avoiding yours. 

“say…” you begin, releasing your hold on him as your voice takes on a syrupy edge. “you wouldn’t happen to know why three separate people have come up to me today to chat, would you?”

and maybe it’s a little mean to watch jud flounder for a response, the tips of his ears burning red, when you know the answer to your own question. he feels like a mouse caught in the claws of a cat who plays with its food before devouring. that twisted voice in his head hopes for the same treatment.

“i don’t–” he stammers, but then like clouds breaking, his lips spread into a surprised, borderline disbelieving smile, “wait, really?”

you nod, all business-like. “oh, yeah. something about wanting to get to know the new housekeeper and the person keeping their priest fed, and making sure the brand of communion wafer doesn’t change with the leadership–”

jud snorts, shaking his head as he realises you’re messing with him. and damn, he likes it. he relaxes, shoulders falling from where they’d practically been up to his ears. “alright, alright.”

“i’m serious! and i can’t believe you never told me we had a ghost living in the supply closet.”

he breaks into a real laugh at that, bright and melodic as you feign indignance. “i figured any ghost would be more scared of you than you are of it.”

your lips part, eyes twinkling when he plays along, finally meeting yours once more. your brows raise, and up close like this, jud can see the moment you decide what to say next — your lips twitch with the ghost of a smirk. 

“is that so?” you lean in, and it’s much too close. if anyone were to walk by now, there’d be no good explanation. but jud doesn’t move away — he lets it happen, wants you close. he can think of an excuse later when he’s on his knees in prayer. 

“-because i thought i was nice,” you hum, and when he doesn’t shy from your proximity, your fingers find their place on his arm again, this time tracing the tattoo near the crook of his elbow.

jud visibly shudders, and you bite your lip to hide a pleased grin. you apply more pressure, dragging down the length of his forearm, along the path of raised veins.

“you–” jud’s voice trembles, eyes widening as it hits him that you’re real. your hands are really on him, touching him. “you are nice.”

“very nice?” you murmur, lashes fluttering as you watch his crumbling composure. you can’t tear your eyes away — you wouldn’t dare.

“mmhm.” jud hums, not trusting his voice as his eyes squeeze shut. he’s so lightheaded. maybe the heat will get to him first, but at the rate this is going, you’ll be the death of him.

his pretty eyes are clenched tight, dark brows furrowed as he pants through his nose. he’s oblivious to the way you drink him in, licking your lips at the way sweat beads along his hairline, his pulse jumping in his throat, just shy of the devil cherub tattoo. 

your gaze trails lower, hungry and greedy, like this may very well be the only time you get to see him like this. 

the hand not preoccupied with yours is clenched by his side. lower, down to where his very obvious problem strains against the stiff fabric of his pants. 

your breath hitches audibly, and you might actually hear angels singing. heat coils tight behind your hips, and you feel sticky between your thighs. everything you want is standing right in front of you but–

jud looks in pain, physically and mentally, and if he holds his breath any longer he might actually explode. so you take pity on the poor man, even though it burns you to do it.

“jud,” you murmur, withdrawing your hand. his eyes open wide and uncertain, glassy as he follows your every move as if missing even a second would wound him. “i heard what you said to them. thank you for standing up for me.”

you leave him there before he can think of something to say, brain totally and utterly short-circuited from the barest touch of your skin on his. 

—

jud stumbles up to his room, blinking hard to shake the fog heavy in his head. he feels almost drunk, clinging to the bannister. his abdomen clenches with every step he takes, the friction of his starchy uniform rubbing against his cock in a way that forces him to grit his teeth.

he doesn’t even lock the door behind him. just falls to his knees on the wooden floor, forehead pressed to the foot of his bed as a strained groan escapes his bite-swollen lips.

“god,” he groans, hands clamped above his head, “i’m sorry, ‘m sorry–”

maybe there is an unholy spirit. maybe it’s possessed him and that’s why his hands are flying to his belt. the clink of the buckle shoots shame straight at his heart, but it’s not enough to make him stop — not with how his cock pulses within its confines, and it’s becoming uncomfortable and sticky with how he’s leaking like a fucking faucet.

it’s been a while, and when he pulls his length out, jud has to bite on his knuckles with a bruising force to keep his whimpering from echoing down the hall.

he’s not patient. he can’t be when all he can see, even with his eyes wide open are your thighs, the curve of your ass and the dip between your legs where the fabric had darkened slightly–

jud whines helplessly, and with every fevered pass of his thumb over his swollen head, he can feel himself hurtling closer to the edge. he presses his forehead harder against the mattress when he pictures your fluttering lashes, the curve of your lips when you smile.

his hips buck sharply as he thinks of your fingers on his wrist, how they’d feel in his hair, in his mouth, replacing his own around his cock–

it happens too fast, yet not fast enough. the cord snaps, and with it, his resolve. jud cums with a pained cry, teeth catching at his knuckles, at his shoulder when he turns his head to muffle the pathetic sounds seeping out of him. his back bows, hot ropes spilling over his fingers. he pants, open-mouthed into his quilt. 

jud stays that way, knelt by the foot of his bed. pandora’s box has been wrenched opened, and he knows the ache will come back, just as he accepts he’s powerless in the face of it — of you.

and then sukuna left.

not dramatically. not with some sentimental goodbye. he just packed up after graduation and went off to college out of state—far, far away—leaving you and yuji to finish growing up without him.

you didn’t think about him much after that. or at least you told yourself you didn’t.

until today.

you walk into yuji’s house the same way you always do—kicking off your shoes, calling out that you brought notes for the class he skipped again—and then you freeze.

because someone else is standing at the end of the hallway.

sukuna's home.

and looking at you like the past few years didn’t exist at all—like he just stepped out for a minute instead of vanishing into adulthood and coming back built like a warning sign.

you freeze.

because he isn’t the same person who left. not even close.

he’s taller now—like he grew an extra inch or two just to spite you. broad shoulders filling out the doorway, chest built in the intimidating way that says hours in the gym, not a single selfie to prove it. his hoodie clings to his arms in a way it never used to, sleeves shoved up to reveal thick forearms covered in black ink that wasn’t there before. sharp lines trailing up his veins and disappearing beneath cotton.

and his face—god.

there’s a new weight to it. a grown-man kind of sharpness. jawline hard enough to cut your breath in half. cheekbones more defined. his mouth softer than it should be on someone who looks like this.

plus the metal.

an eyebrow piercing splits the dark line above his left eye—subtle, but impossible to ignore. a thin silver hoop sits snug on his bottom lip, glinting every time he shifts his expression. a couple more studs line his ear, climbing the curve of cartilage in a way that draws your eyes before you can stop yourself.

he went from “yuji’s older brother who never talks” to “the man you’d cross the street for, just to look at again.”

he doesn’t say hi. doesn’t smile.

he just tilts his head a fraction, eyes dragging over you in one slow pass that feels too intimate to be accidental—like he’s comparing you to old versions in his head and finding the differences one by one.

“you got taller,” he mutters, voice deeper now, rougher around the edges.

your pulse spikes. “no i didn’t,” you say too quickly, heat crawling up your throat.

his tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, right behind the silver hoop in his lip, and the faint sound he makes could be a laugh or a warning. you can’t tell which.

he steps closer. slowly.

the hallway shrinks around him like the walls are trying to pull away first. he’s buffer now—thick chest, defined arms, long legs moving with that confidence he never had when he was younger. his presence alone makes the air feel heavier.

“sure you didn’t,” he says, voice dropping into something low enough to curl at the base of your spine. “go on and lie to me.”

you swallow hard. “is... yuji inside?”

his eyes don’t leave yours—not even for a second. “kitchen. he’s been whining that you’re late.”

you try to step past him, but sukuna doesn’t move.

not an inch.

he stands there like a wall you’re meant to run into. like he’s doing it on purpose. like he wants to feel you brush against him, just to see what you’d do.

he’s always been like this—annoyingly still, annoyingly composed, annoyingly aware of how much space he takes up.

but now?

he’s all that, plus the tattoos, plus the muscle, plus the piercings, plus the kind of grown-man weight that makes your breath hitch.

you barely manage to slip past sukuna—your shoulder brushing his chest as you squeeze through the hallway. he doesn’t move, doesn’t step aside, doesn’t even pretend to give you space. he just watches you go, silent and heavy-eyed, like he’s cataloguing the way your breath stutters when you pass him.

you pretend you don’t notice. you pretend a lot of things. you step into the kitchen with a too-bright smile, dropping your bag onto the counter.

“ok,” you exhale, forcing lightness into your voice, “lecture notes time.”

yuji lights up like you just handed him free money. “finally! dude, this professor hates me, i swear.”

you snort. “he doesn’t hate you, he just knows you don’t shut up in class.”

yuji splutters, offended, and launches into a rant about how the classroom was “way too quiet” without him and how he’s basically “providing a public service.” you roll your eyes. you’ve missed this.

you spread out your notebooks on the table, walking him through everything he missed—slides, examples, the weird tangent your professor went on about life choices and statistics. yuji listens, nodding furiously, asking questions in the loudest voice anyone has ever used in a kitchen.

it’s normal. comfortable. easy.

but your head?

not easy. not comfortable.

because you can’t stop thinking about the man standing in the hallway.

the way sukuna looked at you like he was trying to match this version of you to the one he left behind.

the way he took up the entire hallway without trying. the way the metal in his lip caught the light. the tattoos. the build. the voice.

you try focusing on the material. you really do.

but yuji is halfway through copying something when you completely lose your train of thought, brain short-circuiting at the memory of sukuna stepping closer, the hallway shrinking around him, his arm brushing yours.

“uh… hello?” yuji waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to braincell.”

you blink. “sorry, i—just tired.”

“you should be! bro, you’ve been explaining this for like an hour.” yuji glances at the clock. “holy crap, it’s actually been an hour.”

you laugh, rubbing your eyes. it has gotten later than you thought. the sun’s gone down, the kitchen’s dimmer, warmer. the house feels too quiet.

yuji scratches his cheek and looks sheepish. “hey… uh… you wanna stay for dinner? i was gonna make something anyway, and it’s already late.”

stay.

the word sinks in. you open your mouth out of habit to decline—because you always do, because you have homework, because you’re busy—but you don’t say no.

because you know who else is here. who else you’ll end up near. who else is still lingering somewhere in this house with a pierced lip and a stare that won’t get out of your head.

you swallow. “yeah. sure. i can stay.”

yuji brightens again. “sweet! i’ll throw something together.”

you nod, biting back a smile as he rummages through the fridge.

you tell yourself it’s just dinner. just catching up. just a normal night. but your pulse tells a different story.

you don’t know what game sukuna’s playing now that he’s home…

…but you’re pretty sure he expects you to play it too.

yuji is humming to himself as he cooks—off-key, loud, cheerful in the way only he can be. pans clatter, spices get overused, something sizzles a little too aggressively, but it’s comforting.

you sit at the kitchen table, chin resting on your hand, pretending to scroll your phone. pretending to be normal.

but your ears are tuned to the hallway.

and when you hear slow, heavy footsteps approaching, your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it.

you don’t need to look to know who it is.

sukuna enters the kitchen like he owns the space—tall, broad, tattooed arms visible where he shoved his sleeves up again. his lip ring catches the warm kitchen light as he presses his tongue against it, like he’s distracting himself from saying something.

or from staring.

he doesn’t say anything right away. he just pulls out a chair. right across from you, of course.

your heartbeat jumps. you’re grateful yuji is too busy murdering whatever’s in the frying pan to notice anything weird.

sukuna sits slowly, legs spread under the table like he’s claiming territory. his posture is relaxed—leaned back, arms loose—but his eyes?

fixed on you.

not soft nor nostalgic—but assessing and curious in a way that makes goosebumps rise on your arms.

you try to look away first. you don’t succeed.

he breaks the silence with a low, too-casual, “he’s really makin’ you do his classwork for him?”

you blink. “i’m not—i’m just helping him catch up.”

he hums under his breath, that amusement back in his voice, coating every syllable in something mocking. “helpin’ him, huh. you always were too nice.”

“am not,” you mutter.

“yeah,” he says, leaning forward just a little. “you are.”

your stomach flips in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

before you can snap back, yuji turns around with triumph in his eyes and a plate in each hand.

“dinner is SERVED,” he declares proudly.

you and sukuna both watch the plate hit the table with a little too much force.

“you didn’t burn anything this time,” sukuna notes.

“shut up, bro,” yuji grins.

bro.

right. they’re brothers. the kind with the same house and the same history but completely different worlds carved out inside them.

yuji sits beside you—your usual seating arrangement—leaving sukuna directly across from you.

it’s torture.

you try to focus on dinner, but the food tastes like nothing. you’re too aware of the man in front of you. of the way his hand dwarfs his fork. of the tattoos that crawl up his veins, ink meeting sinew. of the metal on his face catching light every time he shifts. of the quiet way he eats—unlike yuji, who practically inhales his food.

at some point, sukuna leans back, eyes still on you, elbow resting on the back of his chair. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t interrupt yuji’s excited retelling of a stupid class story.

he just watches you. until you squirm.

you hate that he sees it. you drop your gaze to your plate.

but then, under the table—something brushes your ankle. you jolt subtly, knee bumping the underside of the table.

yuji doesn’t notice, but sukuna smiles. a slow smile that feels like it’s meant to unravel you one string at a time.

he doesn’t pull away.

his foot stays there—resting against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you try to move your foot back. he follows. pressing gently.

your breath stutters. your fork pauses mid-air.

“you okay?” yuji asks through a mouthful of food.

“fine,” you choke.

sukuna’s eyes drop to your throat, watching it move as you swallow. then he tilts his head and mouths something silently—so only you can see it.

don’t run.

your heart slams. you force yourself to finish your meal, though you don’t taste a damn thing.

yuji finally exhales loudly, rubbing his stomach. “okay, i’m gonna grab the drinks—don’t eat my dessert while i’m gone.”

he gets up and disappears into the fridge.

the moment he’s out of earshot, the tension in the room snaps tight.

sukuna leans forward just slightly, voice low enough that it feels like a touch on your skin.

“you’re real bad at hiding shit,” he murmurs.

you grip your fork. “hiding what?”

he raises a brow. “the way you’ve been lookin’ at me since you walked in.”

your breath falters.

he smiles. “didn’t look at me like that when i left.”

you want to deny it. you want to throw something at him. you want to run.

instead, all you manage is a tiny, pathetic, “…shut up.”

his eyes soften for half a second—amusement, victory, something else you can’t name—and then he drags his foot lightly up your calf under the table.

your pulse jumps.

yuji returns a moment later, completely oblivious, carrying three drinks like he’s hosting a banquet.

