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summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' think—"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
——
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"
"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles.
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating app….
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.
So… he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross.
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.
"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"
"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like that…"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
——
Four miles away, a phone lights up…
——
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
——
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? 😇
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.
——
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is.
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.
He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.
Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me then…
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
——
You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
“John?”
“Evenin’.”
Fuck.
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
“So you actually do ring,” you manage.
“Said so on the profile, I think.”
“I half thought it was a bit.”
“I don’t really do bits.”
“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.
“That meant to be me?”
“It’s uncanny, I know.”
The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”
“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”
“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”
“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”
“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
“No?” you tease.
“I had imagined I’d see your face.”
“Been imagining, have you?”
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”
“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
“Is that what it’s come to?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.
“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”
“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“I could do a weeknight? After work?”
There’s a pause on his end.
“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”
“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”
“It is,” he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”
“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”
“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”
“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”
“Lie-in, according to my profile.”
“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.
“Night, John.”
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
——
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.
The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
——
Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it.
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
“Fine.”
“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”
John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or…?"
"The same."
“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
——
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
———
You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
“It’s just a pub,” you tell her.
She doesn’t seem convinced.
———
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.
You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling.
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You don’t have to wait much longer for him.
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.
“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
“What’ll you have?”
“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.
“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.
“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”
“The lads — your guys from work?”
“Yeah.”
“They what, talked you into it?”
“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”
“And what made them do that?”
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.
“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”
“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.
“Their exact words were a bit different.”
“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”
“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”
“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Doing…?”
“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”
“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”
“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”
“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”
“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”
You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”
“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
“No—I know. I just—”
“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”
“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”
“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
It’s going well.
It’s going suspiciously well.
And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—
“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”
He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”
“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it.
“Say it out loud anyway.”
“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Mm.”
“A whole decade.”
“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”
“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”
“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”
“Mm.”
“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug.
“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.
“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”
“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue.
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.
“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”
“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”
“Yeah? And what was the answer?”
“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”
Something in your chest slides sideways.
“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.
“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”
You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—
“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you grin.
“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”
“I suppose I could be patient.”
“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.
“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.
And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.
“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.
“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
“Walk me home?” you ask.
“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”
“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.
——
The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he—
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"So…”
You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.
"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.
“Can I look at you now?” he tries.
“Yeah.”
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”
“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”
“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”
“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”
“When you put it like that…”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”
And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.
“Would you like to come up?”
——
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering.
He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean.
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.
Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”
“Mm?”
“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”
“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.
“Definitely not.”
The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”
“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
“Can I?”
“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
“Oh my god— okay— okay—”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"
"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”
"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"
John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.
"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"
"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”
"—okay maybe move a little—"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.
“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek.
“Don’t think, then.”
It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You don’t think.
He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—
“Harder?” he asks against your ear.
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.
"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob.
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves — it takes you under, and you pull him with you.
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—
How good—
How gorgeous—
You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—
It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
“No?” you ask.
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.
“Alright," you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.
"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
——
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.
“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”
outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: a charged, late night encounter with ghost leaves you wondering when your feelings towards the masked outlaw shifted.
word count: 9.2k
cw: depictions of blood/minor injuries, brief mentions of death and domestic abuse. light harassment. mdni, 18+
You were finally beginning to settle in, finally beginning to accept your new life as your own.
The morning after Kate and John Price arrived, you were put to work. It had been a nice reprieve — those first few days, you’d had nothing to do but sleep, eat, shop, read, and wander around town — but you’d begun to grow bored. You’d never had so much free time in your life, and you weren’t sure you liked it all that much — at least not for the foreseeable future. The idea of it seemed much better in theory than in practice, to have nothing but time for days and days on end.
You’d been grateful to finally have something to do, something that made you feel useful. Something that made you feel like you could pay them back for all that they’d done for you, for all the trouble they’d taken on by bringing you into their fold, even if they insisted it’d been no trouble at all.
Kate had assigned you with the task of some light cleaning, some basic maidservant duties. Upon her apparent return to town — because it became increasingly obvious she wasn’t new to this place, just like the men weren’t — she had assumed the role of proprietor, of manager of The Prairie Rose.
It seemed that everywhere she went, every space she entered, she was in charge. Everyone listened to her, heeded to whatever she said, whatever order she gave — even the men, who you thought could never be tamed, could never bend to the will of another — god forbid that of a woman. It was impressive, the way she commanded a room, the way a simple string of words had everyone falling into line.
You wanted to please her, to impress her even. You wanted her to be satisfied with the work you’d done, with the tasks she assigned you. The effort you put in to sweeping, to scrubbing, to stripping used linens and dusting shelves had nothing to do with the fear of retribution for a poor job done and everything to do with appeasing her, of gaining her approval you so desperately craved. It didn’t hurt that you were paid a small salary, too — the first time you’d ever made money of your own.
It gave you a renewed sense of purpose, you realized. It was easy work, simple; nothing that required much thought or skill, but you were more than happy to take it on, to be of service. It wasn’t an obligation or a chore that could bring about any kind of punishment for anything less than perfection — not anymore.
That alone gave you a sense of peace.
Once your cleaning duties of the day were fulfilled, Kate let you have the rest of the day for yourself. Usually, you strolled through town, exploring streets and shops you hadn’t yet visited and getting to know the city. It was vast, expansive — seemingly never-ending roads of uneven cobblestone and dusty paths winding every which way, stretching endlessly for what felt like miles. You tried to take a different route each day to see more, to learn more about your new home — for however long it would be your home, at least.
These days, you never knew what to expect.
Sometimes, when she was free and willing, Roze joined you. You’d found out that she worked at The Prairie Rose, too, mostly serving as a barkeep in the saloon. She’d tried to get you to work the night with her, had suggested it once while you were out on a walk together. You’d immediately declined, shaking your head at the mere idea of it.
You had yet to venture back down there since that first night you’d arrived, when you’d almost been swallowed whole by the chaos and drunken raucous of the night crawling crowd — so, you couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to be on the other side of things, trying to manage the madness, to keep up with shouted demands and orders, the spills and the inevitable mess patrons left behind.
The thought alone stressed you out, much less the reality of it.
You knew that the men often spent their nights down there, drinking and smoking and generally taking part in indulging their vices. It was why Ghost came to your shared room late every evening, the moon high in the sky, sweat and smoke and liquor clinging to his skin, his breath, and his clothes. He’d never mentioned it to you, never confirmed where he was, but he didn’t need to. You knew.
Not that it was really any of your business what he did with his time, how he spent his days. You didn’t see him nor the other men much as it was. He always slipped into the room late at night like clockwork, well after the sun had set, and he was gone long before you woke up, nothing left behind but rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of him etched into the wrinkled linen.
Sometimes, it felt like he was just a figment of your imagination, like he was someone your twisted and tired brain conjured up to make you feel less alone.
After all, it’s not like you had any real idea of what he looked like.
As the days stretched on, as the nights came and went, you felt yourself growing more and more comfortable around him, sharing that room and that bed with him. It was a gradual transition, a slow change over time — it didn’t happen overnight, wasn’t something you were doing consciously. In fact, you weren’t even sure when it shifted, when his mere existence around yours didn’t make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, didn’t make your spine stiffen and your shoulders bunch up to your ears.
It was just something you finally noticed, a feeling you finally acknowledged. You were half asleep, drifting towards unconsciousness, when you heard the telltale creak of the hinges, the leaden footsteps you’d learned to recognize as his, that slight hitch in his left leg. You didn’t react, barely even stirred as he went about his routine — stirring the ash and reigniting the fire, kicking off his boots and stripping off his clothes. The mattress dipped beneath him, the ropes underneath creaking as he climbed in, tossing the quilt aside like he always did, his body running like a furnace and providing him with more than enough heat for the cold desert nights.
The familiar smell of him filled your lungs, clouding your thoughts as a soft hum slipped from your lips. Eyes still closed and brain still a little foggy, you readjusted instinctively, drifting closer to him without even meaning to. It didn’t occur to you to move away, to put space between your body and his. No, if anything, you were waiting to feel the weight of his arm around your middle, the warmth of him at your back — a sensation you’d grown accustomed to, the way it had been since you’d arrived here.
And it was like he noticed the shift in you, the absence of any hesitation and tension; saw the way your body remained relaxed, your breaths slow, sleepy, and even. Comfortable. Cozy.
He took all of one second to hesitate, the only evidence of his surprise, before he shifted closer to you, erasing the small gap that remained. His thick arm was a band around your stomach, pulling you the rest of the way against him, his neck craned and gaze silently locked on your face to watch for any signs of that usual agitation, the typical discomfort your body showed even when you couldn’t find your voice.
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
It wasn’t until the morning — his warmth long gone — that it occurred to you how monumental that was, how big of a change that had been for the both of you.
You never thought you’d ever be comfortable around a man again, much less one whose face you’d never even seen. Much less one tied to you by these circumstances — a man who’d killed your husband without hesitation, who’d defended your honor without even knowing your name, who’d saved your life and given you a future you never thought you’d have.
So maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that you felt more at ease around him, more comfortable. It wasn’t like your uncertainty around him was completely gone — of course, the man still terrified you in more ways than one. You’d seen what he was capable of, witnessed why his reputation preceded him. Capable of taking a life in cold blood, firing bullets without pause, utterly unmoved and unbothered by the bodies that dropped or the last breaths stolen from gasping lungs.
But you’d seen another side of him, too. One that most people never got close enough to witness, never even considered to be a possibility. A side that those who whispered his name, who shivered at the mention of the man behind the red mask, could never possibly fathom.
A side that was aching gentle, painstakingly kind. Caring, even if it came off as blunt and crass and sometimes rough around the edges.
He cared about you. Whether or not he would ever use his words, would ever admit it to you, it showed. He’d come to your rescue more than once and not just when he killed your abusive ex before he could kill you.
It showed when your father had turned up, demanding to take you back after your husband was no longer able to call you his property. When you’d almost gotten swept up in the tide of the rowdy saloon. When he helped you on and off his black stallion, your legs too short and too weak to mount the giant animal by yourself.
When he let you doze off on the ride towards town, tucked right into the crook of his arm without complaint. When he, and admittedly the others, provided you with lodging and meals every day, multiple times a day.
He slept beside you each and every night, the first line of defense against any threat that might come your way from beyond those four walls. Yes, it was possessive — that much was painfully clear. The way he claimed you in front of others, called you his; the way he refused to let you stray too far from his sight or someone he trusted for too long. But beneath it, there was something else too. Something protective. Preserving. Quietly safeguarding you in a way you’d never known before, had never experienced.
Or maybe, you were falling victim to another version of Stockholm syndrome.
It made you question everything, overthinking it all as you went about your day, changing used sheets and sweeping rooms, scrubbing down surfaces and washing the bathing spaces.
Was it wrong that you felt safe around him, or were you losing your mind? Was it wrong that you were slowly beginning to trust another man after everything you’d gone through, or were you completely brainless?
You weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, what you were supposed to think. If a more sane, a more reasonable person would feel the same in your position, under your circumstances.
It had been three weeks since you’d arrived in town, about two weeks since Kate and John Price followed behind. Your bruises had long since faded, and the aches in your body had dissipated; the cut on your temple nothing more than a thin, reddish scar. Kate had taken the stitches out awhile ago now, aiding you in keeping it clean. She always checked in on you, always made time for you even amongst her busy schedule, the full plate you knew she had every day without fail.
Now, nothing from your previous life remained but your old brown boots and the old scars scattered across your body. You’d even thrown out your old white dress, the thin hand-me-down that you’d had for far too long — the one that you’d been wearing that day when you’d stumbled into their bar, the one Kate had scrubbed your husband’s blood out of.
You wanted no evidence, no piece of your old life to taint your new one — ridding yourself of anything left behind, anything tangible that could be tossed. You wanted nothing to show for that time — that dark, endless pit that you endured for far longer than any person should’ve.
Later on, once your work for the day was complete, you mindlessly ambled around town, alternating between left and right turns, letting your feet take you wherever they wanted as your mind went elsewhere. You were still completely and utterly fixated on your inner self, overanalyzing and scrutinizing every thought, every feeling, every choice made that related to Ghost. Considering whether or not you were being idiotic and foolish, whether you were letting yourself fall into another trap set by a man with nothing but bad intentions.
You must have been wandering for hours, lost in a mindless haze as the sun dipped toward the horizon, beginning to slip behind the orange mesas far off in the distance. Thankfully, you ended up just a few blocks away from The Prairie Rose, able to spot the red brick building from where you stood. Even though dusk approached, the town was still as busy and vibrant as ever — clomping hooves from passing horses, ragtime tunes spilling out from open doors and windows, laughter and loud chatter, street vendors shouting over one another as they peddled their goods.
You knew better than to linger, quickly making your way back to the saloon and inn. It wasn’t safe to be alone out there once evening fell, once the night sky blanketed the town in darkness. This place, like most towns, morphed into a different beast entirely — people emboldened by their liquor, believing that the twilight hid their depravity, their transgressions.
You always made sure to get back before then, well before then — but you were so caught up in your own head that you hadn’t even noticed what time it was.
Thankfully, you made it back without issue, slinking through the saloon before it got too full. There were already a good number of patrons occupying spots at the bar, lounging in booths and taking over a few tables. You spotted Roze behind the counter — dark hair pinned up, a few loose tendrils hanging around her pretty face, framing her strong features.
Just as you were about to dart into the lobby, you heard her voice call out to you, catching you before you could disappear.
“Fawn!” Her slightly raspy tone rang out, cutting through the loud conversations and clinking glasses. “Don’t think I don’t see you over there!”
Heads turned and bodies shifted, attention drawn to you as you came to a sudden halt, closing your eyes in resignation. You felt your cheeks heat, not all but most observing you, regarding you with intrigue. You tried to ignore it as you made your way over to your friend, who wore a knowing, amused smirk.
“You really thought I wasn’t gonna catch ya?” She arched a dark brow at you as you approached, taking advantage of the few empty spots near the corner of the bar.
You shrugged, propping your elbows up onto the counter. “I mean, I was really hoping not.”
She chuckled as she continued to polish the clean glass in her hands, rag buffing out any leftover streaks and smudges.
“Nothing gets past me, sugar. You know better than that.”
You smiled — because yeah, you did — but it vanished as soon as you glanced over to your right, catching leering gazes already fixed on you. The way some of the men looked at you, watched you, made your skin crawl, eyes dragging over you like you were a slab of fresh meat.
“You’re a pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” One of them jeered with a low whistle, a greasy grin spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming with something wicked, something that made your spine stiffen.
You immediately looked away, shifting uneasily on your feet, fingers nervously picking at the skin around your nail beds.
“Hey. Enough.” Roze snapped, slamming the glass she’d been holding down on the counter, rattling the cups already resting there and gaining everyone’s attention. “Say another word to her and I’ll cut your fucking dick off. That clear?”
The culprit and the others around him straightened immediately, nodding obediently at her warning before pointedly turning their attention anywhere else. Relief loosened the knot in your chest at how quickly they listened to her, how none of them dared challenge her twice.
It, also, thoroughly impressed you.
“Wow.” Your voice was low as you leaned forward, watching the way the men all went back to their business as if you were never even there, didn’t even exist. “How’d you do that?”
Roze didn’t even seem to notice, didn’t seem to be fazed as she started polishing off a new glass. “Do what?”
“Uh, that. Just now.” You tilted your chin subtly in the direction of the chastised patrons. “How you managed to get them to fall in line.”
She scoffed, rolling her blue eyes.
“They’re pigs. All of ‘em.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice as she spoke, completely uncaring whether or not they heard her — and they definitely did. “Gotta treat ‘em like it. And—” she shrugged, “they know there’s a long list of people willing to follow through on the threat I just made. Myself included.”
You had a feeling you knew the entirety of who made up that list.
You bit back a smile, that increasingly familiar warmth unfurling through your chest once more — that same strange sense of safety that seemed to follow you wherever you went these days.
“Can I get you a drink before you disappear for the night?” She asked, eyes flicking back over to you as she topped off a glass of what appeared to be whiskey for one of the patrons who’d actually been quiet during the whole exchange. “On the house.”
You shook your head. “I’m alright. Promise.”
Your gaze drifted over her, taking in her appearance — eyes lined with kohl, black and red corset cinched so tight that her breasts nearly spilled over the neckline.
“You look good,” You complimented her earnestly, even though it wasn’t your own personal style, wasn’t something you had the nerve to ever wear yourself.
A grin tugged at the corners of her lips.
“Really? Huh. I was aiming more for ravishing.” She adjusted herself shamelessly, pushing up her ample chest even higher as she leaned closer to you, lowering her voice so only you could hear. “Gotta make coin somehow. Like I said.” She wrinkled her nose. “Pigs.”
You laughed, the sound catching the attention of a few of the men, but their eyes darted away just as quickly once Roze turned sharply toward them, sending them a warning glare.
You exchanged goodbyes and good nights shortly thereafter, very much ready for the safety and solitude of your room. The music started up as soon as you reached your door, the sounds of the piano and the fiddle traveling all the way up to the third floor.
For the rest of the night, you let yourself relax, your mind and body too worn down from the day’s strain to do much else. You pulled your new book out from beneath the mattress, still wary of Ghost discovering it, of him taking issue with you having it at all.
Deep down, you knew he likely wouldn’t care, probably wouldn’t even mention it — but you still weren’t ready to take that chance, to give him any reason to snap the tenuous balance between you.
You tried your best to focus on the words, to absorb the tales of the dime western you’d purchased with your own earnings, but you couldn’t concentrate, the faded black ink on the page blurring into indecipherable blobs. After a few more minutes, you gave up, finally accepting that you were too tired to actually comprehend any of it. You tucked the book back into its hiding spot and blew out the oil lamp on your bedside table, leaving the other one illuminated for Ghost for whenever he returned, knowing he’d need the small bit of light when he came back.
Settling under the covers, your head resting on the fresh pillowcase you’d changed that morning, you drifted off almost instantly, falling right into a restful sleep.
You weren’t sure when you woke, how much time had passed since you’d first closed your eyes. The fire in the hearth had long since fizzled out, the room significantly cooler. It was quiet, dark — save for the dim glow of the oil lamp still flickering weakly on the far nightstand. Slivers of moonlight trickled in through the sheer curtains, hinting to you of the late hour.
Everything felt normal, typical — except for the fact that beside you, the bed was glaringly empty.
There was no sign, no indication that he’d ever been there, had ever come back while you were sleeping like he usually did. No pile of clothes thrown over the chair, no boots left by the door. Nothing.
It settled over you, your stomach dropping like a stone in a lake as worry seeped through your veins.
He was always back by now. Always.
Sure, he often returned late, never quite at the same hour and usually well after the moon had risen. And sure, it wasn’t as though you had a clock to measure the passing time, but you knew. Knew it was later than it had ever been before.
Something was wrong.
You sat up straight, the sheets pooling around your waist as you stilled, training your ear and listening best you could, trying to see if you could hear any music or sounds or voices trickling in from downstairs.
It was quieter. Much quieter than usual — the faint melody of a guitar, chatter so distant and muffled you could barely make it out. Nothing like the loud, lively revelry that usually raged into the wee hours of the night.
Your heart stuttered, anxiety flooding your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t ignore the way your gut insisted that something was wrong.
But you were being ridiculous, weren’t you? This was Ghost after all. The man with a reputation that far exceeded itself, a notorious outlaw with a body count higher than you could ever possibly imagine and more blood left in his wake than you cared to know about. He was the biggest man you’d ever seen — the kind that could kill without flinching, could instill fear with just a simple look. You still weren’t even sure he was human, was even susceptible to the same type of harm the average person was.
He was more than capable of handling himself.
Right?
You tried to convince yourself that he was fine, that everything was fine. That you were just overthinking, stressing out about nothing. That you were being completely unreasonable.
But you couldn’t shake the feeling, the unease that took root in your stomach.
You threw off the covers, bare feet landing against the cold floorboards as you rose from the bed. You didn’t know what you were thinking, what you were even doing. Where would you even find him? Where would you even start? Would you go down to the saloon to try and find Roze? Kate? The others? What if they weren’t there? What if they didn’t know where he was, assuming he’d been with you this whole time?
As the questions and uncertainty swirled around in your head, you kept hearing that small nagging voice in the very back corner of your mind — this was absurd. You were absurd. What on earth could you even do in this situation, if he wasn’t down in the saloon? March out into the streets in the middle of the night and search for him yourself?
It didn’t stop you from pulling on your stockings and stuffing your feet into your boots with shaking hands, your pulse thundering in your ears.
He was probably downstairs. He was probably just having an extra drink as the night wound down, draped over an old leather booth with Johnny and Kyle, women all on their laps and begging for their attention.
Wait — where did that come from?
You paused, shaking your head to yourself. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have cared that he was gone or what women, if any, were wrapped around him. In fact, you probably would’ve relished in his absence, the freedom it finally gave you, the reprieve from the attention and strange interest he had in you. Sure, you’d gotten used to his presence, the safety he provided by sleeping beside you; comfortable in the way he’d never tried to hurt you, to force himself on you — even if he called you his, claimed you as such in every opportunity he had in front of watching eyes.
And sure, he’d scared you once before, that night not all that long ago where you hadn’t seen him or the others all day and night, when you thought they’d all left you behind. But he’d come back then, and even though it had been late when he did, this surely surpassed it.
…right?
God, were you truly losing your mind?
Swallowing hard, you ignored the racing thoughts, the competing emotions that threatened to take over and render you completely useless. You needed to focus, needed to get your head on straight.
You were just going to look downstairs. If he was there, good. If he wasn’t…well, you’d deal with that when the sun rose.
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment to center yourself, to steel yourself for whatever you were about to find, whatever you were about to encounter. The wooden planks creaked under your feet as you crossed the room, tugging the quilt off the bed and throwing it over yourself — there was no way you were going down there in nothing but your thin, white nightgown.
