rewatching that scene of spencer getting his shit rocked by hotch and he’s rolling on the floor and whining and grabbing his crotch and highkey i’m hard as a rock is this too #sadist posting
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Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
SUMMARY : two agents pull up to a stakeout; one won't stop talking, and the other isn't paying attention because she's too busy picturing them fucking. abstinence really must make people crazy, because spencer reid is the bottom of the barrel—at least you thought he was, six hours ago.
PAIRING : spencer reid x fem!reader | WORD COUNT : 2.8k
TAGS : MDNI, “enemies” but they’re just court jesters, no sex but reader's sure thinking about it, daydreaming & fantasising, body odour, big dick spencer reid, kissing, dry humping, torn clothing, interrupted sex, semi-public almost-sex, idiots in love, emphasis on idiots, silliest marcidstars fic to date, title from a blythe davis song, not proofread at all
NOTES : lowkey wrote this in one sitting. here she comes word, be nice to her <3
Spencer Reid sucks.
That's the conclusion you've arrived at following three grievous years in the BAU.
It started off with small things; disagreements that could have been ironed out if they hadn't piled up so quickly. He cut you off when you were delivering a profile, you accidentally drank from his special coffee mug, he tried to stand up as you walked by and rammed his desk chair into your hip—each misstep was followed by an apology, and each apology was met with forgiveness.
But the well of mercy isn't infinite, and a pattern is a pattern.
You pulled away first, started avoiding him hoping it would prevent further incidents and protect your precious peace of mind. It worked, for a time, until something else happened. Another slight. Another apology. Another pardon.
Spencer forgot to refill the coffee pot. An honest mistake, you're sure, but you were tired. It had been a long day, long week, long month with the amount of cases you were juggling; always running from scene to scene, or battling your fear of flying thirty thousand feet in the air, or listening to him talk when you had already told him you had a headache. All you wanted was a coffee.
It wouldn't have stuck with you, if it hadn't been him who was responsible. You wouldn't have even blinked if Emily or JJ—or anyone else—had put their hand up to take the blame for the sad, empty coffee pot. But of course it was him.
It was always him.
So you misplaced the file he was working on ("Sorry, Spence. I know I left it around here somewhere…"); and he let you borrow a pen that exploded all over your blouse ("Crap— I'm sorry! It must have gotten too warm in my car."); and your desk chair broke so you took his instead of one of the spares ("My bad…but are you sure you've always sat there? No, I'm certain you usually sit somewhere else. The same spot for seven years now? Are you gaslighting me, Reid?").
It wasn't until Spencer physically knocked the mug out of your hands, spilling your coffee all over the carpet, that the team noticed something was up. So much for those acclaimed profiling skills.
And the worst part? Spencer offered to clean that carpet. No, he insisted on it, and he apologised at every chance he got, all wide eyes and worry lines, really leaning into his kicked puppy appeal, and that was the moment your quiet battle turned into an all-out war.
Snide comments were ping ponged across the bullpen, the conference room, the jet—anywhere that put you and Reid within earshot of each other turned into your own hostile work environment playpen. He called you so many variations of the word "bitch" you were convinced he had shoved a thesaurus up his ass (all without actually calling you a bitch; that was too far), and you responded by slipping the word "virgin" into every sentence for two full shifts; he made a daring remark about the "borderline inappropriate" cut of your shirt, and you stole a sweater from his go-bag and wore it the rest of the day to "protect his eyes"; you got yourself a boyfriend, and he got…weird.
Reid's always weird, in a Reid way; awkward, rambling, would-be-a-good-court-jester kind of weird. But this was different. He was different.
He stopped fighting. Raised his pitiful little white flag and just stopped. No big argument, no letter from HR, nothing.
You just thought he'd gotten bored of the back-and-forth, or maybe his New Year's resolution was to stop being a total bitch (you can call him a bitch; that's fine) and become a total bore instead. It wasn't something you thought anything of— and you wouldn't even be thinking about it now if things weren't…like this.
Three months ago, you broke up with your boyfriend. (No big deal; people break up all the time.)
The last time you had sex was three months ago. (Again, nothing crazy; you've abstained for far longer than that in the past.)
You're stuck in a car for twelve hours… (Average stakeout; nothing to write home about.)
…with Spencer Reid… (You've done it before; you can do it again.)
…and you're pretty sure you're ovulating. (Literally happens every month; you'd be more concerned if you weren't ovulating.)
All of these factors are insignificant on their own. Mundane things that happen to everyone, anywhere, any time; mundane things that have all happened to you at one point or another, and it really, really shouldn't be a big deal.
So why does it feel like you're dying?
Spencer's talking to you, he has been for some time now, and you can barely hear him over…whatever this is. And you certainly can't look at him, because then you'll—
Christ, have his hands always looked like that? Were those veins there when you got in the car? The definition? Have they always been that big?
Okay, arms and legs crossed, eyes forward, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth…
…is he sweating? Can you smell is sweat right now? Is that really what he smells like?
Correction: breathe in through your mouth, and out through your mouth.
You're sweating, that's for sure.
Fuck, it's hot in here.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Uh huh."
"You haven't been listening, have you?"
"Sure I have." You rub your eyes, trying to get to whatever thing has hijacked your mind. "You said this guy, uh…wasn't bitten by a spider? So how is he Spider-Man?"
"I…" His gaze burns a hole straight through your temple and into your brain, sears it from the inside out. "I said that ten minutes ago."
"Oh." Pull yourself together. "Run it back?"
"Run it back?"
"We have time, don't we?" You squint at the dashboard, carefully avoiding any hands or forearms or biceps or— "There's…six hours left of this…oh my God."
"Don't sound too thrilled," Spencer mutters. "Anyway, the reason he's Spider-Man is because he was trying to recreate the abilities of the original Spider-Man in other people—this is set in the future, remember? He actually wanted to discontinue his research after a human test subject died, but Tyler Stone—that's his boss—had other plans…"
Garcia once told you about this alternate universe trope in a lot of her "fandoms" where characters have this almost wolf-like biological hierarchy thing going on— or something like that, you weren't paying much attention. You remember her talking about how certain people experience "heats" like animals do, and you're sure this must be the real-life equivalent.
You've been sitting in a hot car for six hours, unable to sleep, with a coworker who is inexplicably getting more and more attractive with each torturous minute that passes, and he's talking about fucking Spider-Man. Not even regular Spider-Man, either; he's talking about Spider-Man from the fucking future.
And that's not to say that Reid was unattractive before this nightmare began, Morgan doesn't call him "pretty boy" for no reason, but you weren't attracted to him. Okay, maybe a little, or…more than a little—but not to the extent that you are now.
Right now, you feel positively in-fucking-sane.
"…and in order to get himself off of Rapture, he uses an older template of his unaltered genetic code to overwrite his current biology. However, his subordinate Delgato sabotages the machines and, instead of being restored to his old code, his genes are rewritten to contain fifty percent spider DNA—that's how he becomes Spider-Man."
A pause. Spencer doesn't pause unless he's awaiting a response.
"…uh huh."
The leather squeaks as Spencer leans over to scrutinise you. "What did I say?"
"That he, um—" You shrug as you clear your throat. "Someone fucked with the machine, and now his DNA is half spider."
Another pause. Longer.
What is he waiting for? You answered his question.
"Um. I just figured that all Spider-Men were bitten by—"
"Can you look at me?"
"Nope."
You weren't supposed to say that out loud.
"…nope? What— what do you mean nope?"
"We're supposed to keep an eye out for our unsub," you mutter.
"So you can't spare a glance?"
"Nope," you repeat, popping the "p" this time so it sounds more intentional.
Spencer sinks back into his seat, but his gaze doesn't leave you.
"Did I do something?"
You shake your head quickly. "No, you're…fine."
He's fine? Really?
"Look," he sighs, "I know we've never really…seen eye to eye. And I've been, um, distant—"
"Just keep talking about Spider-Man, Reid."
"—but I think, if there's ever going to be an opportunity to talk things out, then—"
"Please."
"—this is it."
He talks over you, unapologetic. Bulldozes your words with his own, and with a kind of resolution that leaves the air feeling even heavier. The heat inside of the car mixes with whatever poison gas he's just released, makes it impossible to breathe.
Does your sweat smell as strongly as his does? If so, you should invest in a better deodorant— and stop breathing through your nose.
"Can we open a window?" you ask stiffly.
"Nope."
"Reid, please—"
"Are you trying to say I smell bad?"
God, no.
"Yes," you snap, "and I'm sweating like a dog in…"
As your words trail off into obscurity, Spencer scoffs. "Fine, open your window. It isn't even that warm in here, I have the AC turned up all the way."
"AC my ass."
The air that hits you as you roll your window down feels like heaven. You lean back in your seat, finally able to breathe, but then you hear that damn squeak.
Spencer's leaning over to adjust the passenger side fan. His hair tickles your nose, and when you freeze up, he cranes his neck to look at you, and he smiles.