“okay! i got—hey, why are you two so quiet?”

you choke. “no reason.”

sukuna doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.

yuji doesn’t even make it to dessert.

one minute he’s talking through a mouthful of food, and the next he’s curled sideways on the couch in the living room, face pressed into a pillow, snoring softly like someone unplugged him mid-sentence.

you stare at him for a second and sigh. “…he lasted longer than usual.”

from behind you, sukuna’s voice is low and way too entertained. “don’t give him that much credit.”

you ignore the way your stomach flutters and start clearing the plates, stacking yours on top of yuji’s, gathering forks, pushing crumbs into your palm. it feels safer to have your hands busy—something to do besides think about sukuna or how his eyes followed you all dinner.

the kitchen is dimmer now, warm under the stove light. quiet except for the clink of dishes. yuji’s muffled snoring drifts in from the living room. the air feels thick, heavy with end-of-night softness.

you bend over to load the dishwasher, reaching for a plate on the bottom rack…

…and that’s when you hear them.

slow footsteps behind you.

you feel him before he speaks—heat at your back, the faint brush of air as he exhales, the subtle shift of the room around someone as big as him.

“you really doing the dishes?” he says, voice low enough to curl behind your ear. “yuji’s not even awake to witness it.”

you roll your eyes at the plate in your hand. “i’m being nice.”

“you always were.”

your stomach dips.

you reach farther into the dishwasher, bending a little more, muttering, “it’s fine, i don’t mind—”

that’s when it happens.

you feel it—a slow nudge at your backside. a hip bump. not subtle. nowhere near being accidental. you gasp and straighten halfway before you even think about it.

“the fuck—?”

you turn, and sukuna is standing right behind you, way too close, one eyebrow piercing lifting as he drags his hips back a couple inches… only to roll them forward again—slow, exaggerated, mocking in the rudest possible way.

a fucking air-hump. right into your ass.

you choke on your own breath. “what—what are you doing?” you hiss, eyes wide, hands still gripping a fork like you’re about to duel him with it.

“correcting your form,” he says casually, gesturing at the dishwasher. “you’re bendin’ like you want attention.”

“i was not bending like that,” you whisper harshly.

he steps forward half an inch—just enough to feel the heat of him against your back.

“you kinda were,” he murmurs.

your pulse hits dangerous levels.

you turn to shove him away—at least that’s the plan—but he catches your wrist, grip firm but not tight, eyes dropping to your mouth for a split second before flicking back up like he didn’t mean to.

“relax,” he says, voice dropping into something warm, amused, and infuriatingly soft. “if i wanted to actually fuck with you, sweetheart… you’d know.”

your knees nearly give out. you pretend they don’t.

you rip your hand back. “yuji’s in the next room.”

sukuna lifts a brow. “and?”

you glare. “so don’t be an asshole.”

“can’t help it.” he leans closer, voice brushing your neck. “you bring it outta me.”

you swallow hard, turning back to the dishwasher because looking at him is dangerous.

he watches you for a moment with a silent, heavy gaze, dragging across your back as you finish stacking plates.

then you feel his breath near your ear again. “finish up,” he murmurs, something darker slipping into his tone. “i’m not done with you.”

you grip the dishwasher door until your knuckles ache. and yuji keeps snoring, completely unaware that his older brother is behind you, smirking like he knows exactly how fast your heart is pounding.

you wipe your hands on the dish towel, fingers still slightly trembling from whatever the hell that “airhump” was supposed to be. you tell yourself it was stupid, meaningless, not worth thinking about—and then your stomach twists, proving you wrong immediately.

yuji is passed out on the couch, one arm over his face, snores muffled by the pillow he stole from your house. his soft breathing fills the otherwise quiet house, the kind of nighttime silence that makes everything else feel louder. heavier.

you sling your bag over your shoulder, take a steadying breath, and tell yourself you’re fine. you survived dinner. you survived sukuna staring at you like he was trying to decide whether to devour you or laugh at you. you can survive saying a polite goodnight.

you move down the hallway, footsteps soft on the carpet. you pass the bathroom, the closet, the familiar creak in the floorboard near yuji’s door, and then—you reach sukuna’s room.

you only mean to look in. just a glance. just a “later” or a “bye.”

you don’t even get that far.

a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks—not painfully, but efficiently, like he’s practiced the motion a thousand times. you stumble forward, and before you can catch your balance, he pulls you into his room and shuts the door with a quiet, final click.

your back hits the wall. not hard. just enough that you gasp, the shock traveling all the way to your knees. when you blink up, sukuna is standing inches from you, one hand braced beside your head, the other still loosely around your wrist as if waiting to see if you’ll run.

his room smells like soap and darker elements—cedar, smoke, warm skin. it hits you all at once, settling under your ribs, making it far too hard to breathe normally.

“you were really gonna leave without saying anything to me?” he asks, voice almost amused.

“i—i didn’t wanna wake yuji,” you manage, even though you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you can’t look him in the eyes without feeling too much.

“that so?” he murmurs, leaning in just slightly. “’cause you walked past my door real fast. almost like you were trying to escape.”

you try to step to the side, but he shifts with you, blocking the one direction you might’ve slipped away. his body doesn’t press into you, but it hangs close enough that you feel the heat of him, the quiet intensity that wasn’t there when he was younger. everything about him feels deliberate now. intentional.

“i wasn’t escaping,” you say softly. “i was leaving.”

“mm.” he tilts his head just a little, eyes dragging over your face. “and here i thought you’d at least say bye before running.”

“i wasn’t runni—”

“you were.” the faintest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he adds, “you still do that.”

you swallow hard. “do what?”

sukuna’s gaze slides from your eyes to your lips, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. “get shy.”

the breath you take isn’t steady. not even close. he notices—of course he notices—and his fingers release your wrist only to settle at your waist instead, warm and sending a rush of awareness straight through your core.

“i’m not shy,” you whisper, even though your whole body betrays you.

his smile grows—not cocky, but like he just solved some puzzle that only he was working on. “yeah,” he says, voice dropping, lips brushing the edge of your cheekbone as he speaks, “you are.”

his hand slides up your hip, light but purposeful, guiding you just the slightest bit closer until his chest nearly touches yours. only an inch of air separates your bodies, and it’s unbearable.

“you didn’t look at me like that when i left,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your jaw.

“like what?” it comes out barely audible.

“like you want me to kiss you.”

your stomach drops. your face heats. your throat tightens with something impossible to name. you almost deny it—you should deny it—but the words won’t come.

and something in your silence tells him everything.

sukuna’s thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow enough to make your breath catch. “say it,” he whispers.

you shake your head. your heart is pounding too fast to speak.

“didn’t think so,” he says, eyes half-lidded. “good thing i don’t need you to.”

before you can react, he closes the distance—letting you feel every second of it. his mouth brushes yours once, soft, testing. your breath rises sharply. he waits, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

you don’t.

your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, and that’s all it takes. sukuna kisses you fully then—deep, warm, devastatingly slow. the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been many years overdue. the kind that steals your breath so quietly you don’t notice until you’re gasping into him.

he hums against your mouth, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, tipping your head the way he wants, his lips moving against yours with ease that makes your knees weak.

when he finally breaks the kiss, he stays close, forehead brushing yours, breaths mingling. “there you go,” he murmurs, voice roughened by restraint. “finally got you to stop pretending.”

your eyes flutter open.

his are already on you, hungry for the next bite.

“you should’ve said goodbye earlier,” he adds softly. “i wouldn’t have let you leave.”

the first kiss is nothing compared to the second.

the moment he hears your breath hitch right against his mouth—sukuna cups the side of your neck, fingers sliding under your jaw, and pulls you back into him. no hesitation this time. no testing. he kisses you like he’s been denying himself the thought of it for years and finally gave in.

your back presses harder into the wall as his mouth moves against yours—slow at first, savoring, learning every tiny sound you make. his lips part just enough to taste you, and when your tongue brushes his, something low and electric shoots through both of you.

he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. you feel it more than hear it.

his free hand slides to your waist, then your hip, then down to the curve of your thigh, gripping just enough to pull you up into his kiss. your hands rise on instinct, fists curling in the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself to him like you’re afraid you’ll fall.

you don’t even realize you’re trembling until he notices.

“easy,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, impossibly gentle for someone who looks like him. “breathe.”

you try. you fail.

and he clearly likes it.

he catches your wrists when you try to pull him closer, fingers wrapping around both, guiding your hands up over your head and pressing them into the wall above you. the movement is slow, controlled, the kind you could fight if you wanted to… but you don’t.

you let him pin you there, wrists held in one of his hands, bodies flush, heat rolling between you in waves.

“that’s better,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheekbone as he drags a kiss down to your jaw. “keep ’em there.”

your breath stutters again, a soft, pathetic little exhale you can’t swallow down fast enough. he hears it. he smiles against your skin.

“knew you’d be like this,” he whispers. “knew it.”

he kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—then dips lower, to the side of your neck. his lips are warm at first, barely pressure, barely there… and then he sucks.

your knees threaten to buckle. he feels it, and pushes his thigh between yours—not hard, just enough to keep you standing, enough to drag a shaky breath out of you.

“still shy?” he asks against your throat.

you shake your head, even though you definitely are.

he laughs quietly, the sound rumbling into your skin, before kissing lower—along the line of your neck, down your shoulder, back up again like he’s mapping you with his mouth.

your hands flex uselessly against the wall, wrists pinned in his grip. you can’t touch him. can’t pull him closer. can’t do anything except feel him.

and he takes full advantage.

he kisses up the column of your neck, slow and unhurried, until he reaches your ear.

his breath is warm when he speaks. “come here.”

he lets go of your wrists only so he can slip his hands around your waist and lift you—not fully off the ground, just enough that your balance shatters. he turns you easily, guiding you away from the wall and toward the bed behind him.

your back hits the mattress before you fully process the movement. sukuna stands over you for a moment, chest rising and falling, eyes dark, pupils blown.

you’ve never seen him look at anything the way he’s looking at you now. he leans down, bracing one knee on the bed, caging you in with his body.

“been thinkin’ about this all night,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek before kissing you again—deeper this time, slower. “the way you looked at me… the way you kept pretending you weren’t.”

your fingers finally find his hoodie, grabbing it, pulling him down until he’s almost on top of you.

his hand slides up your thigh, over your hip, across your stomach, leaving heat everywhere he touches.

your breath is shaky, your heart out of control.

“just say it,” he whispers against your mouth. “say you want me.”

you don’t say it, but you kiss him like you do. and he takes that as an answer.

his hoodie comes off first.

you don’t even realize you’re tugging at it until he shifts, helping you peel it up over his head, revealing a solid, cut chest inked in black—tattoos wrapping his torso like armor, crawling up his sides and disappearing into the shadows of his collarbone.

he looks unreal in the low light, all sharp lines and sculpted heat, muscle flexing as he braces his hands on either side of you.

your eyes trail down without permission. the slope of his chest, the flex in his abs when he exhales, the deep cut of his hips narrowing into the waistband of his sweats. his lip glints when he smiles—barely there, cocky, knowing.

“that look better than you imagined?”

your breath catches. “shut up.”

his smile widens. “you didn’t say no.”

he leans down again—kisses you slow. your hands map over his chest now, feeling the warmth of him, the weight, the way he moves under your palms. he groans low when your nails scrape lightly across his abs.

“you tryna kill me, sweetheart?”

you grin against his mouth. “maybe.”

he chuckles. he kisses you again, this time harder, his tongue sliding against yours until you’re gasping. then his mouth moves down—neck, collarbone, sternum—lips dragging over skin like he’s starving for every inch.

his hands find the hem of your shirt. “this comes off,” he says, already tugging it up.

you arch slightly to help him. the shirt lands somewhere behind you. his eyes rake over your chest, and you swear he breathes deeper just looking at you.

“fuck,” he murmurs, mouth already lowering. “i missed a lot.”

he wraps his lips around the swell of your breast, tongue flicking once before he sucks. you jolt, hips twitching, a gasp spilling out of you before you can stop it. his teeth graze, soft but suggestive, before he switches sides—mouth worshiping, hands roaming your waist and hips like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone.

“kuna—” your voice cracks. “s-stop teasing.”

he laughs against your skin. “thought you were shy.”

you shove at his shoulder. “not that shy.”

his eyes flash. “good.”

his hand slips down—under your waistband, fingers pressing between your thighs through your underwear. his touch is warm, rough, perfect.

you jolt. “oh my—”

“that’s more like it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours again as he starts to rub slow circles over the damp fabric. “been wondering how you’d sound.”

your fingers dig into his arm, your hips lifting instinctively, chasing the rhythm of his hand. he watches you—fascinated, like he’s trying to sear the image into memory.

he drags the fabric aside and sinks a finger in. your mouth drops open, a soft, choked sound escaping. he groans low in his chest, eyes darkening.

“fuck, you’re soaked.”

you can’t answer. can’t think. can barely breathe.

he pumps his finger slow, then adds another—stretching you just enough to burn, just enough to make you whimper and clutch the sheets.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “take it. knew you could.”

your hips stutter. he curls his fingers, and your whole body lights up.

“kuna—please—”

“what do you want, baby?” his mouth is at your ear again, tongue flicking the shell before he nips at it. “want me to keep playing with you? want more?”

you nod frantically. “yes—yes, more, i want—”

“say it.”

you whine, breathless. “i want you.”

he pulls his fingers out and licks them clean, eyes locked on yours. “good girl.”

he shifts lower like he’s been waiting all night to get between your thighs.

your breath catches when he drags your pants down alongside your underwear, slow enough to make you feel every inch of the fabric leaving your skin. he tosses them somewhere behind him without looking—eyes locked, laser-focused, hungry in a way that makes your whole body throb.

he spreads your knees with two fingers hooked behind them, guiding you open until you feel exposed in a way that isn’t embarrassing—just intimate. like he’s letting you know he wants all of you, every inch, every tremble, every breath.

“look at you,” he whispers, voice dark with awe that he’d never say out loud. “fuck.”

his thumb drags up your inner thigh, slow, reverent, as if he’s got all the time in the world and he’s choosing to spend every second right here.

you feel the heat of his breath first—right where you want him—before you feel his mouth.

he kisses the inside of your thigh, once, twice, lips warm, breath shaky like he’s the one barely holding it together. his fingers press into your skin like he’s steadying himself.

“been thinking about this,” he murmurs, kissing closer, “since dinner.”

your toes curl. “k-kuna…”

“shh.” he smiles against your skin. “i’m getting there.”

he moves in slowly, purposefully, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. the motion is smooth, easy—he’s strong enough that he barely has to try. your breath skips.

his thumbs spread you open. his eyes drop.

he groans. audibly. “fuck… you’re perfect.”

and then he lowers his head.

his tongue slides through your folds in a slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body jolt off the bed. your hand flies to his hair without permission, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gasp.

he groans again, deeper this time, like the taste of you just punched the air out of his lungs.

“shit, sweetheart,” he mumbles against you, voice muffled. “no wonder you were actin’ shy.”

he licks again—long, slow, savoring every inch—and you swear your vision fades at the edges.

you’re shaking. your thighs tense around his head instinctively, but he just smirks against you and presses them wider.

“keep ‘em open,” he murmurs, tongue dipping lower. “lemme eat.”

and then—then he really gets into it.

his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking in a rhythm that feels too good too fast—your back arches, hands flying to the sheets.

“kuna—fuck—”

he moans like your voice is feeding him. the vibration makes your hips jerk.

he slides two fingers back inside you at the same time his tongue circles your clit—slow, curling right against that spot that makes your stomach twist.

your gasp turns into a broken whine.