Your hand wrapped around the brass doorknob, fingers curling around the metal as you pulled the door open and nearly jumped right out of your skin, a startled gasp escaping you at what — or rather, who — awaited on the other side.
Ghost. In the flesh.
You stumbled over your own feet, your grip tightening on the handle to keep you from toppling over. You blinked — once, twice — just to make sure you weren’t seeing things, that your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you.
But no, he was there, right in front of you. Cloaked in black from head to toe, his Cattleman pulled low over his eyes, the dim hallway lamp glinting off the red metal of his mask.
“Jesus Christ almighty,” You clutched at your chest as your eyes swept over him, almost like you were looking for further proof that he was real, like your initial glance at him wasn’t enough to prove it. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”
He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring down at you through the holes in the mask, dark eyes barely visible. Watching, waiting. Taking in the frazzled state of you, the blanket wrapped around your body and the worn boots on your feet.
A beat passed and then another before his eyes lifted back to yours. You could almost picture the raised brow, the small smirk beneath the mask.
“Going somewhere?”
The low rumble of his voice, the knowing edge to it — it made your cheeks heat, embarrassment crawling through you. There was something infinitely more humiliating about being caught like this than pretending to be asleep.
“I-I was just…” You trailed off once you saw it, having somehow missed it during your first pass of him.
Skin. Pale hands, stark against the black fabric of his clothes. It took you aback for a second, the rare glimpse of it — the flesh of the man that was so often concealed beneath layers of leather and cloth.
But the lack of gloves wasn’t what truly made you pause. No, it was the blood that caught your attention, dark and red and splattered across his battered knuckles.
“You’re bleeding.”
It was obvious, of course it was, but the words slipped from your mouth anyways. Your gaze traveled back up to his, noting his lack of response. There was no urgency, no concern. Not even a twitch of discomfort.
He merely tilted his head in the barest acknowledgment, as though you’d only pointed out a bit of dust on his coat.
“Ghost.”
His eyes remained fixed on yours, seemingly ignoring the worry in your voice, painted all over your face.
“’s not mine.”
You huffed out a breath, as if that was supposed to make you feel any better, to reassure you. Your attention flicked back down to his hands for a moment before you tentatively peeked up at him — almost shy as though you couldn’t fully look at him, like you hadn’t shared a bed with him every night for weeks.
“Can I…” The rest of your question was left unspoken, unsaid. He knew what you were about to say, knew you were looking for permission to approach him, to touch him.
As if you ever had to ask.
His eyes held yours, neither of you making a move, the quiet tension making you swallow to try and soothe your suddenly very dry throat. You thought he was going to ignore you entirely until he shifted, extending a hand out in your direction. It was slight, just barely an adjustment, a gesture so small that anyone else was unlikely to notice it.
But you did. You knew that it meant, what he was allowing you to do. You had a feeling not many people could safely lay a hand on him, could touch or even glimpse at the skin beneath the mask and the darkness he wore like a shield, like a coat of armor.
You shuffled forward, taking a step into his space, your movements so slow as if you were afraid to make any sudden movements, to scare him off like he was some kind of petrified animal. You could feel the weight of his stare the entire time, silently observing as you cautiously took one of his hands in yours and turned it over beneath the candlelight shining in from the hall, examining the split, broken skin marring his knuckles.
“Not yours, huh?”
Your voice was little more than a murmur as you absentmindedly dragged your thumb through the dried blood, smearing it across his skin and revealing more of the damage beneath.
He didn’t say a word.
Your eyes flicked back up to his, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as you weighed your next move, unsure if he would even allow it, if he would hate what you were thinking, what had suddenly popped into your head. It was a foreign feeling, a thought that hadn’t once crossed your mind before, but somehow, it still felt right. Like you owed it to him, at the very least.
“Stay here. Please.”
You hoped he’d listen but doubted it nonetheless, tacking on the polite request more for yourself than for him. He wasn’t exactly the type to bend to the will of anyone — the only exception being Kate, which you only believed because you’d witnessed it with your own two eyes.
He tracked your movements as you stepped around him, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Letting the quilt fall off your shoulders to the floor, you ducked out into the hallway and hurried off to gather what you needed, returning a few minutes later with a pitcher of fresh water balanced against your hip and a clean cloth draped over your arm.
To your surprise, Ghost was right where you’d left him, leaning against the wooden dresser with his arms folded across his chest. His head lifted the moment you stepped back through the doorway, his gaze immediately dropping to the items in your hands, lingering on the pitcher and cloth before returning to your face — but he still didn’t say a word.
“Do you, um…do you think you can…”
The request trailed off awkwardly as you gestured toward the bed with your chin. A low grunt escaped him as he pushed off the chest, silently crossing the room and taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, resting his forearms on his thighs. You blinked in slight surprise, not expecting him to acquiesce so quickly and without argument, but you were quick to move into action, not wanting him to give him a chance to change his mind.
You set the items down before crossing over to the hearth, crouching before it as you stirred the ash and brought the fire back to life. Once the familiar warmth and light slowly spilt into the room again, you moved back over to Ghost, his dark eyes still pinned on you. Your feet brushed his as you stepped closer, eyes sweeping over his bloodied knuckles.
The room was completely quiet, not a word exchanged between either of you, the crackling logs and flickering flames the only sounds breaking up the silence. You tried to ignore the weight of his gaze — heavy, unblinking — as you knelt, dipping the cloth into the pitcher and dampening it just enough before your free hand slowly reached for his, fingers gingerly circling his wrist.
You glanced up at him, wordlessly asking if it was okay, but he still said nothing, did nothing other than stare.
You quickly averted your gaze, focusing instead on the task at hand. As gently as you could, you dabbed the damp rag over his skin, watching the white cotton stain with every careful pass, deep, crimson red soaking up into the fabric. Your movements were tender, delicate — almost like you were afraid of hurting him further, worried that your efforts would somehow worsen his wounds — because it was becoming increasingly clear that the blood was, in fact, his and, very likely, someone else’s. Maybe even more than one someone.
With each swipe, the extent of the damage came to light. The cuts were shallow, likely only surface level, his knuckles scraped raw and beginning to swell in places, violet bruises blooming beneath the surface. You gently flexed his fingers, testing the joints, listening for any pops and watching for any winces of pain, but he remained utterly still as a statute.
If it wasn’t for the visible flesh and blood, your lingering suspicion that he really was anything but human would’ve taken further root.
“Do I even want to know?” Your voice was soft, nothing more than a hush, gaze flickering up to meet his.
Ghost merely grunted in response. You weren’t sure why you thought you’d even get a real answer out of him, anyway.
Dipping the cloth back into the pitcher once more, you wrung it out before you returned your attention back to his hand. Your efforts were more focused now, more thorough as you carefully scrubbed at the blood caught under his nails, between the creases of his fingers.
His hands fascinated you. You couldn’t stop staring at them, and you couldn’t chalk it up to the sole purpose of cleaning them. No, it was the sheer size of them that caught your attention. They were enormous, just like the rest of him, probably double the size of yours if you lined them up. Broad palms, thick fingers, callouses built over years of riding, shooting, and lord knew what else. A number of scars crisscrossed the backs of them — some thin enough to be barely noticeable, others larger, thicker, and raised with age.
Your thumb grazed over one in particular, the largest of them, tracing over the path between his middle and ring finger and snaking down to his wrist, following it until it disappeared beneath the cuff of his sleeve. You could’t even imagine what had caused it, what he’d gotten himself into that nearly cost him half his hand and probably his lower arm if it continued as far as you guessed it did.
You decided you didn’t really want to know.
Satisfied with your work, you gently placed his hand back down on his denim-clad thigh before reaching for his other, the skin just as bloodied and battered there.
“There,” You murmured a few moments later, draping the stained cloth over the lip of the pitcher, the water now a cloudy pink. You turned his hand gently, inspecting your work in the light the fire provided. His knuckles were raw, slightly swollen, but clean.
“They’ll heal.”
He let out a low hum as he straightened, causing you to instinctively lean back on your heels, suddenly very aware of how close you were to him, eyes level with his abdomen.
“Always do.”
You glanced up at him with a small frown tugging at your lips. If the old scars scattered across his hands were any indication, he knew better than anyone that they would heal up fine. This wasn’t exactly new to him, after all. With enough time, they’d fade into pale, silvery lines just like all the others etched across his skin, just another addition to the collection spanning there.
“You should, um…you should probably wrap them up tomorrow.” You stood from your crouched spot on the floor, knees stiff and aching after kneeling on the wooden floor for so long. “Make sure they stay clean.”
Still, he said nothing, those dark eyes still half-obscured from beneath his Cattleman and giving nothing away. You pursed your lips and nodded to yourself, something akin to disappointment seeping under your skin as you bent at the waist to grab the pitcher, avoiding his gaze.
“Leave it.”
His gruff voice stopped you, the low rumble sending shivers down your spine. All the time you’d spent around him hadn’t eased the effect it had on you since the day you’d met.
“I’ll take care of it.”
He rose from the bed, unfolding to his full height until he towered over you, tall and broad and looming at least an entire foot or so above you. In an instant, the whole room seemed to shrink, drawing inward as though it, too, had to readjust to the fullness, the intensity of his presence. It was like you forgot how big, how imposing he was when he wasn’t sitting before you.
Your head was level with his chest, the familiar scent of him filling your nostrils. Worn leather, whiskey, woodsmoke, and tobacco. Something heady, masculine; something else just entirely him that you recognized immediately.
You hadn’t realized how accustomed you’d grown to it.
The silence that enveloped you this time felt heavier, thicker. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put your finger on what exactly had changed, but you knew that it had. The closeness, the proximity, the lingering feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way he’d allowed it — it was all too much all at once.
You took a step back, desperately needing to put space back between you. You thought, for a fleeting moment, that he was about to say something, anything — but instead, he kept quiet, jaw clenched under the fabric covering the bottom half of his face. Your neck craned slightly, your eyes drifting over the red mask as though it would reveal what was going on inside his head, what he was thinking.
It never did.
With a quiet breath, you tore your gaze away, stooping to collect the quilt from the ground where you’d let it slip to the floor. Giving it a quick shake, you crossed back to the bed and spread it over the rumpled sheets, smoothing out the worst of the creases with the flat of your palm.
The simple task gave your hands something to do, somewhere to look.
Anywhere but at him.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind you, his boots thudding against the floor as he moved towards the door, the hinges creaking in protest as he yanked it open. You stole a glance over your shoulder — a small, foolish part of you worried he was going to disappear again — until you spotted the pitcher in his hands, realizing that he was following through on his word. Without so much as a glance back in your direction, he stepped out into the hallway, the door shutting behind you, the room falling quiet once more.
You knew, this time, he’d be back.
You sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off your boots and your stockings that you’d thrown on in a hurry, cheeks flushing as you recalled your panic, your inner turmoil at his absence. What could he possibly have thought of you once he’d seen you on the other side of the door? Looking at him as though you'd been expecting the worst, as though you had any right to fret over where he’d been or when he’d return.
The truth was, you had no idea what he thought of you at all, what he saw in you. Why he’d kept you around all this time. Why he’d claimed you as his. Why, after three whole weeks, he hadn’t gotten his own room when another had more than likely opened up by now.
Why his presence made your stomach dip and your skin hum like a cicada on a summer evening.
There was so much uncertainty, so much uncharted territory that you didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t even know if you’d want those answers, if you wanted a glimpse into the inner workings of his mind. Ghost was an enigma — every answer seemed to give rise to two more questions, every small bit of kindness and humanity at utter odds with the ruthless reputation that followed him from town to town.
The first hints of dawn were beginning to break through the darkness of the night outside the window, reminding you of how late it really was, how soon you would have to wake to start the day. You slipped back into the bed, facing away from the door as you settled under the covers.
Not long after, those familiar leaden footsteps returned, growing louder and louder until the doorknob twisted and the hinges creaked, the lock sliding back into place. You didn’t turn, didn’t look back as he undressed, the thud of his boots, the clink of his belt buckle and the stretch of fabric filling the air.
Your body didn’t tense, didn’t stiffen up as he slid in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. A soft sigh fell from your lips as you nestled deeper against the pillow, the exhaustion and crash of adrenaline hitting you all at once, your eyelids growing heavy.
There was a moment of comfortable silence, of nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths and the occasional hiss of the flames across the room. You were beginning to doze off, finally able to relax and get some rest now that you knew he was back, knew that he was in one piece, when you felt the mattress shift beneath you, his arm wrapping around your middle and drawing you back against his chest. Your heart fluttered but you didn’t say a word, didn’t even open your eyes, instead letting his warmth and weight settle over you like a familiar, worn blanket.
Before long, the crackle of the fire and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulled you right towards sleep. You were on the precipice, just about to tumble headfirst into the darkness when you heard it — so faint, so low that you barely registered it, almost missed it completely.
“Thank you.”
When you woke that morning, you were sure you had dreamt it. That it had been nothing more than a figment of your imagination, of fatigue. But you were sure you felt it, the rumble of his chest against your back as he whispered the words into the night, likely believing you were already asleep.
Even if it was all in your head, even if it was just your brain conjuring up what it knew you wanted hear, you chose to believe you’d heard it anyways.
As always, the bed was empty when you came to. You didn’t think much of it, of the way he always disappeared when morning came. It was just routine, just part of his procedure.
You let yourself linger in bed for a few minutes, listening to the city outside as it came to life under the morning sun, before you forced yourself up. You had things to do, daily tasks to complete for Kate.
It was just like any other day.
After you combed your hair and dressed — a standard, simple black dress that swished around your ankles, clean white apron tied around your waist, old worn boots on your feet — you headed downstairs into the empty saloon to get started.
Except, that morning, it wasn’t empty. There, beside the bar, stood Kyle and Johnny, chatting away with Kate. Your footsteps alerted them of your presence without you having to say a word, all three of them turning to you as you entered.
“There’s our girl!” A bright grin stretched across Johnny’s face as he wrapped his arms around you in a big hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you from how tight he squeezed.
“Haven’t seen ya in ages, lass.” He gripped your shoulders as he pulled away to get a good look at your face. “You been alright, Little Fawn?”
You smiled back, just as glad to see him. You didn’t get to see them much these days, so any glimpse you got of the men who’d done so much for you was entirely welcome.
“Not too bad.” You turned towards Kyle, who tipped his hat at you in greeting, his warm brown eyes and kind face a sight for sore eyes. “You men make yourself scarce around here, don’t you?”
The corners of his mouth curved upwards.
“Laswell’s got us on a tight leash,” Kyle teased, shooting the blonde woman behind the bar an amused glance before turning back to you. “Kept us far too busy lately.” He gestured towards you with a hand. “Eye’s all better now, yeah?”
You nodded, fingers instinctively brushing the spot on your temple where the wound had been, the scar that had been left in its wake.
“Can’t complain.” Your eyes met Kate’s, remembering the day you’d met, the way she’d taken you under her wing and fixed you up without a second thought. “Helps when you’ve got a very capable hand to stitch you back together.”
“Aye.” Johnny agreed with a wink. “Would cheers to that if I had a drink.”
“So, what are you guys doing here?” You asked, settling your hip against edge of the bar top, unable to help your curiosity at their surprise appearance. “You here to help me around here?”
“Nah,” Kyle shook his head, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his light denim jeans. “Don’t think Kate trusts us enough to give a proper clean to those washrooms.”
“You’re right.” She nodded, barely glancing up at him as she polished off a clean plate. “I don’t.”
Her eyes flickered with amusement as she turned her attention to you. “Speaking of, you’re off for today, Fawn. Best take that apron off ‘ya.”
You had to do a double take at her words, unsure if you’d heard her correctly, divots forming between your brows in confusion.
“What? Why?” Dread filled in your gut as your biggest fears began to take root in your mind, panicked that you’d let her down in some way. “Did I do something wrong? I swear, I can fix it, whatever it is, I—”
“Fawn. Honey.” Kate cut in, gently interrupting you before you could continue to spiral. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Nothing at all. In fact, you’ve been absolutely fantastic. It’s just an afternoon away from work.”
Her eyes were kind, her tone reassuring as she smiled warmly at you. It instantly settled you, calmed your racing thoughts and worries. You cared far too much about what she thought of you, never wanting to disappoint her in any way, shape, or form.
“Well.” Johnny shifted the wad of tobacco to the other side of his mouth, leaning back against the counter with his forearms braced against the edge. “Think y’all forgot the most important part.”
All three of you turned to him — you with a confused frown, Kate with an exasperated sigh, and Kyle with an amused chuckle.
“Would it kill you to have a little more tact, MacTavish?” Kate fixed him with a look that you could only describe as one you wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of, one that promised she’d get him back for needling her.
Johnny, however, was utterly unbothered by it, just flashing that gold tooth of his in a wide grin before spitting into the brass spittoon at his feet.
“Probably.” He turned his attention to you with a shrug, but you saw the way his gaze flicked up and over your shoulder, catching on something behind you. You turned to follow his gaze, your pulse quickening when you spotted him leaning against the doorway, Ghost’s hulking frame nearly swallowing up the entirety of the open space.
“You’re coming wit’ me.”
Your heart thumped wildly in your chest, the way it always did when he was near, when his eyes locked on you.
He must’ve been the important piece Johnny was talking about, likely the reason you had the day off at all.
“For what?”
You couldn’t help the question from slipping from your lips, always showing your cards without meaning to, a slight bit of unease and apprehension painted across your face. While you’d never really been given a reason to doubt them, to believe that they were leading you into some sort of elaborate trap, you still found yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was instinct now, an unfortunate habit carved into you over long years of experiencing that very reality, the part of you that expected kindness to come with a price refusing to quit.
Maybe over time, it would, but certainly not now. Four weeks were not enough to erase that kind of trauma.
But, as usual, Ghost didn’t respond, didn’t utter another word. Just jerked his chin towards the door and expected you to follow. A silent command, like that was all the instruction you needed as he left through the swinging doors just as quickly as he came.
With a sigh, you untied your apron and draped it over your shoulder. You had to change first, certainly not about to run amok in your maidservant clothes.
“If he comes looking for me, will one of you mind telling him I’ve just gone to change?” You directed the question to all three of them, hoping at least somebody would relay the message. You knew making Ghost wait was a bit like tempting fate, so to speak, but you didn’t have much of a choice. If he’d just stayed in bed that morning for once, you wouldn’t have to make him wait at all while you readied yourself.
The man could survive a gunfight without so much as blinking, yet carrying on a normal conversation seemed beyond him.
“Sure thing, doll.” Kyle gave you his customary tip of his hat, two fingers brushing against the brim like he always did — the perfect gentleman. You still weren’t quite sure how he fit in with the band of outlaws. You smiled in return, about to head back to your room when you realized what you’d been meaning to do for far too long.
“Oh, Johnny?” You doubled back to the young man while Kyle and Kate fell into conversation, paying the two of you no mind. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for my dress for ages.”
You hesitated as you considered that wasn’t quite encompassing all of what he’d so kindly done, a sheepish smile on your lips as you shrugged.
“Well, dresses, I should say. It was incredibly kind of you, and I cannot tell you enough how much it meant to me.”
A puzzled look flashed across his face, his pale blue eyes — clear and bright as the afternoon sky — searching yours for a beat before understanding dawned, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.
“Well, I’d love to take credit for that, lassie, but—” Another wad of tobacco pinged against the metallic tub next to his boots. “—that wasn’t me.”
For a moment, you thought he was joking, thought he was just messing with you like he seemed to have a penchant for, particularly with the others.
You blinked, staring at him like his answer would somehow change. “What?”
Johnny shook his head, still wearing that easy, boyish grin as he held your gaze casually, like everything you thought you knew wasn’t suddenly crashing down around you.
“Nah, wasn’t me. I don’t got that kind of coin.” He gestured towards you with his sun-spotted hand, tanned from years beneath the unforgiving sun and dusted with tufts of dark hair that matched the strands on his head. “But seein’ that look on your face…can’t say I ain’t tempted to claim it myself.”
“But…” Your chest tightened, throat strangely dry as your mind raced a mile a minute. “Why would…”
Johnny huffed a laugh through his nose. “Lassie, you’re askin’ the right questions to the wrong man.”
You started to believe that maybe you’d gotten it all wrong. That maybe, you had just let yourself believe it had been Johnny all along, had wanted him to be the one who’d gone out of his way for you. It made sense, after all. He was friendly, kind. Easy to talk to. Had always treated you like he’d known you all your life, were a close friend instead of a mere stranger.
After all, it made more sense that it had been him instead of the man who slept beside you every night, the man who hadn’t strung together more than five words in your presence. The man who couldn’t even wait past sunrise to leave you behind.
But, you distinctively remembered what Roze had told you that morning when she’d come knocking on your door. That it had been Johnny who’d sent her, claiming that she was there to take you into town for some new things. That he’d given her the pouch of coins to pay for it.
So, why had she lied to you?
“But if it wasn’t you…” You trailed off, all of the pieces beginning to fit together. Now, seeing it with fresh eyes, you knew it could only have been one person, one man — the only one with a key to your room besides yourself to have left that blue dress there for you in the first place. Even if it didn’t make sense, didn’t seem like something he’d do, something a man like him was capable of — it had to be him.
And he hadn’t said a word about it.
The corners of Johnny’s mouth twitched as he watched you put it together.
“My, my, I wonder who it could be.”
a/n: i am so so sorry this took so goddamn long to update, but i hope you enjoyed <3 words cannot describe how much i love and appreciate you all so much for your patience, kindness, and support of my little passion project!! hopefully this longer part makes up for it for now :)
when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.
type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3
cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+
There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.
You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.
You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.
You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.
A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.
The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.
It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.
There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.
That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.
You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.
"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"
He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.
"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."
His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."
"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."
The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.
"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"
"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"
He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.
"Suppose."
"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"
He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.
"Wot's tha' include?"
"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."
"Tha's my specialty, love."
"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."
"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."
"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."
A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.
"'m Simon."
The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.
You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.
"Olright, love. Lead the way."
Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.
"This wot he stole?"
You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.
"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."
The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.
You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.
"What the fuck is this?"