"Hello."
"What are you doing."
"I'm fixing your—"
"I just said you stink, Reid."
"Stop breathing through your nose, then."
There's brain matter leaking out from your ears. Eyes locked in this subdued, almost dead stare. Homed on his lips. You're roadkill, flattened under his tyre, using the last of your strength to blink and twitch. Slow and laboured. Helpless.
When the hell did he start looking like this?
"…thank you, Doctor."
Your efforts to keep your voice steady prove futile. You sound as weak as you feel, breathless and—Christ—like sex.
Close enough to kiss. You could lean in, that's all it would take. He'd taste like his coffee, strong and sweet, at first, with a bitterness that hits you just as you pull away, drags you back in for more. You hate his coffee, and yet…part of you…
"You're welcome, Agent."
Spencer pulls back, returning to his seat before you can do anything rash. The fan hits your face, but it does nothing to cool you down.
Despite your best efforts, your gaze follows him. Sticks to him like a magnet, dumb and dead and desperate. He doesn't seem to notice how he's killed you.
He reaches for the steering wheel, holds it like he's going somewhere. Fingers flex against the plastic, tendons working. Veins. Just…veins.
He probably has a big dick.
And you're looking out of the window, putting yourself in time-out, because what?
What is wrong with you? This is Spencer. Awkward, bumbling, pain-in-the-ass Spencer. You can't be thinking about him like this. It isn't right. It's…
That day, when you stole his sweater, he had only made that remark about your outfit because you had caught him staring first.
"There is actually, um, something I've been meaning to…talk to you about."
And you had only kept it on for as long as you did because it was comfortable. Because you liked how it smelled. How it reminded you of him.
…and he never even asked for it back. You could have kept it. He would have let you keep it.
Just how long as this been happening?
"I asked Hotch to pair us together on this."
His words hit like a bucket of ice, and you snap back to him, frowning. "What?"
"I wanted— I don't know," he sighs. "I needed a moment alone with you—"
"A moment?" you hiss, leaning forward. "We're here for twelve hours, Reid. We've— we've already been here for six, and you're only just saying this now? What took you so long to—"
He cuts you off, spitting out the name of your ex boyfriend like a curse—like it means anything.
You scoff, all irrational, hormonal thoughts forgotten. "What about him?"
"He's the reason I took so damn long, alright?" He's talking to the steering wheel; you're staring at him like he's lost his mind. "Because I…I had a plan, at the start of the year. I-I was going to ask you out, but—"
"Reid."
"You got this…stupid rock of a boyfriend, and— and I concluded that I was the idiot. I-I told myself that I had misread everything, and that you were never…interested in me, like that."
"Are you serious—"
"I'm not finished." Releasing the steering wheel, Spencer turns to you with this big, sarcastic smile. "The idiot here is you—"
You practically launch yourself across the seats, meeting his open, smug mouth with a kiss that leaves him floundering, grasping at the leather to keep himself steady so he doesn't fall and, more importantly, so he can kiss you back. He matches your hunger like it's second nature, like it's been simmering quietly within him for as long as it has been in you. Like he's spent months letting it eat him alive.
Everything is on fire. Your skin burns at the same temperature his does; tongues meet in a blaze amidst scorched lips and molten teeth.
He pulls you over the centre console. Your knee hits the gearstick, and he mumbles an apology into your mouth, adjusts himself so you can straddle him with relative ease.
Those large hands settle like anchors on your waist, pressing you down just enough for you to feel how his body responds to the kiss, to this position, to you. And it's enough to make you moan, because you were right: if the bulge in his slacks is anything to go by, Spencer Reid has a big dick. It's a wonder his ego isn't supersized, too.
It hardly registers that you're rocking your hips until he's whining on your tongue, trying to move in tandem in a way the car seat simply won't allow for. You reach around blindly, and the seat gives a rough, begrudging jerk before it reclines.
"Okay…" Your chest heaves against his as you pull back just enough to let yourself breathe. "I concede…I'm an idiot…"
Spencer exhales a shaky, smile-ridden sigh as his hand finds your cheek. The curl of his lips reads as nothing but affectionate; pure, unfiltered fondness offset only by his words.
"I forgive you."
You don't share in his smile. In fact, you swat his hand away like it's dirty.
"Bitch."
And then you're latching onto his neck, relishing the way he stutters on a gasp that, if you're hearing correctly, is laced with a curse. Faint, but discernible.
God, the things you'd do to hear that again.
When your teeth nip his sensitive skin, he whimpers, and you feel his cock twitch and strain against the fabric between you.
Corrupting the golden boy, getting him to say all kinds of nasty things for you, and in a government-issue vehicle, too…now that sounds like an exciting way to spend your night. Far better than this stupid stakeout— the stupid stakeout that he requested you accompany him on.
Buttons hit the window as you pull his shirt open without care. He sputters, stammers, but you're kissing along his collarbone before he can choke out a single word, dragging your nails down his chest, and by that point all he can do is throw his head back and make his pretty little noises; you can worry about his shirt later.
As if on cue, Spencer's phone starts to ring. The hot car turns to ice, and in that split-second before the panic really kicks in, and he's just staring at you with those startled brown eyes, you swear to God he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
He scrambles around for his phone, finds it in his pocket just under your thigh. He almost drops it as he brings it to his ear.
“What the fuck?” You turn in your seat and find Steve wielding a large, far too dangerous chainsaw.
“Like it?” He waves the chainsaw around as he laughs like a kid in a candy store. “Don’t I look badass?”
Mike visibly groans while you cover your ears and shout, “Turn that thing off!”
Steve obliges, though not without pouting. “Admit it, angel. I look hot carrying this.”
“Kill me.” Dustin and Jonathan gag.
“I prefer men with all five fingers, Steve.”
Summary: everyone hates your nightmares, you become an accomplice to multiple felonies, murray gifts you a frog, dustin and steve are the nosiest bitches, youre a runner youre a trackstar, and a demogorgon becomes a new farm animal
Rating: mature, swearing and graphic descriptions of blood/gore
Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, trauma lol, mentions of blood
Words: 10.1k
Before you swing in: HI !!! so incredibly sorry this took me months to write. i had… the worst ever year of my life lol ! was cheated on, lied to, and used by someone i dearly trusted and loved and now im just fist fighting demons every day to not crash out. its been fun !! yippee !! anyways, enough about me: lets focus on the fact that i finally managed to write and enjoy myself hooray !!! enjoy my loves, and thank you all for being so patient with me <3
–
Faint whispers trickle through your eardrums. They’re soft, quiet at the rounded vowels, and the hushed words almost go undetected.
“Do we just let her sleep?”
“What other choice do we have?”
A third hushed voice breaks through your haze of sleep. “Or we could just wake her up, dipshits.”
“Real nice, Henderson.”
“You asked for my input, so I gave it.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to be such an asshole about it.”
Suddenly the voices rise in volume as Steve and Dustin break out into yet another exhausting argument. Faintly you register Jonathan’s soft voice pleading with them to be quiet, fearful of waking you up, but the fear has long since come to pass.
Your eyes open and your gaze lands on Steve and Dustin in the front seat, bodies facing away from each other in a tense standoff with Jonathan next to you, a worried hand on the base of your ankle as he anxiously endures the conversation.
“Listen, if we don’t wake Y/N up then she’ll wring our asses.” Dustin says, rolling his eyes at Steve’s dismissive huff.
“But this is the first time she’s slept in days,” the older boy reminds your brother. “Like hell am I waking her up. She needs the rest.”
The reminder of the events from the last forty-eight hours settles into your bones. Forcing yourself to sit up, ignoring every fiber of your body that begs to be laid to rest, you look out through the van’s window and realize you’re parked in front of the radio tower.
Daylight surrounds itself around you. A deep, dull ache sits in your back.
You must’ve slept the entire night on the van’s floor.
“Unfortunately I’m already up.”
All three boys whip their heads to look at you, staring down at you as if you’re some science experiment they haven’t quite figured out.
Steve clears his throat sheepishly, now red. “Did we wake you?”
“Of course you woke her up.” Jonathan snaps, removing his hand from your ankle as if it has stung him. Although the movement doesn’t go unnoticed by either you or Steve, whose eyes narrow dangerously.
He sucks in a breath, reeling for another fight, but you fling your hands out in annoyance and beckon towards the radio station. “I’d prefer if someone explained to me why we’re back here.”
Both Dustin and Jonathan turn to Steve expectantly, forming an unspoken alliance against him. Steve’s face pinches together as he waves his middle finger at them before turning to you. “Robin radioed us while you were asleep.”
Immediately you sit up properly. “What’d she say? Is everyone okay?”
“She’s with Will and Joyce,” Steve continues, fingers brushing over yours to quell the sting of your rapidly building hope. “But that’s all she told us before demanding that we meet here to discuss a new lead she has.”