“yeah,” he grunts softly, pumping his fingers deeper, “right there, huh? that’s where you start shaking?”

you whimper. that’s all it takes. he chuckles into you—a hot, smug, god of a sound—and curls his fingers harder.

your thighs tremble. “i’m—i’m gonna—”

“good,” he growls, dragging his tongue up before sucking your clit into his mouth again. “give it to me.”

your hand clamps around his hair. your whole body goes tight, and then you break.

your orgasm crashes through you so violently you cry out, thighs shaking uncontrollably around his head. sukuna doesn’t pull away. he holds you there, mouth working you through every wave, swallowing every sound you make.

“that’s it,” he whispers when you finally slump back, breathless, shaky. “good fuckin’ girl.”

you’re panting, still trembling as he kisses the inside of your thigh again, slow and soft now, letting you come down.

but he doesn’t move away. he crawls up your body, mouth warm, breath hot, chest brushing yours as he hovers above you.

he grabs your jaw gently, thumb rubbing your lower lip as he leans in, lips ghosting yours but not kissing yet.

“think you’re done?” he murmurs.

you stare at him, flushed, breath shallow. “i—i don’t know—”

his mouth curls into a slow grin. “you’re nowhere fuckin’ close.”

he kisses you finally—letting you taste yourself on his tongue, letting you feel exactly what he plans to do to you next. his hand wraps around your thigh, dragging it up around his hip.

you feel him—hard and heavy against you through his sweats. your skin burns with it. he doesn’t even have to move and you’re already clenching around nothing.

“‘m not stopping,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low enough to vibrate in your chest. “til you beg.”

he catches your stare, eyes narrowing slightly like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. then he shifts back onto his heels and leans against the wall beside the bed, thighs spread wide, hand dragging down the front of his sweats.

your breath catches. he palms himself slow, watching you.

“c’mere,” he says, nodding down. “if you’re gonna be a brat about it, least you can do is put that mouth to use.”

your stomach flips.

you slide down to the floor, onto your knees between his legs, palms resting on his thighs. he watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, jaw tense like he’s holding himself back from saying something filthy.

you hook your fingers in the waistband of his sweats and pull them down just enough to free him.

your mouth parts.

he’s thick. flushed and heavy at the tip, veins trailing up the length, a glisten of precum already beading at the head. He wraps a hand around the base and gives it one lazy stroke before tapping it against your lips.

“open up.”

you do. immediately.

you wrap your lips around the tip and suck—slow, dragging your tongue over the underside. his groan is immediate,.

“fuck, that’s it,” he grits. “take it slow—lemme feel that tongue.”

you do.

you move down, inch by inch, working him deeper. spit pools at the corner of your mouth, his cock stretching your lips, pressing hot against your tongue. your hand wraps around what you can’t fit, stroking in time with your mouth.

his hand slides into your hair, not forcing—just holding, thumb brushing your cheekbone every time you take him a little deeper.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he mutters, voice ragged. “mouth full of cock, eyes all glassy—shit.”

you moan around him, and he bucks, hips twitching.

“you like that, huh?” he pants. “like suckin’ me while your pussy’s still throbbing from bein’ teased?”

you nod, tongue flicking over the tip when you come up for air. your lips are swollen, your chin wet, your breath shallow.

he grunts, tightening his fist in your hair. “shit—gonna cum if you keep that up—” and then he pulls you off, panting.

you blink, confused, lips parted.

“no,” he rasps. “not yet.”

he drags you up by your arms, effortlessly. his mouth already finding yours again as he pushes you back onto the bed. his cock, still slick with your spit, presses against your inner thigh.

“wanna cum inside you,” he murmurs between kisses, “wanna watch your face when i do.”

your breath stutters.

he parts your thighs with both hands, wide and greedy, and settles between them, cock dragging over your entrance—just once, just enough to make you gasp.

then he pushes in. stretching you open inch by inch until he bottoms out, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged in your ear.

your back arches off the bed. your nails dig into his biceps. he’s so deep.

“fuck,” he groans. “this pussy—always meant to be mine.”

you gasp, hands scrambling to hold him closer.

his hand catches your jaw, tilting your head just slightly so he can see every shift in your expression.

“eyes on me,” he whispers. “wanna see you fall apart.”

and then he starts to move. his hips roll into yours with control that makes your toes curl—his cock dragging against every spot inside you, his mouth brushing yours every time he thrusts in.

“look at you,” he pants, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. “already fucked out and i haven’t even gotten started.”

you whimper, thighs shaking around his hips. “kuna—”

he hushes you with a kiss, and keeps fucking you through it, one hand curling around your waist, the other tangling in your hair.

“wanna see you cum like this,” he breathes. “right here, lookin’ at me. fallin’ apart on my cock.”

you’re already close. he knows.

his hips drag back just enough to make you whimper, then roll forward again, deep and heavy, grinding the base of his cock against your clit each time.

“you feel that?” he murmurs against your mouth. “feel how deep i am?”

you can’t answer. your eyes flutter. your thighs twitch. your breath keeps catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

he dips his head lower—kisses along your jaw, down your neck, tongue dragging lazily over your pulse.

“don’t go quiet now,” he growls. “wasn’t so shy with my cock in your mouth.”

your cheeks flush hotter. your hips buck up instinctively, chasing friction. he groans at the way you clench around him, hips stuttering.

“goddamn,” he mutters, pulling back to look at you. “you’re gonna cum just from this, huh? from me fuckin’ you slow and talkin’ to you?”

you nod, frantic, desperate, gasping when he changes the angle just slightly—grinding deeper, bottoming out again, your walls fluttering around him.

his hand slides down your side, firm and possessive. he grabs your thigh and pushes it up, folding you open even more, cock slipping in deeper than before.

your moan breaks right against his mouth.

“there,” he says—almost to himself. “that’s it. that’s where you like it.”

your hands clutch at his back, fingers sliding over warm skin, over shifting muscle, nails digging in when he thrusts just right again.

you feel it building. it coils low and hot, right behind your navel, pulsing with every drag of his cock, every filthy sound he makes in your ear.

he sees it too. his eyes lock on yours, dark and full of something you’ve never seen from him before—raw.

“close?” he asks, breathless.

you nod. “kuna—please—don’t stop—”

his forehead presses to yours, and he fucks you harder—still deep, but less controlled now, pace picking up.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” he pants. “cum on my cock like a good girl?”

you nod again—choked, messy, right on the edge.

“look at me,” he growls. “when you cum, look at me.”

you do. and when he slams in one last time, angle perfect, pressure perfect—your whole body locks up.

the orgasm hits hard. your mouth falls open, breath shattering, eyes wide and glassy as you squeeze around him, wet and pulsing and uncontrollable.

“fuck—fuck,” he groans, losing rhythm. “that’s it—fuckin’ perfect—look at you—”

you cry out again, grabbing at him, trying to breathe, trying to stay conscious. he doesn’t stop moving—not until he’s right there with you.

“gonna cum inside you,” he mutters against your mouth. “want you full, dripping—”

you whimper, too far gone to answer. he thrusts once, twice—then buries himself deep and groans, low and animal, as he spills inside you.

he stays there, deep and still—chest heaving, arms shaking with the effort to keep himself from collapsing on top of you. your hands trail up his back, shaky and slow, fingertips ghosting over the ink there.

you’re both silent for a moment. just breathing. just existing. and then— “you really weren’t gonna say hi to me?” he whispers, nose brushing yours.

you blink up at him, lips swollen, voice nearly gone. “you didn’t say hi either.”

his mouth twitches. he kisses you again—softer now, longer. like he wants to keep tasting what he missed.

then he pulls out slowly, careful—and groans at the mess you’ve both made. his cum spills out of you, sticky and warm against your thighs.

he watches it. a little too long.

you shift beneath him, flushed and spent, and mumble, “you’re being weird.”

he doesn’t even look up. “you’re leaking. my work here is done.”

you slap his chest. weakly. “stop staring.”

“stop leaking.”

“kuna.”

he finally lifts his head, grinning—messy hair, flushed cheeks, smug as all hell. “don’t look at me like it’s my fault you can’t hold it in.”

you gape at him, mouth falling open. “i just got rearranged like damn ikea furniture—maybe give me five minutes?”

he laughs, head dropping to your shoulder. “you’re so dramatic,” he murmurs into your neck. “you loved it.”

you try to smack him again, but your arm flops back down instead. “shut up. i’m sore.”

“you’re gonna be more sore tomorrow.” he sounds pleased about it.

you groan, tossing your head back into the pillow. “you’re the worst.”

he hums. “mm. you came so hard you forgot your name. i think i’m the best.”

you glance down at him, raising a brow. “i did not forget my name.”

“you whimpered,” he says, kissing your collarbone. “like five times.”

“not the same thing.”

he snorts. “sounded like you were glitching.”

“i hate you.”

“you sucked my soul out through my dick twenty minutes ago.”

“okay first of all—”

“it was an honor,” he says, hand rubbing slow circles into your hip. “salute.”

you burst into laughter, and so does he.

he collapses beside you, both of you a mess—sweaty, flushed, glowing in the aftershocks and still tangled in the sheets. the room smells like sex and sweat.

his hand finds yours between the blankets.

you go quiet for a moment. breathing. existing. then—

“…so do we tell yuji or just make it weird forever?”

he groans and throws a pillow over his face. “my god, just kill me now.”

“That’s hilarious,” you thought immediately, tilting your head and imagining the look on Clark’s face. You considered it as a joke, something to make him laugh. But the longer you stared at it, the less ridiculous it seemed.

Actually… it started to feel kind of perfect.

You couldn’t help it, really. Giggling to yourself like an idiot while you asked the clerk for the piece. Because you, dating Clark Kent, Superman himself, were about to give him a cute little necklace with his own symbol on it.

If anything, you thought it would be a funny gag gift. You’d laugh about it the whole night, he’d say it’s cheesy and then you’d end up returning it the next day like nothing happened.

And you did laugh the whole night about it. He did say it was cheesy. But you never returned it.

Because he ended up loving it.

Clark walks around wearing his superman necklace proudly, without a single hint of shame when Lois or Jimmy tease him after catching a glimpse of it under his collar.

“My girl got it for me,” he always says, like that explains everything.

Which, in theory, it kind of does. You could get him the ugliest tie in Metropolis and he would still wear it proudly every single day of his life if it made you happy.

Because his girl got it for him.

In the end, the necklace did end up being the special gift you wanted for him. Because yes, it’s cringy, but it means something. It represents everything he stands for, hope, courage, who he is, what he is on this earth for.

And Clark? he adores it.

He practically lives in it. Never even thinks about taking it off.

You don’t complain either. There is nothing sexier than Clark stepping out of a steamy shower, water droplets raining from his dark curls, running down the sharp lines of his gorgeous body. Only a towel covering his lower half and that little necklace gleaming around his neck.

You love pulling him by it, kissing him around it, feeling the cold of the metal against your skin when he hugs you. Getting a peek of it under his work shirts. You just love how much he loves it.

But what you love even more, is when he fucks you wearing it.

When he’s on top of you, his arms braced on either side of your head to hold his weight, caging you with those huge muscles flexing with every deep thrust.

It’s hard to focus on anything when Clark’s cock is buried so deep inside you it makes your whole body shiver, but you always notice the necklace. How it swings with the rhythm of his thrusts, crashing gently against his collarbone with every rock of his hips.

And he knows you like to stare at it. That knowing smile on his face is proof enough.

“Look at you sweetheart, always taking me so well,” he praises in that deep voice. A grin grows on his face like he’s not actively making you see stars around the charm hitting his skin repeatedly.

“Come on, darling,” he whispers, the necklace almost brushing your chest. “I know you can give me just one more…”

And you can. You’d give him as many as he wants.

Clark coaxes you through it, always does. He knows how much he takes, how his cock fills you in ways you were never meant to handle. How every time he makes love to you he gets that dazed, blissed out look in your eyes, and those moans slipping from your lips like you’re not even thinking, just taking him in. All of him.

And this is only your second round.

“Fuck– right there, Clark,” you whimper, barely. Your eyes do the rest, telling him thank you for fucking me this good.

“Right there?” he asks back with a soft chuckle, like he’s delighted to see you fall apart like that.

So he does it again, rolls his hips the exact same way, just to hear the broken sound that escapes your throat as your head falls back in pure bliss.

He leans in closer, burying himself deeper, if that’s even possible. He braces his weight on his elbows now, so he can slide his large hands to cup the back of your head, cradling you carefully. He then lifts your face toward his and places a kiss on your forehead.

And you smile, God you smile, because Clark always manages to be the sweetest man on earth while fucking you into next week.

He pulls apart just enough to look into your eyes, still supporting your head in his hands because he knows you can’t do it by yourself at this point. His mouth stays parted, letting out those heavenly filthy grunts that make you let him use you in any way he wants just to hear them over and over.

He keeps the unrelenting pace without breaking a single sweat, slamming in and out your pussy in sloppy sounds as your wetness drips around him. And that damn necklace keeps swinging, but this time is lightly hitting your collarbone, your jaw, your cheeks. The cold metal is a sharp contrast to your hot skin.

It’s driving you crazy.

“Clark,” you pant, breathless. “T-that thing…”

He slightly tilts his head, stuttering his rhythm when he realizes what you mean. One hand leaves your head, already reaching for the chain, but you stop him.

“No no … leave it,” you say, grabbing the chain and looping your fingers around the charm, pulling softly to drag him closer to your face. Your breath ghosts over his lips, giving him a quick peck before whispering. “I like it.”

“Yeah?” he asks back with a groan, in that maddening tone he loves to use when you do something that drives him crazy.

You hold his gaze, nodding innocently, and slowly pull the charm into your mouth.

Just the tip of it, the cold metal resting against your tongue. You suck it in, swollen lips wrapping around the symbol he carried in his chest like he’s your personal savior. And lord, he is.

Clark makes a sound you’ve never really heard before. A helpless, strangled growl under his breath. His next thrust goes harder, like he just can’t help himself. Like you fucked something in his brain chemistry by doing that.

So he keeps pushing, his speed and strength less controlled now, getting completely lost in the way your face contorts in pleasure while your moans get strangled by the charm in your mouth.

“Sweet Jesus,” he rasps. “Don’t–don’t do that unless you want this to be over right now.”

You can’t help but laugh mid bliss, the necklace charm falling from your lips with a soft pop as a result. You lift your hand to his chest, trapping the necklace between your skin so it doesn’t hit you again.

“You better hold it together for me, superman,” you tease.

Even if Clark doesn’t admit it out loud, you calling him ‘Superman’ in bed just tickles something in his brain. It flips a switch inside him that tells him to fill you up until you carry a baby from him.

Especially after the whole necklace moment.

“I-I dont think I can, sweetheart.”

He stares at you, barely enough blue left in his eyes from his blown pupils. Flushed cheeks, lips wet and parted like he’s seconds from begging you to let him break you. Of course he wouldn’t. Unless you asked.

But he’s too gone at this point. That usual gentleness, that unhurried, teasing control that lets him drag things out for hours so you have time to recover is gone.

