i’m on fire

episodes

1. forks - season 2, ep 7 2. caramel - season 5, ep 7 3. honeydew - season 2, ep 4

characters

1. richie 2. sydney 3. marcus

seasons

1. season 2 2. season 5 3. season 1

duos

Yeah, Jack didn't even think he’d ever have one of those again—not seriously, not anything past something superficial, something situational, but then there you were appearing in his life like a beacon that couldn’t be stopped. So young. So beautiful. So pure down to your core. Inherently good, that’s what you were. And after all of maybe one week of you and your smile and the feeling of you pressed up against him, that’s all he wanted you to be. His. 

After so long, he forgot, forgot what it was like to feel this way about someone—to want them so badly to the point of not being able to sleep—and you couldn’t possibly fathom not having them in every way. To have them in every way possible, that you needed the world to know. As if there’s some sort of claim you need to put on the people you love. 

This is my partner. My husband. Fiancée. 

Girlfriend.

Jack, after just a few months, knew that he needed that label—needed those words to link the two of you together. 

Hi, I'm Jack, and this is my girlfriend. 

She just moved in with me.

Jack knows he sounds ridiculous and can only shake his head, unable to hide the smile that’s already tugging at the corners of his lips because you were his and because you were moving in with him. Because there in his room—his space—pieces of you were already finding their rightful place. Your robe on the spare hook in his bathroom. Your blue-light glasses tucked near the lamp on the spare nightstand he bought to go opposite his. A jewelry dish above his dresser, next to his watch. Hair ties fallen behind couches, his bookshelf, his hamper. 

All your stuff next to his stuff. 

Jack feels his chest tighten the more that he looks around and feels his senses be completely flooded by you, you, you. 

But it’s not in a bad way. Never is with you. Because you’re everything good, and this was good, and he’s never felt so fucking loved in his entire life. 

Steadying his breath and his hands, Jack cuts open one of the boxes stacked in the corner by your nightstand with his pocketknife, the sound of the tape being sliced open echoing across the walls. Opening it, he takes out the neatly folded stack of your hoodies and crewnecks—most, if not at least a third of them, were his. Many that he hadn’t even realized were missing. He laughs to himself when he finds one, the black material worn and all too familiar. He holds it up. Pittsburgh Pirates stitched onto the front. He's been missing it the entire time the two of you have been dating. 

The last time he can even remember seeing it was one of the first nights you spent with him. He came home from a long SWAT shift, bruised, having to intubate one of his friends, and dreading that he was about to be back at the PTMC for his night shift in just a few hours. Jack was tired and tense and not used to being there—in his home, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate it. 

He’d gotten as far as dropping his keys on the counter, an obvious gait in his right leg, after not only a full day of being on his feet but also moving too quickly—with too little thought. Wincing at the way his prosthetic pinched, he opened the cupboard and grabbed a glass. 

The TV was on, the sounds of the show Friends filling the dark hallway of his apartment. It wasn’t even evening yet, and all the curtains were pulled shut, the only light coming from candles that you bought. He’d gotten as far as filling the glass with water, the tap louder than he wished, when the TV paused. You didn’t call out to him, but he could hear your bare feet padding across his floors, and when you emerged, Jack almost choked mid-sip. 

Because there you were, in his apartment, only weeks into seeing one another, and you were wearing that damn Pittsburgh Pirates hoodie, the sleeves swallowing your hands, and the rest falling over the curve of your ass. You had nothing else on underneath it. Your hair was pulled up out of your face messily, your skin bare—all makeup and wear of the day washed away. 

It was the first time you’d ever stayed, showered at his place, started to treat it like it could be yours. And all he could focus on was the soft skin of your thighs that were glistening under the microwave light.

You were different that night. Even though it'd been such a short time, he knew you, knew how you, usually his little ball of energy, were always jumping up to greet him and unleash every single thought that came to mind during the day and your time apart. 

But, that night you stood so quiet. 

Without even a single word, you just looked, took him in, with no one else but the silence as a standing witness. Then you moved closer, so close that your toes covered in a pair of his socks pressed up against his. You reached up and cupped his cheek—your palm was warm, gentle, so soft against his skin. Always so soft. Always so good. 