While the information remains vague, it’s enough to snag at the remaining fragments of hope inside your chest as it expels the remnants of your exhaustion. Scrambling to your knees, you frantically crawl out of the van before anyone can stop you.
Early morning birdsong greets you as your feet touch the grass. Time almost seems to stand still as you take in the rolling hills and green meadows before you. In the sunlight the red of Karen Wheeler’s blood on your clothing burns to brown and the kiss of the sun’s warmth masks the multitudes of grief that you can never seem to outrun.
Yet in the distance Nancy’s car sends billows of smoke signals into the air and the minute she steps out of the vehicle her legs carry her to you.
“Y/N.” Nancy’s small frame shudders against your chest as you hold her in your arms. Her eyes are as bloodshot as yours.
“I’m so sorry,” you breathe into her neck, apologizing for the unfair hand she’s been dealt as you hold onto her so tightly that her skin becomes yours. “How is she–?”
You’re unable to utter Karen Wheeler’s name, though her daughter understands anyways. “She made it to the hospital. That’s all we know.”
You exhale at her words, your fingernails dig into her back and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen Nancy so frail. A heavy hand falls on your lower back, accompanied by a gruff voice, “let me see her.”
If it were anyone else you’d bare your teeth and spit foul words, but for Jonathan Byers you lessen your grip on Nancy Wheeler and watch, silently, as she melts into his embrace. They come together like water, melting into one, and for a moment they’re just two kids in love.
“You look like hell.” Mike steps out of the car and bypasses all formalities upon noticing you. Lucas stands next to him and both boys look about as well as you feel.
Though try as he might, Mike can’t hide his hurt from you. Traces of dread etch his face, and you’re pulling him into your arms before he can escape. “How’re you holding up?”
He stiffens at the unexpected embrace, but after everything he’s been through the last sixteen hours, he can’t bring himself to pull away. His chest rises slowly, exhales even slower as he says, “I-I don’t really know what I’m doing–holy shit.”
Suddenly Mike shoves you away and rushes towards your brother, eyes narrowed at the onslaught of bruises and blood that stain his face.
“You look like hell, dude.” Mike lets out a low whistle, studying Dustin’s face.
“Bike crash.” The lie comes out of Dustin’s mouth with a practiced ease that makes you uncomfortable.
Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yep. Flew headfirst into a light post.”
You feel Steve bristle next to you. Everyone knows that Dustin is lying.
Sharp pain coats your mouth as you bite the inside of your cheek. There’s nothing you can say that would change anything.
“Look, I’m sorry about missing the crawl, and about… Everything.” Dustin averts everyone’s gaze. The guilt eats him alive. You know how painful the sensation of its hunger can be.
“It’s not your fault,” Mike’s quick reassurance to comfort his friend leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that you find hard to swallow. “Don’t beat yourself up.”
“Looks like he already did.” Lucas steps closer to your brother and grimaces at the injuries that scatter his face.
He reaches to Dustin’s nose, as if about to grab it, before you slap him away like a mother scolding a child. “Please don’t make the injury worse.”
Lucas glares at you, immediately defensive. “I just wanted to see if it was broken!”
“By touching it?” Dustin takes several steps back, alarmed at the idea of Lucas prodding at his still sore nose.
An argument starts to break out between the two boys, but it quickly comes to an end when Robin flings the radio station’s door open and gestures wildly for everyone’s attention.
“Hey, this isn’t a social call, guys.” Her tone borders on annoyance and the manic glint in her eyes tells you that she hasn’t had a pleasant night, either. “Let’s go!”
Slowly everyone settles back into the realization of where they are, of why they’re in the middle of an abandoned field running on exhaustion and paranoia. Mike is the first to follow Robin inside, followed by Lucas and Dustin, and eventually even Nancy manages to break herself out of her grief long enough to grab Jonathan’s hand and guide him inside.
You’re left with Steve and a silence that presses into your ribcage.
You’ve never known how to survive in the silence.
But then Steve’s arms wrap themselves around your waist, uncaring of the torn clothing and bloodstains. He holds you to his chest, cradles your head so that you can hear every beat of his heart, and in his embrace you find a solace that not even silence can bring.
“I can feel you slipping away,” Steve whispers, arms tightening around you with every word. His steady breathing gets interrupted by a sharp inhale, as if bracing for impact, before he says, “It scares me.”
You stiffen in his embrace. The unwavering way that Steve has always managed to see right through you still sends shockwaves through your system. It isn’t fair.
“I’m not trying to.” You wish there was more you could say to reassure him, but exhaustion has long clouded your mind and you’re not sure how to piece together the fragments that are left.
“I know you aren’t,” Steve’s thumb traces the crest of your cheek. His eyes shine down on you soft, familiar and warm, though through the years they’ve weathered with worry. “But I need you to stay, angel.”
You’ve become a border edge of the silhouette you once were. A ghost that inhabits an abandoned body.
“Stay here in the present with me, alright?” Steve pinches your nose and smiles bashfully when it elicits a small laugh from you. “I can’t have you getting lost in the past or stuck in a future that nobody can control. No shutting down. I won’t allow it.”
And you? You’re here. You’re here, stuck in the present with me and the party.
Lucas’ words remain etched into your mind. You haven’t forgotten them, though you suppose you haven’t quite figured out how to remain present, given how tirelessly the past tries to drown you.
“Are you done lecturing me now?” You brush Steve’s hand away and encase it within your own, tugging him along. “Because I’m not sure how much longer we have before Robin sends a search party after us.”
But Steve doesn’t move. Instead, he remains in place and stands before you, arm extended with your hands still intertwined. His boyish face changes for a moment, flickers into something more real, more serious. “We have all the time in the world, Y/N.”
Time has always been a dangerous promise to keep, yet somehow its liminality morphs into something finite as it falls from Steve’s lips as he pulls you in.
He spins you around, holds you close to his chest as you dance together for only a brief second, before he seals his promise with a kiss that not even time itself could ever take away from you.
–
A distinct sense of horror freezes over your body when Robin reveals why she brought everyone to the radio station.
Vecna has a new target. A little boy, not much older than Will had been.
You’ve been here before.
“Derek? As in, Derek Turnbow?” Steve’s voice carries your own disbelief as he sits next to you on the couch, weight pressed to your side as a way to ground your ever growing nerves. “From the Turnbow Realty family?”
“The one and only.” Robin affirms, body hunched over in her own exhaustion.
Your eyes close and the sensation of your nails digging into your palms provides enough of a sting to abate the panic swelling in your chest.
“The whole family’s a menace.” Lucas says unhelpfully.
You bite back your disdain for the comment, knowing that Lucas doesn’t mean any harm. You understand why he said it, having spent a rather awful night babysitting Derek for a few hours when you were fourteen. He had been nothing but cruel, obnoxious, and vindictive. Ultimately you declined Mrs. Turnbow when she asked if you’d be willing to babysit him in the future.
Yet despite how terrible Derek Turnbow may be, he’s still just a kid.
And you’re still marked. Vecna’s curse. It still resides in your bloodstream.
You’ll do anything to remain his sole victim.
“How do you know it’s Derek who’s next?” You’re careful to keep your voice level, calm. The less emotion you show, the better. “I mean, as far as we know, I’m still marked. Who’s to say it isn’t me that Vecna’s looking for?”
Steve inhales sharply and Dustin drops his head to his hands. You refuse to look at them, instead choosing to aim your gaze at Robin.
Only it’s Will who answers.
“Because I saw Derek,” he says softly, almost regretful. “Not you, Y/N.”
His words confuse you. “I don’t think I understand what that means.”
“I’ve learned that when I’m close enough to the hive mind, I can tap into it. I can tap into Vecna’s mind.” Will explains, eyes regretful as he delivers the news he knows will upset you. “I can see who he’s targeting.”
Your stomach twists painfully as a new wave of horror washes over you. Will was once called a spy and declared a traitor who was forcibly locked away in a cabin in the woods in an attempt to expel the monsters inside of him.
Now, years later, Will has become the very thing you promised him he wouldn’t.
Vecna’s spy. A weapon against his will.
“But were you seeing through the eyes of Vecna or of Derek?” Steve rubs his temple, trying desperately to keep up.
“Both.” Will clarifies. “I-I was Vecna, but inside of Derek’s mind.”
“And you’re absolutely sure that you didn’t ‘see’ Y/N in that hallucination of yours?” Steve questions, adamant he ensures that there isn’t a hint of a possibility of you being in danger.
Will shakes his head. “All I saw was Derek.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” You insist, eager to find an answer that involves your life on the line. “I was Vecna’s last target. It should be me he comes after next. Not Derek or Holly.”
“Vecna’s a psychic serial killer. Nothing he does makes sense.” Robin reminds you gently. “I mean, he stalks his victims by invading their minds. That’s what he did with Chrissy and Max and you–”
Then Robin seems to remember just how close she came to losing you, and her mouth snaps shut immediately. “Sorry.”