Clark slams into you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, his hands now locking under your thighs to fold you up for a deeper angle, like he can bend you however he pleases. And he does, only him. He’s moving now with a pace he doesn’t let out that often with you, in fear of hurting you.

But right now? He’s letting himself be desperate. All because of a little necklace.

“You … you put that thing in your mouth darling, you don’t even know what that did to me–“

“Oh, I know,” you moan, your fingers gripping his chest like a lifeline, nails digging in. “I–I love when you lose your mind like this.”

He chuckles breathlessly, almost apologizing. “You don’t see me much like this … do you?”

You shake your head, too breathless to speak again. Because no, you don’t. Clark is always in control. Always worshipful, mindful, making love like he’s got all the time in the world. But there are still times where even a God like him folds under the weight of wanting you.

And now? That necklace, that cute little gag gift his girl got him is now his fucking kink.

He suddenly shifts again, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head while the other slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit instinctively.

“Wanna come with you, darling” he blurts out, disheveled strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches your face when he plays with that sensitive spot. “Don’t think I’m gonna last long … not this time. Not after that.”

Neither are you. You never do with him.

You arch beneath him, back going high, thighs shaking under him from the overstimulation. It doesn’t take long before his name tears from your throat when you reach your orgasm for the … how many times now? Can’t even remember what number it is since you started.

“F-fuck–“ You cry out, nails digging into his biceps for dear life.

He dives in to kiss you through it, deeply, passionate, so fucking heavenly like the only way he knows how to kiss. The chain traps between your lips, the charm cold and wet from your mouth pressing against his tongue. He feels it, God, he feels everything… and that’s it.

He slams into you once, twice, and then he’s gasping against your mouth as he spills inside you in twitches. His body shakes on top of yours, choking on a groan so deep you swear you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. You feel him pulse deep, feel him bury his cum as far as he can go, like it’s feral instinct.

Because Clark Kent comes as hard as he fucks.

He stays inside you, panting, his forehead falls to rest on your collarbone like he needs a minute to catch his breath.

Superman needs to catch his breath.

You’re coated in sweat, the sheets a mess beneath you, and that dumb little necklace is still swinging lightly between your hot chests. He doesn’t move in a full minute, giving you time to come down from your own high, hands going instinctively to his head.

“You alright there, supes?” You whisper amused, running your fingers softly through his hair. He lets out a muffled groan.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles into your skin.

You bite your lip to prevent a laugh from coming out. You know he’s lying. His arms are still shaking. His whole body is tense in that ‘I need to pretend I’m fine so I don’t embarrass myself’ way that only happens when you truly, deeply break him in bed.

Because it’s usually the other way around.

“Clark.” You nudge his cheek softly. “You came in like ten minutes into a round … you never come in ten minutes.”

He finally lifts his head, face flushed red, curls sticking to his forehead, and those beautiful swollen pink lips pouting. Yes, pouting.

“You put it in your mouth.”

“I mean, it’s just a necklace,” you snort, shrugging innocently.

“But it’s the symbol. It’s my … you know …” he gestures vaguely at his own bare chest, clearly flustered. “It’s the whole thing … you, and that mouth, and me, and … I’m only a man, okay?”

“No you’re not,” you’re giggling now, fully delighted, as Clark just buries his face again in the crook of your neck.

He laughs against your skin, tickling you. “You know you’ve ruined it for me, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t wear this necklace anymore without getting hard.”

You both laugh again, tangled together, his weight on top of you makes you feel warm and safe. And somewhere between the breathless kisses and your fingers tracing lazy shapes on his back, you smile at the cold feeling of the necklace trapped between your bodies.

“That’s not true. I couldn’t help you move.” 

You wave a hand at his wincing. You hadn’t asked him to, and you hadn’t minded when he cancelled at the last minute. “I’m just happy your ma was okay.” 

“I’d still like to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

His smile is crazy. Magnetic and tempting and sickening, too, nausea a pit in your stomach that blooms the longer you stare at him. Sometimes, sometimes, Clark smiles at you in this quasi-specific way and you think —you. I know you. 

And then a headache comes like a knife between your eyes. 

Clark startles at your hard flinch. “Migraine again?” 

“Not a migraine.” 

“Then what would you call it?” 

“A shooting pain? They don’t last long enough to qualify. Jimmy says so.” 

“What does Jimmy know about headaches?” Clark asks, voice taking on a silky quality that threatens to send shivers down your back. He hesitates in front of you, taller and taller as the moment stretches, before he bends at the waist to touch your forehead. “Sorry, can I just– is this okay?” 

“Sure, but, what are you–”

His hands are warm. “You don’t feel hot. What did the doctor say?” 

“I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t go?” His softness turns stiff. “Why wouldn’t you go? Sharp pains like this aren’t normal. Why wouldn’t you go and get that looked at? You already made the appointment.” 

You shift away from his hand. It would be easy to meet him where he is right now. You could tell him that it isn’t his problem nor his business. That you didn’t wanna get looked at and ignored, again. You woke up this morning and couldn’t hack it. 

“I didn’t feel like it,” you say, not without care. 

“You didn’t feel like it.” His eyebrows rise. His thumb strokes over the curve of your eyebrow as he pulls his hand away to straighten his glasses. 

“That’s what I said, yeah.” You laugh at his parroting. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad when I’m at home. I figure maybe it’s the computer screen.” You let him stare at you in his sternness until you start to feel too much like a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I send you this bit on one-pan carbonara, could you just– read it for clarity? And cross out whatever sounds ridiculous?” 

“I doubt anything sounds ridiculous, but I’m happy to read it.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He takes a seat at his desk across the way, forcing you to turn your chair away from your computer to see him. You pretend to watch the TV, eyes flicking carefully to his back, waiting for a sign that he’s found a mistake in your article that needs changing. You’re caught on the dark curl of hair kissing his jacket when he tips his head back to meet your eyes, like he’d known you were staring the whole time. “This is great,” he says. “It’s nice, I love the anecdote at the end, you aren’t overwhelming the reader but there’s a clear set of directions and you explain it well.”

“Oh. Thank you. It’s not like there’s much to explain, really.” 

“Sure,” he says, always sure, so easy for him. “But for somebody who’s never cooked alone before, I think this is a nice starting point. I might try it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you can judge me on it. We can put your instructions to the test.” 

You laugh through a smile. “You can’t make carbonara?” 

“That tone you’re using wasn’t one I picked up on in the article.” 

At the end of the workday, when you’ve exhausted yourself mapping out your next week of online columns and the sun has turned Metropolis into a baking puddle, Clark catches you on the way out and walks with you to the end of the block. “So,” he says, knocking his glasses up his nose with a rushed hand, “are you free tonight?” 

“Why?” 

“To help me with this carbonara.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, please. I could use your guidance. I don’t think I even know what to put in a carbonara.” 

“You do. You’re lying.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m lying. Come help me anyways?” 

Grocery shopping with Clark is weirdly nice. He makes you laugh; he smells amazing when you stand beside him picking out fresh herbs, a cologne that lingers but you can’t place; he carries both bags from the store to his apartment, and makes it look like easy work. 

—

“Okay?” 

Things with Clark are so new they’re barely anything at all, but there’s an exclusive sort of sweetness to him as he slides a coffee onto your desk. You raise your chin to meet his eyes, dark behind darker glasses. Blue eyes, you know, but less piercing than you’d imagine them to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“How’s your head?” 

It actually really hurts, now he’s mentioned it. “Fine.”

“Well, it’s decaf.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“But it’s just the way you like it, otherwise.” 

You raise your brows and take a showy sip, visibly judging his performance. The flavour hits the back of your throat, but after a rough swallow, you realise it’s probably the nicest cup of joe you’ve ever had. “That’s perfect,” you tell him, voice all scratched up and awed as he peers down at you. 

He really looks like someone else, sometimes. The more you think about it, the worse your head hurts, so you push the thought from your mind. “Thank you, Clark. This is really good. Do you– is this, like, a hobby?” 

“What, making coffee?” He deliberates with a shrug. “Not really.” 

“You’re just naturally good at everything, then.” 

“Of course not, I’m… I practised. I wanted to make it how you like it.” 

You lift your shoulder before his hand comes down to squeeze it. He handles you so easily, and so kindly, that a little brashness like this makes all the difference. His thumb works into the bone of your shoulder and it nearly-not-quite aches as it brushes its way up to the side of your neck.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. 

You tell him you are. The workday goes like any other, you send him what you’re working on, Clark sends you back a sweet comment. He asks you if you’re busy on the way out, and you agree to go grocery shopping with him so he can attempt your recipe for honey-roasted peanuts under the watchful eye of a professional. 

“It’s not complicated, Clark, you just blanche your peanuts–”

“Raw ones?” 

“Yeah, well. You can use the pre-cooked ones, but they’re not as nice. Then you make your glaze, honey and butter and a little bit of sugar, you read the recipe–”

“Yeah, I read it, I just know you can make it better than I can, and I need the excuse to spend time with you. Which you know,” he says, holding the door for you as you go. 

It’s sitting on his kitchen counter with the smell of honey-sugar thick in the air that Clark kisses you for the first time. You’re wondering if this is real, if the handsomest man you’ve ever met genuinely wants you, and he’s sliding a hand up your thigh with a gentleness that tickles. “Hey,” he says simply. 

“Hey.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For helping. For not laughing when I burned the butter.” His hand coasts to your hip, opening and then pressing into softness unabashedly. “For… letting me be a coward, for this long.” 

There’s a headache brewing square between your brows that you fight to ignore. They’re awful lately, shooting pains that don’t end unless you close your eyes. 

“This isn’t cowardice,” you say, because it’s unbelievable that he wants this, and if he doesn’t kiss you soon your heart’s gonna fall into your stomach. “Just the run up.” 

“Yeah.” He grins. “I like that. The run up to a good kiss?” he asks. His voice has gone small and weak. You don’t mistake it for nerves. This is something else entirely.

You close your eyes. It’s all the answer he needs. Your mouth falls open slowly against his as he tilts his head, as his body tries uselessly to slot between your thighs. You sigh a half-protest and he murmurs sorry into your open mouth. 

You don’t get another headache for days. 

They come back to bite you, though. Superman spent the morning playing on TV, fighting a water monster that threatened to drown an elementary school with gelatinous gloop. Clark texted you an apology of all things a few hours ago when he realised the water monster had flooded 110th street, stranding him in a bakery. Your pastries are dry! he’d promised. 

He rolls into work halfway through the day, when Superman and the Justice Gang have successfully boiled the water monster off in another shocking display of heroism. They’d blocked him into a glowing green box with Superman and a triangulation of Mister Terrific’s flying robots, amplifying his heat division and filling the box with boiling steam. Superman had been unaffected, as usual. 

Clark looks red in the face, ridiculously sorry as he presses a kiss to your cheek and a brown paper bag against your chest from behind. “Hi,” he says, “how are you?” 

You preen into his kiss. His nose lingers against your cheek. “I’m fine.” 

He smells weirder than he usually does. You sniff him curiously, promoting a warm huff of a laugh and another kiss to your cheek. “What’s up?” 

“You smell different.” 

“I do?” 

“You’re not wearing any cologne.” 

“I guess I’m not. I was in a rush. Did you eat?” 

“Yeah, we had sandwiches.” 

“Did Jimmy pay again?” 

“He did not. He offered.” 

He pulls you back to his chest. “He did.” 

“You’re not actually jealous.” 

“It’s polite of him,” he says, falling into that little voice that makes you wanna ask him to take you home. What is his problem? He’s 6’4, he’s wide, he has no business baby-voicing you and you’re eating it up ‘cos you know it isn’t put on. He gets sweet when he’s comfortable. You make him happy. 

“You’re smiling,” he accuses. 

“Nope.” 

The headaches persist. Clark is this shining bright spot of goodness in your life, even if he kisses you rather impolitely when the office clears at hometime, even when he disappears at strange times. He always texts, so. There’s a hundred different reasons as to why he’s late for work, or cancelling a date last minute, and he makes it up with flowers and apologies out of the ears. 

Superman gets busy on the news. You feel a bridge there, something about something about Clark Kent. A migraine hits before you can figure it out. 

It’s a few weeks after your first kiss, and you spend the morning flicking through photos of you and Clark. He likes taking them, holding your phone out in front of you both. “Smile!” he says, kissing you fondly when you oblige. You’re thinking about getting a couple of them printed for your photo album, though that might doom the whole thing, really, an early jinx, so for now you settle for thumbing through them with a big smile. Your head’s been hurting some since you woke up. You blame Clark for surprising you with a too-early FaceTime, sheets pulled up to your nose. 

To make up for waking you, he promises to bring groceries. You’d written a recipe for creamy mushroom eggs a few days ago that he swears he can make so long as you’re watching. 

You struggle out of bed when you hear him knocking. He’s grinning at the door, three paper bags hoisted in arms that have no business being as shapely as they are, his hair wet with rain and curling against his forehead. 

“Oh, no, it’s raining?” 

He leans in to peck you, paper bags crinkling sadly between your chests. “Not much.” 

His obvious lie makes you laugh, which has him stealing another kiss from the apple of your cheek. 

“You okay? How’s the head, today?” 

“It’s fine.” It’s protesting, actually, angered by your movement. 

“Why don’t we go sit you down, huh?”

“I don’t know why…” 

Clark guides you to the kitchen, shelving the paper bags on your small table and shepherding you into a chair at the head of it. “Why what?” 

You chew your lip. 

“What?” he asks patiently. 

“It’s like they get worse when you ask me about them. Maybe it’s psychosomatic? I’m sorry, I don’t mean– you don’t make them worse, Clark–”

But doesn’t he? He’s looking down at you and your headache is blistering, that single black curl against his forehead as his glasses slip down a damp nose. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and light wash jeans and it’s stirring and it hurts your head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not you, Clark.” 

“It might be.” 

“What?” 

He bends slightly to see you. Your eyes throb in their sockets as he watches you, clearly thinking, the cogs behind pretty eyes turning slow. 

Clark brings his fingertips to your cheek. “You’ve always been very observant.” 

“Have I?” 

“Of course. You’re so smart, you have an eye for detail, the small things, all the most important parts. That’s why you’re good at what you do, right?”

“I don’t follow, Clark.” 

“Your headaches are the worst at work, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And since we’ve been dating, they follow you home, too.” You’re worrying that this is the breakup when he raises both hands to his glasses. “It’s my fault. Or, it’s down to these.”

You stare at him wordlessly. 

“It’s– Four. Made me these, they all did, to obscure my identity. So I could have a normal life.” 

You’re feeling pretty nauseous, as things go. Maybe you’re having a stroke? That’s how these happen, sudden, strange feelings in your hands and garbled speech. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be speaking in riddles? 

Clark strokes your cheek again quickly, fingers going back to the arms of his glasses before you can savour the touch, and he works the black body of them down his nose and off. 

You squint at your almost-boyfriend. He looks different without the glasses. Paler. 

Then he straightens up and the pieces click firmly into place. 

Your lips part. He folds his glasses into the front of his hoodie, crossing his arms over his chest to follow. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“How are you… Your glasses– and they– the headaches?” 

“I don’t know. They never told me there’d be side effects.” 