You stared up at him, breathed him in, and looked at him in a way he didn’t know if he’d ever seen before. Your eyes were wide and full and just so, so understanding. It was almost like there was a part of you that recognized him, knew him, and for some odd reason wanted to claim him forever because you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

It was tender, almost tentative before deepening with the press of his tongue against the seam of your mouth. 

And like you’d never been surer of anything, your lips parted; a breathy sigh was all he could hear or feel as he complied slipping his tongue inside.

Jack smiles, really smiles this time, fingers tracing a hole in the collar of the black hoodie. He only looks away as he hears the familiar push of a button and then a beep from a speaker connecting. Jack stands still and holds his breath, waiting for… 

and there it is.

The click of a play button with the sound of a sharp, metallic clank appears, followed by a soft, auto-tuned vocal hum. Then the bass drops, and it feels familiar to Jack, like you've played this for him many times before. But all he can think about is how loud it is. 

Thought you were having wine over FaceTime with your friends. 

Because the two of you had been lying tangled on his patio, the cushions falling around you when you pushed him up and towards the door as your phone began to ring. You banished him inside to continue with packing, a small smile looping itself across his lips when he heard the familiar voices of your old college roommates, his name instantly becoming the topic of interest. 

But as far as he knew, he’d been a topic among them for a while, ever since you told them about your new boyfriend who was controversially older than you. 

Shoulders dropping, he holds the sweatshirt close to his chest and stalks out of the living room, already too interested to know about what you’d talked about with your friends. If they approved of the apartment—his espresso machine, the brick wall across from his flatscreen, the spare room filled with weights and his treadmill, how soft the new bedsheets were that he bought only because you mentioned that you liked them—or perhaps if they asked about how he had you bent over his kitchen counter that morning mouthing at your neck like a starved man, after he’d gotten off of a shift that took more pieces of him than he liked. 

The last one he knew you probably told them about anyway, being an oversharer; he realized one night when you were getting ready in his bathroom for a date night, and he overheard you explaining detail by detail of your last sexual encounter. His hand around your neck, squeezing as he took you, saliva coating your lips—your chin as he delivered on every desire and front you’d ever wanted out of a man.

That’s why he’s surprised when you’re already back inside. As he rounds the corner of the hall, his eyebrows raise as he’s met with the sight of you standing in the middle of the living room, a few boxes open and half picked through. The lights are once again dimmed, his apartment pulled back into darkness, but this time with a few lamps glowing bright on side tables that weren’t there before. Your hair’s thrown up messily, revealing the large hoop earrings that he thought you would’ve taken out by now, and he can smell the way the summer air clings to your skin. 

And sure enough, there sitting on the kitchen counter is your glass of white wine—topped off with a fresh heavy pour. You’re turned away from him, hips starting to sway, not having heard him enter the room over Jamie Foxx’s Blame It. 

Jack was about to announce himself too; he was, but then he feels any sort of acknowledgement or words die softly and quietly as your hip swaying deepens into a full swing. You’re dancing in a way he’s all too familiar with—seen in bars and clubs you’ve dragged him out to—in his bedroom when you insist on him trying sex to music for the first time. But not to just those basic bedroom playlists that everyone casually uses from YouTube—no, it’s to a playlist you curated, and loved, just because of him.  

He can’t help the way a grin deepens over his wrinkled face as your shoulders loosen and your head bops back and forth in time with the beat, completely letting go in a space that was not only his but yours too. 

Taking a long sip from your wine glass, you hum getting more into it now as the words of the song form in perfect lip-sync fashion. Jack’s head starts to move too, his shoulder finding the doorframe, falling into a kind of contentness that only ever came when he was watching you. 

But then you turn, eyes flickering up to where he stands in the doorway, and the words fall flat, your whole body coiling tight and jumping in surprise. A small splash of your wine escapes out of the glass onto your hand and the floor. 

“Jesus,” you whisper, hand clutching your chest. 

“Just Jack, actually,” he chuckles, stepping further into the room. 

Your eyes narrow over at him, lips pulling in a small scowl, and he can’t help but wonder how even your glare is so soft and adorable. He smirks at the sight of it, something in his belly flipping as you turn and place your wine back on the counter and grab a few paper towels. 

After your spill is cleaned, you’re back to ignoring him like he’d never stepped foot in the room and immediately fell back into the music, hips having a mind of their own again. 