You shift away from the others, uncomfortable with the sudden mournful expressions on everyone’s face. Their pity only builds resentment within your chest.
Memories from last year haunt you. Sometimes you can still feel Vecna’s claws in your membrane, but that doesn’t mean it makes you any more willing to be mourned over. Not when it was Max who suffered the consequences that should’ve been yours.
Steve’s hand falls to your thigh as he tries to comfort you, yet Nancy, sharp as a knife, doesn’t shy away from your past.
“Vecna stalked Holly before he took her.” She looks only at you. “Only he stalked her as Henry, befriended her, for weeks.”
Nancy clenches her fists, exhales slowly, before asking the question that she dreads the most. “Were there any signs before he attacked you?”
A phantom sensation of dandelions choking you constricts your breathing. The memory of them slices your tongue, tangles your airway, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop the memory from drowning you.
“The summer before Vecna attacked… I had a nightmare.” The words get stuck in the grooves of your teeth, forcing you to spit them out like a dirty confession. “I was in a field of dandelions before they suddenly swarmed around me and I was suffocating.”
The room stands still. Unable to look at anyone, you look down at your bloodied palms instead. “Then, when Vecna showed me and Nancy our visions, he told me I've become fragile… like a dandelion.”
You steady your breathing. You don’t know why this feels as if you’re confessing something terrible. Maybe you are.
“That’s when I realized he’d been watching me for months.”
A cacophony of reactions overtakes the room.
Steve nearly topples out of his seat due to how fast his body turns to yours, talking a mile a minute and demanding to know more about the nightmare. “Are you serious–”
But his worries get lost in Dustin’s stunned confusion. “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve used this information sooner!”
“Was there anything else in your dream?” Mike is quick to ask his own investigative questions, knocking his elbows into your side in his hurry to get closer to you. “I mean, anything useful besides stupid dandelions?”
The voices begin to overlap in a way that dizzies you. Seeing your discomfort, Nancy places a hand on her brother’s chest and pulls him away from you while simultaneously flicking Dustin’s hat. “Give her some space.”
Mike makes a face and Dustin grumbles under his breath, but without another word the boys go back to their seats. Thankful for the breathing room, you smile appreciatively at Nancy. “Thank you.”
She smiles back, soft, tired, before it falls into a broken frown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to cast the attention onto you.”
“Don’t apologize,” you shake your head. “I want to help however I can. If it means finding Holly and protecting Derek, then I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”
“Do you… know why Vecna gave you evil dandelion nightmares?” Mike asks cautiously, unsure how much you’re willing to disclose.
“No,” you admit, regretful. You’re the only person alive who was marked by Vecna and the only source of information available. You despise how little you’re able to help. “I never understood why. All I can remember is that the field felt familiar, like I’d been there before. I…” You clear your throat and cast a nervous glance towards your brother. “I think he was showing me Virginia. Where I grew up.”
Dustin’s spine goes pin straight at the revelation, though he remains quiet. Mike, however, narrows his eyes. “Nancy and I think that Vecna was trying to earn Holly’s trust. That’s why he befriended her. Maybe he was trying to earn yours, too?”
A sarcastic laugh falls from your mouth. “Yeah, well if his long-term goal was forming a friendship, then giving me a nightmare where I suffocate in dandelions was a pretty shitty attempt.”
“Maybe he was shy?” Robin suggests with a wince.
Steve shakes his head in disappointment while you huff lightly. “Unlikely.”
“Well whatever Vecna’s plan is,” Will recenters the group, silencing the room once more. “We have to stop him, and we have to save Derek.”
And the rest is decided.
–
Will herds everyone downstairs and instructs you to stand in front of the projector. Within minutes he has a pointer aimed at the map of Hawkins as he explains his plan with a confidence that surprises you.
“The Turnbows live here.” Will points to a neighborhood on the map. “We wait in a van across the street.”
For as long as you’ve known Will, he has always been a follower rather than a leader. Now, as you watch him command the room, you’re confronted with just how much he’s grown, and it fills you with warm, pleasant pride.
Then Will proposes kidnapping a child and you’re reminded all over again just how naive and insanely young he still is.
“As soon as they’re asleep, we move in, we grab Derek, and we take him to the McCorkle farm. It’s completely abandoned and isolated.”
“Oh absolutely not.” You gawk, baffled. “There’s no way I’m kidnapping another kid.”
Lucas’ eyes widen. “‘Another kid’?”
“Unfortunately Erica counts as the first.”
“We’ll be using a blindfold.” Will waves his pointer at you. “So technically it isn’t kidnapping if Derek never finds out who we are or where he is.”
“That’s literally the definition of kidnapping.”
“Better than Vecna kidnapping him.” Robin snaps her fingers. “I’d consider us a much better option.”
While she’s right, you still wholly dislike the plan. “Can’t we do something a little less… extreme?”
“Yeah,” Jonathan agrees, looking over to his mom who has been silent the entire time. “Are you alright with just kidnapping a child?”
“Robin’s right. We’re saving a child via kidnapping. So it’s fine. I think.” Joyce shrugs, though she grimaces at her own words and quickly backtracks. “Alright. Now’s not the time to play it safe, Jonathan.”
You step forward, casting an apologetic look towards the woman. “With all due respect, Mrs. Byers, I think now is the exact time to be playing it safe. We’ve already lost El and Hopper and Holly. We can’t just blindly run into whatever Vecna has planned for us.”
Dustin nods. “I’m not morally opposed to the plan, but I agree with Y/N. There’s a few holes in it.”
“Like what if Derek falls asleep before the Demogorgon attacks him?” Lucas suggests.
“That’s one.” Your brother agrees.
“Or what if Derek wakes up before we grab him and alerts his family? We’ll go to jail.” Nancy points out.
“And there’s another.” Dustin nods again. “But the third, most gaping hole is that even if by some miracle this plan even works: saving Derek won’t bring us any closer to finding Vecna and the others. It just buys us some time. That’s it.”
The atmosphere turns somber at the reminder of just how much none of you know. Without El and her powers, you’re practically helpless against Vecna and locating him.
But just as the silence becomes deafening, Mike breaks it.
“Not necessarily,” he slowly looks up at the others. “There might be a way to save Derek and find Holly.”
In a heartbeat he stands up and rummages around the basement, mumbling under his breath with every passing second. No one interferes, either too confused or too worried it will only set the kid off more.
Then Mike lunges towards a small, blue bag and he lets out a small victorious cheer. “Yes! Okay, everyone around the table, now.”
Curious, you do as he says and watch as he dumps the bag out, revealing a multitude of old, worn D&D pieces.
“This is Derek,” Mike holds up one of the pieces, silently instructing everyone to follow along. He sets the piece down and arranges the others into a circle. “And this is the rest of the Turnbow family. We’re gonna need to recruit someone that the family trusts and can gain access to the house.”
“And this person will do what? Ask the Turnbows not to call the cops?” You ask, uncertain of the plan.
“No, the person is going to knock the family out so we can extract them from the house.”
Mike’s words cause you to sigh. “Right. Should’ve assumed that.”
“Knock them out?” Joyce’s concern reflects your own.
“Safely,” Mike assures her. “With sleeping pills or something.”
“I might know where we could get some benzos.” Robin supplies. “Those things are like elephant tranquilizers.”
“How would you know?” Steve eyes her wearily.
“Don’t worry about it.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “There are now multiple felonies included in this plan.”
Robin winks. “Only the two, pretty girl.”
“We’ll take the benzos.” Mike ignores your disdain. “That way, if Vecna spies, he’ll just assume that Derek is fast asleep in bed and he’ll send his Demos to grab him. Only he won’t find Derek. He’ll find us.”
“Wait a minute,” you place your hand in the middle of the table, blocking Mike from putting any more pieces down. “Who is ‘us’?”
“Everyone in this room.” He leans forward, eyes daring you to argue. “Me and the rest of the party included.”
You go to open your mouth to argue, but Dustin interrupts before you can start. “Save your breath, Y/N. You said yourself that we’re missing Hopper and El. Like it or not, we need all the help we can get.”
As much as you want to protest, you know that your brother is right. While you hate the idea of the kids staging an ambush against Vecna, you don’t have any other option. Biting your lip, you reluctantly remove your hand and nod to Mike to continue.
He flashes you a sarcastic thumbs up and explains that Murray will be supplying the traps that’ll hopefully burn the demogorgon. Then he stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small device. “But not before we stick him with one of these.”
The telemetry tag flashes red on the table. “We’ll track the Demo across the Upside Down in the Squawk van just like we did with Hopper, and if we’re lucky the bastard will lead us back to its lair.”
“Where Vecna will be with Holly. Two birds, one stone.” The pieces fall into place and you nod, impressed. “Clever as always, Wheeler.”
“Someone has to be.”
And when no one voices any complaints or possible flaws within the plan, Mike smirks triumphantly and dismisses the group to prepare for what lies ahead.