“Who’s they?” 

He smiles rather boyishly, considering. “The bots, at the Fortress of Solitude. Four never mentioned that it could hurt you. I’m sorry about that.” 

Superman is looking down at you with big blue eyes and Clark Kent’s pretty mouth. That you’ve kissed. You’ve kissed superman. 

“Can you stop frowning? You have a nicer smile,” you say finally. 

He wants to do as you’ve asked, but his expression stutters. “You’re not mad?” 

“About what?” 

“About– about what? About my secret.” 

You’re not sure you can say ‘Superman’ out loud. “Either I’m having an aneurysm, or you have, like, the world's biggest burden on your shoulders. How could I be mad about that?” 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Clark-man (wow!) grins sudden and sweet as he loses his straight-backed posture, bending down again, looking for your hands where they live waiting at the ends of your arms for his touch. “I’m a metahuman. Hell, I’m not even human. I’m from space. You’re being unbelievably cool about this.” 

You settle into your chair with a tired smile. “My headache’s gone for the first time in months.” 

He pulls your hand to his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, completely. Who knew it was you the whole time? Should’ve stayed away. Just, I couldn’t manage it.” 

He kneels at your feet. “Is it really all better?” he asks.

The relief is nothing you’ve felt before. The first absence of pain after weeks of pinching agony. 

Clark pulls the glasses off of his hoodie and throws them over his shoulder. They land with a crack in the kitchen sink. 

“Don’t you need those?” you ask. 

He takes your face into a big, big hand, smiley and shy as he pulls you down to meet his mouth. “Not for this,” he promises, breath warm on your lips and your tongue as he takes the lead. The kiss goes hot and heavy as honey under summer sun, blistering, and searchingly slow. He kisses better without his glasses. You shuttle the thought away for a later date and let yourself sink into the heat of his chest. 

—

“I thought Superman didn’t have time for selfies?” you croon sometime later, sated and steady with a warm body behind your back. 

Clark hums into your hair tiredly. “Huh?” 

“You always make us take photos together.” 

“Well, that’s different. With you, I’m usually Clark.” 

“Usually?” 

He kisses the top of your ear. “Yeah. Guy you just met? That was Superman. But otherwise, I’m just Clark.” 

You groan as he laughs, giving it your best attempt at wiggling out of his reach to punish him for the cheesy line. Strong forearms cross over your stomach to pull you right back in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

you and clark hadn't seen each other for nearly a month. he had taken a trip to smallville and against all odds you were sent on a work trip a day before he returned. the distance had gotten overwhelming with time and the second you stepped into the apartment that afternoon, he had you pressed against the door, kissing you like you were the only source of air for his alien lungs.

"fuck... baby, i need- oh god." he was a mess trying to suck dark hickies into the thin skin of your neck while moaning above you. you tried to press your hips back for more but you couldn't move with his hips locking yours into place beneath him. he was barely pulling out anymore, just pressing insistantly into you, grinding like he could get deeper than he already was at the hilt.

"clark," you moaned almost too loudly, not wanting to upset the neighbors as your hand reached back to tug on his hair. he cursed at the pull and drew back just enough to slam his hips back down into yours, letting you feel his full length again before returning to his desperate grinding. you'd already cum twice and clark was nearing his second orgasm quickly, his stamina not giving up after the first. every rock of his body against yours pushed more of his cum out of you and onto the sheets that you were sure you'd need throw out afterwards; there was no point in trying to save them.

"never gonna leave you for that long... ever... again," he groaned, each pause accentuated with a deeper grind. you felt his cock twitch inside you, your telltale sign of when he was getting close but he announced it just as desperately as he had the first time.

"can i- baby, i need to- i'm gonna-" each attempt at a sentence ended early by a moan that vibrated down your neck while your fingers carded through his hair again. you tugged one more time with a whine, "clark, i need you to cum." sure enough, he raised your hips just enough to bring a hand between you and the bed, ignoring the stickiness that lay beneath you as he rubbed your clit.

"cum with me, baby," he begged, teeth scraping against the shell of your ear as he moved with more speed, his desperation as clear as ever. it didn't take much for you both to fall apart completely, a mess of loud moans and heavy breathing as he nearly collapsed back on top of you. you nudged him off to the side, whining as he pulled out in the motion before turning over to look at him.

your beautiful superhero was a wreck on the bed next to you. his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat and he couldn't close his mouth with the force of his pants. you couldn't wipe the smile off your face seeing him so blissed out, finally home together again, and when he managed to finally turn onto his side to look at you, he shared that same smile.

"again?" he asked, getting a laugh out of you as you brushed his hair back.

"not on these sheets."

Dead people pale rather quickly.

Price is sensitive about it, shielding you from the two motionless men as he helps you toward the door.

“Don’t look,” he murmurs.

But you do.

Sick curiosity is like a sponge absorbing a spill. Even with Price’s arm around your waist and his verbal instruction prompting you not to, you still glance down, still gaze into milky, soulless eyes. It’s such a human thing to go against the grain, to do the opposite of a given warning when you know that it’s best to do as you’re told.

Blank expressions and sagging skin. Bloodless.

Why is it such a shock? Why do you gasp, stepping to the side as if the dead man will reach out to snag your ankle?

“I said to not look,” chastises Price, but there is no irritation in it. There is sadness, and a defeated sort of tone that draws up memory.

A memory of rattling pops. Drops of red on concrete. A splintered, downed door. Unmoving limbs all piled together. Reaching. Reaching and clawing toward the exit.

“You’re fine,” continues Price, squeezing your hand. “You’re safe.”

Are you? Are you safe?

Shakings hands indicate otherwise. A tremble in your lip and the stinging burn of tears are a story all its own.

It is betrayal. A sharpened axe of the executioner.

The bucket is full, contains a head, and it is this man’s face staring back at you.

It could have been you.

It likely would have if Price hadn’t been lurking nearby. That is an issue all its own. One you want an answer for but won’t ask. Not now. It isn’t the time.

You cling to your savior because it’s the only security you have. Who can you turn to? Not Alex. These are his men on the floor. It is his text you saw. Alex’s friends can’t be trusted, and even the few friends you did manage to make might just be Alex’s pawns. It’s possible that you have no one.

Only Price.

But even that is rocky.

Three years and no contact. Did he come on his own? Did someone send him? Does any of that even matter?

Price herds you around the unmoving figure, opening the apartment door, and poking his into the hall. “Clear.” He glances back. Grimaces. “Sorry.”

“For what?” you whisper.

Price shakes his head, gaze momentarily dropping to the floor before returning to your face. “Nothing.”

The hand grasping yours tightens, fingers intertwining as he tugs you out into the empty hall. Price’s warmth is refreshing yet so familiar. You remember him—at least your body does—because it instinctually sinks closer to him, keeping pace without effort.

And Price doesn’t let go of your hand, and you do not dare break the connection. Walking hand-in-hand down the hallway like a couple on their way to the grocery store, you briefly forget where you are and what has happened. That is what you tell yourself, what you picture in your mind. If you don’t, you might burst into tears.

This is Thirst all over again.

This is Dimitri. Nikola. The safehouse.

All of it.

Didn’t Laswell say that this move, that this “fresh start,” is a chance to forget and begin again with no shadow hanging over your shoulder? Where is she? Why is she not keeping tabs? Or maybe she did and Price is the one sent to deal with you like he did three years ago.

Price comes to a stop at the elevators and glances around. Frowning, he twists to look over his shoulder.

“What are you looking for?” you ask softly.

“Stairs.”

“They’re at the opposite end.”

“Fuck,” mutters Price. Still, he doesn’t release your hand.

Pressing the down arrow, Price slides a little closer to you, shoulders nearly touching. When the doors open, revealing a few people inside, his fingers stiffen. The pause lasts only a second before he steps on, tugging you along with him.

Using his height and large, muscular upper body to his advantage, Price guides you to the very back of the elevator. Instead of leaving the two of you to loiter at the back, Price pins you into one of the corners, creating a cocoon with his body. Moving in close like a lover, Price places one large hand above and to the right of your head. He leans in, lips dangerously close to yours.

“Play along,” he murmurs, almost inaudibly, before closing the distance.

Price’s lips play a dangerous game. There is no stagnant gentleness but full pursuit. There is no reason for Price to be kissing you like this, for his tongue to slip inside, or for him to lightly suck and nip at your bottom lip.

Everything in you responds, coiling tight, hands reaching to grasp the front of his jacket, to pull him closer until his need rubs against your lower belly. That one touch is enough to break the kiss, for you to pull back and inhale.

Price’s hand not on the elevator wall comes to rest at the left-side of your throat. His fingers turn inward to grasp, to pull you back to his mouth. You open for him in the quiet. You open for him as the elevator stops and dings. You open for him as the doors surrender to passenger demands and more people pile in.

“Giggle.” Price is nearly voiceless. In sudden embarrassment, you do giggle. Once it’s out of your mouth, Price is on you again. Tasting. Tasting so much more than he’s ever taken.

You shift to the left, glancing over his shoulder, questioning whether anyone is looking. Everyone else in the elevator is purposefully keeping their gaze averted.

“Eyes on me.”

Your gaze snaps back to Price, and you’re met with a heated stare. The space between your legs immediately warms and you squeeze your thighs together instantly, silently denying the connection.

The elevator dings, and the people standing just beyond Price’s back begin to exit. He waits until they’re all off before grabbing your hand and guiding you away from the wall of the elevator. Rushing toward the entrance to the parking garage, Price keeps you hidden from view, his massive shoulders and upper torso a shield from outside eyes.

Near a dark corner of the second level of the parking garage, Price approaches a black SUV with tinted windows. The sight of it there instantly draws forth the need to escape. It is a biting dog that won’t quit. Digging your feet into the concrete does nothing. Price drags you along without even glancing back.

Approaching the front passenger door, Price opens it, pulling you in front of him. With one hand on your waist, Price helps you slide into the seat. His fingers linger too long, and when he finally removes them, their phantoms remain. Hopping in the driver’s seat, Price starts the vehicle, backing out of the parking spot quickly, and heading for the exit.

Briefly, just before the two of you turn onto the street, the voice inside your head tells you to open the car door and toss yourself onto the pavement. It insists that you should run and run and run until everything is behind you again.

With the thought comes an itch in the tips of your fingers, a sudden internal jolt to do as it says.

But where would you go? What would you do?

Someone will come after you. Someone will find you.

Might be Alex. Might be Price. Or someone far worse.

“You did that on purpose.”

Price turns a corner. “Did what on purpose?”

You turn your head in his direction, frowning. “In the elevator.”

Price’s mouth is still a brand on your lips. They’re slightly tender, perhaps even a bit swollen, and there is no doubt that Price meant every kiss. People pretending don’t come together like that. They don’t engage with such passionate need.

Price stares out the windshield, but you catch the smug smile. “Was I better than your boyfriend?”

Yes, is what you want to say. Because it’s true. Alex never kissed you the way Price did.

“That’s not the point,” you snap.

“Lying to me about liking it?” Price tilts his head enough for his gaze to momentarily sweep in your direction.

“Eyes on the road,” you mutter, deliberately staring out the windshield.

Price makes several more turns before turning onto a highway. “I’m taking you to a transfer location before we move on to a safehouse.”

“The same one?” you ask, unsure of how that would work exactly. That safehouse is on the other side of the country.

“No,” answers Price. “Different.”

You lick your lips. Swallow. Saliva sticks in your throat. “What if I don’t want to go?”

Price laughs in disbelief. “You’d rather face Obolensky?”

“Alex,” you correct, automatically,

“Still sweet on him after all that, love?”

“John. Stop.” This time you turn to him, redness coiling between your ribs.

There is no denying the connection you and Price have. Three years later and it’s still fucking there. It’s still sitting in the crevices like seeds in the concrete seeking the sun.

“No ‘Captain’ this time? When you’re mad with me, you usually call me by my title.” Price says it with a bit of rough sweetness. He’s teasing but he’s also pushing like a disgruntled boyfriend.

“You’re changing the subject.”

Price shrugs and signals, taking an exit ramp into one of the nearby neighborhoods. When he doesn’t answer right away, you give up, leaning back in the chair to watch the houses go by. Some of them are clearly well loved and looked after while others have boarded up windows and overgrown lawns.

“Laswell wanted to send someone else,” says Price, cutting through the silence. “I told her that would scare you. Volunteered to do it myself.”

“Is that the only reason?” you ask, hoping that he’ll answer truthfully.

“No,” is all he says, leaving it at that.

Price pulls up to a house at the end of a street. The white paint on the side of the house is starting to peel and there are bars over the windows on the first level. He turns onto the long driveway that ropes to the back and ends at a carport. Price comes to a stop beneath it. The enclosed side faces the other houses and the open side faces the house itself.

The car is off and Price is at your door before you even have a chance to place your hand on the interior handle. There isn’t any conversation. Price offers you his hand and you take it, sliding your fingers over his palm. As he helps you out of the SUV, his other hand lightly hovers on your waist.

He’s the one who shuts the SUV door. He’s the one who walk with you up the small steps. He’s the one who punches in a keycode (not a key) and brings you inside into a kitchen. It’s plain. Simple. Minimalist. But clean.

Price heads down the short hallway into what you guess is the living room. You follow, find only a sofa sitting in the empty space. Standing in front of a thermostat, Price makes a few adjustments before turning to you.

“Hungry?”

You shake your head. “No. Thank you.”

“Coffee? Tea?”

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

Price nods and heads into the kitchen. Retrieving an electric kettle from one of the cabinets, Price fills it up with water before plugging it in and hitting the tab. Heading for a different cabinet, Price removes two mugs. You said you didn’t want anything and yet he’s making you some anyway.

“Shower is upstairs,” he says, digging around in the pantry for bagged tea. “Up the stairs. Second to the right. First is the bedroom.”

You nod, tugging on the sleeves of your shirt. Price glances in your direction and frowns. “Something wrong?”

Everything, John.

“No,” you shake your head, stepping out into the hall.

On soft feet, you enter the living room and head for the stairs. Pausing at the base, you glance over your shoulder at the front door. The voice telling you to run comes again, but you squash it, knowing this isn’t the time.

“There are extra clothes in the bedroom,” calls out Price from the kitchen.

You don’t answer him. Instead, you head upstairs, stopping at the first door.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, staring down at the lone mattress on the floor and the worn dresser pushed up against the wall.

It is a “transfer location” so it’s understandable that the amenities of a safehouse might not be extended to a place like this. Sighing, you yank open the dresser. Digging around, you find some black sweatpants that will fit and an oversized Harvard sweatshirt.

Taking them into the bathroom with you, you explore all the cabinets. There is shampoo and conditioner along with razors and body wash. The towels have seen better days but they’re clean and smell fresh.

You don’t need to shower. Price dragged you into the one in your apartment, but you didn’t really bathe. You just stood under the hot water until you couldn’t stand it anymore and your legs didn’t shake. But taking another one is just an excuse to put some distance between the two of you.

It isn’t until you start peeling off your clothes that you notice the blood. Not everything came off. There is blood in places you didn’t notice before. The mirror isn’t much help. It’s old and your reflection is slightly blurry. You check everything. There is dried blood under your nails and on the back of your neck. It’s in your hair too.