You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.
"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."
"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."
"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."
Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.
"Who the bloody hell is that?"
You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.
"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"
Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.
"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"
Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.
"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."
Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—
Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.
He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.
"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."
"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"
"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"
"Please…"
"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.
"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"
"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.
"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."
He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.
"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.
"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.
"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—
Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.
"Ahh—fuck."
You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.
You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.
"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"
It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.
"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"
"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."
You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.
"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.
"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.
"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"
"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."
"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"
Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.
The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.
Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.
Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.
Nothing at all.
He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.
"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.
"Never better."
Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.
Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.
It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.
She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.
"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."
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summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
A non-writer asked me "but where do you get your ideas" and i genuinely did not know how to explain that it's not a place. it's not a website. it's not a folder. it's that i was on the bus and a woman was holding a paper bag very carefully and something about the way she held it made me need to know what was inside and then i needed to know why she was sad about it and then there was a whole person and then there was a whole story and the bus had already stopped and i missed my stop. that's where.
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MY (WO)MAN ON WILLPOWER | JACK ABBOT 16.5K WORDS
Summary You and Jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” No sex, no touching, no shortcuts. Jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)
HOW I'D LOVE TO GO PARIS AGAIN (AND AGAIN) | JACK ABBOT AND MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH 18.3K WORDS
Summary After Jack casually floats the idea of adding a third, you don’t let it stay theoretical for long—what starts as curiosity turns into something a lot more real when Robby gets pulled into the space you and Jack have built together.
Note: spin off of my (wo)man on willpower, but can be read as a standalone!
blurbs
robby/abbot competition w/ you - spinoff blurb of how i'd love to go to paris again (and again) - can be read solo
abbot spoiling you - spinoff blurb of lawyerfem!reader series
you witness the nightcrawler chant lol. - spinoff blurb of lawyerfem!reader series
SUCCESS: THIS AUTHOR LOVES REPRESSED OLD MEN AND LOVES PRETTY LADIES.
summary: when price's wife suddenly abandons him and their two young kids, he hires a nanny to help him manage.
word count: 5.1k
tags/cw: age gap (early 20s/mid 40s), fluff, mutual pining. female reader.
He couldn’t do it alone. Not anymore.
He’d tried to — he really did. He’d tried to make it work, to juggle his work and his kids, his pride and his ego both too big, too stubborn to let him reach out for help, for assistance of any kind. He’d been wounded, too mistrusting, too naively comfortable; his once in tact dignity and self-respect cut to ribbons, shredded to pieces.
He’d never expected her to leave. Not like that.
They’d always talked about kids. She’d been the one who’d wanted them, begged and pleaded and kicked and screamed for them — not him. It’d been her dream to be a mother, she said. She wanted a little boy just like him, she said. A little girl, too, if they were lucky, she said.
He knew he hadn’t been the best father, hadn’t been the best husband. Sure, he’d given her what she wanted — a full, swollen belly; two beautiful babies with the chunkiest cheeks and the sweetest giggles — even if he hadn’t been so convinced, hadn’t wanted them so desperately. He wasn’t like her — hadn’t necessarily wished to have children, to have a heir to carry on the Price name. If it were up to him, he’d have been the last. It was easier that way, simpler.
But he’d married her, and he wanted to make her happy. Knew that he’d been doing a piss poor job at it, knew that she hadn’t been happy for quite some time, even though she assured him she’d known what she was signing up for. Days and weeks and months alone, in a house all by herself, little to no contact. She tried to put on a sunny face for so long, tried to welcome him with open arms and a big smile, sweet words and candied greetings whispered in his ear, his duffel still in his hand.
It began to catch up with her. The lengthy time apart, the uptick in deployments, the secrets he couldn’t share. She began to fade, to dull, to pull away.
So, he gave her what she’d wanted, what she’d claimed she craved nothing more in this world.
They had a baby. Then another. A little girl and a little boy, just like she’d always wanted, had always said she’d dreamed of.
And yet, she left anyway.
Left with nothing left behind other than a folded-up note she’d given to the neighbors — the older couple she’d thrown their kids into the arms of, their shared flesh and blood, until he’d gotten back from a mission in Las Almas. Written that she couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t bear it. That this wasn’t the life she wanted, couldn’t be the one she stomached for any longer.
She’d left them. All three of them.
He’d never expected to be a single father, let alone a father at all. It’d been easy while he was gone, uncomplicated — she stayed at home with the kids while he went off to work, to provide. An arrangement they were both more than happy with. He’d made plenty of money to support them, to give them the life they deserved.
A life that had crumbled to pieces.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love them — he did. There was nothing better than coming home to their sweet angel faces, their bright eyes and beaming smiles, their squeals and nonsensical babbling. Their innocence, their purity, their unbridled joy.
But they’d been her dream. Not his.
He’d never felt well-equipped to be a father, to bring life in the world when his job was to snuff it out. To squeeze and pinch their chubby little cheeks, to tickle their tummies. They were all that was good in the world, all that was pure — he was all that was dark, bloodied, dangerous; stained and sullied.
He didn’t want to taint them, to place his blood-soaked hands on their fair skin, their unblemished youth. They didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve to have a father who’d seen what he’d seen, a soldier who’d done what he’d done.
But he’d done it anyway, helped bring them into the world. It’d been his choice, his doing, his decision to fill her up with his seed, to make sure it took. He could’ve said no, could’ve refused like he’d done for years. Could’ve listened to his common sense that told him that a baby couldn’t fix a marriage, couldn’t repair the holes that’d been slowly tearing open since that very day on the altar.
But he didn’t. And here he was.
It took him weeks to cave, to admit he couldn’t handle it all alone. That he needed some help, someone to balance the responsibilities, the duties of caring for two young children.
That’s when he found you.
You weren’t sure how you’d heard about the job in the first place, how you'd gotten your hands on his phone number. A friend of a friend of a friend, if you could remember correctly. You’d never met John Price before, never even heard of him. But, when you heard he needed a nanny, that a position was open and desperately needed to be filled as soon as possible — you’d jumped at the bit for it.
You loved kids, always had. You’d worked many jobs over your life that exposed you to them — a babysitter, a lifeguard, a summer camp counselor. You knew the basics and then some, had pretty much seen it all at that point. No, you’d never been a nanny, but how different could it be? It was the perfect gig for the summer — you were home from university and in desperate need of some cash.
That’s how you ended up on his front porch, having agreed over the phone to meet at his house so he could vet you, could feel you out. You knocked on the door, its black paint chipped and fading with age. Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side, giggles and playful shrieks.
It swung open, the warm greeting you’d prepared shriveling up and dying on your tongue.
He stood there, an adorable baby in his thick, muscular arms, a worn threadbare tee stretched across his broad chest, his full beard dusted with specks from of gray.
It was the hottest sight you’d ever seen.
A quick once-over, a nod of his head, his eyes sweeping over your face, your body. “Hi.”
You blinked, once then twice, shaking yourself out of your trance.
“Hi.” You mustered up a smile, cheeks flushing, hand swiping a stray hair out of your face. “I’m, um — I’m here for the…the nannying job.”
A squeal, a flash of a body — a little one darting out between his legs, tumbling forward on her stubby little feet. She flew towards you, giggling like a little manic as you caught her, swooped her up in your arms, slightly startled but laughing all the same.
“And now you’ve met the other little rascal.” John smiled, the corners of his tired eyes crinkling with humor and with love — and most notably, with bone-deep exhaustion.
“Hi!” The small girl clung to you, tiny arms wrapped around your neck like you weren’t a stranger she’d just met, had never seen before in her short little life. “I’m Winnie!”
You chuckled, balancing her on your hip as you smiled warmly at her, her hair wild and her eyes sparkling. “Hi pretty girl. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Her teeny little hands explored your face, pressing and squishing your cheeks. “Are you our new nanny? Please please please! Can you! Can you!”
You stifled a laugh, eyes darting towards her father still standing in the doorway, watching you and his daughter with amusement glinting in his gaze.
“Um.” You bit your lip, looking back down at her, pupils wide and bottom lip pouted. “I don’t know, honey. I’m not sure yet.” You smoothed a hand down her tousled locks, strands askew in every direction, her cheeks pink and rosy. “Let’s talk to your dad first, ok?”
She nodded excitedly, a wide grin lighting up her face before she began to squirm in your arms. You set her down on her feet and she shot off like a bullet, dashing back inside, practically leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. The laugh you’d been holding slipped out, your giggle light and unguarded, your gaze drifting back to John — his already fixed upon you.
Your heartbeat stumbled, quickened its pace.
He held the door open for you, telling you he was just going to put the baby down for a nap. You stood in the small foyer of his home, eyes scanning and perusing every corner, every inch you could see.
Toys scattered in every corner, dust and sticky fingerprints on every visible surface. Shoes and more shoes lining the wall, toppled over and scattered around. Abandoned sippy cups and milk bottles tucked into random crevices, jackets spilling off of the hooks near the door, tangled like clumps of seaweed washed ashore.
He needed help — desperately.
John came down a few minutes later, his steps heavy on the creaking wooden stairs, the navy fabric of his shirt riding up to expose just a sliver of a toned, meaty stomach, dark hair twisting and curling, diving and disappearing into the top of his cargo shorts.
You had to look away, forced yourself not to stare.
He guided you into his office, a small room just down the hall. Bookshelves lined the dark brown walls, novels and papers and piles of miscellaneous documents scattered about, half zipped duffel bags and gear thrown haphazardly to the side. You recognized a set of dog tags peeking out of one of the pockets, the various military awards and paraphernalia hung on the walls like a display in school auditorium.
You weren’t surprised — everything about him screamed soldier.
You took a seat in one of the worn leather chairs across from him, the hide cracked and faded in spots. He explained to you his situation, how he’d gotten here — wife had left him six weeks ago, taking off before he returned from a deployment. His elderly neighbors had been watching them then, having been unexpectedly tasked with childcare in their old, retired age. He’d been trying to make it work, to balance it all, until he realized he couldn’t do it alone anymore, couldn’t handle it.
You’d honestly been surprised he’d made it this far.
It was a thought you wisely kept to yourself.
He shared with you his expectations, what he was looking for. He was gone a lot with work, traveled quite a bit, so you’d be alone with the kids for days, likely weeks at a time. As he told you that part, his eyes flickered over your face, narrowing slightly as he seemed to scrutinize you, to wait for your reaction.
You hadn’t flinched. It wasn’t an abnormal request — not one you hadn't expected. He was a decorated soldier, clearly high up from what you could ascertain by all the accolades displayed, so it made sense to you.
Not to mention, the proffered pay was enough to make your brain short circuit and your eyes light up like slot machines at the casino. For the amount he was offering, there was practically nothing he could ask of you that would make you turn down the job.
Seemingly satisfied with you and the resume you’d rattled off — he hadn’t required you to bring it on paper — you left that afternoon with a job and a more than generous advance in your back pocket.
You started the very next day, arriving first thing in the morning with a large coffee in hand and a warm smile. John answered the door a minute later, his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled and his beard half-shaved, the foamy white shaving cream still lathered on the lower half of his face.
“Sorry, doll.” He apologized for his appearance as he held the door open wider for you, moving aside so you could step in. “Didn’t expect you so early.”
“Told you I’d be ready.” You beamed, trying to ignore the way his arms looked in the gray tee he sported. The man was buff. Totally drool-worthy eye-candy. Thank god he’d be gone for most of the time — you didn’t think you could handle it otherwise.
The corners of his mouth curved upwards — not quite a full smile, but as good as you’d get. He still looked exhausted, most likely having been up late with the baby. The little boy was just under a year old — John had mentioned as much yesterday.
“Kids are still asleep.” He said, closing the door behind you, the house no messier than yesterday but still in a desperate need of a deep clean and some serious organizing. “Winnie’ll probably be up in an hour or so.” He blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Little girl tears through the house the minute she’s up, that one.”
Even though it may have sounded like he was complaining, he wasn’t — you could tell, could see it in the way his eyes shone brightly with amusement, with pride. You obviously hadn’t spent much time around John or the kids, but you knew he loved them deeply — that much was true, was as clear as day. Even when he’d spoken to you about his situation, why he’d suddenly needed the extra help, there was no bitterness, no resentment in his tone — only honesty, a mere divulging of the truth of what led him to where he was.
He left you downstairs, assuring you he’d be right back after he finished shaving the rest of his face, telling you to make yourself comfortable. You kicked off your shoes at the door and ambled through the house, giving yourself a tour. You’d gathered bits and pieces when you’d been there the day prior, but you hadn’t seen too much, hadn’t gotten a full look around.
Living room, kitchen, bathroom, laundry room, his office — all full of life, every room cluttered with visible signs of children. Couch cushions astray, unfinished crayon scribbles and mini art projects lying around, blocks and dolls and stuffed animals covering the carpet.
You heard him coming before you saw him, his heavy leaden footfalls carrying to the kitchen as you poked through his cabinets, making a mental note of empty cardboard boxes and missing essential items. John appeared through the doorway, freshly trimmed beard and no sign of shaving cream.
He led you through the home, even though you’d explored half of it already. He pointed out where the important stuff was — first aid kid, baby formula, the drawer with emergency numbers taped inside. The medicine cabinet, the stack of clean linens, the bin of clean diapers tucked in the corner, the basket of mismatched socks. He showed you the back door lock, the light switches that never worked right, and the spot on the counter where he usually left notes or schedules.
Upstairs was next, you following behind as he guided you down the hall, his voice low as he pointed at each door. Four bedrooms — one for him, one for each of the kids, a guest room that you’d stay in for the overnights — and two bathrooms. It was a sizable home, a real nice one at that. You’d imagined he made quite a bit of money, but that was never something you’d actually make a point to ask, to mention.
Not long after you finished your tour, Winnie stirred, and, as promised, hurtled out of her room the second she heard your hushed voices in the kitchen, her hair darting in ten different directions as she dashed inside.
“Nanny!” She squealed excitedly, all but launching herself into your arms. “You’re back! You’re back!”
You couldn’t help but chuckle, her rambunctious energy infectious regardless of the early hour. “Hi honey. It’s good to see you, too.”
John scoffed in faux outrage, his hand propped his hip. “Just like that, I’m chopped liver, huh?”
Winnie giggled, burying her face against your shoulder, bright eyes peeking out just enough to peer at her dad. “No!” She squealed through her laughter, the sound ringing out like winter bells.
He smiled softly, stepping closer to ruffle her mop of tangled curls. “Sure, princess.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, your eyes locking with his, his smile widening a fraction. “I’m gonna check on the baby.”
You nodded, watching the back of him as he retreated, your gaze dropping to his round, firm ass.
God, you were screwed.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁
John was only home for a couple of more days after that, mostly leaving for work in the early morning and returning late at night, well after dinner was finished and just before bedtime.
He had to be gone before dawn, so you arrived extra early, your overpacked suitcase and duffel in tow. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone — a week at best but could be longer. You’d brought more than enough of your belongings, ready for whatever, for whenever he’d return. He seemed to genuinely appreciate how easygoing you were, how unruffled you seemed by his cryptic and unspecific timeline.
You didn’t mind at all, weren't bothered by the ambiguity of it. He was a hardworking man, a busy one. His job was untraditional, even for the military — he was high-ranking; you’d peeked at the awards in his office, the honors he’d collected, had been decorated with. Captain, you’d seen. A man who carried more than his weight, had unspeakable and unthinkable tasks to handle, to tackle — all on top of being a single father to two young children. They were the world to him, but his job couldn’t be stopped, couldn’t be delayed any longer, any further. Not when he had business to attend to.
You respected it and you respected him, all that he put on the line for his kids, all that he sacrificed. You didn’t judge or moan or complain when he couldn’t give you a straight answer as to when he’d return — it was part of his job, just as it was yours.
Taking care of Winnie and her baby brother, Henry, was a treat — truly, it was. The little girl was full of energy, yes — she loved to run around, to play, to talk your ear off, to be stuck to your side at all times — but she was a genuinely good, well-behaved kid. She rarely had temper tantrums and almost always slept through the night. She didn’t whine when it was time for bed or to leave the park, and she never cried over what she was given for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. As far as babies were concerned, Henry was an angel, too. There were tougher nights than others — one in particular where he’d kept you up for hours, refusing to settle even after you gave him a bottle and rocked him until the sun rose above the horizon — but they were few and far in between.
That first time, that first trip, John ended up returning a week and a half later than anticipated, much to his frustration. He hadn’t wanted to be away for that long — not because he didn’t trust you. He did. Much more than he thought he would, thought he was capable of. Before he’d left, he’d seen you with his kids, watched the way you bent down to listen to them, the patience laced through your voice, the ease with which you folded yourself into their little world, blended in like you’d always been there. How you played and giggled and ran around with them like you never tired, were never worn out — that big, warm smile always stretched across your pretty face, no matter the time of day, no matter what life threw at you.
And maybe that was what unsettled him the most. Coming home, seeing how quickly they’d taken to you — their clear comfort, their contagious laughter, their tiny hands reaching for you without hesitation. It filled him with relief, with gratitude at how well they’d adjusted, especially to the first woman to spend time with them, to enter the house since their mother — but underneath, there was a tug of something else. Something heavier. A hollow ache he couldn’t quite shake, couldn’t brush off.
They hadn’t just managed without him — they’d thrived.
He hated being away from them, from you. The sight of you in his home woven so seamlessly into the fabric of his children’s lives, their every-days — it felt right in a way that scared him, terrified him. Right in a way that lingered long after he tore his gaze away, told himself it was inappropriate.
He couldn’t deny that you were beautiful. He’d thought as much the second he’d seen you on his front step, cheeks flushed and eyes twinkling. You were young, attractive, kind — but when you had his kids in your arms, twined around your legs?
You were absolutely breathtaking.
Every time he left the house, every time he was shipped away on yet another mission, he couldn’t help but think of you. Think of what you were doing, what you and the kids were up to. What you were baking, what you were wearing. Those pretty little dresses of yours, the tiny little shorts. The way your legs seemed to stretch endlessly for miles, your smooth, silky skin always on display.
He had to remind himself that you worked for him, that you were essentially his employee. You weren’t there to warm his bed, to scrub the house clean — the latter of which you’d done without being asked, every inch spotless and organized unlike it had ever been before; a surprise for him when he’d gotten back from that first deployment. You weren’t there for his pleasure, to throw your arms out wide the second he stepped through the threshold and dumped his gear at the door, to welcome your captain home from war.
No. You were there for the kids. Just the kids.
They absolutely adored you. Winnie barely freed herself from your side, as if you were her real parent — completely and utterly obsessed with you. Henry, even though he couldn’t talk yet, cooed and babbled and grinned from ear to ear whenever you held him, never once fussing when you were around.
It was like you were magic — living, breathing magic that sprinkled sunshine over his once cluttered, messy, and colorless home.
You looked so good there, so in your element — in his kitchen, his yard, tucked onto his living room couch. Running around and chasing Winnie through the sprinkler without a care in the world, your clothes soaked to the bone. Feeding Henry bottles of warm milk, rocking him in your arms, cooing softly in his ear as you burped him gently, the rays of sunlight encircling you like a halo for the angel you were.
You were a saint, his saving grace. Divine in every way. Just the person — the woman — he needed, the kids craved.
He found himself counting down the days, the hours, the minutes until he saw you again. Found you curled up in the sofa with a cozy blanket and a sleeping baby tucked into the crook of your arm, Winnie snuggled up at your feet. You heard the door open the night he arrived back home, your head turning to look at him over the back of the couch. You smiled when you saw him, eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples carving into your cheeks. The volume on the TV was low, barely audible, as the blues and purples and silvers on the screen illuminated your face.
“Hi.” You mouthed, not wanting to wake them. Not when they were sleeping so peacefully, so contently. The serenity, the calmness that had settled over the house was palpable, washing over him and instantly relaxing him, loosening the rigidness in his spine, his body.
“Hi.” He crept towards you, trying his best to keep his steps quiet, to avoid the parts of the floor that creaked the loudest. You watched him as he rounded the couch, carefully and gently scooping Winnie up and into his arms. She stirred but didn’t wake up, just made an unintelligible sound, her head nestling against her father’s chest, eyes still closed.
You thought your heart was going to burst at the sight.
A small smile pulled at his lips as he looked down at his daughter lovingly, rocking her just slightly, his big hands holding her like she was breakable, like she might disappear into thin air if he wasn’t careful.
His gray eyes found yours, the two of you quiet as you shared in the soft comfort, reveled in the peaceful lull. Neither of you spoke, content to share in the hush of the moment, wrapped up in the serenity of it — as if even a word might break the spell.
Watching him with his daughter — so small, so fragile compared to him — the softness in his gaze, the reverence in the way he held her; it unfurled something in your chest, tightening with something you weren’t supposed to want, something you couldn’t dare speak aloud. Warm and tingly, like a sunset over a tranquil lake; a cup of hot chocolate by the fire on a rainy day.
You rose, Henry still fast asleep in your arms, the two of you wordlessly heading upstairs, John right behind you.
He carefully pushed open Winnie’s bedroom door, the room completely dark except for the flower-shaped nightlight plugged into the far wall. You stood in the doorway, gently bouncing the sleeping baby as you held him close to you, watching as John lowered his daughter onto her bed, tucking her beneath her sheets. Affection bled through you, at the way he kissed her forehead so tenderly, so lovingly.
He followed you into Henry’s room, stepping beside you at the crib. You angled your body toward him, tilting your head back to meet his gaze, his height looming close enough to make the space between you suddenly feel even smaller. You wordlessly offered the baby to him, knowing how long he’d been gone, wanting him to have this closeness, this moment with his son. John’s eyes softened, filling with warmth and gratitude as you carefully passed the baby into his arms.
It was so domestic, so achingly tender — the way he cradled him, the way his eyes shone with affection, with adoration. He pressed his face to the baby’s hair, breathing him in, eyes fluttering shut as the tension in his shoulders dissipated.
With a soft kiss to the top of his little head, he put Henry down, placing him in the middle of the crib, the baby not so much as blinking as his chest rose and fell steadily, his little feet twitching in his sleep.