Those must have been two tall glasses of wine. 

Jack laughs; it settles into his chest like warm honey. 

“Baby, what are you doing? I thought you were talking to your friends.” Jack places the sweatshirt down on the couch and steps even closer when you don’t answer him. “Instead, you’re in here… having a dance party.”

You ignore him some more, but the warmth never dissipates from where it loosens in his chest cavity only to slip down past his lungs, his diaphragm, and into the base of his stomach. 

Stepping closer to meet him halfway, you peer up at him through your lashes and start to mouth the words like this was a concert, and Jack’s your audience. 

“Blame it on the Goose. Got you feelin’ loose.

Blame it on the ‘Tron. Got you in the zone.” 

Lifting your arms up and over your head, your eyes flutter shut, suddenly unaware of the way Jack’s eyes begin to drift lower.

Or maybe you are.

But either way, he can’t help but notice how your colorful striped sweater slides up just enough to reveal the soft skin of your abdomen and the pajama shorts you’re wearing underneath. 

Another second or two passes and then you’re even closer, hands sliding up his forearms, leaving pebbled skin behind. They go up and up, skating around his shoulders as you lean closer, so close that your nose almost brushes his. You continue to sing along with the R&B song, hips and front brushing up against his every so often in tune to the pulsating 808 bassline. 

“You trying to open a club in our living room?” Jack asks teasingly.

You smile at that, dance moves faltering for only a second before you press against him, hips slowing to a gentle roll against his. Jack’s breath stalls in the back of his throat, but he encourages you with a small tip of his head, eyes sweeping down to where the two of you meet. His hands find your waist, and it takes everything in him to not shove them up and under your shirt. 

“Hm, jokes on you, I already have. Disco lights and a velvet rope are on the way. Will be here just in time for our opening night this weekend.”

“Yeah?” 

“Mh-hm,” you hum, lips brushing his only for a second before you’re pulling back, the color of your irises darker now. “Just trying to figure out the playlist. Dance with me, Jackie?”

He blinks down at you, his eyelids half-closed as his hands begin to wander lower from your waist down to your hips. 

“Seriously?”

You shrug, that enticing glint of yours forming. “Nothing like a little Jamie Foxx and grinding to say welcome home. Don’t you think?”

He’s smiling, can feel it in the way his cheeks are starting to ache, hands slipping into your pajama shorts so his fingers can trace your hip bones. When he doesn’t say anything, you press your hips forward, your front meeting his in a gentle rock. 

“You’re a brat, you know that?” 

He says as if he doesn’t love it.

But he does. Fuck, Jack loves every second of it. 

The way you tease him, push his buttons just to see how far you can go, how far he’ll let you go until you’re getting the reaction out of him that you want. Loves that you’re just as obsessed with him as he is with you—always needing to be as close to him as possible, touching him in some way because he knows if you could, you’d fold yourself into his skin and live there. He loves that your age shows sometimes in the small pout you’d give him when you don’t get your way or how your tone becomes a little more brazen when another woman—usually closer to his age than yours—leans too close or says something that balances across a fine line of friendly and flirting. 

Oh, and God help someone if they ever get it wrong and accidentally mistake you and Jack as anything other than what you are—partners, lovers, boyfriend and girlfriend—all of the labels that Jack loves so desperately. He’d seen it one too many times how something would overtake you, and your glare wasn’t nearly as soft as it was with him when you decided to put them in their place for getting it wrong.  

You were never sorry about it either afterwards.

Jack finally gives in, letting himself become pliable under your touch and move with you. His hands tighten around you, and it’s not much at first. Just a little sway from side to side. And you’re laughing, the sound so melodic like a siren call.

“She spilled some drink on me. And now I’m knowin’ she tipsy

She put her body on me.”

Your cheek brushes his whenever you turn your head, and now he’s laughing too, aware of how uncoordinated he is trying to grind into you. But you don’t seem to mind. You never seem to mind, going so far as to hike one leg high up on his thigh. 

Your center presses against his again, and at this angle he can feel all of you through your pajama shorts.

Jack’s breath hitches, his palm slipping around your leg to hold it there. But he’s still smiling because shit, you really are a brat. Supposed to be unpacking with the few days he has off, not getting him all hard and worked up like this. 