Turning on the water, you stand under its spray until it grows cold and runs clear. You take your time removing yourself from the steamy room. You take even longer drying your body and hair, putting on the clothes you picked out.

It isn’t until you open the bathroom door that connects directly with the bedroom that the world suddenly comes to a halt.

Price is standing next to the mattress. It’s no longer bare but covered in multiple blankets and a small pile of pillows. Next to the bed is a small folding table no taller than your knee. On it is a steaming mug of tea. There is another mug of tea but it is in Price’s fist as he brings it up to his mouth to take a sip.

All of this is true, but that isn’t what’s stopped you.

Price is…hardly wearing anything. It’s just a pair of grey sweatpants. No socks. No shirt. No hat. Just an expanse of bare skin and brown tufts of hair across his broad chest that trickle downward to disappear below the band of his pants. Your eyes follow it down, and when you glance back up, Price is staring at you with a knowing smile.

“That’s what we have to sleep on?” you blurt to try and cover up the heat rising in your cheeks.

“There a problem?” asks Price with such casualness it’s maddening.

“Yes,” you reply instantly.

Price shrugs. “It’ll be a tight fit but we’ll both fit.”

We. Both.

“What?” you stammer.

“Don’t want to sleep with me, love?” Price takes a drink. “It’s just tonight.” The cocky swagger in the way Price says it causes your stomach to flip.

“It’s fine,” you reply sharply, making sure to go to the opposite side of the bed.

Once there, you ease down on it. Price doesn’t hesitate. He moves as you do, grabbing the other mug of tea and presenting it to you.

“Just in case,” he says softly.

You gently take it, making sure not to accidentally burn yourself or Price. Bringing the mug to your mouth, you inhale the rich scents descending upward with the steam.

“Thank you.” You take a sip and your body instantly warms everywhere, the heat of the tea quickly moving through your body.

Price sinks down onto the mattress. Leaning back, all the muscles in his stomach and chest flex and lengthen. You try not to look, to keep your gaze averted, but you completely fail. Price is doing this on purpose, and that is entirely clear when he absently rubs his hand over his stomach muscles. Physically, Price is the epitome of a Greek god who’s never said no to a donut. Muscles mixed with a bit of softness.

It's mouth-watering, and it takes everything in you not to scoot a bit closer.

“Do you always sleep with your captives?”

Price laughs. “You’re not my captive.”

“But I can’t leave,” you counter.

“You want to leave me?” Price’s voice drops. It’s low. Husky. Not a threat but a questioning of intention.

“I enjoy my solitude.”

Price nods. “I know you do.” Stretching, Price sets his mug on the little table and pushes up from the mattress. He switches off the light, returning to the makeshift bed moments later.

“Give it here.” Price goes onto his knees and leans over your body, taking the mug you placed next to the bed from off the floor.

He sets it aside and then holds back the covers. “Get in.”

You do so instantly, not caring that you’re submitting to his command. Maybe it’s how the bit of moonlight cuts through the blinds that do it. The way it shines across Price’s body, highlighting the best bits. He’s careful, keeping some space between, easing in beside you but not grabbing or pulling you close.

Knowing that you’re too weak to fight off your desire for him, you turn over onto your side, silently telling yourself off for even taking this line of thought. The heat under the covers is stifling. It’s warm under all these blankets and Price’s natural body temperature is only making it worse. You keep fidgeting, keep shifting, hating that you can’t really leave but wanting to do so anyway.

Price is silent beside you and you have no idea if he’s asleep or awake. If he’s watching you or if he’s annoyed by your constant twitching. And the heat is only growing worse. Maybe you can convince him to turn the thermostat down or even crack a fucking window.

But if you turn toward him, are you admitting that you want him? If you move toward him in the dark, will he take that as invitation?

Fuck it. You need to get this over with. Sweat is already collecting under your breasts.

Flipping over, you turn your resolve to steel. Pushing up onto your elbow, you reach out with one hand, resting it on his shoulder. Price is turned away from you, and when your hand makes contact, Price turns into the touch, rolling onto his back. The hand on your shoulder slides with him, gliding over his chest to rest near the other shoulder.

“John,” you breathe, suddenly losing your words.

Moonlight from the window slices down his face, highlighting his eyes and full lips. They’re slightly parted and his eyes are half lidded. The look on his face isn’t one you’d give to a good friend. He reaches across his body and wraps his hand around your wrist, resting his forearm against yours. His thumb hovers over your pulse point. You know its pounding because every thought in your head is consumed by the mere idea of Price rolling over to trap you under him.

“It’s—you’re—”

No. No no no no. You’re losing your nerve.

You lick your lips. “You’re…hot.”

Confusion, then surprise drifts across his features before shifting into something sultry. His thumb runs over your pulse point and his mouth curves into a smile.

“Not upset with sleeping with me?”

Price’s hand slides down your arm in a caress. It’s wonderful. Every nerve ending is firing. Singing. It’s the truest intimacy you’ve had in years. Alex is—was—thoughtful and caring in the way he handled you, but it also felt a little hollow, like he never fully wanted it.

And Price is right there. Warm and close and moving closer.

“Like a fire,” you blurt. “Or an oven. I’m overheated.”

Price pauses, immediately pulls back. “Apologies,” he coughs. “I—misunderstood.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “Could you open the window? Just a bit?”

Price rolls out of bed and you instantly feel the cold. You want to call him back, to recall the words you spoke and shove them down your throat. With a little bit of pressure, Price opens the window slightly. The breeze is lovely. Soothing.

Price slides back under the covers but he keeps his back to you. You do the same, pretending that everything is fine. That everything is okay even as your heart thunders in your chest. You stay like that until you hear Price’s soft snoring. Counting the seconds and minutes is agonizing, but you do it for your safety.

This is your chance to leave.

With extreme slowness, you place one hand flat on the mattress, pushing yourself up to a seated position. Price doesn’t stir. You attune to the silence, waiting until you hear Price’s gentle snore. Shifting your weight away from him is the hardest part. Any sudden movement might startle him awake. You can’t have that.

You are on your knees on the floor and then your feet. Moving. You are moving silently toward the door. So close.

Everything is fine. Everything is good.

Until it’s not.

“What are you doing?” Price’s sleep-laced voice travels across the room.

“I—”

He sighs heavily. “Get away from the door.”

“I’m thirsty,” you say over your shoulder.

“Then I’ll grab you a water.”

In moments, Price is right there, standing behind you, his chest pressed to your back. One hand is on your waist and the other is on your hand that clings to the doorknob.

“Let go,” whispers Price.

“You can’t keep me here,” you murmur, wanting to leave but wanting to stay.

“I am keeping you here. Obolensky can’t have you. Not when you’re under my protection.”

You turn to the left, shoulder bumping into Price’s bare chest as you address him. “Is it only him I need protection from?”

“You think I’d hurt you?”

No. Never. Price has never hurt you.

You glance away, staring at the far wall, not wanting to admit the truth.

“Tell me,” he prompts. “You think I’d hurt you?”

“No.” Your gaze returns to his face. “But I’m not an animal. I don’t belong in a cage.”

Price’s hand on your waist tightens. The force of it is enough to draw your bodies together entirely. “This is not a cage.”

“It feels like one.” You lick your lips. His gaze follows the movement. “Last time you gave me a choice. Why not now?”

“Because no one knew about you then,” answers Price immediately. “Now they do.”

You twist in his grip, facing him fully. You’re pinned between his large, broad chest and the door. “Who is they, Price? Is it Alex? Dimitri?”

“Dimitri is dead,” he growls. “And Obolensky is a pawn.”

“For who?” Price’s jaw clenches but he doesn’t answer. “Who, John?”

He shakes his head. “Dimitri answered to Damien and Damien answered to someone else.”

You scoff. “Yet you won’t say who.”

“Do you understand how much was lost?” asks Price. “Damien’s behavior that afternoon wasn’t over a few guns or a couple hundred dollars. He lost a nuclear arsenal. One that he promised to deliver on.”

“What?”

Price keeps his hand on your waist but the other rests beside your head, trapping you further. “Dimitri is rotting in the dirt and Damien is fish food. Their boss saw to that. He is the target. Has been for years.”

All the pieces are falling into place like raindrops from crying clouds.

“But I never said anything,” you choke out. “You were there, John. You talked with Dimitri. Why didn’t they come after you?”

“We staged it to look like I was taken out. The only possible connection they had was that someone talked at the club.” Price sighs heavily. “How they even found out about the club is up in the air. Never figured that out.”

You sniffle, holding back the phlegm but not the tears. “I was collateral.”

“No—”

“Stop, John. Don’t lie.”

The hand on your waist squeezes before sliding to your back. Price yanks against him, dragging you away from the door. “Nothing was supposed to happen to you. Nothing.”

“Stop,” you murmur, suddenly reading how hard he is and how soft you are. There is nowhere for your hands to go but his bare chest. They rest there, palms flat, fingers sliding through his chest hair as they splay wide.

“I’m sorry,” murmurs Price, and the slight rasp in it melts your resolve. His head lowers, the tip of his nose brushing against the side of your face.

You start to turn into it, to meet him, but pause at the last second. There is a roaring in your ears. A bright light behind the eyes. You are a torn piece of paper. Two sides that cannot come together again unless glued.

You believe him. And it’s not because of his words but because of his actions.

Price rushed to you when Damien had everyone gathered in Thirst’s main room. He didn’t hesitate. He got you out, had you taken care of, only to slip right back in when you needed it the most. Without Price where would you be right now?

Dead, perhaps. Or worse off, lingering in a place where you wish for endless sleep.

“Let me protect you.”

You swallow, lips parting slightly. Price’s gaze is focused in on your lips, missing nothing.

“Alex won’t give up. He’ll look for me.”

“He’ll fucking regret it,” growls Price. “If he touches you, he’s dead. But he won’t even have the chance.”

“You don’t understand. He’s…”

You trail off, unsure of how to proceed. Alex is sweet on you, but there has always been a slight separation, a detachedness you couldn’t quite place. Now you know, but it doesn’t explain everything. There were times when Alex seemed a bit possessive around other men you interacted with. He didn’t like it when they talked to you for too long or showed more interest than he cared for.

But that might not explain that Alex cared for you. He did try to have you killed. He is working for someone who wanted to clean up their loose ends. But why all this work? Did he simply put it off? Why play the long game? Was Alex or anyone else involved sure you were who they thought you were?

“He’s what?” asks Price softly, his tone encouraging you to continue.

“I’m not sure, John. I—I just know he won’t stop looking for me.”

Price nods. “I agree. He has a job to do. But I also think he felt something toward you.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Think I wasn’t watching the two of you in that restaurant?” he laughs. “I saw all of it. Maybe Alex is a good actor but his behavior toward you seemed genuine.”

“And yet he tried to kill me,” you reply dryly.

“He ordered his men to kill you,” corrects Price. “From what I understand, Obolensky likes to do it himself. Thorough. Clean. Doesn’t make sense, unless he couldn’t look you in the face as he did it.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, John.”

“No,” he says softly. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Price’s hand on your back rubs gentle circles. It’s a soothing touch and this intimacy is different from all the other times you and Price have been this close. His head is still tilted forward but he’s not as near as before. The two of you can look at each other without brushing noses.

“Still want that water?”

“I wasn’t getting water.”

Price chuckles. “I know.”

“I’d like to go back to bed,” you say.

“And sleep this time? Not wait for me to fall asleep so you can make your escape?”

You smack his chest. “Fuck you.”

Price smiles, and it drips with mischievousness. “Fuck me? Is that right?”

“Control yourself, Captain,” you tease.

His smile widens. “There it is. Knew you’d say it.”

Your head turns upward. This time, your lips align with his. Maybe it’s sleep drawing you to do this, or maybe it’s your heart which won’t slow its rapid beating. Could be the twisty coil in your stomach that is rapidly moving downward, heating the space between your legs, making you ache for him.

You are open for him, presenting yourself, giving Price your lips like an offering. He knows this, because Price’s gaze tracks the movement and his own lips part slightly like he’s just as desperate to form the connection.

“Back to bed,” he rasps, and you hate that he says it.

Price pushes off from the door, his hands falling to his sides. Before you is a rugged man. Bare chested. Running his fingers through his hair absently as he watches you. It’s unfair how close he is, how easy it would be to fall into him, but the distant is a canyon.

You need to accept this. Survival is at stake.

Do you want him? Yes. You’ve wanted him for a while, and this reunion is only drawing up all those old thoughts and feelings. They are being crushed and stretched like damp clothes. You’re hanging on the clothes line, swaying in the breeze.

Stepping away from the door, you follow Price back to the blanket covered mattress. He doesn’t slide beneath until you do. There is hesitation in the way he waits, like he wants to draw you close but is desperately needing your signal.

Sighing slightly, you melt into the worn mattress, turning on your side, facing him. Price fully inserts himself beneath the blankets, shifting across the makeshift bed until he’s nearly on top of you. You reach for him the moment he reaches for you.

You’ve had it. After a humiliating breakup, you’re packing up your bags and heading north of the city. You’d felt like you were being suffocated lately, and a little time in isolation sounded perfect. 

No risk of running into your ex or his idiotic friends. Just you, your books, and silence. 

Sliding into the driver’s seat in your rickety car, neglected due to your time in the city, you turn on your music as loud as it can go, and put the old girl in drive. 

It was a few hours away, but honestly, you welcomed the extra time in the car. You’d always loved your old red truck, and some time blasting your breakup playlist to drown out your thoughts was like medicine to your overwhelmed mind. 

Time flew by, and soon, the skyscrapers cutting into the blue of the sky faded to evergreen forest spanning farther than you could see. 

You pass the weathered green sign for Stowe, Vermont- population, 5,261. The roads were already powdered with fresh snow, and your truck fishtailed a little as you turned on a winding road that cut right through the town center.

Mercantiles, country stores, and boutiques dotted the road, wreaths made of pine and red berries drenching each awning. Some doors wore velvet ribbons, windows glinting with the promise of holiday goodies inside. Old-fashioned rainbow lights wrapped around the trees lining the sidewalks, endearingly vintage. Each lamppost held a poster advertising the town’s Winter Festival, sure to impress, that would be taking place on December 18th. In just a few days.  

Charming.

Shame you weren’t very much interested in socializing just yet. 

The road narrowed as you passed through downtown, turning deeper into the forest. You cracked your window just for a second, letting the cold air bite your cheeks. It was crisp and clean, sharp with woodsmoke. For the first time in weeks, you let yourself breathe in all the way. 

Quiet. Peace and quiet. 

The kind that just didn’t exist in the city. Just the sound of snow settling on the branches of trees that probably existed long before you, and would probably exist long after. 

Exactly what you’d been looking for. 

You finally ease your truck into the driveway of your rental cabin, nestled at the edge of the woods. 

It looked like a postcard.

You could see into the front windows- amber light flickering from inside, maybe from a candle or an old lamp. The curtains were the kind of plaid that reminded you of cinnamon, all red and cream. 