Lucas and Mike set off to the middle school to find Erica, who apparently used to be close friends with the Turnbow’s daughter. You find it ironic that it’s somehow Erica that the plan hinges on, given her history of forced compliance.
Robin all but drags Will outside with her to secure the benzos needed, despite your many attempts to stop her.
“Why the hell are you taking Will with you on your drug run?” You grab at her hand and try to use all your body weight to prevent the girl from getting into Joyce’s car, but Robin has somehow become shockingly strong and tugs you away.
“Because little Byers won’t lecture me!” Robin pokes her tongue out at you and grabs the back of Will’s collar, shoving him into the passenger seat. “See ya, pretty girl.”
Will waves. “Bye!”
You stand in the driveway alongside Joyce, who has watched the whole ordeal as you all but pout, watching as the two drive away in a fit of laughter. Neither you nor Joyce have any idea when they became the best of friends, but you’re starting to hate their newfound friendship.
“Do I have to ask if your friend will keep Will safe?” Joyce nudges her shoulder against yours, breaking you from your moody disposition briefly.
“Robin will keep him safe,” you reluctantly promise, though you’re a little weary of their relationship. “I just have no idea how she managed to find a stash of drugs in Hawkins.”
Joyce chuckles while Steve walks up behind you and kisses your temple. “I’m sure Robin will tell you all about it the next time she orchestrates a drug deal.”
“I’m never leaving her unsupervised ever again.”
Steve’s chest rumbles in amusement and you allow yourself a moment to sink against him and close your eyes. Your days are slowly blurring together, but here, in his arms, you’re able to breathe.
Sensing the desire to be alone, Joyce gently squeezes your upper arm and places a kiss to your shoulder. The act of affection soothes the open wounds left from the night before. Her presence will always soothe you.
“Anyway, I came out here to tell you that I’ve left a spare change of clothes inside the station.” She says delicately. Her eyes never stray from yours, though you know she struggles against herself not to look down and see the mess of blood that soaks your clothing.
A piece of your ribcage softens. “How did you–?”
“Jonathan radioed while you were asleep.” Joyce squeezes your arm again, this time with a smile you can’t quite decipher. It appears small, timid, almost nostalgic, but before you can ask her anything else, she lets you go. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”
And with that, Joyce leaves.
–
Mike hadn’t specified what exactly Murray would be smuggling over for the Turnbow house, but when the man opens his truck and unloads the supplies, for a moment you’re fearful he somehow intercepted a serial killer’s delivery.
Murray hands Jonathan a hyper-realistic CPR dummy that makes you highly uncomfortable to look at and Nancy an armful of ammo before turning to you with a crazed smile on his face.
“And, for little miss unbearable, I present this,” he stretches out his arm and reveals a misshapen frog puppet. “Mike said it’d help ease your nerves. Unsure why, but I’ve learned not to question the kid.”
Any more useful insight from Kermit the frog?
Jonathan does a poor job of hiding his laughter while Nancy bites back an amused smile. Both Steve and Dustin outright laugh at you.
Glaring at them, you grab the frog and hold it awkwardly between your hands. “I really hate how funny Mike is sometimes.”
“He’s an odd duck.” Murray jumps down from the truck and walks over to a crate. He throws open its top and reveals a mass of wire. “Speaking of ducks, do take care to keep your precious frog away from the 3,000 feet of barbed wire.”
“That seems excessive. Even for Mike.”
Murray shrugs at you. “It’s what he asked for. Now, onto Bilbo Baggins,” the man hands Dustin a box. “Some sparkling new spark plugs.”
Dustin frowns. “Spark plugs? That’s it?”
By the tone of his voice you know that he’s unamused with the shortchange he’s been given.
“I’m also giving out free hugs.” Murray smiles.
Disgust marks your face. “Do not touch my brother.”
Murray bares his teeth at you while Dustin groans. “You didn’t get the turbocharger, either?”
“No.”
“The suspension kit?”
“No.”
Sensing that your brother will only run the man in circles, you leave him to deal with Murray and go follow after Steve. Mike heroically left him the job of clearing out the van in order to smuggle the Turnbows away. While he withheld his complaints, you know that Steve will enjoy the company as he wrestles with the vehicle and its contents.
You hear Steve before you see him,
“Lousy piece of shit!” A loud thump follows his exasperated groans, proceeded by a pained yelp when he inexplicably drops whatever heavy item he’d been carrying on his foot. “Fuck!”
Turning the corner, you find your boyfriend hunched over his knees amongst an endless sea of wires and leather seats gutted from the Squawk van. Sweat drips down his forehead and his flushed skin tells you he’s one stumble away from driving the van into Mike Wheeler’s house.
“Need some help, honey?” You brace a hand on his back, steadying his disheveled body as you carefully step inside the vehicle, careful not to fall.
Steve grabs your wrist and kisses it, his overly warm skin cools at the sensation of yours. “Have I ever told you how much I hate Mike?”
“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”
“I mean,” he kicks at a loose bolt, upending yet another seat from the van’s floor. “Why am I the one tasked with cleaning out this hunk of metal? Do we even need the entire bed of this thing, anyways? Can’t we just squish everything inside and call it a day?”
You snort. “You do realize that we’re throwing an entire family back here, right?”
“They’ll be too knocked out to care.”
“You’ve always had such a way with words.”
Steve chuckles and reaches for your waist. Once he has you where he wants you, he pulls your body down onto his and lands on the last remaining seat within the van. The old leather cracks beneath your bodies, but neither you nor Steve pay any attention to it.
Steve’s head buries itself into your chest and you feel him exhale slowly. Your fingers find his hair, entertaining themselves within the strands you’ve long since have claimed as your own, and he presses himself deeper into your touch.
“Miss you,” he mumbles, hands roaming down to your thighs as he pulls them over his lap so that you’re seated flush against him. It’s been so long since Steve has had you this close.
And though he’s been at your beck and call ever since yesterday morning, you understand the ache that Steve feels in his longing for you. “I miss you, too.”
You haven’t been alone, truly alone, with Steve in nearly three days. Once, the absence would’ve gone unnoticed. It was you who insisted on spending an entire summer ignoring him and his stupid boyish charm. Now, with the knowledge of just how lovely it is to be Steve Harrington’s, you feel devoid of any pleasure whenever he’s gone.
Steve’s stomach presses against yours as he inhales deeply. Light, butterfly-soft kisses litter themselves along your collarbones. Your breathy laugh accompanies the tender admiration, which Steve smiles in response to as well.
“I’m sorry about Dustin,” the apology falls between each kiss. “I know I can be a massive dick to him sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” You look down at him with a teasing smile, though you both know you mean it.
“More than I’d like to admit.” Steve relents, placing a kiss to the base of your throat. You hum at the sensation, and your satisfaction gives him the confidence to find the rest of his words. “I know I should be more patient with him, but I just… I hate the way he treats you.”
“It isn’t your responsibility to defend me. I don’t want you to defend me.” Your fingers dance over Steve’s, intertwining them together. “Not when I understand Dustin’s anger better than anyone else.”
“That still doesn’t make it fair to you, Y/N.”
You can’t help but laugh at this. “And when has anything in my life been fair?”
Steve’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t find your words as funny as you do.
But rather than continue to try and convince you of all you deserve, knowing it to be a useless endeavor, he instead accepts what he knows you can offer him. “How’re you holding up?”
Though he can’t bring himself to say Vecna’s name, you know that Steve’s question resides in how everyone’s eyes fell on you when you revealed he’d been watching you for a long time.
“I’m fine.” Neither you nor Steve can tell if you’re lying.
“You know that you can always step away, right?” His fingers grow restless in yours. The unease that follows his question makes you wonder just how long his worry has festered. “Let Mike and the others handle the Turnbows if you need the break. I mean, no one would blame you.”
Though you know he means well, you fervently shake your head at what Steve has said. “I promised Nancy I’d bring Holly back to her, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Now Steve is the one who shifts uncomfortably. “Y/N, you just had to relive your worst nightmare in front of an entire group of people. You had Mrs. Wheeler’s blood all over you not even an hour ago. I-I can’t imagine what you must be feeling–”
“However I’m feeling doesn’t matter.” You cut off Steve’s concerned rambling. “Nancy and Mike lost their sister, Steve. Their parents are laying in hospital beds. Whatever I may be feeling, I can promise you that what they’re going through is even more painful, even more debilitating.”
You straighten your back and look down at the man beneath you. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs and despite the fact that you’re solidifying every fear that Steve has, he still gazes up at you as if you’ve given him the ocean and its waves.
“I’m going to the Turnbow’s.”
Your tone remains definitive. There is no room for arguments or discontent.
Bittersweet worry infiltrates Steve’s mouth. He understands that there isn’t any way he can change your mind or convince you to place yourself first. The bags underneath your eyes have only grown worse these last few days. He doesn’t think they will ever get better.