The two of you slipped out of the room, John closing the door behind him, a faint click spilling into the quiet hall.
“Thank you.” His voice was gruff, gravelly — as if he hadn’t spoken in awhile, the words rasping against his tongue, his throat. Something about the sound of it, the throaty, husky tone, brought a blush to your cheeks, a flush creeping up your neck.
“Of course.”
You were grateful for the darkness of the house, most of the lights having been long switched off. It was late, much later than you should’ve been awake. You should’ve had the kids long tucked into bed, but they had been so peaceful, so blissful on the sofa that you hadn’t wanted to disturb them.
John didn’t seem to mind, though — he was just happy to be home, to be able to put them to bed. He hadn’t had the opportunity in far too long for his liking, having been gone for weeks now. The kids were going to be thrilled when they woke up.
“I should—I should head out.” You didn’t know why you were stumbling over your words, feeling pathetic at the way he always had you flustered, fumbling; your tongue always tied in a knot around him.
He shook his head. “Nonsense.”
His hand closed around your elbow, stopping you — his thumb brushing against your skin and your heart beating so rapidly you were worried he could feel it, could feel the effect his simple touch had on you.
“You’re staying.”
His words left no room for discussion, for debate. Usually, you left when he returned home after a deployment or from a night at work — it was his house after all, and you didn’t want to impose. It wasn’t like you were in a rush to return to your own place — you lived with your parents when you were home for the summer, and they knew where you were, knew about your job.
But he was paying you, and you didn’t want him to feel obligated to keep the clock running when he was under the same roof.
“It’s too late for you to be on those roads,” He told you, as if he needed to provide a reason for you to stay, to keep you there. “And you’ll have to be back in the morning anyway.”
While that was true, you were a grown adult — you didn’t have to stay. It wasn’t like you hadn’t driven at that hour before; not to mention, it wasn’t even midnight yet. You were more than capable of getting home safely, of driving the relatively short distance back to your childhood bedroom.
Truth was, John just wanted you there. Wanted you close, just a thin wall between his room and yours, the guest suite you’d taken over. Wanted to know that you were there, within reach; safe and sound and right next to him. Accessible, reachable — close enough to touch, even though he’d never do a thing about it, to you. You were all that he could think about, all that consumed his thoughts while he was gone, when he’d needed a tether to his humanity, to the man outside the fatigues and the war zone.
He thought of his kids, yes — of course he did. But when the darkness pressed in, when the world he lived in was too ugly to let their faces and pure, innocent hearts touch it, it was you his mind drifted to. You he carried with him.
“Okay.” You finally spoke, too pliant under his gaze, in his presence. It made sense, after all.
He smiled, satisfied as he nodded. “Good.”
And that was that.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁
A/N: this trope is so overdone ik but i was itching to write my own <3 hope you enjoyed!
how i'd love to go to paris again (and again) | j. abbot
pairing jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
summary after jack casually floats the idea of adding a third, you don’t let it stay theoretical for long—what starts as curiosity turns into something a lot more real when robby gets pulled into the space you and jack have built together. (#threesometime #neverforgetchallengers) (ao3)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship with you and jack, living together, unlabelled jack and robby sexualities (bi?), attempt at a true love triangle (et tu, challengers (2024) except no cheating & u and jack r <3. but rabbot under(over?)tones), unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (f/m, m/m), masturbation, praise & teasing, dom!ish robby, bratty!ish reader, lowkey switch/softdom jack idk, finger sucking, domestic, drinking, brief hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), porn with... context?, hint at robby internalised homophobia? possibly ooc for jack sorry, title reference to the 1975 but not inspired by the song more just bad pun bc... paris... threesome... get it
wc 18.3k words
spin off of the fic: my (wo)man on willpower | j. abbot - can be read solo!
Robby doesn’t look confused so much as… unconvinced.
He sits back in the booth, one arm slung along the backrest, beer loose in his hand, eyes moving between you and Jack like he’s watching a consult go sideways.
“…You two wanna try that again,” he says, slow, “but in English this time?”
Jack huffs under his breath, already regretting opening his mouth. He drags a hand over his jaw, glancing at you like he’s half-tempted to pull the plug on the whole thing.
“Told you,” he mutters, low. “Bad pitch.”
You nudge his knee under the table—not hard, just enough. Don’t bail.
Robby catches it. Of course he does. His eyes flick down, then back up, something sharpening.
“Oh, don’t tap out now,” he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. “You brought it up. I’m listening.”
Jack opens his mouth again—
“—No,” Robby cuts him off, not even looking at him. “She talks.”
There’s that tone. The one he uses with residents when they’re dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just… direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactly—more the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.
Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.
You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.
“It’s not… open,” you start, careful. “We’re not looking to—change anything. Not really.”
Robby watches you the whole time. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence for you.
“It’s just—” you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, “—we trust you. Both of us do. And you’ve been… there. With us. For a while.”
“Unfortunately,” he mutters.
Jack snorts. “Speak for yourself.”
But Robby doesn’t look away from you.
You hold his gaze. “It’s not random. It’s not… about finding some person to fool around with. It’s you.”
That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it tightens around the edges.
“…Right,” he says, slower now.
Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. “It’s not a free-for-all,” he adds, dry. “We’re not pitching some kind of ER orgy.”
“Shame,” Robby says flatly.
You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.
Jack shoots him a look. “Be serious for one second in your life.”
“I am serious,” Robby says. Then, to you—“I’m just making sure I understand what the hell you’re asking me.”
His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, the way they’re curled loosely around your glass—then back up again.
“What are you actually offering here?” he asks.
You hesitate—not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.
“It’s not just sex,” you say, quieter now.
Robby’s brow lifts. “No?”
You shake your head. “It’s… us. Still us. Just—” you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, “—with you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.”
There’s a long beat.
Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.
“You two have been together, what,” he says, glancing at Jack, “two years now?”
“Nearly three,” Jack corrects.
“Nearly three,” Robby repeats. “You know, you… you live together. Don’t kill each other. That’s impressive.”
“Thank you,” you say, dry.
His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.
“And you’re both telling me this doesn’t… complicate things.”
Jack answers this time, steady. “Everything’s already complicated. This wouldn’t change what we’ve got. We’ve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.”
Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. There’s history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.
“…You’re serious,” he says finally.
“Yeah,” Jack says.
Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to reset his brain.
“Jesus Christ.”
You don’t rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, it’s different now. Less amused. More… considering.
“You’re asking about the three of us…” he tries, trailing off.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jack’s, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.
“And you’re both just- you’re… good with it,” he says.
Your voice is quieter when you answer. “Wouldn’t be sitting here if we weren’t. You’re attractive, smart, funny. And I think you’ve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.”
Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.
“...Christ,” he mutters again, but there’s a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.
Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.
“You always this persuasive?” He wonders.
You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Only when it matters.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”
Jack shifts beside you, not tense—but alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.
Your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.
You glance down, already half-standing. “I’ve gotta go. Park needs me—Isla called in sick.”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with him.”
You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. “Thanks, baby.”
You lean down—meant to be quick, but it doesn’t quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turning— Robby’s already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.
“Michael,” you say, softer, a small nod.
He repeats your name—flatter, rougher, like he’s testing how it sits in his mouth.
You don’t linger. You head out.
The door swings shut behind you.
Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s resetting.
Robby doesn’t look at the door. He looks at Jack. There’s a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just… processing.
“Alright,” he says. “Who’s idea is it?”
Jack doesn’t bother pretending. “Mine.”
Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“When?”
Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. “Remember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?”
Robby snorts. “Yeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself I’ve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Walking around like—” Robby gestures vaguely, “—like a cat in heat.”
Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our… you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -”
“-get to the point,” Robby says, with a slight snicker.
“Some point, I mention… I don’t know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and… we’re just talking.”
“Talking,” Robby repeats, deadpan.
“Yeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.”
“Hard pass.”
Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What we’d be into, what we wouldn’t.”
“And you landed on me,” Robby says.
“Yeah.”
Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. “…Both of you.”
“Both of us.”
That lands differently.
Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking now—not just reacting.
“That’s your girl,” he says finally. “You’ve built something there. I’m not—” he shakes his head slightly, “—I’m not interested in screwing that up.”
Jack’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought you would.”
Robby glances at him, sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“No,” Jack agrees easily. “But I do know you.”
A beat.
“And I trust you,” he adds.
it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.
“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
Jack’s brow lifts, faintly amused. “That I trust you?”
“That I don’t take that lightly,” Robby shoots back.
Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.
“And you’re fine with it,” he says. Not a question. “Me and her.”
Jack doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
“Really.”
“Yeah.”
Robby studies him—searching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesn’t find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasn’t a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.
“…She’s—” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. “You know what she is.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
“Twenty-something,” Robby continues. “Smart. Looks like—” he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. “You’ve seen her.”
Jack smirks faintly. “I have, yeah. A lot of her. It’s great.”
Robby’s mouth twitches despite himself.
“And she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,” he adds.
Jack’s expression softens just a fraction. “Sometimes.”
Robby nods once, slow. Then—
“…You really telling me you’ve never thought about it? About her” Jack asks, casual—but not careless.
Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.
“That’s not a fair question.”
Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.
Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.
Then he looks back at Jack.
“…Well I’m not blind,” he says.
Jack doesn’t react much. Just watches him.
“She’s—” Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, “—she’s a lot. Sweet.”
Jack’s mouth ticks. “She is… You ever think about her while jerking off?”
Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, they’re being honest. “Yes.”
Robby’s a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable.
“What?” Robby scoffs. “You’re cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is… what, some sort of line being crossed?”
“I didn’t say anything, alright. I’m all good here. Just didn’t think you’d admit it,” Jack nods with insistence. “What about during sex? Thought about her then?”
“...On occasion, yes, I’ve- she’s popped up there, yeah.” Robby admits with brief hesitance.
That’s as far as he pushes it—but it’s enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesn’t threaten anything.
“Fair,” he says.
Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. “You’re taking that a lot better than I thought you would.”
Jack shrugs. “She’s hot. You’re not dead. Tells me you’ve got a working dick, at least.”
Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.
Jack took a sip of his beer, then—because he wasn’t finished, because he never really was with Robby—tilts his head slightly.
“What about me?”
Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. “Oh, come on.”
“No, seriously,” Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. “No shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.”
Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Have you?” Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.
A pause.
Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.
“…You first,” he mutters.
Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”
Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.
“Man, it’s not even—” Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. “Half the time that shit doesn’t mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesn’t make you anything.”
Robby let out a short, humourless huff. “Right.”
“What,” Jack presses lightly, “you worried about the gay implications?”
Robby shot him a look. “Don’t—”
“—What? Say ‘gay’?” Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.
Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.
“We’re talking about whether I’ve jacked off thinking about another guy,” he says, flat. “Yeah, the… ‘gay’ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.”
Jack just nods, like that was fair.
“I just… I guess, I didn’t realise—” Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, you know, are you—”
Jack shrugs, easy. “I’ve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Don’t really care to.”
Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “Figrues. Army man.”
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “You don’t have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesn’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”
“I’m aware,” Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter—like it cost him something— “…It’s crossed my mind.”
Jack’s mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruel—just… satisfied.
“Crossed your mind,” he repeated. “Interesting wording.”
“Don’t start,” Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “It was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. That’s saying something.”
“Fuck you,” Robby mutters, rolling his eyes—but there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.
Jack shrugs, taking another sip. “Options apparently on the table.”
Robby shakes his head, but didn’t argue. Didn’t fully look away, either.
Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.
Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history there—years of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.
Jack didn’t push. Just leaned back, easy.
“Think about it,” he tries. “Or don’t. Nothing changes.”
Robby nods once, short. “Yeah.” A few seconds of quiet. “…You still need that ride home?” he asks.
Jack snorts. “Oh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.”
“Shut up.”
“Flirting now, are we?”
“You are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, don’t think otherwise,” Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.
★★★
2 WEEKS EARLIER
threesomenoun — three·some — ˈthrē-səm
1: a group of three persons or things : trio
2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately
3: a sexual encounter involving three people
“Are you trying to say you wanna play golf?” Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.
The kitchen smells like garlic and butter—onions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. He’s got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.
You’re perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.
“Yes,” you say dryly, scrolling. “I’m deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the balls—”
“—I get it,” Jack cuts in. “You want a threesome.”
You look up at him, unimpressed. “I don’t want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.” A beat. “But I’m not opposed to… expanding the sample size.”
Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. “Expanding the—Jesus. That’s how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?”
“You brought it up,” you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea. ‘Oh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notes’—”
“I did not sound like that.”
“—If anything,” you continue over him, “I think you wanna fuck your best friend.”
“Alright,” Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. “Not what I sound like. And c’mon—you know you’re all I wanna fuck.” He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. “I think these are done.”
“They’re not.” You don’t even look up when you say it. “Anyway… I doubt he’d even be down for it,” you say. “I barely think he likes me as a friend.”
Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.
You narrow your eyes. “What?”
“I think he’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. Then, distracted again—“I really think these are done, hon.”
“Test the carrot,” you say, still scrolling. “If it’s soft enough, it’ll break with pressure.”
He presses the spoon into one. It doesn’t budge.
“…Needs longer,” he admits.
“How do you know that?”
“I just did what you said, I—”
“No,” you interrupt, looking at him properly now. “How do you know Robby would fuck me?”
That slows him down.
Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.
“I know him,” he says. “Twenty years of it. And I know you.” A beat. “There’s something there. A thing. You’ve always had good chemistry.”
You huff lightly. “A vague… thing, maybe.”
You hesitate, then—because you don’t really do half-truths—
“I did have a bit of a crush on him,” you admit. “Before I met you.”
Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.
“I don’t anymore,” you add quickly. “It faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was early—before I started coming down to ED properly. He’d come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was just…” you shrug, searching, “…older. Authority. Bit of an asshole.”
Jack’s mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.
“Glad to know you don’t have a type,” he mutters.
You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.
“Hey,” you murmur. He glances up at you. “I like them a little shorter,” you say softly.
Jack blinks.
Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips.
★★★
The thing about a third—about this third—was that it… kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.
It wasn’t sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.
Robby had never been separate from Jack.
Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edges—this is where I end, this is where you begin—but that had never been the case with them.
Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either.
They’d dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settled—somehow—into their forties without ever untangling.
They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.
And Robby had always lived in that tension.
He didn’t soften easily. Didn’t trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that rule—steady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didn’t mean absence.
There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didn’t exist, but because saying them would’ve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding.
It was easier to file it under something else—loyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didn’t have to be examined too closely.
Then you came along. And you didn’t disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it.
You didn’t wedge yourself between them, didn’t ask Jack to choose, didn’t look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.
And God—there was something about you.
Not just that you were beautiful—though you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.
The way you saw Jack—fully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.
And worse—
The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.
He’d noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didn’t pull back when he got too close, didn’t flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.
You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And that—more than anything—was what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.
That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.
But wanting you like this—in the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didn’t have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines he’d spent years pretending weren’t there.
And Jack…
Jack, who didn’t do anything halfway, who didn’t offer things he wasn’t sure about—was sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasn’t a risk so much as… an opening.
That was what threw him. It wasn’t the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.
And Robby didn’t trust himself nearly that much.
That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simple—but real in a way that resisted being dismissed.
Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.
Not in the way people usually were about relationships—careful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasn’t built like that. He didn’t gush, didn’t sentimentalise—but if he’d had a couple drinks in him and it’d been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.
Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.
In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there.
The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.
Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like… he didn’t know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jack’s mouth like that that sat strange in his chest.
“What the fuck do you mean six times?” Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.
They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadn’t aged out of it—backs damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didn’t talk about sat heavier.
It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasn’t being watched over by the hospital.
Jack didn’t even open his eyes. “I mean she came six times,” he said, easy. “Working up to eight.”
Robby snorted. “You’re talking like it’s a personal best.”
“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t set goals, you stagnate. That’s what my therapist says.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. “What’s your number?”
Robby shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I don’t have a number.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Nope.”
“Bull.”
Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. “…Four. Maybe.”
Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.
“Four,” he repeated.
“Some of us aren’t treating it like a competitive sport,” Robby muttered.
Jack huffed. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s her. She’s a natural.”
“She really that good?” Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack would’ve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.
There was a beat.
Robby stared up at the sky like it didn’t matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.
“She’s—” he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didn’t sound ridiculous and failing. “She pays attention. Like she’s studying you. Figures out what works and then—just… doesn’t let up. Like I’m constantly high around her. And man, she-” Jack cleared his throat. “She does this thing with her tongue.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.
He didn’t say anything.
“She swirls it, right around the underside, traces it—the entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then she’ll—fuck,” Jack had mused. “…She’ll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I can’t describe how good it feels,” Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. “Fucking… incredible.”
Robby couldn’t have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.
“She makes the prettiest noises, like a… I don’t even know,” Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. “Moans and screams, and so… Christ. Like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, possessed.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.
Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. “You asked.”
“I didn’t ask for a breakdown.”
“Semantics.”
Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.
A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Then—
“What’s the deal with you and Noelle?” Jack asked, casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all.
Robby’s jaw shifted.
“She’s… fine,” he said.
Jack cracked one eye open. “That sounds promising.”
Robby huffed. “It’s not—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Don’t think it’s going anywhere.”
Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like he’d expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself
“Yeah,” he said. “Bummer.”
Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.
“Don’t think I’m built for it,” he said finally.
Jack didn’t move. “For what?”
“This,” Robby gestured vaguely. “Relationships. The staying. The… showing up part.”
Jack was quiet for a second.
Then—
“Now that’s bull,” he said, not unkindly.
Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other, what—twenty years? You’ve stuck around that long.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Robby didn’t answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.
“You don’t get to pretend you can’t do something just because you haven’t done it right yet,” he said.
Robby scoffed lightly. “Didn’t realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.”
“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not some unfixable case.”
Robby laughed at that—short, real.
“Garcia said I’d make a good ex-husband,” he said.
Jack snorted. “See? Even she thinks you can commit.”
“That’s not what that means.”
“Close enough,” Jack sighed. “Lie down, will you. You’re so damn tense.”
Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second.
The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.
They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after years—no need to fill it, no need to perform.
“Aw, you two are so cute.”
Jack sat up immediately.
You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlamp—scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like you’d been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jack’s old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there.
For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason they’d been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.
“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. “You finish alright?”
You just nodded, already moving toward him.
You didn’t hesitate—never did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.
“Miss me?” you murmured, barely pulling back.
“Always,” he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.
Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.
You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediately—instinct, habit—sliding over your arms, grounding, checking.
Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.
You exhaled like you’d been holding it all day.
“Jesus,” you muttered. “Keep doing that.”
“Yeah?” Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.
“Mhm.”
You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.
Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always got—half amused, half something else he never quite named.
“Robby,” you said, glancing over at him, “how the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.”
“Sometimes a drink’s all you get,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—brief, involuntary—to where Jack’s hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. “Ortho must’ve been a dream, though.”
You let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.”
“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered.
Jack’s hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re gonna fall asleep right here.”
“Honestly?” you said, eyes half-lidded now, “tempting.”
There was a beat. Quiet again—but different this time. Fuller.
You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.
Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.
You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.
“…You been talking about me?” you asked.
Jack snorted, immediate. “What?”
“You’ve got that look,” you said, squinting at him. “And he’s looking at me weird.”
“I always look at people weird,” Robby said, flat, from the grass.
You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but this is a different weird.”
Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. “We were just talking about your—what was it—immense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.”
His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldn’t quite help himself.
Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. “It’s not far off.”
You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.
“What did you say to him,” you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t entirely serious—but not entirely not.
Jack leaned in, said something under his breath—too quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.
You smacked his leg—right on the prosthetic—with a sharp thwack.
“Jack.”
He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.
“If you actually told him that,” you said, pointing at him, “I swear to god I’ll take this thing off and beat you with it.”
“That’s dramatic,” Jack murmured, still holding your hand. “And also physically unlikely.”
“It’s true, though,” he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. “You’re very good at it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.
Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadn’t agreed to sit through, but couldn’t quite look away from either.
“So the tongue thing’s real then?” he asked, almost idly.
Jack groaned. “Alright. We’re done here.”
You laughed—bright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of you—and turned into Jack properly this time.
It wasn’t quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.
Robby looked away. Not fast enough.
You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jack’s.
“I’ll drive,” you said quietly. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said automatically.
“You’re pretty drunk,” you corrected.
A beat.
“…Alright. Could be a little drunk,” he conceded.
You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.
“Don’t lose the car,” he muttered.
“No promises.”
You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.
“You good?” you asked, softer now.
He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
You nodded like you believed him.
“Night, Michael.”
There was a flicker at that—something small but real.
“Night,” he said.
Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.
“Text me when you get home,” he called back to Robby.
“Sure. Have fun with your girl.’ Robby had said, lying back down.
“I definitely will,” Jack nodded.
You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laugh—something private, something just for him.
Robby watched you both go.
Didn’t move.
The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.
So, when you and Jack finally put it to him—cornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you had—Robby wasn’t as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably should’ve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermath—those were the things a smarter man might’ve led with. But that wasn’t where his mind went first.
It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.
Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruel—if he held your head down and made you choke on him?
And Jack… steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robby’s hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?
It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasn’t even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.
About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existed—intimate, closed, complete—and being told there was room for him inside it.
And that—more than anything else—was what made it difficult to dismiss.
★★★
Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.
The patient is already under—intubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.
“Yeah, that’s a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,” you say, pen tapping the screen. “You can see the displacement here, and the overlap—this is why the leg looks shortened clinically.”
Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. “Fuck.”
You shake your head. “It looks dramatic, but it’s stable from what we’ve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.”
Santos lets out a breath.
You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. “We’ll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But she’s straightforward.”
“Thank god,” Santos mutters. “I was so not bothered to call for another consult.
A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.
Robby.
He’s already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.
“Ortho’s down in ED?” he says.
“Yeah,” you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. “Santos messaged me. Femur fracture.”
He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shifts—clinical, but not entirely neutral. He’s tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.
“Looks like a clean nail,” he says.