But then your eyes drop to the couch, and your movements come to a full-fledged stop, and a soft groan escapes from his lips. 

“Hey!” 

Jack’s nose brushes against your temple before following where you’re looking. 

“That’s mine.” You’re pouting, brows furrowing up at him almost like he’s betrayed you.

He glances down at the sweatshirt, then back at you, blinking and trying to ignore the fact that he was fully hard against you. 

“Oh, is it now?” Jack asks, raising a single brow as he slides your leg back down.

He reaches over and picks it up. 

“Yes, it is.” You reply, nose brushing his this time. 

A second later, you’re ripping the sweatshirt out of his hand, and Jack lets you take it after he notices the twitch in your jaw at how tightly he was holding onto it. Then you’re stepping back, your skin peeling away from his as you clutch the fabric flush against your chest instead—almost like you’re afraid he’s going to try and take it from you.

Jack’s ready to tease you again, but the words never land as you suddenly reach for your striped sweater and pull it up and over your head, taking your tank top underneath with it. His mouth goes dry, his lower half stirring beneath the fabric of his sweatpants, as beneath all of that is the thinnest, poorest excuse of a bra Jack has ever seen.

The straps are slipping off your shoulders, threads loose and tickling the bare skin of your torso, and it looks like it’s about two sizes too small. 

Before Jack can even reach for you, though, you’re pushing his hands away and sliding the sweatshirt up and over your head. It hangs loose on you, the worn cotton falling nearly to your thighs. 

Jack looks down. 

Then back up. That image of you in his kitchen over a year ago appears again. Your bare thighs, the way your mouth molded against his. How he fucked you over the island.

He’s smirking down at you again, his arms crossing over his chest, shirt tightening just enough to catch your eyes. He’s smirking because you’ve been hiding it from him. Probably only wearing it at your apartment, maybe even with your friends, but never with him because you’d acted like a straight-up thief stealing it after the first night you ever wore it. 

“Missing something, Swiper?” Jack asks, hazel eyes dark now and locked on where the sweatshirt swallows your bottoms.

Your brows furrow in confusion, but then you follow his gaze down toward the pastel-colored pajama shorts peeking out beneath the sweatshirt. The twitch in your jaw loosens, and your brows flatten, and like you hadn’t been annoyed with him before, a knowing smile spreads across your face. 

“Maybe.” 

You were just as pliable as Jack is, it seems.

Because within seconds, you’re reaching for the waistband and slipping them down your legs. You step out of them and kick them to the side. And just when Jack thinks you’re going to stop, so caught up in the way you look, and wondering if you have any underwear on, you’re slipping your arms in through sleeves.

A few seconds later, your bra drops out from under the sweatshirt and onto the floor with the rest of your clothes. Your arms slide back into the sleeves, and Jack suppresses a moan at the sight of the small threaded bra lying between the two of you. 

It’s too good to be true. 

Because there’s no way he’s not only moving in with his girlfriend, but she’s strip-teasing him to 2000s R&B that Jack hadn’t listened to in about twenty years. 

Fuck, you’re perfect.

Stepping back into his space, your hands guide his back to your hips, the worn material soft under his palms. Your hot breath collides with his, and you hum in satisfaction when you can feel how hard he is between your legs.

“Just the reaction I was looking for,” you say. “I must really look better in it if it has you staring like this.”

Jack’s shaking his head then, trying to release his lower lip from where it sits tucked in between his teeth as his hands wander again. Waist. Hips. He grabs a handful of your ass.

“No,” he says, voice coming out all gravely. 

You look at him, a single brow raising. “No?” 

“Actually, I’ve decided I want it back.” Jack tries to keep a straight face as his other hand dances along your bare thigh. Your breath stutters as his fingers dip tracing the skin like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. 

When his fingers meet the bottom of the sweatshirt, he pinches the lower hem between his thumb and index finger, smirking at the way you feign a gasp. That soft glare returns as your hands do some wandering of their own. Down his shoulders. Biceps. Over his chest.

Leaning forward again, your nose brushes his, lips whispering against his. “You can’t have it back.” 

No mercy. 

Your eyes light up when Jack’s lips part in shock. 

“It’s mine.” 

“Not anymore.” 