 Snow blanketed the sloped roof and porch rails like powdered sugar, icicles catching the morning light like frozen glass. A stack of chopped firewood leaned against one of the beams of the wraparound porch, next to an old rocking chair covered in a heavy wool blanket that looked like it hadn’t been moved all season. Smoke curled gently from the stone chimney, making you smile at the thought of a fire waiting for you when you got inside.

Wait.

A fire?

You frown. The woman you rented from- Lisa, you think her name was- had told you that the cabin would be empty, clean, fully stocked. Locked up until you arrived. Had the previous renters forgotten to put their fire out? Was someone from the company doing a last-minute check?

You slowly make your way up to the porch, snow crunching under your boots. A doormat welcomed you cheerily. “Home Sweet Home.”

The door was unlocked, a bit warm to the touch.

That’s strange.

Then you hear it.

A man’s voice. Just one, gravelly and low, like he’s grumbling to himself.

A deep, mechanical sound is followed by a muffled curse. 

“Damn thing’s loose again…”

You freeze.

The sounds are coming from the other side of the cabin. Not scary, but certainly not pleased.

You glance back at your truck. You’ve watched enough Criminal Minds to consider just hightailing and trying your luck at one of the darling inns you had seen in town.

But curiosity got the best of you. Plus, you’d already paid the deposit. 

You inch around the side of the cabin, following the sounds, and you see him.

A man crouched by what you assume is the generator, sleeves rolled up despite the cold. You catch a glimpse of metal where his left arm should be. A prosthetic, maybe? Regardless, he’s massive. The faded flannel he’s wearing does nothing to hide broad shoulders and thick forearms that tense with every move he makes. There’s a wrench in his hand and a scowl on his face. 

He notices you as soon as you open your mouth.

“Uh…hi?”

He stands slowly. Tall, imposing. He’s got a bit of facial hair you didn’t notice before. His breath fogs the air as he exhales, blue eyes hardening as they meet yours. 

“You’re early.”

“Excuse me?”

“They said you weren’t coming for another two days,” he grunts, “Cabin’s not ready yet.”

“I have an email that said check-in is today.”

He mutters something under his breath, something like “...fucking Airbnb people…”, and pulls out a phone from his back pocket that looks so old, you thought it was a TV remote.

“No signal,” he says, clenching his jaw, “Figures.”

You inhale, steeling yourself.

“Well, I’m really sorry about any inconvenience, but I did kind of drive four hours through the mountains to get here. I’m really not picky, as long as there’s a bed and a bathroom, I swear I’ll stay out of your way. Is that ok?”

He takes a pause. Looks at you. Not really judging, more assessing you.

You brace for rejection, silently cursing yourself for not checking the hosts’ reviews. 

Instead, he puffs out a breath that fogs the air in front of him for just a second. 

“Cabin’s already warm. Your bedroom’s to the left. Bed’s made, there’s extra blankets in the closet.”

The tension in your shoulders lifts. 

“Thank you. I’ll stay out of your way until you finish up, promise.”

He grunts in response. Not rude, really. More a lazy acknowledgement, like he has work to do. 

He does, you suppose.

You move to grab your bags, but he’s quicker, looking at you like it was ridiculous you’d ever assume you’d carry your own luggage and striding toward the door. You follow behind him, dumbly.

And despite it all, despite the mix-up, the random stranger you still haven’t decided isn’t going to kill you, and the fact that you probably won’t be able to use your phone until you’re back in the city, it’s beautiful inside. 

The warmth of the fire kisses your cold skin just like you’d hoped it would, painting the living room in a soft glow, licking the dark wood walls and low timbered ceiling. Your bedroom, as promised, is to the left- simple but cozy, just like the rest of the house. A quilted bedspread, thick knit throw at the foot, and a stack of leather bound books on the windowsill are illuminated by a little reading lamp, already on like it was waiting for you. 

“I’m Bucky, by the way,” he says, dropping your bags unceremoniously on the bed, “Figured you should know my name, y’know, since we’re gonna be roommates.”

You blink.

Hard. 

“Roommates?”

He raises an eyebrow, like you just asked if grass was green.

“Yeah, roommates. Did you not… did you not read the listing?”

“I-” You open your mouth. Close it again. “I thought I did. I skimmed it. There were photos and... rustic charm was mentioned a lot?”

Bucky’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh at you.

“There’s a whole paragraph about how the cabin is a shared living space for long-term maintenance,” and he nods outside to the generator, like that explains everything, “it’s right under the ‘mountain views’ section.”

You blink again. 

Your brain is going blank. 

Oh, god. 

You think back. You remember the listing. Cute pictures, great price, not too many reviews. You thought it was just new!

You were in such a hurry to book something and get the hell out of the city that you didn’t think to read the fine print. 

“I swear it looked like a solo rental.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, smirking a little, “looks can be deceiving. Hope you don’t mind early mornings.”

You stare at him. 

Bucky. The handyman, maintenance guy, whatever he was. Who lives here. 

And apparently, now, so do you. 

“You’re kidding.”

Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god.

“Nope. Two bedrooms, though. Don’t get your hopes up.” 

And he has the gall to wink. 

You pray he thinks the pink in your cheeks is from the cold.

Thankfully, he doesn’t look at you, his eyes darting to the window.

The snow’s coming down a bit harder than before. 

“News says we’ve got a real one coming in tonight,” he adds, tugging his coat on top of his flannel, “supposed to be two feet of snow. Maybe more.” 

Your stomach sinks.

“Like… stuck-here kind of snow?”

“Like roads-buried, power-lines-down, hope-you-brought-extra-socks kind of snow. So if you want to grab any supplies in town, I’d advise you to go soon.”

So much for your relaxing vacation. 

If the bouncer noticed your nerves, he didn’t let on. He just pulled back the plush red curtain and waved you in. 

You stepped inside before you could decide against it. 

The door shuts with a soft click.

The room smells like leather and cologne. Dim lights flicker warm over plush velvet seating. Your heart’s pounding in your chest. And you’re frozen where you stand.

Because in the center of the room, the man you’d seen on the stage was leaning against a pole, shirtless now, glistening faintly in the warm, low light. One silver chain resting against his collarbone, made of the same metal that made up his left arm. Tattoos dotted his chest and abs, thin black ink delicately drawing your eyes lower. A dangerous smirk on his lips. 

Bucky, they had said his name was.

Wonder if that was his real name.

“Oh.” You breathed.

His smirk turned wolfish. 

“So you’re the girlfriend,” he said, voice low and deep as he stepped closer. “Didn’t expect you to say yes.”

“...And if I had said no?” 

“Then I guess I would have had to come out there and ask in person,” he said, eyes raking over you. “And that could’ve gotten messy.”

You sputter just for a second before catching yourself.

“I- yeah. Thanks for the rescue. I really appreciate it.”

He tilted his head. “The rescue?” 

“Yeah. Saved me from my asshole boyfriend and his gross friends. I owe you.”

That made him pause for a beat. Considering. Calculating. 

Then he’s back in control like nothing happened.

“Is that what you think this is?” he smiled gently, stepping even closer.

You blink. “Um. Yeah? You got me away from Nick and made him look like a jackass. Not exactly a hard thing to do, but still-credit where credit’s due.”

Bucky laughed-low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. He had a nice laugh, you thought. 

“Sweetheart”- and you do a great job of showing how that nickname doesn’t affect you one bit, you’re sure of it- “I didn’t save you. I picked you.”

Your stomach did something traitorous as he popped the champagne, and you didn’t miss the evil glint in his eyes when the head of the bottle was swallowed by frothy foam before he could capture it with the flutes. 

He handed you a glass. 

You needed it. 

“What does that mean?” 

He leaned in, his voice dropping to something that wrapped around your spine like silk.

“It means I saw you sitting out there, looking like you were five seconds from either crying or setting the place on fire, and I figured you could use a reminder that not everyone in the room is a complete asshole.” 

Great. More pity. Just what you needed.

But then he continued.

“And I could see your thighs squeezing together when you saw me. All the way from up on the stage.”

You let out a soft breath, surprised at how much that hit you.

But he wasn’t done. 

“It also means,” he added, reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind your ear, “I wasn’t gonna let some sweaty, insecure little prick keep looking at you like you were an object. Not when I know exactly how a woman should be treated, how you deserve to be treated.”

“Wow,” you breathe, almost to yourself, “you’re like… dangerously good at this.”

He grins. Like he had you right where he wanted you.

And suddenly the room around you felt like it was shrinking. You instinctively go to tug your dress down a bit, feeling overexposed. But he’s quicker, catching your hand in his own. 

“Don’t,” he murmurs, “you’re perfect like this.”

You should laugh it off. You should roll your eyes.

But you don’t.

Because the way he says it- like he means it-makes something deep inside you clench.

“I liked your show.” and it feels like a confession, like something you weren’t allowed to say out loud. 

“I know.” and you roll your eyes playfully before he cuts you off with, “So did your thighs.” 

You choke on your laugh.

“Confident, aren’t we?”

Bucky tilts his head a bit, and you can’t tell if he’s getting a better look at you or analyzing exactly where he needs to touch to make you weak.

“Don’t act shocked. You started it. Squeezing your thighs together while I was on stage? That’s flirting.”

“That’s called crossing my legs.”

“Cross them around my head next time, and we’ll call it even.”

You blink.

“Are you always this subtle?”

“Sweetheart,” he grins, “subtle gets you half the fun. You want subtle, go back to your boyfriend.”

You roll your eyes. “Ex-boyfriend.”

He takes another step forward. Then another. Gently leads you to sit on the red couch, so soft it felt like you were being sucked into it. God, you didn’t even want to think about what this room would look like if you turned on a blacklight- 

He straddles your lap.

And you forget how to breathe.

His knees bracket your legs, not quite touching you. His hands rest on his own thighs, muscles flexing just slightly, forearms thick and inked. 

He’s shirtless. You were clever enough to have noticed that when you first entered, but now, up close, it was all-consuming.

The glow of the lights dances across his chest, down his stomach, and whatever oil he must have used on himself amplifies every divot of his toned body. He must have spent years eating clean and hitting the gym to get this kind of figure. Every inch of him screams control.

He looks like a god. 

“You ever had a dance like this?” he asks softly. 

You shake your head, sure that it’s the last move you’ll make before you become paralyzed forever. 

“Good,” his voice is raspy, like he’s almost whispering, “I want to be your first.”

He leans forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. 

“And your favorite.”

Then he moves.

His hips roll slow and deep, grinding just above your center, close enough to feel the heat of him through your clothes. His hands rest on the couch on either side of your shoulders, caging you in.

“How do you want this to go, doll?” he murmured, voice low and sinful “You want me slow? Gentle?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He was close-too close. You could smell him. Feel the heat coming off his skin.

“Or…” His metal hand gripped the back of the couch behind your head. “You want me to show you what your asshole boyfriend never could?”

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But he doesn’t need to.

Because the way he watches your reaction-how your lips part in a silent gasp-it’s like he’s memorizing you.

You exhaled shakily.

“That one.” you say before your brain can catch up to your mouth, “That one sounds- sounds good.”

“Good,” he coos, “let’s make your boyfriend nice and jealous. Show him how a woman like you deserves to be treated.”

“God, can we please not talk about my boyfriend right now?” you mutter, doing your best to keep your hands rooted at your sides like you’re cuffed there.

Not a bad idea. 

He chuckles wickedly above you.

“You’re right, pretty girl. Sweet little thing like you, and he’s taking you to a dirty place like this? Doesn’t he know what happens when you don’t take care of your things?” he coos, rolling his hips once more, closer this time, “Someone might take them away. Take better care of them. Someone like me.”

You hear a soft, pathetic whine pass your lips before you can stop yourself.

His mouth curls. 

“That’s my girl, let me hear it. Let me hear how much you want this.”

He’s licking up your neck, biting gently at your shoulder, sucking the sensitive spot where your neck and collarbone meet, nibbling at your earlobe.

“Bet he’s never touched you like this, doll. Never had you whining, begging for him, not like I do. And I haven’t even shown you my best moves.”

“What, the ones that require me to buy two drinks minimum?”

“Mmm. The ones I really want to try on you. The ones that might get me fired.”

Then he moved-really moved.

His hips were flush against yours. His abs brushed your chest as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek. And then he finally brought his hips to yours.

Slow. Deep. Grinding down like he already knew exactly where you needed him most.

You gasped.

Your hands shot out on instinct, landing on his thighs, hard muscle under your palms. Just as quickly as you touched him, you pull away, internally cringing at your lack of control. 

“Sorry, I-”

“What are you sorry for, doll? Touch me all you want.” and he’s grabbing your hand in his, the vibranium arm still rooted behind your head. He brings your shaking fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he gives your fingers a soft kiss, and then he’s dragging your hand down his chest, letting you feel every smooth valley and crevice of his delicious body, still rolling his hips into yours. 

Your fingers curled around his legs as he rocked into you again-slower, rougher, the friction making the growing heat between your legs grow more intense, drawing a gasp from you. 

“God, the sounds you’re making,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. “You ever been this wet with your clothes still on?”

“Jesus, Bucky-” and he’s back to his attack on your neck.

You’re gonna think about this later, aren’t you?” he said against your skin. “Gonna lie in bed and replay this in your head…fingers between your thighs… wishing it was me.”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, rocking your hips up to meet his.

“There she is.”

You’re not even sure when it happens.

One second, Bucky’s hips are rolling slow and smooth against yours, his hands slipping beneath your dress in ways that definitely broke some rules, his voice wrecking you in your ear.

“You feel that, baby?”, he rasps, “That’s all me. For you.”

You’re just about to cave, to beg for him to just take you right there.

Then the door slams open.

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@chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

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@cookiechipdough

GSW to the chest. A young girl in her early twenties maybe. She’s lost a lot of blood. Her blonde hair somehow already matted with it, so much so that she could pass as a natural brunette. It’s gone dark with oxygen and coagulation. 

Your team huddles around her, as do the other units around the dozens and dozens of gurneys being brought in one after the other, unrelenting and without promise to end soon. 

All protocols you’ve learned in the last year are out the window. Disregarded for the mass casualty event that was PittFest. None of the residents had ever seen anything like this, you’d never seen anything like this. This was the most action you’d ever witnessed and suddenly you felt like there was a balloon in your own chest, compressing air flow or blood flow or something to your head. 

All the blood, the smell of metal inescapable no matter which section of the ER you were suddenly rushed to. 

Your knees go weak, they shake, your hands shake. Everything’s wrong- 

“She’s going white Abbot pull her out.” 

You hear your attending huff from right behind you before his hand finds your bicep, curling around it and pulling you from where you leaned over the patient. You can hardly protest, your mind elsewhere and your feet blindly follow Dr Abbot who leads you to the family room. 

“Robby I need you to cover over on the GSW to the chest for a sec.” He calls over, his voice ringing in your ears, your mind trying to focus on one single thing but everything’s registering all at once. His hand on your arm, all the beeping, the cries of agony, tubes being intubated and balloons being puffed into chests. It all seems a lot further away when Abbot closes the door. 

You never thought you were particularly his favourite. You’re much younger and typically too upbeat. You clash naturally, he’s not drawn to you and you’re not drawn to him.