“Assuming ortho behaves,” you reply.
He huffs something like a laugh. “They won’t.”
“No,” you agree. “We never do.”
Santos clears her throat. “While I’ve got you—Huckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.”
You pause slightly.
“A Parisian party?” you repeat.
“Yeah,” Santos says, warming to it. “Paris-themed. Like… French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.”
Robby makes a quiet sound behind you—almost a laugh, quickly disguised.
You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the scan like nothing happened.
Santos continues, mildly confused. “Have either of you been to Paris?”
“No,” you say.
Robby: “Nope.”
Santos nods like that still tracks logically. “Yeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.”
There’s a beat.
“Anyway,” She adds, already backing toward the door, “You’re invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. You’re all close”
“...Sounds good, Santos, we’ll let you know,” Robby says with a nod. “North Twelve?”
“Consider it done.” Santos says dry, nodding.
The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back in—clean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that you’re aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be during a trauma consult.
He glances at the CT again. “Paris-themed party,” he repeats flatly.
“Don’t even,” you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.
“What?” he says innocently.
You turn slightly toward him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. “I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.”
“I’m thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,” he says.
“Liar.”
That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.
“You think you’ll go?” he asks.
“No,” you say. “Jack and I have the night off. We’ll be busy.”
“Right,” he nods.
A beat.
“You?” you ask.
“I’d rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,” Robby says with a quiet exhale. “So, no.”
“Come over then,” you offer, stopping at the nurses’ station.
Robby gives you a look. “Thought you said you two were busy.”
“You can be busy with us,” you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. “Or just Jack. Or just me. He told me you’ve thought about it either way.”
A faint sigh leaves him. “Right. I forgot he can’t keep anything to himself.”
He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the station—Dana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like she’s clocking something she hasn’t labelled yet.
“Have you?” he asks softly.
“Thought about you? In that way?” you clarify.
He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.
You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.
“Yes,” you admit. “You’re tall. Kind. Your beard’s nice. You’re probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.”
That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.
“Abbot’s a lover boy at heart,” Robby says. “Gives in easily. ‘Specially for you.”
You nod, like that tracks. “Most of the time, yeah.”
That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, “Is it true you had a crush on me?”
You tilt your head. “God, he really just— Doesn’t keep anything to himself.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “Not at all. I’ve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.”
You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.
“Was it a yes?”
“To the crush?” You consider it. “Yeah.”
That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.
“Before Jack,” you add, like it matters in a technical sense. “Older, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable… I think I might just have a pattern.”
Robby hums, low. “Tracks.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, “And now?”
You don’t look away when you answer. “Now, it’s just… different.”
That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.
You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.
“I’ll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.”
And then you’re gone—already walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.
A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.
Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.
“What’s with that?” she asks.
“...What’s with what?” he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.
“I mean,” she says slowly, “what’s with flirtin’ with Abbott’s girl in front of everybody?”
He doesn’t look at her when he answers.
“That’s not flirting,” he says evenly. “We were just talking.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward the bay. “Just rolled in. Need you over there.”
“Alright,” he says.
And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.
★★★
“—Hey. Hold on a second,” Jack says, breath a little uneven.
“No, don’t—don’t hold on,” you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waist—firm, grounding, stopping you.
“Hey. Easy.” A breath. “Just—gimme a second, alright?”
You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit. “This better be good.”
He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I’ll try not to waste your time.”
A beat. He looks at you properly now—focused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.
“Just… wanna get this straight,” he says.
Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Okay. Then say it.”
He nods once. “He can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.” A pause. “But there are lines.”
You tilt your head, watching him. “Such as?”
His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, enough to mean something. “Such as—you don’t forget who you’re with.”
You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Hard to forget when you’ve got your dick in me half the time I’m not at work.”
“Smartass,” he mutters. Then, quieter—“I’m serious. He doesn’t get to know how you taste. That’s mine.”
“Uh-huh…” You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. “So this is allowed?” You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.
“Yeah, allowed,” Jack nods, his jaw tight.
“Mm. This?” You lean down and kiss him—sweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.
He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.
“Yeah? What about this?” You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.
“All allowed,” he grates out, “but his mouth isn’t getting near this, alright, that’s all—” He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of you—loud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.
“Yeah? That good with you?” he asks, voice rough.
You nod, already starting to ride him—slow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. “What about you and ’im?” you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.
Jack shrugs—or tries to. “What don’t you want?”
“No blowjobs either, then,” you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. “’S for me.”
“Sounds good to me.” His hands find your hips again, but he doesn’t guide—he just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.
You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.
His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.
“Right here,” he murmurs.
You meet his gaze. That same look—steady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.
“Good,” he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.
And when you move again, it’s slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him again—dirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.
“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips. “That’s better.”
★★★
It’s late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.
“No, can’t,” Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. “I’m home. She’s cooking. Smells like I’m about to get fat and happy.”
“Baby, can you come try this?” you call from the kitchen.
“One sec,” he says, then quieter, back into the phone—“What’d you wanna do?”
“Nothing,” Robby mutters. “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like crashing Santos and Whitaker’s… house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.”
Jack stops mid-step. “A hike,” he repeats. “At nine-thirty at night.”
A beat.
“Yeah, not happening,” he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.
You’re at the counter in that barely-there nightgown—soft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.
Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.
Then—business as usual.
“Alright,” he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. “What am I trying?”
You nod at the stove. “Carbonara.”
He leans over, tastes it, hums—low, approving.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “She’s showing off.”
You bump his arm lightly. “I am not.”
“You are,” he says, kissing you quick, easy, like he’s done it a thousand times. “It’s working.”
You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.
On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.
“Hike’s dumb,” Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. “What’s actually going on.”
“Nothing,” Robby says. “Just… can’t sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldn’t shut the fuck up—”
“—Hey,” Jack cuts in, calm, steady. “Take a breath.”
You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you anymore—focused now, locked into that mode.
“You’re good,” he says. “You’re not thinking anything dumb, right?”
A pause.
“…No,” Robby says. “Just need to… get out of my head, I don’t know.”
Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.
“He can come here,” you say, like it’s obvious.
Jack looks at you—quick, assessing—but there’s no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Come over. Food’s ready soon.”
“I don’t know, man—” Robby starts.
You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jack’s hand.
“Hey, Michael.”
There’s a beat.
Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.
“…Hey,” Robby says, slower. “Heard you were cooking.”
“Mhm,” you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jack’s where he stands beside you. “Plenty to go around.”
Jack’s hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessive—just there.
Robby hears the shift anyway.
“This a setup?” he asks.
You smile slightly. “You always this suspicious, or just with me?”
A quiet scoff from him.
“You should come,” you add, softer—but not innocent. “You sound like you need it.”
A beat. Jack’s thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.
Robby exhales. “Yeah. Guess I can make it.”
“Guess you can,” you say easily.
Silence again—but it’s different now.
You glance at Jack.
He nods once.
“Door’s unlocked,” you say. “Twenty minutes.”
You hand the phone back.
Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. “You heard her. No pressure.”
A pause.
“…Alright,” Robby says.
The line clicks dead.
Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.
“What?” You raise a brow.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll finish the laundry.” He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. “You gonna stay in this?” He asks.
“‘S that alright?” You wonder, leaning into his touch.
He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. “Sure.”
★★★
You’re out on the balcony when it comes up.
Jack’s place sits high enough that the city feels almost staged—Pittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. It’s one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. There’s music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you can’t see but can feel in the background.
The balcony’s not small—wide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, it’d be on something worth standing still for.
Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.
“Have either of you done this before?” Robby asks.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “No.”
You don’t answer.
You’re thinking—actually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jack’s arm like you need him to hold on a second. That’s when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadn’t come up when the idea itself had.
“…Have you?” Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.
“I am thinking,” you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.
Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.
“What do you mean you’re thinking?” Jack presses. “That’s not… I don’t know, something you half do or something. You’d know.”
“Or something,” Robby mutters under his breath.
You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. “Okay—no. I don’t think I’ve had a threesome.”
“How can you not think you’ve had a threesome?” Jack wonders.
You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You don’t notice how both men’s gaze drop there.
You exhale, already regretting engaging. “Because—technically—no one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?”
There’s a beat.
Robby’s mouth twitches.
Jack blinks. “...Right.”
“Okay?” you continue, defensive now. “It was—hands. That’s it. Group situation, but not… full commitment.”
Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Group situation,” he repeats.
“Shut up,” you mutter.
“Another guy or girl?” Jack asks, too quickly.
You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. “…Both.”
Jack leans back like you’ve just told him something deeply inconvenient. “...Huh.”
Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. “So not a threesome. Just… poor project management.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Oh my god.”
“That’s a foursome that lost direction,” he adds, dry.
“Whatever,” you shrug. “Med school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.”
Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.”
You smirk faintly. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”
Jack scoffs. “I’ve had opportunities.”
“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced.
Robby glances at him sideways. “That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” Jack says, defensive now. “I just—never felt the need.”
“Right,” Robby says. “Till now.”
Jack gives him a look. “Till now.”
Something passes there—quick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.
After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.
Inside, you hear Jack moving—plates, running water. Robby’s voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.
“Thanks, baby,” you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.
You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.
You push him away lightly. “Don’t start.”
Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.
“Next to the fridge?” he asks, like he hasn’t been here a hundred times already—like tonight isn’t slightly different.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Recycling. Thank you.”
He gives a short nod and turns— You catch his wrist. It’s not forceful. Just enough.
“Hey,” you say, softer.
He looks down at you.
There’s a pause—his eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. You’re close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.
You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightly— and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s far from tentative either. Close. Testing.
His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a second—then responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided where it’s allowed to land.
Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. That’s what does it.
“Starting without me?” Jack’s voice cuts in, dry. “Bit mean.”
Robby pulls back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—even though—
Even though.
You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.
“Next to the fridge,” Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.
Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.
Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesn’t move out of the way.
He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.
You end up on the couch.
It happens naturally—plates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.
Jack’s in the middle, halfway through some story from work—one of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he can’t quite let go of.
You’re tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neck—fingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.
Robby’s behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thigh—slow, absent movement, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.
Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.
Jack keeps talking.
You lean in without really thinking about it—your lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.
Jack’s hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.
Robby’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, it shifts—just slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.
Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your back—then relaxes again.
He doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.
And for a second—just a second—you’re aware of both of them at once.
Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavier—watching more than speaking.
Jack’s gaze lifts. Meets Robby’s. There’s a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between them—wordless, measured. Something you can’t read.
Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robby’s jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.
Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this time—slow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.
When you pull back, it’s not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.
Robby’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like it’s nothing—like it’s always been this simple—and kiss him too.
Different. Not softer, not harder—just new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like he’s grounding himself in it.
There’s a quiet breath from him—almost a huff, almost disbelief.
“This is fun,” You murmur.
You don’t give him time to overthink it.
You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.
Jack’s mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.
Robby hesitates for a fraction of a second— then doesn’t.
The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s learning something he’s not used to having.
You exhale, a soft sound you don’t quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctively—one finding Jack’s hair, the other Robby’s, fingers threading through both, holding them there.
For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.
Then you shift, just slightly—hands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robby’s hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.
Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like he’s checking in—like he always does.
His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.
You lean back into him, lips finding his neck again—dragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.
When you pull back, it’s only barely. Your breath catches—not dramatic, just… aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.
Jack’s hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.
“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. “Feeling needy?”
You nod against him, answering with your mouth instead—kissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.
“Yeah,” he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. “I know, hon.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You want me, or him?”
You hesitate. Not long—but long enough to matter.
Robby’s hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightly—testing, not taking. Waiting to see what you’ll do with it.
“It’s alright,” Jack starts, voice still calm, like he’s talking you through something he already trusts. “Go ahead. She likes it when you—”
“—I’ll ask you for help if I need it, alright?” Robby cuts in, low and even.
They exchange a look—brief, sharp, understood.
You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jack’s cheek—something sweet, grounding—before shifting your weight and climbing into Robby’s lap.
He stiffens for a second. Just a second.
Robby’s always been hard to read. Time’s etched itself into his face, but there’s still that wall there—something held back, something controlled. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s you. His best friend’s girl, sitting on him like this—close, warm, curious.
“You okay there, Sasquatch?” you tease, tilting your head up at him.
His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicks—down, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.
“Sasquatch? Really?” he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Beard, tall… same thing, no?” you shrug lightly.
That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.
“She always cracking jokes before getting fucked?” Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties
“Depends,” Jack admits. “One time I got G.I Joe for an hour.”
“He was in uniform, in my defense,” You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robby’s fingers, eager. “Come on, Michael.”
Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him.
“What a cute noise you make, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs. “Ask me nicely now.”
You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.
“Ask or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,” Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.
“Please,” you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”
You crash your lips to his—harsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussy—no mercy, no prep.
You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digits—walls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.
“Move your fingers toward her ventral,” Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.
Robby exhales sharp through his nose—mild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.
“Christ, you’re making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Huh?” Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sight—your swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic.
He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrust—wet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.
He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot.
“You getting close?” He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. “That right?”
Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.
“What else she like?” Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.
Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.
Robby yanks his fingers free abrupt—your pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively.
His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deep—tongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.
“Atta girl, you’re a fuckin’ mess now aren’t you?” Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. “You wanna cum?”
You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.
“Not yet,” Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. “Barely seen what you can do.”
You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.
“Go over to him. Make him feel good,” Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.
You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.
“On the floor, knees, now,” Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.
You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.
“You alright there?” he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.
You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining there—heat pulsing under your touch.
You tug the waistband down, freeing his cock—thick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.
Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead first—tongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.
“Look pretty down there,” Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.
“You’re so soft with her,” Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.
Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steady—saliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.
Robby's gaze burns hot—flicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalp—not shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.
“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm.
Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.
He groans low, head lolling back, “Fucking… perfect. So perfect, always.”
Tension crackles thicker between them—Jack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.
“You alright there, man?” Jack scoffs, a light smile. “Can’t handle it?”
It’s a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.
Jack knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the tells. The slight tilt of Robby’s head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. He’s seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.
Robby doesn’t back down from anything. Least of all him.
Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jack’s—steady, unflinching.
“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” Robby agrees with his own smile. “Go ‘head.”
Jack groans at your relentless mouth—fast and wet, then slowing perfect against him—his hand stroking over Robby’s clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby's—sloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.
You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fist—pumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.
“Oh fuck,” Jack moans into Robby’s mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.
Your free hand joins Jack’s on Robby’s cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jack—your hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure.
Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jack’s cock.
Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. “Fuck, feel that grip? She’s got hands made for this,” he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.
Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. “Let him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.”
You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes over—fist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheek—wet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.
“Dreamt about this once,” he admits, voice low. “The way Jack described it, you’d think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?” He wonders.
You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.
“Seemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,” You remark, not looking away from Robby’s gaze.
His jaw tightens. “He’s pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.”
You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutal—half his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw.
You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robby’s thigh.
“Shit—yeah, like that,” Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the pace—pulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in.
He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.
You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robby’s cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robby’s hand tightens harder in your scalp.
Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.
Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.
“I’m good,” Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. “Slow down, sweetheart.”
Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroat—throat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.
Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: “Fucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?” He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheek—left, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skin—before you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.
“She can take it,” Jack murmurs, voice thick. “Can you, baby? Come on, speak now.”
You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. “Mhm.” You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.
“So damn sweet now,” Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. “That feel good?”
You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberate—thumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.
“No more of that, alright?” Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. “Yeah? You listening?”
You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. “Fuck you—you wanna cum, I get to cum too.”
Robby tilts his head, that piercing look—the one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. “Not how it works,” Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.
You glance at Jack, pleading.
“Don’t look at him,” Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. “Put both hands behind your back if you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat.”
Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lips—slow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.
Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob frantic—suction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist.
You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.
“Jesus Christ—yeah, there we go…” Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight.
He floods your mouth suddenly—hot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.
“Fuck,” he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.
You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.
You smile at that. “Go on,” Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. “Jack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?”
Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.
“Atta boy,” You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. “You think you can still fuck me, old man?” You whisper.
“Watch it,” Robby murmurs.
“You can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.” You whisper. “Jack,” you grab Jack’s hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.
“Up and at it,” Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.
“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.
You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.
In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined panties—crotch soaked dark—and a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.
Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yours—passionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.
Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.
Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neck—sucking a mark deliberate.
“Baby, lie down for me,” Jack instructs.
You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robby’s lips trail over his skin.
“Enjoying yourself?” Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. “You gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?”
“Fuck off,” Jack murmurs. “Go sit in a corner and wait, or somethin’,” Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.
“Think I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,” Robby says. “Unless you’re not as skilled as you’ve been bragging to be.”
“Oh, my god, one of you make me cum or else I’m doing it myself, Jesus,” you whine.
“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. “I’m leaving you waiting here.”
“She’s being a brat. Have some patience, honey,” Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. “But she’s right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.”
Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh.
Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show.
"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck,"
Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.
Jack’s tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise.
Your eyes stay fixed on Robby’s as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.
“Wider,” Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. “Stop squirming. Take it.”
From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissection—calm, analytical, utterly in control. “How close are you?” he asks, his tone clinical.
“Mm, close,” you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jack’s tongue flicks hard over your clit.
“You make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,” Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. “Callin’ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.
Jack’s tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes don’t leave Robby’s as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.
“Want me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?” Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips.
He doesn’t miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like he’s holding you together.
You’re too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.
“Answer me,” Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. “Who do you want first?”
“You,” you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.
Robby’s smirk widens. “You hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.” He doesn’t look away from you as he says it.
He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robby’s fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.
“I was right,” you murmur, breathless. “Knew you’d be mean.”
“Yeah? You like it?” Robby wonders, though he already knows.
You bite your lip, refusing to answer.
He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure command—dark, expectant. Obey.
“I like it,” you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jack’s hair. “Fuck—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”
“Yeah?” Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. “Eyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep ’em right here.” His gaze holds yours captive. “Good girl… good girl, aren’t you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isn’t that right?”
You whimper as Jack’s tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.
“Good job, baby. Fucking hell,” Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise.
He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robby’s on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.
“My favourite girl in the world, you know that,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.
You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robby’s mouth.
“You aren’t a brat, are you baby?” Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. “No, honey, not for me, isn’t that right? Yeah, I know, I know… my sweet girl,” He replaces Robby’s mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss.
“Told you. Lover boy,” Robby remarks to you.
You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robby’s lips.
You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. It’s harsh and sweet all at once—a clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest.
Robby stands, briefly cupping Jack’s jaw in a gesture that’s both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robby’s hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.
He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.
“Ass up, sweetheart,” Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.
You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a word—a seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.
"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.
Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.
Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.
“Shit,” Robby mutters. “Fuckin’ hell, you know much Jack’s raved about this pussy? Callin’ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.”
His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythm—pounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. “Perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?”
You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him.
“How the fuck do you leave home, Jack— Jesus Christ,” Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.
“Life or death, and that’s it,” Jack says.
“Come on, give him some love, kid,” Robby tells.
Jack’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. “Fuck, just like that,” he rasps.
You’re split between them—Robby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jack’s length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robby’s hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet.
“You like being used like this baby?” Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him.
You don’t answer, focused on the sensation of Robby’s cock harsh within you.
“He asked you a question,” Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.
“Uh-huh,” you nod.
“See? Not so hard,” Robby groans.
Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jack’s cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.
"Just like that… Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."
The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."
You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.
"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you.
Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.
"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder.
Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fucking—hell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"
His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke.
"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.
"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."
“Go ahead, cum,” Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electric—each thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Now.”
You moan around Jack’s cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robby’s thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.
"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.
He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you.
“Goddamnit,” Robby murmurs, a pant.
Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jack’s cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.
“Your turn,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.
But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until you’re straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jack’s chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robby’s cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jack’s length.
Jack’s hands come to your hips, steadying you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.
From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. He’s kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jack’s fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.
You open for him, tasting Robby’s salty tang on Jack’s skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jack’s eyes never leave Robby’s as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.
Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Atta girl,” Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.
Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.
You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jack’s thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
“That’s it,” Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your body—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.
You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Eyes open, sweetheart.”
Robby’s command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. He’s moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where you’re joined with Jack. He’s watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.
“Look at you,” Robby murmurs, his voice thick. “Takin’ him so well."
His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.
“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Your moan, soft.
“Fucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum f’me,” he moans.
Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.
Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. “Fucking—just like that—”
As you’re pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jack’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. It’s raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.
Robby breaks the kiss. “Lift up for a second, kid,” he breathes against your skin.
Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jack’s slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robby’s hand replaces you, wrapping around Jack’s shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.
“Missed the taste of you,” Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friend’s face as he works him.
Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jack’s cock until you’re fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.
“Go ahead, finish,” Robby growls, his command for both of you.
You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. He’s close—you can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.
“Come on, Jack,” Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. “Fill her up. Give her what she needs.”
That does it. With a shattered cry, Jack’s hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robby’s already there, flooding you.
Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarbone—checking, not asking out loud but asking anyway.
Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.
“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it’s been all night.
“Mhm,” You nod, catching your breath.
“There she is,” Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.
Robby doesn’t move right away.
He’s sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier now—but there’s something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least… dialed down.
You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, there’s that flicker—uncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just… recalibration.
Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.
Robby’s hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demanding—just holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto something.
When you pull back, you stay close.
“Hey,” you say, softer.
“Hey,” he echoes.
Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when he’s settling you.
Jack kisses gently at your bare back, “Be right back,” he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic.
You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.
You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jack’s shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.
“Jesus,” you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. “I think my legs might actually fall off.”
That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.
He’s sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks… different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Think you’ll live.”
You glance over at him, managing a small smile.
He’s already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low light—the Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. There’s something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.
There’s a beat.
Then, softer—
“…You good?” You ask.
He turns your head toward you. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admit– “Needed that. Needed to be… not alone, I think.”
You watch him for a second—something thoughtful in your expression.
“That something you’d wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?” You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. “
Robby doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at you—really looks, like he’s trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.
Your hair’s a mess, Jack’s shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just… asking.
His jaw shifts slightly.
“…You always this direct after something like that?” he mutters.
You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m an ortho resident. I don’t have time for interpretive dance.”