He shakes his head, but he’s still smiling as you push him towards the couch. The back of his calf and the metal of his prosthetic hit the plush of it, and he falls back under the small force of your palms. A small noise slips out of him as you climb on top of him, straddling his wide hips, the sweatshirt riding up ever so slightly to reveal more of your soft, tight skin. 

“That’s not how ownership works,” Jack huffs as you settle against him, your weight dropping down on his cock that’s starting to ache. 

“Pretty sure it is,” you argue, arms circling his neck as you give a small roll of your hips against his. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jack whispers under his breath, head tipping back to rest against the back of the couch.  

“See?” Your lips brush the corner of his mouth again. “You’d hate to never have me like this again.” 

Jack laughs, softly against your lips, hands settling more firmly around your waist. He catches your stare, the way your eyes are just as blown out as his, your bottom lip coated in a fine line of saliva from where you’d been chewing on it. And there’s a heat that’s evident across your skin—the alcohol warm and pooling in the base of your stomach, giving you the most delightful buzz and need to be filled. 

By him specifically. 

“You like wearing my stuff?”

“I do.” You mumble, kissing him deeply this time. Your tongue’s wet and wanting as it dives into his mouth and licks through it. 

You melt into him, hips speeding up, the thin material of your underwear underneath sliding up and down his shaft with only the fabric of his sweatpants operating as a barrier. You fist at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him as close as you possibly can, chest meeting his as the feeling of him rolling against your puffy clit sends shock waves down your spine. 

“And you like that I do?” You ask, and it’s so innocent-sounding, but he knows it’s anything but when you pair it with a soft smirk, hands lacing into his curls right above the nape of his neck. 

Jack looks at you for a moment, how your lips are flush and beginning to swell. Your chest rises and falls against his as sweat beads across your skin under the sweatshirt. His hands slide up further, past your upper thighs and your hips where the thin lace of your underwear clings. It taunts him, because those aren’t moving-in kind of underwear. Those are I want you to fuck me underwear. 

And suddenly Jack wishes he still had his pocketknife in his pocket so he could cut them off of you 

“I like it more when I get to take it off,” he finally admits, warm fingers pressing into your sides, hands splayed completely across the outline of your ribs. 

Your eyebrows lift in interest, a smile of yours returning that’s going to unravel him right then and there. Closing what space is left, your lips trace the outline of his ear, a smile forming as his hands tighten around you. 

“Well, Dr. Abbot. I think that can be arranged,” you whisper. 

Somewhere in between your hips grinding over his bulge and your teeth nipping at the lobe of his ear, the sweatshirt becomes bunched up and around your waist. You lean down to capture Jack’s lips again. Languidly. Deeply. Tasting them like it’s the last time. 

As if you hadn’t just moved in with all these boxes, your name written on every one. 

Jack whimpers in your mouth as your lips part from his to trace a path to his jaw, kissing his freckled skin softly. They trail lower toward his neck, and you press another right over his pulse point. Jack’s hands tighten around your ribcage, dragging you up and down his length, desperate to hear you. 

To have you. 

He doesn’t even hear the song change or what’s even playing anymore as he starts to feel you finding a rhythm against him. 

But then your head is lifting, and you’re whispering against his mouth like it was a secret just for him. “Boom, boom, boom, boom. I want you in my room.”

Jack blinks, laughing softly. “Excuse me?” 

You peck his lips once and then twice more. “It’s another song I like. I have a playlist.”

“For what?" He asks incredulously, looking down at his much younger girlfriend in his lap. “Fucking?”

And he knew you had him right where you wanted him. Because when it came to you, it never took too much with Jack. Bat your lashes. Suck on your lips. Tease him—the meaner the better. Pout only if it’s required. 

All it took. 

“I guess it could be.” You whisper against his lips, eyes locking with his as a small smile forms at the corners of your mouth. “If you want.” 

And Jack didn’t think he could possibly love you more than he did at that moment. And he knew he could never feel undeserving or unsure of himself again when every day going forward—he’d get to have you like this—actively dancing pressed against him and stripping to songs he’d plan to fuck you into the mattress to later. 

You, his girlfriend, so young; it was controversial to anyone outside of this apartment, this relationship, you and him. But Jack didn’t care; he couldn’t because all of this love had him planning out the rest of his life like how a planet orbits the sun.