And while Steve wants nothing more than to encase you into his chest and keep you away from everything that could ever hurt you, yourself included, Jonathan’s obnoxious voice leaks into his mind and reminds Steve that he can’t sideline you.
You’d never forgive him if he did.
Exhaling the last of his doubts, Steve caresses your lower back and you watch his eyes soften. He will always love you and your selfish desire to be needed. You will always love him and his inability to resent you for it.
Even if it means one day you’ll burn yourself up, leaving Steve to bury your ashes.
“What are you guys doing?”
Dustin’s arrival forces you to pull away from your boyfriend. Stuffing your hands behind your back, feeling like a little kid caught, you clear your throat and face your brother. “We’re getting the van set up. Mike’s orders.”
“But why even bother?” Dustin kicks at one of the many discarded objects outside of the vehicle, which all lay haphazardly on the grass. “This van is a lost cause, anyways.”
“Oh, yeah?” Steve rolls his eyes. “Take it won’t help us, then. Like usual.”
The throwaway comment causes you to stiffen while Dustin narrows his eyes. But rather than bite back at Steve’s bark, your brother surprises you.
“No, what I mean is that this piece of shit once stalled out chugging up Pickett Road.” Dustin clarifies, tone neutral. “It’s not fast enough to keep up with a Demo without serious modifications.”
“And this is us modifying.” Steve gestures between you and him before pointing towards the discarded pile. “A lighter van is a faster van.”
“We’ll also be attempting to fit an entire family inside,” you remind him. “But sure. I guess we’re making it faster, too.”
Steve nods. “And if we’re just tracking, we won’t need half the shit that’s in here. Speaking of, can you go to the front and empty out the window washer fluid?”
You tilt your head. “The… window washer fluid?”
“I’m sure emptying it will work wonders. Good job, Steven.” Dustin claps his hands, emphasizing his nasally and cruel words.
“Dustin!”
He ignores your warning. “No, truly. I’m stunned by Steve’s intellect. Who knew your boyfriend could think?”
You’re about to snatch Dustin’s hat off his head and show him exactly how little patience you have left, but Steve puts a hand in front of you, blocking him.
“You know what, Henderson? I think we should do what your sister suggested yesterday.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dustin frowns, unused to Steve’s delay in the fight.
“It means we should both just shut up.” And with that, Steve shushes your brother and goes back to clearing out the van.
You’re so stunned by Steve’s uncharacteristic diplomacy that you don’t notice Dustin’s greedy eyes landing on a drill. He grabs it, investigates it with a terrifying smirk, before walking away with a pep in his step.
“Where the hell is he going with that?” Steve asks you, annoyance and slight fear tainting his voice.
“I have no idea.” You quickly climb out of the van and follow after your brother. “Dustin, what are you–”
Your words die in your throat when you realize he’s walking straight towards Steve’s car.
Nothing ever ends well when Dustin is given a power tool.
“Steve’s right, Y/N.” He climbs up onto the car’s roof and tilts his hat at you. “We don’t need half of the crap in there for our mission. In fact, the only thing we really need is a telemetry tracker, which I can affix to any vehicle.”
“You little shit!” Immediately understanding what Dustin intends, you lunge towards the car and attempt to climb it, but Steve’s hands force you down. “Let me go!”
He winces at how violently you thrash around, but his grip on you remains firm. While he’s worried about his car, he’s even more worried you’ll wind up getting hurt. “I really don’t want you accidentally impaling yourself with a power drill.”
You ignore his concern and flail your legs around, trying desperately to free yourself. “Dustin Henderson, put down your obnoxious ego so we can talk about this–”
“Thought you told me and Steve to shut up?” Your brother laughs like a deranged child at his own joke before bringing the tip of the power drill down to the roof.
Even Steve can’t keep his composure as Dustin switches the tool on, inches away from his beloved car. “Woah, hey! Don’t make me let your sister go!”
As if to emphasize his threat, you seethe at Dustin, “I’m going to kill you!”
But Dustin knows that Steve would never, ever put you in a situation where you could potentially harm yourself, and it’s with this knowledge that he happily punctures the BMW with the drill.
The unnecessary attack on the car you fell in love in only causes you to writhe in Steve’s grasp harder, almost animalistic as you shout threats and curses at your infuriating little brother.
“I’m telling mom you ruined Steve’s car!”
“Then I’m telling her you told me to shut up!”
“You’re so annoying!”
“Where do you think I get it from?”
Soon both of your voices get drowned out as you and Dustin bicker back and forth with no end in sight. For a moment you’re just two little kids tattling on each other and throwing around harmless insults from when you were children.
Steve would find it endearing if your screeching and the roar of the power drill weren’t seconds away from deafening him.
So much for the Henderson charm.
–
Because Mike hates you, he shoves you, Dustin, Jonathan, and Nancy into Steve’s car before anyone can process what’s happening.
“Good luck,” he said with a smug smile. “You’ll all make a fantastic lookout squad.”
Mike then slammed the car door shut and ran away before Steve could run him over.
Which is how you find yourself stuck in between Jonathan and Nancy in the backseat of Steve’s now ruined car parked outside of the Turnbow house.
Somehow Dustin winds up in the passenger seat, which you resent him for.
The nighttime air is unusually warm, doing nothing to help abide the tension in the car as you all sit stiffly beside one another with too much unspoken history.
You twist your fingers together in your lap, unable to say anything as Dustin peers out the window with binoculars held up to his eyes to watch for Erica.
“She’s in,” he finally says into the walkie, alerting the others.
“Thank god,” you exhale the breath you’d been holding. The sooner you’re out of the car, the better.
Jonathan shifts next to you, awkwardly adjusting himself so that he doesn’t press too deeply against your side. “It’s… a bit warm in here, don’t you think?”
Both you and Nancy turn to him, unsure which of you he’s talking to.
After an uncomfortably long pause, Jonathan seems to sense the confusion and clears his throat. “Nancy, why don’t we wait outside? Get some fresh air?”
Nancy frowns at the offer and looks at you, silently asking what she should do. All you can give her is a helpless shrug. “A walk sounds nice.”
This doesn’t seem to be the answer Nancy wants. Her frown deepens. “But what about keeping a lookout for Erica’s signal?”
“We’ll stay here,” you gesture towards Dustin and Steve. “We’ll get you guys when it’s time to go.”
Nancy bites her lip and considers this. Steve watches her hesitation through the rear mirror. You’re not the only one who’s noticed the bizarre shift between her and Jonathan.
“C’mon, Nance.” Jonathan reaches over you to grab her hand, squeezing it gently. “Who knows how long until Erica knocks the Turnbows out?”
“Fine,” she finally gives in, unbuckling her seatbelt. “But we aren’t going far, alright?”
Jonathan nods, happy just to have gotten Nancy out of the car, and quickly the two of them close the doors behind them.
Their departure eases the tension in the vehicle slightly, and you allow yourself a second to enjoy the small moment of peace.
But Dustin and Steve waste no time ruining it.
“What the hell is going on between them?” Your brother asks the second Jonathan and Nancy leave.
You open your eyes and find both boys turned towards you with like two curious street cats. You’re immediately defensive, weary of their intentions. “What do you mean?”
“C’mon, Y/N.” Steve scoffs. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that they’re clearly miserable.”
“They’re one awkward hug away from becoming depressing to look at.” Dustin adds.
You stare at them both, stunned. While you can’t say that Jonathan and Nancy have been their normal selves recently, you’re surprised that even Dustin and Steve have caught on.
“I don’t really think now is the best time to be talking about this,” you hiss at them, nervous that the couple in question could be right outside the car listening. “This feels incredibly wrong and invasive–”
“So there’s definitely something wrong with them.” Dustin concludes from your uncomfortable reaction.
Steve nods. “I bet it’s all Byers’ fault.”
“Duh.”
“And I bet Y/N knows more than she’s willing to let on.”
“Correct again, Harrington.”
Suddenly Dustin and Steve gang up against you like brothers, nosey and annoying, and watching them fall back into their easy connection that you’ve missed so much makes you helpless against their interrogations.
You’ll do anything for one more minute of their friendship.
“Fine,” nervously you look out the window, making sure neither Nancy nor Jonathan are close by. “I’ll admit that there’s… something wrong with them.”
“Aha!” Steve exclaims, pointing an excited finger at you. “I knew it!”
Mortified, you push his finger away. “Shhh!”
Dustin leans forward, eager for more. “Go on. We’re listening.”
You push your hair back, suddenly too warm. “Look, I really don’t know much more than you guys. All I can tell you is that Jonathan has been really weird lately and Nancy has been incredibly distant.”
“I still think Jonathan did something.”
You glare at Steve. “You’re ridiculous.”
He smirks, ready to tease you even more, but he’s cut off by Jonathan’s quick taps on the windshield to catch everyone’s attention. “Erica gave the signal. Let’s go.”