That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like he’s trying to settle something under the surface.
“It’s not—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “It’s not really a ‘one and done’ kind of question.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Why not?”
He glances at the door—where Jack disappeared—then back at you.
Because Jack’s not just some guy. Because this isn’t just sex. Because there’s history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.
You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. “Do you have… like, real feelings for him? Or me?”
Robby scoffs a chuckle. “I don’t have time to think about that.”
“Just time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure he’ll give me a complaint about that later.” You murmur.
Robby smiles a bit. “You two are… perfect for each other. I still don’t get how he found you.”
“I don’t know either, to be honest,” You admit. “But he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And it’s not just because your dick is great, promise. You’re always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We aren’t picky people.”
“Picked up on that,” Robby nods, quieter now. “What are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.”
You smile a little—more to yourself than anything—your hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.
“No idea,” you admit. “However long he wants me around, I guess.”
Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Well, if age’s anything to go by, you’ve got a good couple of years.”
You smack his arm lightly. “You’re literally older than him.”
“I’m not marrying you,” Robby shoots back, deadpan.
“You’re an ass,” you sigh.
That earns you a small smile.
The door opens.
Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweep—quick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.
“My leg’s killing me,” Jack mutters, like it’s an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like pain’s just background noise. He hands you the glass. “Drink.”
You take it, still watching him. “You say that about everything.”
“Because everything’s fine.”
Robby snorts under his breath. “Yeah. That’s a healthy coping mechanism.”
Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to compare notes?”
Robby raises his brows. “Not particularly.”
Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automatically—absent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.
His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.
“What’d I miss?” he asks.
You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. “Marriage.”
Jack huffs. “One night with my girl and you’re already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.”
Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.
“With you, idiot,” you correct.
Jack glances down at you. “Oh, him and I are getting married now?”
You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby instead—curling lightly into his side.
It lasts all of two seconds.
Jack’s arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.
“Relax,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.
Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.
Robby stays the night.
Not in the same way—there’s a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.
He’s not intrusive. Never has been.
But he doesn’t leave, either.
if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D
a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.
anyway thank u guys all for the support on my (wo)man on willpower, so proud of that fic and so sweet the reblogs and comments! i wish u could see my grin every time! and yall hammered me for this so i hope its up to standard, meets an expectation or two. i had a lot of fun just exploring the dynamic, you x robby, robby x jack, jack x you, like i am a true believer in true love triangles, so hopefully that came across, but admittedly, still keeping jack and reader endgame obvi, so.. also sorry if it aint gay enough, i told yall i do not read mlm stuff, just not for me. i love it! just dont like, actively read it yk! i also just wanted to have fun with the prose, emotional stuff, etc, and idk. hopefully the smut isnt terrible, that shit is hard as hell! like, positions, dirty talk?! dirty talk is hardddd guys!! then like the build to it, ugh. i wish i had a smut class at my uni or something so i could really get into the weeds of it, and spend time endlessly editing it. i really couldve spent another few days editing this but honestly wanted it OUT and DONE !! need to lock in got exams soon team. okay sorry for this long as hell authors note ! lmfaoo. hope yall liked!
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Leon finds you amidst an outbreak on the islands of Greece. He does what he's meant to do: keep you safe, get you out, complete the mission.
And then, he gets to the part where he's supposed to leave you.
leon s. kennedy x reader
13.5k words, read on ao3
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, canon-typical violence, pre-re9 leon, afab!reader, f!reader, age gap (40, late 20s/30), protective!leon, softdom!leon, strangers to lovers, leon scott kennedy's raging savior complex, forming questionable attachments to someone you save, separation anxiety, PTSD, mentions of drugs (t-virus, sedation), hurt/comfort, intimacy, [porn with feelings, dirty talk, praise, size kink, body worship, blowjob, facesitting, unprotected sex, desperate sex, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, creampie]
This is how Leon finds you.
Barefoot, in a white linen dress, stained red like the rest of Santorini.
Tucked against the wall of a small alcove, your crouched figure is only barely hidden by creeping shadows and bougainvillea. A rusty metal rod is gripped tight to your chest, your only lifeline in this hellhole.
A survivor.
His feet are already moving to close the distance; this is a drill his body knows well.
He's done it once, twice, and a hundred times over— this time is no different.
Keep them safe.
Get them out.
Complete the mission.
(His order of operations.
A set of fundamental truths to live by.)
The few infected stragglers in the area go down with one, two suppressed shots from his gun. It's not quiet enough to keep you from noticing. When he turns back towards your little corner of safety, he finds you staring right back at him, eyes wide like you're not sure whether to stay still or run.
Slow, he tells himself. Don't scare them off.
Reholstering his gun, he raises both hands and starts to approach you. Deliberately, patiently.
He's about ten feet away from you when he drops down on one knee, dipping his chin in an effort to look smaller and less... him.
It's easier to make out your features now that he's closer.
You're young— younger than him, at least. Hair clings to a face still unfettered by age. The exposed skin on your body looks unmarred. Soft, manicured hands that look out of place wrapped around the rusty iron.
Undoubtedly civilian.
You're still watching him like a frightened animal; brows furrowed and muscles stiff with tension.
A cat, he thinks.
That's what you remind him of. Can almost imagine the airplane ears and bristled fur.
"Hey," he offers softly. "Leon Kennedy. DSO."
There's no recognition in your eyes, and for a moment, he wonders if you can even understand him. He reaches up to his ear, about to call out to his comms when you ask—
"Are you here to help me?"
It's a quiet sound. Barely a whisper, fear laced in every word.
His hand drops back down, resting on a knee. Your question burns him, not from the words, but because of how vulnerable it sounds.
Like you want to trust him so badly.
He hasn't even done anything yet; hasn't even begun to earn any of what you're offering up.
Leon nods, keeping your gaze. Your shoulders droop, just a little.
"You okay? Hurt anywhere?"
Eyes flittering over you again, down to where blotches of red stain your dress.
You blink slowly, then look down at yourself as if trying to figure that out, too. He waits; the open silence soon punctuated with the shake of your head.
"Good," he pushes himself up with a grunt.
Slowly—you're still a bit jumpy—walking over and settling in front of you, he reaches out with a gloved hand.
"I'll get you out of here, okay?"
Eyes flicker from his face to his hand, back and forth, like you're still debating the pros and cons of running away. But eventually, one of your hands let go of the metal bar and slip into his.
Warmth.
Seeping through the wrinkled leather on his hands, it’s an unfamiliar thing when everything he touches is usually cold and gray. Almost disarming, almost dangerous.
The shadows on your face lift with the passing sun as he pulls you up from the ground. Behind you, a breeze catches fuschia branches. You give his hand the gentlest squeeze.
"Okay."
It's barely audible over the sound of rustling bougainvillea, but he hears you; sees the beginnings of something akin to hope piecing itself together in your eyes.
And for Leon—
(Somewhere, someplace in the back of his mind, cementing into place.
A timer beginning its countdown once again.)
—that's all he needs.
Fira is quiet as Leon guides you into town from the outskirts.
It's nearly noon, but the town feels stuck in a sleepy morning that never woke up.
Wouldn't think it to be an outbreak site if it weren't for the sheer amount of blood.
Whitewashed buildings he's seen in pictures are drenched in blood like a bad paint job. The overwhelming scent of iron is unpleasant mixed with the salty ocean breeze.
You don't comment on it, but he sees the way you wince and turn at the sight. Notices how your hands fist the fabric of your ruined dress. Almost like you're trying to curl in on yourself to get away from it all.
It's not just the blood.
Bodies litter the streets— some more undead than others. He doesn't let them get near, pushing you behind him whenever he spots an infected. Favors his firearms over close combat because he can't risk leaving you at a distance. Tries his best to shield you from the worst of it.
Still, they're everywhere.
On the ground, slumped over balconies.
Scattered over the cliffsides where land meets sea.
The easier way to go, he concedes. His boots squelch in a puddle of blood. He glances down, frowning.
"Glad I'm not the one cleaning this up," he mutters.
Behind him, you let out a small amused breath—barely a huff. Leon looks towards you, mild surprise on his face.
You'd been relatively quiet, until now.
"...It would be a lot of mopping," you offer, eyes tilting down when you catch his expression. Sheepish.
(Your own feet are no longer bare, strapped to a pair of sandals he nicked from a souvenir shop further back. Not the most practical, but he couldn't just let you walk around in nothing.)
His lips quirk up, just a bit.
You're handling everything remarkably well.
Leon doesn't tell you this— knows not to.
Because he knows that this front, however strong, is a delicate thing. Vividly remembers how it felt to keep it up, to pretend it was all just another day—not out of naive optimism or any kind of rationality, but as a necessary part of surviving.
He doesn't know what you've seen or done to get this far. Won't ask you to relive it for him either.
You're resilient; that much is clear.
So he asks about other things instead.
Your name, where you're from— simple things. Mundane things. You answer honestly, in spite of the circumstances.
A grad student.
Art history, you tell him. Something about Ancient Minoans and pottery and wall paintings. It's nothing he understands— all mumbo-jumbo in his mind.
But the more he coaxes these things out of you, the more your nerves seem to stitch themselves back together. The more your eyes seem to brighten up. So he tries his best with it—asks you questions that probably seem a bit dumb, if only to keep your mind off all the blood and bodies you come across.
He offers you tiny things about himself, too.
Because maybe, you could come to trust him more if he felt like a real person.
He tells you about his motorcycle he keeps back home when you pass by a line of knocked-over mopeds. Talks about how hot it is in Greece, compared to the cold, rainy spring back in Washington.
You nod along; still tense, but you listen.
His mind stutters a little, the first time you show him a real smile.
He's in the middle of scoping out a closed-in streetpath covered with awnings when he hears a small clang. His gun whips out, steadily pointing at where it came from, behind some knocked over trash. He feels you against his back without him even asking—good. You're getting used to the drill.
Another clang, this time a little closer. He squints, not spotting any shadows or infected in the narrow alleys between the buildings. But then, something clutches at him— your hand. Tensing, he spares you a quick glance.
"What is it?" He asks, gaze turning back to the pathway.
Quiet, and then—
A cat.
Scurrying across the stone path, leaping onto a nearby half wall. It sits there, letting out a meow and licking a paw. The gun points back down, his shoulders relaxing as the tension alleviates.
"Oh."
He turns to you, just in time to see your lips curving up into a smile.
It's a sight so out of place in this hellhole, that it catches him off guard.
Pretty—
You look at him; it's the first time he's seeing something close to joy on your face.
"I've seen that cat around, I think." You point at it. He spares it a another glance. "It has a cut—on the left ear. I remember."
It does. A small notch cutting diagonally on its left ear.
"There's a lot of them on the island," you explain softly, eyes still on the cat. It stares back, slowly flicking its tail and and forth. "It was being bullied by some bigger ones. I felt bad for it, so I chased them away."
You let out a soft laugh. His eyes trace the movement of your lips.
"Well, that one ended up running away, too. Not sure if I actually helped."
The cat eventually jumps over the other side, and he continues where he left off, guiding you down the streetpath with a careful eye.
He doesn't think about how much prettier you look with a smile on your face. Ignores the echoes of your laugh in his mind.
Focus, Kennedy. Focus.
He forces himself to move on. To think about the mission instead.
He stares into the empty street.
(Something is strange.
From when he was dropped off at the port to now, there's been plenty of infected roaming the town— but something is off.
It doesn't seem like enough.
He's seen bigger outbreaks in less populated places. Seen hoards of infected civilians in places you wouldn't think had a population over a thousand.
The briefing said a sudden outbreak overnight— could it have been timing? Too many people asleep in their beds, not enough to infect outside? Were they all rounded up somewhere?
Whatever it is, he needs to figure it out soon.)
At the end of the path, one street flows into three more. A curved road leads up higher into the hillsides, while the other paths lead opposite ways. A quick consult to his GPS device shows him an emergency clinic on the upper path. The other roads leading to more residential buildings and shops.
He considers it.
Considers how the possibility of the outbreak originating from a health clinic isn't exactly zero.
Clinic it is.
Leon leads you up the little hill, before stopping at an open street. On the other side, sits the clinic.
It's a sight out of a horror movie.
Wooden planks hastily nailed against the windows and door, like someone had realized something horrible was happening outside. Some are shattered, chopped through like some last ditch effort to get out once they realized the bad thing was actually locked inside with them.
He approaches, flashing his light into the half-broken down doors.
You frown, pursing your lips as you glance back and forth between the building and him.
"Are we…going inside?"
He hums, peeking through the gaps of the boarded windows. "Clinic's a useful place to check in situations like this."
You don't answer. Leon pauses and looks at you.
Arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders hunched in, eyeing the building like it's going to suddenly move and eat you alive.
You're scared.
"Hey," he says, walking back to you and ghosting a hand over your shoulder. "I'm not going to make you go in with me if you don't want to."
He squeezes your shoulder, reassuring. "But you have to promise me to stay here until I come back, okay?"
You peek at him through your lashes, nodding gingerly. Bottom lip tucked under your teeth.
"Okay."
Okay.
He scans the area. Trash bins, parking lot, gated in. Space for you to hide yourself in. He could work with that.
There aren't many infected around when he leaves for a quick perimeter check. He doesn't need to guess to know most of them are probably boarded up in that clinic. The ones that are there, die with a bullet to the brain.
When he gets back to you, you're still rooted to the same spot.
You're obedient. He likes that about you.
He pulls you over, makes you huddle into the side of the building. Hidden from the open street, away from potential danger. Should be safe, he tells you, but he grabs his hatchet and gives it to you anyway. Because a hatchet is better than nothing. Peace of mind.
His hand finds your arm, giving you another gentle squeeze.
"I'll be quick," Leon says, firm. "Stay sharp, okay?"
A sinkhole opens up in your heart the moment Leon leaves.
It's quiet; too hot, with the midday sun glaring down on your bare shoulders.
Too much space for you to think.
Everything had been fine, before today.
You had been on vacation. A self-indulgent splurge shared with a few friends to visit one of your bucket-list destinations. It should've been a dream come true; a break from research, the endless papers, the tedious grading.
Yesterday's memories spring up— vaguely foggy. It had been a good day. Brunch, some sightseeing, a beautiful sunset in Imerovigli, dinner before your friends left to go to some fancy lotus-themed club while you stayed at the hotel to rest.
A slow day.
But at least it had been normal.
At least you hadn't left the hotel early to go find your friends, only to find the streets filled with undead instead. At least you weren't covered in someone else's blood.
At least you weren't toeing over bodies and guts, following a man decked head-to-toe with straps and ammo and other things you don't know the names of, wielding guns that blew through skulls like nothing— all because he said he'd get you out.
Don't talk to strangers, your mother had always warned.
Now look at you.
All dependent on a stranger you met several hours ago, a man who you know next to nothing about.
(A man who can somehow make you feel so safe.)
In a sudden moment of clarity, you feel naked— helpless, exposed to the elements. Regret seeps in. The idea of going into an enclosed, zombie-ridden place suddenly sounding more rational than ever.
You know Leon cleared the area for you before going in, but if some zombie decides to pop-up now, you're not sure you would survive again.
All the fight had drained from you the moment Leon stepped into your orbit. When he took up the responsibility of pushing you behind him and using himself as your shield. When he held your hand and told you he'd get you out.
You don't want to be alone, you realize—you want to go after him.
Shit, you'd probably follow him into a burning building, at this point.
The heavy mini axe he gave you isn't doing you any favors, isn't making you any less anxious as your eyes peel back and forth. Between the building, the darker shadows in the alleyways, behind you, even though your back is to a wall.
So, when the tell-tale groan of a zombie falls on your ears, you inevitably panic.
Whipping your head around, you spot it—a man with a solid chunk of his neck gone, staggering around the building. Your stomach drops, mind racing. Where did it come from?
It's not looking at you right?
It can't see you.
But you're scared, trembling. You take a small step back—a mistake.
Your foot kicks a piece of wood on the ground. It makes the smallest sound. Your breath catches when the man's head snaps towards you, bitten neck splurting blood.
It starts to run, faster than any of the other ones you've seen.
Oh, fuck—
You break into a sprint, past the building into the little parking lot on the side. Adjusting the grip on Leon's axe, you frantically look around for anything that could help you.
A few cars are still parked at the lot; the owners probably never left, you realize, bile threatening to come up.
An idea pops into your head.
You scurry around the front of a car, waiting on its passenger side. The infected man follows just like that, around the front.
Okay, okay, you tell yourself. This could work.
You reel around the trunk quickly, making a fast circle around the vehicle until you're right behind the man. It doesn't see you; too dead to have any sort of peripheral awareness.
And then, with all the power you can muster, you swing down, right into its head—crack!
It slumps, falling limp against the side of the car before dropping into itself on the ground. Axe sticking awkwardly out of its skull.
Dead.
Thump, thump—ears ringing, heart drumming. If it doesn't stop beating out of your chest, you might actually die.
The axe, you pant, breath quivering. Need the axe back.
You lean down and pull with shaky hands; the handle doesn't move.
One more time.
Nothing.
It's stuck. You put all your strength into it, even using your foot on the body as leverage to try and unwedge the blade from the bone, mentally blubbering out apologies to the person it used to be. But it doesn't budge.
Fuck.
Dread starts to pool in your stomach.
You can't stay here. Not without a weapon.
One step back becomes two, two becomes three, until you're running back towards the entrance and into the clinic.
Red. Everywhere. Even in the shadowy hallways, only dimly lit by streaks of sunlight, you can see it. The floors, the benches, the reception. Red.
You run past it all. A trail of bodies down the hall, your beacon.
You hear Leon before you find him.
The sound of bullets and furniture toppling over echoes out of a room further down the hallway. You make a beeline towards it—racing past more and more bodies, into the face of danger. When you get to the entrance, your heart jumps into your throat.
In the middle of it, Leon stands, fighting off a horde of the undead.
Five, you count. Toppling over beds and stray carts, lurching ever closer. Three go down easily with a spray of bullets; the other two approach slower. Leon backs up against a bed, prepping for a quick reload, when you see it—
A body, creeping out from beneath. Your eyes widen.
You can see it.
But he can't.
Fear rushes over you like a bucket of cold water. You shout.
"Leon—behind!"
Leon's gaze snaps to you instantly, but it's a second too late. A hand grasps at his boot, catching him off guard and breaking his balance. Somehow, he manages—ripping his leg out of its grip and sending his heel straight back into its face. He lifts his leg again before crushing its skull against the floor, blood and brain gushing everywhere.
But his balance is off.
He falls back onto the mattress with a grunt. The two infected are still darting at him, only barely missing him every time they grab at him. He grunts, rolling around to avoid them, gun still mid-reload.
Think, think, think!
A broken wooden plank on the floor catches your eye. It's splattered with yellow paint and sharp nails, leftover from the boarding. You leap at it, arms screaming at its unexpected load.
Come on, come on!
Turning back, you bolt towards the one of the infected, right as it launches itself onto Leon. With a cry, you slam the plank into the side of its head, nail side-up. It staggers with a groan, blood spewing from where the nails impale its flesh.
It's just enough of a distraction for Leon to kick the other one back, reload, and send a bullet into its skull. Just in time for him roll off the bed, put himself between you and the infected that's now lurching in your direction.
He shoots— two in the face, one more into its chest, when it drops onto the floor.
You pant, huffing deep breaths that leave your chest trembling.
Holy fuck.
You see Leon turning, feel him staring, but you ignore it. Legs weak from the sudden rush, you sway, stumbling back into a cart for some kind of support. Hiss the moment your hand leans on it, pulling back and shaking your wrist in pain.
Immediately, Leon's hovering over you. His own gloved hands gently prying your palms open to check for injuries.
"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
Prickly pain radiates as he feels them for injuries.
Splinters, you realize. Some big, some small, embedded all over your palms and fingers. Already growing red where they pierce flesh. You let out a miserable groan, mumbling ugly curses at the plank.
"Not too bad," Leon mutters, still assessing the state of your hands. "We’ll need to pick them out.”
He nudges you over to a clean bed further away. You sit, still reeling from the physical whiplash. Drags over a nearby stool and discards his gloves. Takes out a small flashlight from his belt, tucking it between his neck and shoulders and shining the light over your palms.
You shiver at the heat of his breath against your skin.
"Hold still for me, sweetheart."
Oh, you blink, adrenaline struggling to settle. That's new.
He starts with the bigger visible pieces. Some are deeper, having been stabbed deep with how hard your grip had been on the plank. Each squeeze of his fingers send stinging shocks through your nerves. You wince, when red beads on the surface of your skin.
"Gonna need a tetanus shot after this," you mumble.
Leon raises his head for a second. His lips twitch up into a weak smile. Your heart misses its beat.
"Probably."
His fingers are careful as he picks the remaining wood out of your hands. Slowly, methodical. Checking up on you every time you twitch a little too hard, like he's afraid of hurting you.
You watch him. Really look at him.
Shaggy hair keeps falling into his sightline, unkempt like he can't be bothered to do anything with it. Stubble covers the bottom of his face; freckles and sunspots here and there, barely visible. Strikingly blue eyes.
It's a face you'd stop to look twice at, on some night out.
Handsome, you muse.
Leon pats your hand when he's done, tells you to touch something to see if there are any more stuck pieces. You do that, rubbing your fingers together as he swivels around and glances at the bodies littering the room.
You ask the question that's been sitting heavy on your tongue.
“Are these things," you pause, licking your lips as you force the word out, like you're tasting something for the very first time. He turns back to you. "Bioweapons?”
(You don't notice the way his eyes darken when your tongue peeks through.
The way his jaw tightens when your teeth sink nervously into the plush of your bottom lip.)
"Infected," Leon corrects. "Zombies, whatever you want to call them. Bioweapons are... different. Manufactured."
He tilts his head, assessing you. Like you're some mystery he's trying to solve.
"…Why did you come in?"
It's not an accusatory question. More curiosity than anything. You still—the earlier incident nearly forgotten.
"Uhm," you look away. "There was one. Outside."