Dr Abbot is unafraid of correcting you in front of your peers. After a year now of him being your attending you’ve become familiar with his ways but that doesn’t mean you’re any more appreciative of the public humiliations.

There’s something about these older ex military men, the ones who joined too young and have been in the system ever since, climbing up and up the ranks, hardening at each level to a point where disassociation is expected. Hold it in, hold it together. There’s is no I in team. All for one and one for all. All that bullshit. 

Dr Abbot wasn’t really that guy to a T but hell was he uncrackable, unshakeable, hard as stone. No doubt it’s helped him here in the ER, you’ve never seen someone as laser focused and capable as Dr Abbot. It’s almost effortless for him, it seems. Like he doesn’t have to think twice about anything. His confidence is unmatched and you’d always admired that, no matter how much you thought he disliked you. So yeah it was kind of surprising when he was the one to pull you away for a time out. 

Jack never meant to become so attuned to you. He didn’t do it on purpose. He blames it on being your attending for a while now, he’s worked with you the closet over this past year and he knows how you work, how you operate. He didn’t mean to but it happened. He feels like he can read you like an open book, you wear your emotions on your sleeve, on your face. You’ve never been one to conceal how you were feeling, unlike him. So when you stopped talking, stopped making little remarks and little jokes, nearly frozen and clearly dissociating, he knew what was happening long before the resident called for you to be pulled out. He wanted to give you a moment to bounce back as you usually do. 

Dr Abbot closes the curtain to the family room, shutting the door. He turns around and finds you still awkwardly standing there, eyes far off, elsewhere. He had expected you to take a seat immediately, he doesn’t know what you’re still doing up considering how close you look to collapsing. 

“S-sorry I don’t know what’s happening, I-” You stammer, embarrassed yet not in control of whatever’s taking over your mind and body. 

“Hey, hey stay with me, kid. Don’t go to that place.”

Abbot puts his hand softly on the middle of your back, guiding you to the chair. You sit down reluctantly, unable to move your body in a coordinated way for some reason. He kneels in front of you, groaning as he goes down and his knees cracking. 

“Listen, don’t tell anyone but I’ve had my fair share of panic attacks, okay?”

“Is that- is that what’s happening?” You ask dumbly, squeezing your eyes shut. You suddenly feel dizzy. Not enough oxygen to the brain.

“How does your chest feel? Can you breathe?” 

“I feel like I can’t.” 

“Then yeah, that’s what’s happening.” 

Your lip wobbles despite how much you’re still trying to hold it together, that much Abbot can tell. You’re fighting like hell against this panic attack which might only threaten to make things worse. He grabs your hand in his, squeezing lightly. You’re barely able to return it. 

“What are five things you can see?”

“W-What?” You sniffle.

“Tell me five things you can see, come on.” He squeezes your hand again, reassuringly. 

You try to take a deep breath but your diaphragm spasms and it comes in all shaky, causing you to hiccup like a child. 

“Y-you.”

Against all odds, Dr Abbot smiles. Incredibly small but you see it. 

“That’s right. What else?”

You try to take a deep breath again. “Uh, the paintings on the wall.”

Abbot nods. You continue. 

“The curtains. The chairs. The door.”

“Good. That’s good. What about four things you can touch?”

“Your hand.” You say most obviously, since he’s still holding your clammy hand in his. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so shaken up. 

Dr Abbot squeezes your hand again and this time you squeeze back, a silent thank you of sorts. 

“Um, my scrubs, my hair on my neck, the wind from the fan.” 

“Okay, now three things you can hear.” 

“Your voice.” Dr Abbot chuckles, like he was expecting it. 

“Sure.” He nods.

“You’re breathing.” You take a deep breath now, as if it reminded you. Abbot breathes deeply with you. 

You try to motion lazily to the door, “The doctors outside, I can hear them talking.”

“That’s right, and they’re being pretty loud, aren't they?” He tries to joke, to lighten the mood. 

You nod your head, yeah. 

“What about two things you can smell?”

You go to open your mouth but Abbot cuts you off again. 

“And don’t say me, we’re about an hour into this shift and I know I’m not smelling too pretty right now.” 

You laugh, you actually giggle a bit, albeit a bit breathless, your body still trying to catch up to your more relaxed mind. Jack smiles. 

“I can smell metal and disinfectant.” 

“Okay and one thing you can taste.” 

Your cheeks burn a bit. You know it doesn’t mean anything but when you started each sentence with something relating to him… You can’t help but think. 

“My stale gum.” 

Jack chuckles a bit, shaking his head. What were you doing with mouth in your gum. It’s not allowed on shift but everything had started so suddenly you hadn’t had a moment to toss it and you got scared on choking on it if you swallowed it. 

Abbot clicks his tongue at you in disapproval, holding out his open hand near your mouth. You look at him confused, but he just gestures to his outreached hand. 

“Spit it out, let’s go get you a new one, hmm?” 

Your face burns again, but you do what he says for some reason. 

Because he asked. 

He closes his palm around your gum for a moment before easily tossing it into the trash can in the corner of the room. 

Dr Abbot stands back up, knees cracking again. He helps you up, holding your elbows in each of his hands. You’re still a little wobbly, weak in the knees from your body’s sudden breakdown. You haven’t yet regained all your strength. 

You try to steady yourself, your hands gripping his forearms, trying to concentrate on the strength of him holding you up. 

You suddenly feel oddly close to him. Not just physically seeing as how close you two are standing but in the air, it feels like something’s shifted, like something’s irreparably been changed between you two. He’s just seen you at your most vulnerable, talked you through your first panic attack and even admitted to having experienced them himself. How many people in the ER can say they know that much about Dr Jack Abbot. 

Maybe you’re just over analyzing what’s transpired. 

“How you feeling?” His voice sounds out and you realize you had your eyes squeezed shut, when you open them Jack’s peering down at you, trying to give you the softest look he can muster. 

“I’m okay.” 

“Yeah? You don’t have to be.” You shake your head no. 

“No, no I’m good. Promise.”

“I’ve got my best med student back?”

You can’t help but look at him quizzically, laughing a little. 

“I don’t think I’m your best med student but sure, I’m back.” 

“Come on, take the compliment.” He quips and it surprises you. You didn’t think he’d press your objections. 

“I actually thought you-” Hated me, you want to say.

“I know.”

Oh. 

“I know I’m hard on you. But I only do it because I know you can take it. I think it makes you better.”

Your lips go into a hard line, you nod. Right….

“I mean, it doesn’t hurt to be told I’m doing good every now and then. I do think I’m tough, you’re right, but I don’t know… I like this side of you.” You admit before you can stop yourself. 

Now it’s Jack’s turn to blush. His cheeks go red in that boyish way and it blossoms all the way to the tips of his ears. Your heart leaps a bit. 

If you weren’t back to yourself before, you were now. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing even though you’ve both let go of each other. It was sobering. 

“Alright kid, as long as you don’t tell anyone.” He winks. 

You burn. 

“Promise.”

/

Things did, in fact, change after that.

Dr Abbot pulls you for huddles, just you and him now for feedback, no longer doing it in front of the other med students, doctors or attendees.

You stand closer to him, he stands closer to you in general. 

He’s not afraid to grab your hand and stop you from doing something. Or start something. The amount of times he’s guided you through a procedure you’d never done before with his steady hadn’t engulfing yours, guiding a blade smoothly through a patients skin or a thin tube through an incredibly small incision. 

You wondered if anyone noticed. If anyone had become attune to the fact that you followed each other around like each other’s shadows. Never one without the other. You could see Princess and Perlah whispering to each other whenever you stood close to Dr Abbot, you couldn’t help but smile at the fact that at least someone noticed how he’d picked you as his favourite and warmed up to you. It made you feel special, all girlish and giggly even though it absolutely shouldn’t. 

A new unusual sound had started to fill the ER. Jack Abbot’s laughter, even quiet giggles fuelled by none other than you. Not even Robby, once his rival now best friend in the ER, could get that sound out of him as often as you do. 

Jack gets you sandwiches, juice boxes from the cafeteria when you look particularly out of it or if the moment granted a quick escape for food. He’d find a chocolate bar or anything to perk you up on days where you weren’t doing so hot, or had a particularly anguishing patient. Death was inescapable in the ER, everyone knew that but not everyone handled it well, it didn’t matter how well versed or experienced you were in the medical industry. 

Not even Jack himself. 

The night shift was now coming to a close, meaning the clock was close to striking 7am. That awkward time before the day shift shows up and the night team goes home to sleep through the day, all to start again in 12 hours. 

It was weird working in the off hours, you felt like a vampire or a bat, you thought to yourself as you climbed the steps to the roof, trying to find Jack. You knew him well now, and you know where he goes to run away when he can’t handle the weight of the shift anymore. 

You open the door, it creaked open annoyingly loud, announcing you rather ungraciously. 

Jack drops his head low at the sound of the door opening. He knew it was you coming to find him. He leans back against the railing behind him. 

“What are you doing up here?” He asks, calling out to you without turning his head. The wind carries the sound of his voice to you. 

The sun is threatening to come up over the city line, light only beginning to spill upwards into the sky, painting the clouds all pretty shades of light blue, pink and orange. You struggle to take in the beauty due to the night that just transpired. 

The vet hit and run. It was a hard one on Jack. He’d known guys like that in the military. They seemed untouchable, surviving tour after tour. It was never easy to watch one go, especially the ones that made it home and get taken out in some seemingly avoidable way. 

Some church bell tolls in the distance. You approach him, unsure how to answer what you’re doing up here. Checking on you, wanting to make sure you’re okay, everyone’s worried but the reality was no one batted an eye at him escaping after spending the last two hours coding this guy into the system. This was how Jack operated. Disassociate, dissociate until he couldn’t anymore and his feet carried him up to the roof. Contemplating. 

So you don’t say anything, you just stand behind him. 

Jack’s skin looks golden up here. The light passing through his curls, catching the greys. Your heart tightens. 

“It’s always a rough way to end the night.” You offer, unsure of what else to say. 

“I must’ve had a reason at one time to keep coming back but… I can’t think of it right now.” Jack grips onto the railing, leaning forward and looking down below him. 

You instinctively reach out to him, your hand going for his bicep, it’s closest to you. Despite the cool early morning air, his skin was still hot to the touch, still coming down from what had just gone down in the ER room. 

“Jack…” You can’t help but sigh, silently pleading with him to stop. 

His head turns, dark eyes meeting yours. God he looks so sad, a man worn down. 

And you realize you’ve never called him by just his name. Just Jack. 

“D-Dr Abbot, I mean- sorry.” 

He doesn’t correct you. He doesn’t particularly care right now. And the way you said it makes his heart tight like your hand is on his arm. Palms clammy with being so high up and so close to a ledge. You never liked heights and you hate that he’s always flirted with them. 

He clicks his tongue, sighing before crouching down and reeling himself back over to your side of the railing. You sigh in relief, you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath. 

Jack is completely distraught. He looks wrecked, broken. 

Your hand still on his arm, he comes to face you, standing so close but you can’t find it in you to step away from him, not when he’s like this. 

Jack drops his forehead to your shoulder, you try not to freeze up at the sudden extreme closeness.

“Are you okay?” You ask dumbly, voice gone quiet because of how close he is. Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear, plush flesh on soft cartilage. Jack shivers, turning his head slightly and his nose pushes into your neck. 

What else is there to say to such a quiet man, lost in his own solitude of reflection. 

“No.” He says simply, plainly. 

Your heart aches for him. 

Your hand is still on his arm, you flatten it and trail it up to his shoulder, squeezing him there. 

He presses himself closer to you. You hold your breath, your heart threatening to leap up out of your throat. You swear he must feel it beating through his own chest. You think you can feel his. 

He trails his nose along your neck, up your ear. You can feel that subtle white beard that carves the angles of his face so sharply, so perfectly, colour so soft and white it nearly blends into his skin seamlessly. They catch at your skin in that scratchy way and its almost too much. 

His hands, they move and suddenly they’re on your waist, sliding around the circumference of you until he’s enveloped you in his strong arms. You can feel how sturdy he is, how solid and strong from years of exertion and force and yet you feel like you could blow away at any moment. This cannot be real. You can smell his hair, the remnants of his cologne peaking through the smell of antiseptic and disinfectant. You can smell him. 

He knows this shouldn’t really be happening. You both do. You’re both very much aware of that fact. Even though its just a hug its just a hug. Jack had been aware of it ever since that day in the family room when he first worried about you. Because that’s what friends do… they worry about each other, right? Friends….

Jack lets his nose travel higher, along your hairline behind your ear, relishing in the closeness of  another living, breathing human being. Warm flesh against flesh, closeness of muscles and organs. Hearts, beating. When was the last time this happened? When was the last time he let his walls down like this? You both wondered. 

“I’m sorry.” He offers lamely, voice quiet and matching yours. He tries to pull away from you but his body doesn’t get the memo, he stills clings to you. He’s afraid of what would happen if he were to let go now. Surely he’d crumble into nothing off this roof. 

He moves his head, nose against your cheek as your hands move to his chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt in your palms. You don’t want him away either. You need him close, suddenly very close. Despite your breathlessness at the closeness, you think you’d stop breathing if he were to pull away now. You wouldn’t bear it. 

You shake your head no, “Don’t be.” You reassure him, voice still quiet. 

Something posses you and you nudge your nose with his, Jack sighs loudly, arms tightening around you and you sigh too. Your mouth opens in an innocent way, trying to get more oxygen to your brain. But you can feel his breath on yours, feel it fanning against your lips and you lean closer, pushing your nose into his again and he has to use every iota of strength within him to not lunge into you. 

This shouldn’t be happening, he reiterates to himself. All the alarms are going off in his head. He shouldn’t be touching you like this, he shouldn’t have grabbed you, you shouldn’t be letting him. You could both get in serious trouble for this. 

But you fist at his shirt, hands trembling against his chest, feeling him, muscles under supple flesh. Your lips part, small breath fanning against his lips and he breaks. He’s just a man. 

Jack presses his open mouth to yours, and you let him again for a reason he doesn’t quite understand. It’s sloppy in a desperate way, passionate and sad. You could cry if you weren’t so wrapped up in the feel of being completely encompassed by him, his soft lips on yours. 

You open your mouth wider, your hands moving from his chest to wrap your arms completely around his neck, hauling his body into yours as if you couldn’t get any closer. You wanted to meld into him. Bone fusing to bone. You let your tongue poke out and suddenly he’s right there with you, his tongue going as far into your mouth as it possibly can, trying to get to every inch of you. Jack whines and you burn at the pathetic sound. A grown man, whimpering for you. Your knees threaten to buckle. 

His body flush with yours, you can’t help but feel how his body reacts to you. Hard and solid against your hip, your leg as your bodies writhe against the other, pleading to get closer. 

“Jack,” you whimper into his mouth, unsure, testing. 

Jack lets his lips travel to the corner of your mouth, kissing every inch of you that he possibly can, your teeth as you say his name, your cheek, earlobe, the spot underneath your ear. 

“Tell me to stop.” He groans, hands moving back to their spot on your waist, trailing down to your hips where he grinds you against him, making that aching part of him known.