The bright mood in the car dims once again, and without saying another word the three of you exit the car and follow after the others into the Turnbow house.
–
Hiding the bodies is the easy part, as horrifying as that sounds.
Joyce backs the van into the Turnbow’s garage while you help Robin wrap the family in sheets. Their sleeping bodies look too similar to corpses, making your stomach twist at the thought.
“It concerns me how many felonies I’ve committed with minors.” You choke back a gag, wrapping Tina’s small body up.
Erica rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Y/N.”
Once you have every family member safely inside the van, you knock three times on the vehicle to signal to Joyce that she can now drive off. Once she’s gone, everyone immediately gets to work.
Rearranging the house becomes a harder task than anticipated. It’s huge, filled to the brim with expensive items and large pieces of furniture with limited time to get rid of it all.
Everyone has a designated job as you all work in silence together. You stick with Steve, Dustin, and Mike and help them set a trap for the Demogorgon. As you hammer nails into a piece of plywood, a sickening sense of deja-vu overwhelms you.
Years ago you were in the Byers’ home doing this very same thing, preparing to face a creature you didn’t yet have a name for and you were in way over your head. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into. Back then you had been naive to the monsters that lay hidden beneath Hawkins.
Now, as you help set a trap for a Demogorgon you’ve faced before, you still can’t help but feel that you’re biting off more than you can chew. That your naivety still haunts you.
Once the trap has been laid, Dustin gathers everyone into the garage and hands out the necessary weapons. While none of you hope you’ll have to use them, you all recognize the reality of what may come.
You choose to stick with your knives. They bring you comfort in a way no other weapon can. As you go upstairs and sit in a corner to sharpen the blades, a loud, metallic sound pierces your eardrums.
“What the fuck?” You turn in your seat and find Steve wielding a large, far too dangerous chainsaw.
“Like it?” He waves the chainsaw around as he laughs like a kid in a candy store. “Don’t I look badass?”
Mike visibly groans while you cover your ears and shout, “Turn that thing off!”
Steve obliges, though not without pouting. “Admit it, angel. I look hot carrying this.”
“Kill me.” Dustin and Jonathan gag.
“I prefer men with all five fingers, Steve.”
Nancy snickers, holding her hand out for a high-five which you readily accept. Steve visibly deflates at your disapproval, but when Mike orders him to cut through the Turnbow’s living room floor with the chainsaw, he’s all too happy to help.
“This is by far the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” you stare down at the gaping hole in the floor, which leads directly into a nest of barbed wire. “And we’ve fought evil Russians before.”
“Just savor the moment, Y/N.” Dustin pats your back roughly. “We’re about to successfully trap a Demogorgon.”
–
Your feet tap nervously against the floor of Steve’s car, anxious as ever with your eyes glued to the skyline for any sign of danger. There are so many aspects of the plan that could go horribly wrong.
Lucas could get hurt distracting the creature, or Mike could trip over his own two feet and fall into the barbed wire pit himself.
The Demogorgon could completely run past the faux floor and not fall in, leaving you trapped in a house with it.
Or worse, Nancy could miss her only shot at the Demogorgon and fail to implant the telemetry tag, meaning all the work you put in and all the laws you broke would be for nothing.
“This is gonna work.” Dustin reassures the doubts that you don’t voice.
You stare out the window. “It better work.”
Holly and El are depending on the plan.
Their lives are on the line and you’re helpless against the forces that separate you if something goes wrong tonight.
They’re just kids.
Steve senses your worry and tries to get you to smile. “If this plan doesn’t work and I drilled a giant antenna into my car for nothing, I’m gonna kill Wheeler.”
Despite yourself, you manage a small laugh. “I think it adds character.”
“Hey.” Robin’s voice floats through the walkie. “Talk to me, guys. How’s it looking out there?”
You reach over for the device and respond. “It’s quite over here. How are the Turnbows holding up?”
“They’re still in their ‘food comas’, but I swear to god, this Demo better show up.” Robin huffs out. “If we took out an entire family for nothing, I don’t think my conscience will recover.”
“I’m really tired of committing felonies.”
Robin laughs at this. “Isn’t your boyfriend, like, super well connected with a ton of rich lawyers? I doubt Steve would ever let you anywhere near a jail cell. You’ll be fine, pretty girl.”
Steve snaps his fingers. “Damn right.”
You ignore him and continue talking to Robin. Her ability to soothe you with her soft humor comforts you. “His uncle is a lawyer, actually.”
“Even better! Although I do hope that Steve isn’t related to some douchebag who defends rich criminals, even if white collar crime sounds like a Harrington thing to do.” Robin rambles on. “I do think in this case, however, the rich douchebags would be coming for us.”
You think for a moment before responding. “Technically, I think his uncle his legally required to take a few cases pro bono, so maybe he can help us–”
“Shh!” Dustin harshly shushes you, eyes glued to his binoculars.
Your body springs to attention, leaning forward so that you can get a better look at whatever the hell he’s spotted. You squint your eyes, straining to see something, until you finally find it.
The streetlamps are flickering.
Your fingers find your knives, pressing the base of its handle into your palm. Adrenaline courses through your veins, it rips through your ribcage and sets every cell in your body on fire.
It’s time.
“I fucking hate doing this.” You spit out, body bracing for an impact yet to come.
Dustin ignores you while Steve grabs the walkie from your hand.
“I think we’ve got company. It’s going south down Arlington, T-minus thirty seconds.” He informs the others. “Status check. Taggers?”
“In position and set.” Nancy confirms. “Launcher?”
Lucas confirms as well. “Set. Catcher?”
“Set.” Mike’s voice crackles through the walkie. “Trackers?”
You, Dustin, and Steve all look at each other. Anticipation hangs in the air.
“Set.” Steve confirms. “Let’s do this thing already.”
The channel goes quiet as everyone prepares for what’s to come.
One by one the streetlamps flicker to life, a trail of light that slowly ebbs its way to the Turnbow’s house until suddenly the house itself begins to flash wildly. Shadows dance across its porch and windows as the lights rapidly fade in and out.
“It’s inside.” Dustin reveals to Steve. “Minimize chatter.”
He quickly relays the information to the others inside the house. “It’s inside. No one talk.”
You get out of the car, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Your muscles pull taut, aching to be released.
Will had been right. There’s no turning back now.
Through the window you’re able to faintly see the outline of the Demogorgon creep inside of Derek’s room. It sniffs the air, head low as it hunts for the prey you know it won’t find. The minute it reaches the foot of Derek’s bed and claws at the decoy, you run.
Someone has to be the one to ensure Lucas makes it to the living room in time, and you’ve spent all your life running.
Within seconds you fling the front door open and shout as loud as you can, “Run!”
You hear Lucas attacking the Demogorgon upstairs with gasoline waterballoons. You anxiously wait for him, heart in your throat, and remain on high alert as the kid comes flying down the stairs, narrowly dodging the trip wire as the monster chases him.
Its pained screams tell you the trip wire has worked, and Lucas lands next to you with a loud thud and you quickly scan his body for any injuries. “Are you alright?”
“No time to talk,” he grabs your arm and pulls you towards the living room. “We need to go!”
Just as you start to run, the Demogorgon jumps over the stair’s railing and nearly crushes you both with its body. You scream, shoving Lucas behind you and stab at it with your knives all while Lucas narrowly manages to navigate the two of you to where Mike awaits.
Then you’re flying through the air, jumping over the carpet that hides the trap beneath it, and somehow, miraculously, the Demogorgon falls into it just as you’ve landed on the couch across.
Only its claws grip onto the wooden floor, scratching at the panels as it fights its way back up. Mike bludgeons the monster with a shovel in an attempt to get it to surrender to the inevitable.
“Get him!” You shout alongside Lucas, hands braced on your knives in case you need to use them.
With one last blow, Mike sends the Demogorgon down into the Turnbow’s basement where the barbed wires and Nancy and Jonathan await. It writhes in pain, stuck in the painful wire, and in its torture it doesn’t see the shotgun that Nancy aims at its defenseless body.
The shot echoes within the house and embeds the tracker into its thick skin. The Demogorgon doesn’t have time to register its pain before Jonathan throws a lit flare at it, devouring the monster in flames.
Just as you think the Demogorgon will finally succumb to its wounds, it thows its body back up towards you, Mike, and Lucas as it screeches in pain. The heat of its flame infested body sears your skin as Mike pushes you out of its way, attacking it with his shovel.
“Get him, Mike!” Lucas screams from the other side, unable to do anything else but watch.
You lunge at the creature, slicing through its armoured skin as you try desperately to ignore the burning sensation that coats the whites of your knuckles. All you focus on is protecting Mike. Nothing else matters.
The Demogorgon unexpectedly throws its body towards Lucas, and you scream his name so loud that it tears through your vocal chords. He only just barely dodges the monster’s attack before a gate tears open in the wall and the Demogorgon slips inside, making its escape.