He stiffens, looks you up and down again. Checking. Emerging guilt evident on his face. You interrupt him before he says anything.
"It's dead," you blurt. And then quieter. "I killed it."
It's the first time you say it out loud.
"With your axe-thing. But it got stuck, and I—I couldn't get it out," you explain hurriedly, vaguely gesturing to your head. "So I panicked and ran inside."
Leon doesn't say anything. It makes you uncomfortable.
Did you do something wrong?
"I'm sorry," he finally says.
You frown. "For what?"
His eyes furrow shut, brows creasing. "You could've—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. You don't need him to—the consequences that could've been are not lost on you.
Leon exhales, slow and controlled.
"I shouldn't have ever left you out there. That's my mistake. You shouldn't—." His hands tighten into fists. "…You shouldn't have had to do any of what you just did."
Oh.
You look down at your bloody hands. The pit in your stomach grows bigger.
"I already killed a few of them." You confess quietly, eyes trained the tiny cuts. "Before this. Before you found me. I think I did. I don't know. I had to, I—"
Had to.
You had to.
Because if you didn't, you would've become one of them. You would've died. And then you would've probably killed people.
You can't get it out of your head now that you've acknowledged it.
Hazy lifeless white eyes rimmed with blood; bared teeth and hands clawing at you. Bodies with chunks of flesh missing; bodies that shouldn't even be able to stand, running straight at you.
Your hands, gripping hastily-found iron, bashing into their bone, their bodies, the soft fleshy bits and all. Again and again and again, because all of a sudden, there was no difference between life and death anymore.
It's a reality you've been so desperately trying to keep away, finally solidifying in your memory.
A tourist.
The nice shopkeeper from down the street.
The teen.
The vile urge that's been stuck simmering in your chest suddenly burns hot.
You've held it together until now. Don't think about it.
Don't—!
It heaves, acid surging up your throat as you twist over the bed's edge and empty out the sickness with a gag. Your vision blurs as you cough up the disgusting nausea. A strangled retch dies in your throat.
(Bloody eyes, bloody eyes, hands gripping at you, at your dress, the teen, oh god, the fucking teen—)
You feel it first, over the sudden ringing in your ears.
Hands. Flat on the skin of your back, rubbing soothing circles. Threaded in your hair and pushing it away from your sweaty face. Coughs rack your chest again, scratching away at your burning throat.
Leon's saying something. It takes a few more seconds before the drumming of your heart dies down enough to actually hear.
"—Breathe, sweetheart. Come on—"
The images don't leave you. Your chest seizes again with an ache.
Somehow, you're drowning above water.
Fingers grip your arms, pulling you back up from your bent over position. They brush strands away from your forehead, behind your ears, before settling on your face. A calloused thumb brushes your mouth, wiping the filth away.
Don't touch me, your mind begs. You'll get dirty, I'm—
Warm pressure on your forehead, grounding. You can barely focus through the blurry film of tears, but it's also all you can see.
Baby blue, staring right back at you.
Leon.
A stuttery breath chokes out of you.
"You're okay—just breathe for me."
It's damning, how much a few words and touches from him can make you feel so protected. So utterly safe.
Your chest still stutters, but you try—for him. Matching your shaky breaths to the rise of his chest. Leaning forward into the touch of his skin against yours.
"That's it," he coaxes, thumb caressing your cheek. "Just breathe, yeah? You're doing so good."
You focus on him— you focus on his touch, the brush of his elbows on your knees, how he's looking up at you like you're something worth worrying over.
Leon, you realize, looks tired.
His face is covered in wrinkles that don't hide any of his stubborn handsomeness. Crow's feet line the creases of his eyes. Sunken cheeks, maybe from getting old, maybe from a constant exhaustion.
It's the face of a man who's gone through a lot; a man who's lived more than just the number of his age.
You wonder what he sees in you.
Someone young. Someone who's never touched a gun in their life, never had to worry about everything trying to kill you.
Someone he has to keep alive.
"Leon," you whisper. It's almost a sob. "I want to go home."
His worried eyes soften; you feel it with how his forehead relaxes just a bit. They remind you of the color of your sky back home.
"I know," he says, breath tickling your face. "I know. Remember what I said? I'll get you out. We'll get you home, yeah?"
His thumbs brush over your cheeks, gentle in a way that feels out of place in a situation like this.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"Promise?"
Your voice cracks when you say it. Something drips through your lashes, thick with the weight of what you've been holding between your teeth. It trails down, following the line of his thumb.
The taste of salt lingering where the corner of your mouth brushes his palm. Your tongue darts out again to wet your lips.
(This time, you don't miss the way Leon's eyes flicker to your mouth.
You don't miss the way his hand tenses just a tad on your cheek. Your heart thrums with something lighter.)
His voice is rough, all jagged edges, when he whispers it back. To you, it sounds like safety.
"Promise."
The next few hours are grueling.
Traversing the dense, stair-ladden streets of Fira is even more difficult with the hot Mediterranean sun beaming straight down. Sweat and blood make the fabric of his shirt cling and chafe his skin. The heat bothers you, too. The linen of your dress is bogged down with dirt and blood. He sees you fanning and fluffing the skirt, like it'd somehow make it easier to breathe.
Eventually, you say fuck it— taking the hatchet he retrieved from the infected you killed and hacking at the blood-dyed fabric until the hems brush your thighs instead of your ankles.
Should've done this earlier, you hum, sighing in relief.
(Leon's glad you didn't.
Not with the way the butchered dress hangs dangerously short— your soft skin, right there, on display.
Not with the way he has to dig his nails into his gloves to get himself to tear his eyes away.)
At some point, after his thoughts settle some more, and the regret and the shame starts feeling like a tank on his ribs—he thanks you. Reaches out to your hand, watches those lips fall open in a question.
Thank you, he whispers. You tilt your head in confusion. For what?
For saving him back there, for risking your life, for hurting yourself—just to help him. Even though he doesn't deserve it. You blink, eyes crinkling upward in a smile so damn pretty, it makes his heart ache.
Wouldn't you have done the same?
Leon comes to realize something, between now and the first time he laid eyes on you.
The space between you is shrinking.
Before, you hobbled behind him from a distance. Still wary of him, a stranger, despite trusting him enough to follow him through an infested, undead island.
Now, you hover closely. Fingers brush his arms whenever something startles you. You let him press you to his back whenever there's infected in sight. You don't flinch when he grabs your hand to lead you somewhere.
(And, the worst thing is—he enjoys it.
Is that just a testament to your nature, or some fucked-up sign about himself?)
He drags a gloved hand through his sweaty hair, willing his thoughts back to something else.
Concentrate. You still haven’t figured out the source yet.
The clinic had held no real evidence. Just bodies on bodies; people who had hoped to get help and ended up bringing the entire place down with them.
"Leon," you call out from behind, shaking him from his thoughts. "How do people get infected?"
"Think of it as a virus. Can be direct contact with something infected," he answers, gaze flickering around to check for hostiles. "Like saliva. Or drugs. Even airborne pathogens."
Dead bodies and an eerie stillness are all that's left. An outcome that never changes.
"But it only takes one person to get infected to end up with something like this."
"What if," you start slowly, measured. "it was all of that?"
He looks back. You're several paces away, staring intently a bunch of papers plastered on whitewashed walls. Leon silently tucks his weapon into its holster, walking towards you to take a better look.
His gaze lands on the one in the middle. It's a messy thing; ugly, if he had to be honest. Bright colors and big blocky English text that scream 'read me!'
'Spring Fever!
Ladies Free! Free Entry Drink + More! €5 Tickets!
—Club Lotus.'
Last night's date stares back at him. The line about free drinks and more is underlined thrice, in bright red. Bolded. Emphasized.
You turn to him, eyes wide. The beating in his chest quickens.
“What if it started at a party?”
Smart girl.
It's all he can think as the two of you make your way deeper into the town center, towards the nightclub.
The logic makes sense.
A big stuffy crowd, cheap entry, free drinks, hook-ups and saliva-swaps. A virus distributed like a party drug.
The perfect scenario.
It would explain the number of infected. People who pass out drunk, people who go overboard, unable to make it out of the club itself. The ones that do might have not made it home; they might have turned in the streets. Or, they might have ended up somewhere else—like a clinic. If they did make it back, holed up in some hotel or hostel or rental, then it would've wiped the entire place out.
There would've been panic with law enforcement—it wouldn't have ended well. People who don't know they're infected, turning in crowds of uninfected.
Fira would've entered full outbreak by morning, with half of its population just waking up and unaware, while the other half stood dead on their feet. That timeline could work.
It comes into view as soon as the two of you enter the square. Club Lotus. A square-looking building, with a wide balcony up top. Palms and vines line the white walls. The doors are cracked open, as if waiting for him.
Leon takes a step, about to take a look, when he feels something tugging his shirt. He looks down; it's you, staring into the dark entrance, fingers clutching at him.
You're hesitating.
"Hey," his hand immediately comes up to hover over the curve of your waist, barely touching. "What's wrong?"
You tear your eyes away, towards him, before looking down at the ground.
"My—… I came here with friends," you admit, hand crumpling the fabric of his shirt. "They said they were going to a party last night. Here. They— they didn't come back."
Oh.
For a moment, he debates what he wants to say to you. He can't reassure you, can't tell you that your friends are probably fine— because that would be a lie.
And Leon Kennedy is a lot of things, but he's not a liar.
"I'm sorry," is what he offers instead.
You don't react, but the way your lips tremble chips away at his chest.
"I don't know if I can—," your eyes flicker back to the entrance.
You don't need to say anymore. He understands.
Jaw tightening, he surveys the area.
Bringing you in with him would be preferable, especially after the clinic— you'd be safer with him. But it was a gamble; what if there were too many? What if it was filled to the brim with infected and he couldn't fight them off? And if he leaves you here alone— well. He's not making that mistake again.
But if your friends are still in there—
No.
He won't let you go through that kind of horror.
A guttural groan drags him away from his thoughts.
Leon takes your hand and pulls you towards an open bar next to the club. He spots the infected before they can even start to move— two near the stools, three in the booths, a few more near the door to the kitchen.
The ones by the stools go down first, five bullets tearing through their torsos and skulls. He drags you over, quickly checking the bar before pushing you behind the counters. You sit without a word, obedient, tucking your head and feet away.
Good girl.
He moves back around the bar, hatchet in hand as he approaches the closest infected. It trips over a chair leg— an opportunity he doesn't let go to waste. In a flash, his hatchet digs into its skull, splattering brain and blood all over the floor. The zombie twitches once, twice, before falling limp over a chair.
The rest go just as easy.
(It's always easy when you have something worth protecting.)
Leon closes in on the booth, where the infected scramble over each other to try to get to him. It doesn't take more than a few strikes and head-stomps before they're down, too. The ones furthest from him don't get to taste his hatchet. He doesn't let them come closer; can't let them get remotely close to where you're crouching. Gun in hand, he shoots them dead where they stand.
Clear.
Turning on his heels, he jogs back to where he's tucked you away.
"Hey," he calls out.
Rounding the corner of the bar, he drops down on a knee. One hand takes yours, the other unholsters his sidearm before placing it gently in your palm. He ignores how you flinch at the cold metal, how your eyes go wide and panicky.
"Leon—"
"I need you to listen to me, okay?"
He can't risk bringing you into a cesspool of infected. He also can't risk you being out in the open again.
You nod. Hesitant, but still so full of that trust.
"The safety's on," he takes your fingers and traces them along the safety. He shows you how to flick it off, and then back on. "It's fully loaded. Fifteen bullets."
He can see the information spinning in your head as you try to follow along. He takes your other hand, maneuvering both into the proper grip, gun pointed towards the ground. Lets your fingers brush the trigger, just to know what it feels like in your hand. You're shaking a little— he squeezes your wrist, holding you steady.
"You keep the muzzle down unless you got something to shoot at, got it? And if you do, you aim for the head. If you can't, take out the legs instead."
It frightens you, he can tell. The way your hands are clammy and still around the gun, the way your leg muscles are stiff, the way a bead of sweat is dripping down your neck.
"There's no silencer on this one, so if you shoot, I'll hear it. And I'll come right back to you."
You're about to say something. He can almost guess it.
No, wait, what? I'm scared, I'll come with you instead, don't—
His hands come up to your face before he can stop himself, cupping your cheeks gently. Your breath hitches, but your eyes are focused on him again. So fucking trusting.
"I'm gonna need you to be brave for me, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Can you do that?"
A shaky nod.
"Good." One of his hands drop down to squeeze your calf. "I'm going to clear the area first, and then I'm going to go into that club, get what I need, and then I'm running right back."
You bite your lip, gaze dropping down to the gun.
"…But what if—," you start to mutter, before squeezing your eyes shut and taking a deep breath.
He waits, because he can afford this, can afford to make sure you feel safe first.
"…Okay. Okay," you say again, steeling yourself. "What do I do if you don't come back?"
Despite it all, Leon finds himself grinning.
A contigency plan?
His smart, smart girl.
Reaching into his back pouch, he pulls out a small earpiece. An extra, packed in case of emergencies. You've seen him use it every now and then, whenever he needed better directions and supply drops. He reaches up, pushing away strands of your hair before setting it into your ear. His fingers brushing your skin sends a shiver down your spine— he huffs a small breath, amused.
And you— you jump. The tiniest jolt of your shoulders, eyelashes batting away in embarrassment.
He taps it gently, motioning for you to feel it yourself.
"If I don't come back before dark, push this button and call for help. You keep doing that until someone comes get you. And make sure to give them my name."
You nod again. It's steadier now— no less anxious, but there's a light in your eyes that wasn't there before.
Leon breathes, his own chest thumping heavy.
With one last squeeze to your arm, he pushes himself up with a grunt. Timer's ticking. He needs to get you out before the sun sets.
"Remember what I said, okay? Stay sharp."
A tug on his pant leg right before he steps out. He stills, body already turned away.
"Please come back safe."
It's barely a whisper.
Leon doesn't look back at you when he leaves—can't.
He's already risking your life by doing this again; he can't risk his resolve, too.
Check the perimeter first.
He's thorough, more than ever. Leaves no chances. Saves his ammo; opting to clear the streets and shops with his body and hatchet. Makes sure to get in an extra chop or a kick. Nearly decapitates them all. A trail of blood and bodies behind his every step.
Keep you safe.
Get you out.
The faster he gets this done, the faster he finds what he needs— the faster he can get back to you and make sure you're okay. Then he can focus on getting you out of this hellhole.
He clears the area in record speed. Can barely remember moving before he finds himself standing back in front of the dark club entrance. A quick look towards the your bar is all he lets himself have.
Stepping beyond the threshold feels like stepping into the third circle of hell.
The moment Leon enters, his boots step on a limb. A pile of bodies obstruct the main entrance— strangely, they're dead. Actually dead, dried blood leaking from multiple orifices, eyes glazed over.
Get samples.
Reaching into his pouch, he grabs some swab kits, making quick work gathering blood samples from several different corpses.
Move on.
Gun raised, he slowly enters the main room. This is where it really goes to hell.
Infected, rising from the dead. They swarm the bar, the dance floor, everywhere. His mind forgets reality for a while.
One, two— his hatchet cleaves through decomposing flesh and bone. He kicks the one closest to him back, sending in crashing into two more infected crawling over.
Seven, eight, nine—two bullets rip through brains. He doesn't look back, immediately raising the hatchet to block the bite from another zombie. Sending a kick to its stomach, another bullet from his gun landing through its head. More come his way, climbing over the bar counters.
Leon doesn't let himself get distracted. Doesn't hesitate, doesn't let himself try to figure out which one of these infected could be your friend.
(Ignores the guilt pooling in his chest every time he kills one that looks around your age, every face that looks like it could've laughed together with you once.)
He reloads, firing off headshot after headshot at the ones that count. Using his body and hatchet instead for the ones that can't seem to find the strength to get on their feet. Fifteen, sixteen. He grunts, pushing off a close-call—a taller, bigger one that comes barreling through.
It goes on like that, for almost an hour.
Leon nearly collapses against the wall when he's done, entire club cleared. Four bullets left in the mag, a chipped hatchet he can barely hold onto. He'd lost count of the bodies somewhere along the way.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he lets out a tired exhale.
Getting too old for clubbing.
But he can't stop now.
Not when you're still out there, waiting for him to come back.
He sweeps the room, swiping up anything he can find to confirm that the virus originated here. He finds booths tucked near the back—broken vials and needles he places in reinforced bags, alcohol he soaks up, more blood, more bodies.
There are bodies like the ones at the entrance— ones that stayed dead, ones that never turned. He collects from those, too. Wonders if the virus distributed here had been experimentally unstable. A test.
Would help explain the theory, he muses.
When he's finished, he all but runs out of the building.
Runs straight towards you.
You must hear him, because your head peeks out from over the counter. Eyes widening at the sight of him.
"Leon," your voice breaks into a sob.
He's barely there, barely down on his knees when you launch yourself into him, gun forgotten somewhere on the ground.
Arms wrap tight around his neck, your face burying itself in the crook of his neck. One of his arms grasp around your back, holding you flush to his chest as he steadies himself on the floor. Your fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, desperate, as if he'd disappear if you didn't hold on tight enough.
He lets out a relieved breath, eyes fluttering shut at your warmth. His exhaustion, fading into the back of his mind. Tilting his face into your temple, lips brushing softly against your skin.
"I'm here, sweetheart," he soothes. "I'm here. You're safe."
(Doesn't even know if he's saying it for you or for himself anymore—)
You only pull him closer, ignoring all the filth covering his body.
"I was so worried," you cry, words muffled. "I heard the noise, but then it stopped, and you didn't come out, and I didn't know if—"
Leon shushes you, pressing you closer. Whispering reassurances in your ear. I'm fine, sweetheart, nothing happened. I'm okay, I'm okay.
He kept the unspoken word—came back safe to you.
That's all that matters.
The easy part, now.
Getting you out.
Contact is made with mission control after you calm down a little more. Extraction team set to drop down at the edge of town. It's right as the sun sets that the two of you hobble over to the set coordinates, a military helo landing down as soon he calls out to his comms.
The agents that come out are familiar. He knows them by name—but he moves anyway.
It's instinct now. The natural order of things, the way he tugs you closer behind him. Despite the fact that the people walking towards him aren't hostiles. Despite how they're there to bring you back to safety.
He only loosens up when you whisper his name, confused. Leon?
Staring back and forth between him and the incoming agents, like you're not sure whether to trust them now.
He must be really fucking tired.
When you're both buckled into the seats, headsets on, it feels like gravity bearing down on him tenfold. He doesn't do it on purpose, doesn't want to close his eyes, but sleep overtakes him anyway. Too worn-out to fight it, not with the weight of you pressing against him.
When he wakes up, it's hours later on a tarmac in Washington.
And you—
You're no longer there.
Gone. Your seat is still warm.
Leon doesn't panic, doesn't jump to his feet and demand information out of the nearest agent—but it's a near thing.
Bureaucracy meets him before he even steps out of the damn bird.
They remind him sternly about the debriefing he's required to attend in ten minutes. The collected samples he's supposed to immediately submit to forensics. The mission report he'll have to fill out. Flippant when he asks about you, waving him off without telling him where you've been taken.
Mandatory quarantine period, Agent. You know how it goes.
Bad things surface in his mind. Memories from ages ago, ones he doesn't want to remember.
Maybe, that's why there's a tension in his chest that wasn't there twenty-four hours ago. Maybe that's why it's a physical effort dragging himself through the halls of headquarters.
He sits through debrief and lies to himself about how you're probably better off in quarantine.
Safely sequestered in a guarded place where the horrors on the island can't follow. And when you're cleared, you'll go back to the safety of your home and live out the rest of your days there, because you're strong like that. He's witnessed it with his very own eyes.
Yeah, he convinces himself. You'll be fine.
It's better this way.
So he doesn't stutter when he drones on about you, your information, and barely specific enough details to be put on the mission report. He doesn't tell them about how you had to kill to make it out alive. They don't need to know that.
Adrenaline still pumps through him for some reason, even when there's no danger. Leg keeps jittering; people glance at him every time he shifts in the chair. Checks his watch so much, someone notices.
What's up with you, Kennedy? Somewhere else you gotta be?
Hours later, when it's all said and done, when the samples are dropped off, the blank report template sitting stagnant on his desk, when he's finally clean and changed, finally alone—
He can only think of you.
His head falls against the back of his chair. Hand dragging over his face, trying to ease the hours-long migraine in his skull. The tiled ceilings stare back at him.
The mission is done. Objective completed. You're safe. He brought you back and you're in the hands of people who'll make sure you're okay.
So why can't he stop thinking about you?
This isn't his first rodeo. You aren't the first person he's saved, and he doubts you'd be the last. It shouldn't be any different.
Still, the memories flash by.
A scared you, crouching against a wall. You, bravely throwing around a wooden plank. Holding back whimpers as he carefully holds your hands in his, plucking out wooden shards that make you bleed. Smiling so prettily, because of a damn cat on a death-infested island.
You, sobbing and refusing to let go.
Like him coming back to you had meant so much.
Fuck, he stands, chair squeaking behind him.
Fuck, as he storms his way into the director's office, the surprised faces of other agents peering over at him.
He thinks back to the promise he made you, the one he hasn't yet fulfilled. The earnest heart on your sleeve.
Leon Kennedy has a history of holding onto things that don't look back. Has a bad habit of searching through the rubble with a microscope in hopes of finding something salvageable; he knows this.
He knows, that in this lifetime, he's made a lot of mistakes. Gathered too many regrets. So when it comes to you—
Swear on my life.
He runs out the building doors.
I won't let you become one of them.
You wake up with sweat dripping down your back.
Hands, your own hands, grip at your chest, feeling fabric. You look down— it's not your dress anymore. A white hospital gown in its place, crinkly and scratchy.
The stubborn afterimages in your head don't want to fade even as everything becomes clearer, imprints in your mind's eye. Hands that weren't yours, clawing at you, empty blank eyes—
A nightmare, you tell yourself, that's all.
Because it's over.
You escaped that place with your life in tact. You got out with Leon.
And Leon is—
(Head spinning, you whip your eyes around you.
White room, glass windows, beeping machines, lines stuck to your arm, something pinching your finger, empty room, empty, empty, empty.)
—not…here.
For the next hour, you're inconsolable.
Please, please tell me where I am, where is Leon, you beg when a nurse in a hazmat suit comes in. Please, please, I don't want to be here, please, let me go—
They put you to sleep before you can hit two.
When you stir awake, you see hazy sterile white walls and glass again.
A doctor and a woman come into your room. They tell you it's standard procedure, that you're in quarantine after having been exposed to an outbreak. They ask you questions; about Santorini, about the things you saw, and the things you did. You can barely think— what did they put in you?
You don't know who they are, and they don't tell you anything about themselves. They leave once they have enough of your one-word answers and 'I don't knows'. Never once answering your questions about Leon.
You still don't know where you are.
Bright fluorescent lights keep glaring down on you. Too blinding to keep your eyes open, too distracting for you to even think.
And the white.
You can't stand the white.
(White walls, white walls, white buildings, white eyes, bloody eyes—)
There's nothing you can do but curl into yourself and squeeze your eyes shut. It's the only way to make all the white go away. The only thing you can do while you wait.
Because Leon promised to take you home, and this isn't home.
So you wait.
You don't know how long you sit in that room.
You don't know how long you spend in your own head, trying to fight the sleepiness that still runs through your veins. Trying to make the images go away.
(They don't. You can't stop seeing them. The tourist, the shopkeeper, the—)
And then, like an echo growing closer, you hear voices outside. A commotion. Footsteps, loud and hurried. Someone opening the door to the room. You lift your head from your arms, sight blurry from the sudden invasion of light, when—
"Hey, sweetheart."
You sob.
Leon catches you before you can crawl over the edge of the bed, firm arms pulling you against his chest as he settles onto the edge of the mattress. He brings you close, hand slipping into your hair as he holds your head to the crook of his neck in an embrace that's become so, so familiar.
"I know, I know. I'm here," he says, voice cracking as he whispers endless apologies into your hair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I left you—"
You shake your head, choking out wet words that don't even sound like anything.
You don't need apologies.
All you need— all you want— is Leon. His warmth envelops you, and for that reason, nothing else matters.
You stay there in his arms, leeching onto his heat, his everything. And he lets you. Leon sits with a leg perched on the bed, drags you closer into his lap, doesn't stop whispering to you, doesn't stop apologizing. Just keeps gently massaging your scalp and tracing circles on your back.
The exhaustion slowly catches up to you as the tears dry out, but you don't let it take you under. Not yet.
Not while you're here.
"Leon," you whisper tiredly, dry lips brushing against his neck. His hand stills, just for a second. "I want to go."
His arms tighten around you, protective.
"…Yeah, okay," he mutters. "Let's go home."
You don't fight him when he pulls away, but you keep a hand on his jacket. Unwilling to let go. Leon is gentle as he pulls out the needle from your arm and plucks the heart rate clip off your finger. He frowns when he takes a closer look at your state of dress, immediately shrugging off his jacket to place over your shoulders, drowning you in its warmth.
He gathers you up in his arms like it's the easiest thing in the world, tucks your head into his chest and pulls the jacket closer over your body. You don't see much of what's outside the room when he leaves, only more bright lights that make you shut your eyes and nuzzle closer into Leon's chest.
Leon keeps walking— through what, you don't know. You filter out the noise, pretend not to hear voices going back and forth. At some point, you doze off, only to rouse when you feel your body shifting.
You're in a car; you shift your head, catching the blurry figure of Leon reach over you as he buckles you in. He brushes strands of hair out of your face. You lean into his touch, eyes slowly drooping shut again. Too tired to stay awake.
"Get some sleep," he mutters, pressing his lips to the crown of your head.
So you do.
("She stays with me."
"Agent Kennedy, there are protocols—"
"She stays. With me.")
The weeks come and go in the after.
Your life becomes a flurry of mandatory checkups and therapy appointments and government visits. It's invasive, the way they poke and prod at you and try to convince you they're on your side. But you try, because trying is better than pretending it never happened.
Leon is by your side at every single one of these visits.
It's easier with him there. He doesn't ever let them run over time, shuts them down when the questions get too invasive or too difficult. Holds your hand when you start struggling to breathe and kicks them out when everything gets too overwhelming.
And he never lets them happen at home.
A small one-bedroom in Washington. The one you woke up in, the day he got you back.
You never ask him about the white room.
You don't bring up how he came in and took you away, or how the people you have to talk to always look mildly afraid when he's in the room with you. How they call him Mr. Kennedy and treat him like he's a loaded gun with a broken safety and a faulty trigger.
It's easier that way, to just let it be.
In the days that pass, some things stay the same, and some things do not.
You read— mostly research and fantasy books. The occasional poetry book when the mood hits right. Cooking becomes a pasttime, now that you have an extra stomach to feed. You order things online and go to home decor stores to fill the blank spaces in his home.
One less interior designer I have to hire, Leon says, when you bring back your first plant and low-light lamp.
You tell him about the new paint color you have in mind to replace the dull eggshell walls. He comes back home the next day with a few gallons, some brushes, rollers, and tarp.
You can't watch Mamma Mia! even though you used to love it in the before, and you still can't go to the meat section of the grocery store. Can't stomach horror movies or Halloween-themed things.
Eyes gloss over white clothing whenever you go shopping. Skip over the long, flowy pieces that you love in favor of more practical things.
You take up running on the gym treadmills in the apartment complex. Outside, when the weather is nicer. Leon takes you to the shooting range on some Saturdays and teaches you how to use a gun.
Sometimes, you visit the art galleries and museums in DC and spend days and days perfecting a master copy with the paint set Leon brings home for you. A painting of two Minoan partridges now hangs in the bedroom.
Nightmares plague you more often than not.
But you also wake up every day with an arm wrapped tight around your waist, flush against a warm chest, and soft breaths tickling your neck.
And some days, it's not you.
Some days, you notice the tremor in Leon's hands, when he's a little too tired and the world is a little too loud. You see how he stares into the wall behind the TV, how it takes him a second to hear the things you say.
You don't mention it when he comes home hours too early, when he just sits and watches you move around in silence.
Those days, you let him bury his face into your stomach while you stand over him, running your fingers through his hair until his shoulders stop shaking.
The government sends you a notice a few months later.
Finished. Done. No more appointments, no more visits, no more anything. Just a fifty-thousand dollar check for 'the trouble you went through', because that's all you're apparently worth.
No more strings.
It feels like a cigarette burning a hole into your stomach.
This, is a point of divergence.
You think about your graduate program, your students, family, friends— the ones you couldn't contact yourself, because you couldn't be trusted to stick to the script given to you. You think about the love you have for them, and the love you hold in your heart now.
You think about all the things you've left behind, and the so-called freedom you now afford.
But.
The thing is—
If you were ever asked to capture your life in any way, it would probably look like this:
Frames of every day you've lived, every moment you've cried, every second you've spent underneath the sun—coalesced onto a single piece of paper. Covered with all of the good and all of the bad, until it's saturated with everything that makes you, you.
Then, you would hang it up to dry and wait for it to stain blue.
So, in the end—
It really doesn't change a thing.
No flights are booked, no plans made. Nothing is packed. It all stays the same.
Every morning, you wake up in a bed that's not yours. Toddle into the kitchen in a shirt that's too big. Make coffee and breakfast for two. Take ten minutes to meditate and journal because the therapist said it'd be good for your health while the sound of dishes getting washed fills your ears.
You laze around and read journals on the latest art restoration techniques. Figure out what dinner should be according to the latest food trends on your phone. Drive to the store to pick out the ingredients together. Bicker over the differences between name-brand stuff versus the store-brand ones. Maybe go on a walk after eating to stretch your legs.
And sometimes, on the days Leon has to be out on the field, you crawl into bed and cry yourself to sleep until he comes back to you in one piece.
You do not think about the things from before. You do not think about going back.
It's only on a random night, when the both of you are in bed, that Leon asks.
“You don't want to go home?"
You both know it's a stupid question.
Home?
Your home has long morphed into something else; has been something else entirely, ever since that day in Santorini.
But you humor him anyway. Because this isn’t about you. You know what you think, what you want.
What your heart's settled on, a long time ago.
“Should I?”
(The ugly thing in his chest bares its teeth. Biting; hideous.
Only one thing it wants, only one thing it's hungry for—)
“No.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut. Snuggling ever closer into his chest.
"Then I won't."
The thing that was always bound to happen, happens on a whim.
Four days gone, a field mission that would take at least seven.
The longest Leon's been away from you—the longest days of your life.
You count them down; a calendar sits on the fridge door, four boxes crossed out with big red x's and a circled date at the end of the row.
You don't know where he's gone, didn't even get to say goodbye. Just woke up one morning to a cold, empty bed and with a left-behind note on the pillow. Messily written, signed with a promise. Like he couldn't bear to wake you up to do it properly.
So when the locks to the apartment click open, it sends a fright down your spine.
You freeze, hand placing your cup down quietly on the granite counters. Eyes scan the calendar one more time, because he isn't supposed to be back yet. No call or text on your phone to show for it. Slowly, you inch towards the drawers where knives lie.
A breath lodges in your chest when the sound of hurried steps gain towards your spot. Is it him? Is it not? What do you do—
It happens quickly.
Leon, alive and whole, trailing in.
Rushing across the kitchen the moment he spots you.
"Le—mmph!"
His lips, on yours.
You stumble back. He follows, until you're pinned against the counters, until there's no air left between your bodies. You squeal when he grabs the back of your thighs, hands flying to his sturdy arms to steady yourself as he heaves you up to sit on the counter without ever breaking away. His hands run up your waist, your neck— fingers weaving into your hair as he kisses you breathless.
(You've long grown used to the feeling of Leon. Used to his arms around you, his hands on your skin, lips brushing your temple every now and then, fleeting touches that never go anywhere.
But, this—
This is springwater at the end of the desert; a balm to your soul, in the aftermath of a long-suffering journey home.)
It's all tongue and teeth, your mind afloat with the pressure of his face and body against yours.
When Leon finally pulls away, it's to look at you— to take you in as you are. He presses his forehead against yours, noses brushing as you catch your breath.
His hands, warm like they always are, hold your face like it's something so precious. Beautiful, beautiful blues rove over your face, flickering between every line and freckle.
You tilt your head, pressing a light kiss to his palm. He nudges you with his nose, before kissing you hard again, the ache in your chest receding with every bruising press of his lips.
It is easy to love a man who would kill for you.
It’s even easier, then, to offer up all that you are when he finally gives into the very thing that kept you alive in the first place.
"Missed you so fucking much," Leon confesses, pressing kisses down your neck as he carries you into your shared bedroom. "Couldn't stop thinking about you—"
You whine, grasping at his shirt and trying to pull him back up to your lips. Addicted, now that you've had your first taste.
He rewards you with a deep kiss as he sits on the mattress, nestling you onto his lap. His hands aren't gentle as they explore the whole of you— slipping beneath the shirt you stole from him, fondling your chest, your waist, your every curve.
The kisses don't stop; he only breaks apart once, all but ripping his shirt off of you, before claiming your mouth again.
It drowns you, to feel him all at once.
Whimpers fall from your lips as he presses your tits together, burying his face in the cleft— licking, sucking the skin until it blooms purple. He grunts things into your chest, drunk on the taste of you— gorgeous, so fucking pretty, how are you so fucking pretty?
His stubble scrapes gently against supple skin; hand cupping you as his tongue laps at a nipple.
Leon doesn't relent, even when you start squirming as his teeth nibble at your sensitive breasts. Chokes out a shaky breath when you grind against his clothed cock, a hand falling to squeeze your ass.
"Fuck," he grunts. His other hand makes its way to your waist, slipping into the waistband of your shorts before tugging them off, along with your underwear.
For a moment, he just stares, breaths coming out short and fast as he takes you all in.
It's the only reprieve you get before he's diving in again.
"So fucking gorgeous," he murmurs in between messy kisses— a silvery string of saliva dangling from his tongue to yours.
It's like he can't stop, like every breath he's forced to take is an obstacle to keeping his mouth on you. Your hands claw at his shirt, trying to take it off. When he doesn't let up, you sink your teeth into his bottom lip.
Your mistake.
Leon groans, fingers digging harder into your bare hips. You yelp when he bites back, pulling away at sharp pain. He's smirking— tongue poking out as it traces the edge of his teeth.
"Don't try anything you can't handle, sweetheart."
It's unfairly sexy.
He listens this time at least, when you pull at his shirt— taking the hem and tugging it over his head.
You've always known Leon to be attractive. Would see it in shy glimpses, in the moments you wake up to him changing, when he sometimes walks out of the shower shirtless.
But now that he's laid out bare before you, you can't seem to take your eyes off him.
"Might start charging if you keep staring—"
You shut him up with a kiss.
Must've been how he felt when your shirt came off.
You can't stop touching him; your hands keep wandering as his tongue slips into your mouth. You feel every flex of his arms, every twitch of his warm muscles against your palm—the ones that have protected you and held you through everything.
But, you want more.
You yank at his belt. His hands move over yours, unbuckling it with ease, hips lifting just enough to pull his pants and briefs off his legs.
Pretty, you think, licking your lips as his cock springs free. He hisses, jerking up in your hands when you wrap your fingers around his hot throbbing length.
You pepper kisses down his throat, muttering softly. Wanna be good for you, Leon, please, let me be good.
Hauling yourself off his lap, you drop to your knees. Lashes fluttering as you take him into your mouth.
"Fuck—!"
Leon's mouth falls open, brows furrowing, fingers clinging to your head as you drag your tongue around the velvety tip. Salty, you think, the heady scent of him filling your senses.
He looks wrecked as you take him further down your throat—needy man.
"Yeah," he whimpers. Face scrunched in pleasure as he presses you down. "Just like that, baby."
It's shameful— the way you stroke his cock a little faster, suck a little harder when he calls you that.
"You like that, hm?" His fingers thread through your hair, finding his grip. "Like it when I call you baby?"
You moan as he drags you up and down with a firm hand, saliva leaking all over your hands with how fucking big his cock is. Your tongue glides over the underside of his tip, earning fucked-out groans from Leon.
Perfect, baby, just like that, he sighs out. Hips jutting up with the way you're sucking him so well.
You're about to take him deeper, push harder, when Leon pulls you off with a pop.
He's breathing heavy, skin slick with sweat.
Tilting your chin up, he pushes lightly on your wet bottom lip with his thumb. You let your mouth fall open wider, watching his wild eyes darken as your swollen lips wrap around the finger.
"Fuck—c'mere," he pulls you back up, shifting his own body to lay back on the mattress as he settles you on top of him, legs spread over thighs. He curses when he feels the press on your slick folds on his skin.
Leon hauls you up, until your clit is brushing his nose, until your dripping pussy is right above his mouth—
—and then he eats.
His mouth feels like absolute sin as he buries his face into your pussy.
"Fu—haah," you squeeze your eyes shut, leaning on the headboard as something warm flutters around your clit. You whine at the feeling of his rough tongue running greedily over your cunt, back and forth, again and again—eating like a man who's been starving for a long, long time.
You can feel every twitch of his jaw—every brush of hair on skin, the movement of his head as he flattens his tongue against your clit and shakes.
Fuck, fuck fuck—
You cry out, hypersensitivity threatening to be too much when strong arms wrap around over your plush thighs.
His hands splay across your legs, holding you down and pushing you impossibly closer on his face. His lips wrap around your sensitive clit, suckling so hard that it makes an obscenely wet sound. You sob—too much, Leon, can't, gonna—
Fingers dig into your skin, your eyes peeling open to look down. Stormy blues staring right back, waiting.
Demanding.
Your orgasm spills over before you even realize you're cumming. Cries tumble from your lips as your body trembles in pleasure, jolting and flinching when Leon keeps you down, drinking up the juices leaking from your pussy.
You collapse against the headboard, panting through residual waves of bliss. Leon gives your clit one last suck— you whimper, face leaning on your arms as you struggle to keep yourself up.
"Should do this more often," Leon teases, pressing wet kisses into your thighs. "I could get used to the view."
He eases your body down, pulling you by the nape and kissing you again. He tastes like you.
And his cock.
It's driving you insane— the feel of it gliding over your cunt as you grind down on him.
"You're dripping, sweetheart," Leon groans.
You are. Didn't think you could be any more turned on— didn't think you'd get any wetter, but the slick sounds coming from your pussy are downright filthy.
"Need you, Leon," you beg, hand moving to grip him between your thighs, rubbing the tip against your soaking hole. "Please, please—"
"Take it, baby—shit." His breath hitches at the contact, hands clamping down on your hips in a bruising grip. "Fuck yourself on my cock."
He fills you, deep in your cunt. It twitches hot, hitting spots that have you seeing double.
There's no coming back from this, now that you know how he feels inside of you. Can't imagine being anywhere else but here, pussy wrapped tight around his cock.
You lift your hips once, then again, dropping yourself onto him as best as you can. Arch your back because it's hitting just right. Let your tits bounce in his face because he deserves to see how you fuck yourself on him.
"So goddamn pretty," he sighs, hands caressing up your body to cup your tits.
But Leon is a big man.
It's hard to bounce on his cock when your thighs are strained across his abdomen, when you have to raise yourself higher and higher, just to move your cunt up and down his length.
"Let me give you a hand, sweetheart."
An arm wraps around your waist, pulling you down until you're chest-to-chest with Leon. He shifts, spreading you over his hips.
And then, he starts to fuck you.
He drives his cock up into you, shaking the bed with how utterly fast and relentless he goes. Deep groans mix with your choked whimpers, growing louder and louder as you clench around him with each thrust.
Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes— at this angle, with you pressed flat against him, his fat tip slides right into a spot that's leaving you breathless and shaking. And with the way he starts absolutely bullying that spot, you know he notices, too.
The hand on your hip slides between your bodies, slipping down to your cunt.
"Need to see you cum again, baby," Leon growls, fingers rubbing fast circles around your still-sensitive clit.
You might have screamed; you can't tell because your mind goes blank.
White-hot. A second orgasm crashing over you, pussy gushing around his cock as it rocks your body.
There's no time for you to come down, no time for a breather when Leon suddenly pulls out of you with a low groan. He lays you down on your belly, stopping for just a moment to press feathery kisses down your spine. His legs settle around yours. You feel his hands kneading your asscheeks, right before he spreads them open.
His cum-soaked cock slides home into your fluttering cunt.
You think you're crying— you don't know anymore. All you feel is Leon's fat cock fucking into you.
"Been waiting for this, haven't you?" His hips against your plump ass—slap, slap. "For me to fuck you like this."
He doesn't stop moving, not when you rip the bedsheets off their corners. Not when the words coming out of your mouth start sounding like incoherent babbles.
If you thought his cock hit deep when you were on top, then it might as well be fucking a new hole into you now.
The angle is different, but the heavy weight of his body on you, the way your lungs are compressing—fuck, you could let him do this to you forever.
You feel his hands cover yours, his chest molding into the shape of your back and pressing you deeper into the bed. Lips brush the cuff of your ear, kissing the tears dribbling down your cheek, until all you feel is Leon.
Words spill out of him like a confessional— your body, his shrine.
"Fuck, shit—," he pants. "Went through hell and back for this, you know that?"
One of his hands grab your jaw, tilting it just enough for him to cover your mouth with his. It's barely a kiss, more a messy push-and-pull with your tongues. You can barely focus on it, mind out of body with the way his cock keeps burying deep inside your cunt.
A whine tumbles out of your mouth when he suddenly pulls out again. No, come back, don't wanna be empty—
You don't have to wait long. Leon flips you over, hooking your legs over his shoulders before slipping his cock back into you with a wet squelch. Punching out moans with each shove into your sopping wet pussy, the sparks of another orgasm lighting up your insides.
He leans over, pushing your legs down. Hot air mixing with yours. Even in the hazy ecstasy, even as Leon falters and whimpers with every squeeze of your cunt, you feel it, clear as day— a sincerity, so intense that it threatens to suffocate you.
"Would burn the fucking world if it meant coming home to you—"
You are lost—in the pleasure, in the pain, in the all-consuming blue that gazes so lovingly at you.
It all comes down over you like a wavebreak, your orgasm coursing through your body so violently, it has you convulsing. You feel him thrust faster, harder. Lips pressing into yours with a desperate urgency as he cums deep inside your cunt, filling you to the brim with his heat.
It's almost too much— a high that keeps on reaching new heights, a euphoria that has you sobbing.
And at the end of it, Leon is there.
Soothing you with kisses as tears blur your vision from the intensity of your climax.
Catching you, like he always has, since the very beginning.
"You can't leave me, ever."
Your fingers brush idly through locks of hair. It looks more blond like this, under the soft illumination of the bedside lamp.
"Ever?" Leon mumbles against your chest. "What if I need to use the toilet?"
You flick him with two fingers, huffing an exasperated sigh when he lets out a quiet ouch.
"I'll just go with you," you retort, gently slapping his hand when he pinches the plush of your stomach, muttering some nonsense about privacy. He grabs your hand before you can pull it away, kissing your knuckles with featherlight touches.
"What if I get stuck in hell?" He muses.
You tilt your head, settling deeper into the comfort of your pillow.
"Then I'll follow you there, too."
Leon doesn't say anything. Your eyes follow as he shifts his weight onto his side, pushing himself back up towards you. His eyes, soft in the shadow of your room, look right into yours, like he's peering into your soul.
You wonder if he can see himself in its reflection.
His hand reaches up, cradling your cheek. You lean into his touch, a satisfied hum rippling through you as he strokes your face.
A smile that's become your world takes its place on his lips. Hair tickles your cheeks as he peppers your face with soft pecks. You laugh, reaching up to hold his neck.
"Okay," Leon whispers.
He leans down, lips meeting yours in a gentle kiss— the kind that consumes you in its warmth. And for you—