“It flipped! I repeat, it flipped!” Mike screams into his walkie before frantically turning to you. “Go follow it, now!”
You flee the house with Nancy and Jonathan right behind you. The three of you throw yourselves into the back of Steve’s car, long past the uncomfortable sensation of being so close together as adrenaline eats you alive.
“Where is it?” Jonathan demands the second he slides into the seat.
Dustin waves his arm around. “Give me a second!”
Everyone shuts up as he carefully angles the antenna to catch any signal he can find. “Bearing northwest and fast.” Dustin tells Steve, signaling him to start driving.
Steve turns the key, but the engine sputters and groans. “C’mon, work with me here.”
“The Demogorgon is tagged and released.” Dustin clings onto the antenna, radioing everyone your every move. “Trackers in pursuit. Repeat, trackers in pursuit.” He gestures wildly at Steve, who still hasn’t gotten the car to start. “Hit it!”
Your body gets thrown against the seat as Steve accelerates down the road far faster than he should. One more law broken tonight.
“Signal is holding. Keep steady… Holding…” Dustin’s eyes never leave the decibel meter until he abruptly instructs, “Turn right!”
“Right?” Bewilderment covers Steve’s face. There isn’t any road to the right.
“Right! Turn right!” A crazed glint overtakes Dustin’s eyes. “Now!”
Not having any time to argue, Steve blindly jerks the steering wheel and barrels through several fences and mailboxes. The car jumps and lurches at every collision and you have to cling desperately onto Nancy and Jonathan to avoid flying through the windshield.
“Sorry!” Steve shouts over and over with every bush and curb he hits.
Your stomach twists into painful knots as nausea overwhelms you.
You really didn’t miss the car chases.
“We’re going to crash!” Jonathan wraps you in his arms, barely clinging onto his own seat as Steve hits yet another fence. “Jesus!”
“Dustin said turn right!” Steve screeches back, hitting his head against the roof after the car runs over something else.
But Dustin ignores the pained screams and panic. Instead he studies the decibel meter and when the signal suddenly seems to weaken, he silences everyone in the car. “Shut up! Stop! We need to stop right here!”
Steve slams on the brakes and Nancy has to catch your body before you face plant into the center console. “Fuck!”
“Goddamn it, Henderson!” Steve hits the steering wheel in frustration. “What are we doing?”
“We lost the signal!” Dustin erratically steers the antenna in every possible direction.
Dread fills your lungs with every passing second. Have you gotten it all wrong? Did Vecna manage to win again? Will Holly’s blood stain your hands the way her mother’s did? The way Max’s stain still lingers?
“I got it!” Dustin’s voice breaks you from your terror. “It’s headed southeast now.”
“Southeast?” That’s the complete other way you were originally going. “Why would it go–”
You’re unable to finish your sentence before Steve propels the car into reverse, following the signal before it’s lost again. “Hang on!”
“But why would it turn around?” You lean forward as far as you dare, hands gripping the seat tightly as you force Dustin to look at you and reckon with the question that haunts you. “Where is it going?”
“I don’t know,” your brother confesses, risking looking away from the decibel meter to catch your eye. “I’m sorry, Y/N. But I don’t know where the hell this thing is going.”
None of it makes sense. “There’s nothing east except…”
Hawkins urban development predominately took over the west side of the city when it was first established. The west is where all the stores, houses, and schools are.
But east of Hawkins has remained untouched, rural ever since your mother was a child. While the rest of the city grew and expanded, the east kept its trees and farmland.
Then it hits you like a truck. “The farm!”
The Demogorgon is leading you straight towards the McCorkle farm, where Will and others are. It was supposed to be a refuge for them. A place to hide the Turnbows. A place to be utterly defenseless.
And now there’s a Demogorgon hunting for blood, running right towards them.
-
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SUMMARY. nothing like new beginnings, right? UA studios is the luckiest second chance you’ve ever gotten! once you’ve met your new manager and signed the last legal papers, you’re supposed to head off to your very first shoot. there, you’ll film your debut and prove that you belong to UA.
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a document covered in legalese, clauses, and words you’ve never seen before is slid toward you, along with a pen for when you’re finished reading through it.
“this is the last one,” your new manager gives you a half smile, unsurprised by the confusion that washes over your face. “it’s a form verifying that everything you’ve signed off on is true.”
your eyes drift further down the page, toward the neat signature of his name. shinsou hitoshi, printed beneath a scribble of what appears to be his initials. although you haven’t been with him for more than an hour, you’re already much happier than you were when you’d stepped foot in the building. naturally, as all people do, you compare shiketsu studios and UA side by side. it’s pretty unfair, because of your disdain for shiketsu and lack of experience at UA, but the latter comes out on top.
shinsou sips his coffee. you read through the contract, pausing to squint at some of the last few conditions referring to unprofessionalism in the workplace; here, it’s taken seriously. you were nervous at first, especially with the ball and chain of shiketsu’s scandal dragging behind you, but it never came up. not in the phone call, not in the conversations on the way up to the office, and not once since the paperwork began.
black ink glides across the paper, smooth and formal. with two fingers, shinsou tucks the paper into your file, along with the rest of your necessary personal information. he offers you a wider smile—exhausted at the edges—and easily extends his hand, as if he’s done it a million times before.
your palm presses against his in a firm handshake, and he fixes you with a meaningful look.
“welcome to UA.”
“more than happy to be here,” you reply automatically, smile making its way through your voice as he leans back into his chair, folding his hands.
“we went over scheduling on the phone, and i set you up for a shoot today, just as requested. i know you’re not necessarily new to the industry, but i’m gonna tell you all of this as though you are, okay?”
you nod, raising your cup of complimentary coffee to your lips. creamer swirls in the middle of it like a whirlpool; each sip is slow and unhurried as you savor the flavor. it’s an ordinary cup of coffee, but it’s the most ordinary you’ve had in a long time.
“it typically depends, but you can expect to be on set for more than two hours today. filming can take a while, and we’ve had talent spend the whole day on one set, just to get everything right. because of this, actors are limited to filming a maximum of three times a week.”
your eyebrows shoot up, but you nod again. “that’s actually a great rule to have.”
“people need time to rest and recover, and plus, the studio’s huge! there’s no need to overwork the same actors. at UA, maintaining work-life balance is really important to us. our films and videos are kind of crazy, but management is everything but. anyway, let me give you my number.”
with his nice black pen, shinsou scribbles his phone number onto a light purple sticky note. it seems to match the color of his long, grown out hair, and you can’t help but wonder what came first. did he like the sticky note color so much that he dyed his hair to match it, or was his hair always purple and he just bought the stationary to match it?
“this is my personal number,” the square of paper is torn away from the stack with a sticky sound, “if something comes up and you can’t make a booking, you call me. if you’re adding people to your yes list and no list, which you’ll do over time, you let me know so i can take care of it and keep track. even if it’s something simple, like you get turned around when you’re walking through the studio, send me a text. i’m your manager. i’m here to help you and make your job easier. don’t hesitate to reach out if you’ve got something going on.”
. . .
noon rolls around faster than you expect it to.
shinsou’s given you all of the details regarding where you need to be, who you’ll be with, and what you need to be wearing when you get there. the dress code is simple—you’re expected to wear a casual, slightly revealing outfit with a matching set beneath.
you tug unsurely at your top, smoothing down the ruffles near your midsection for what’s probably the sixth time in ten minutes. it barely moves, looking the same as it did before. anxiety thrums in your chest, tangling itself intricately in your ribcage; the pressure to perform at your best is eating away at you, leaving you with an uncomfortable weight in your stomach and little to no air in your lungs.
again, you try to remind yourself that UA was the one pursuing you, not the other way around. the affirmation is supposed to put you at ease, but it has the opposite effect—if they were after you, they clearly expect the best from you. that thought doubles the weight upon your shoulders, nearly crushing you to the floor like a soda can.
before you can overthink any further, you’re already at the door, hand trembling just above the knob. you can hear the chatter of voices inside, the relaxed tones of conversation. you suck in a sharp breath, quickly running through the information about the shoot in your head; it’s some kind of run-of-the-mill casting couch video with one sero hanta. when he was reading you the details from a printed sheet of paper, shinsou didn’t seem worried in the slightest. he just wore a neutral expression, and reminded you to get there on time.
nausea swirls in your stomach. if you don’t just breathe and walk in, you’ll end up getting sick all over the floor and fired within the hour. you inhale shakily, plastering a smile onto your face as you twist the door open. this is fine.
all heads turn toward you. too many faces in such a small room, with so many cameras and microphones set up around a black couch. you can’t even choke out a greeting before someone’s on his feet, offering you a handshake and easy smile. “there’s the lady of the hour.”
“that’s me,” you laugh nervously, grasping his hand. the carpet looks dull, the once colorful patterns faded by foot traffic and time. despite its worn appearance, it looks cleaner than one might have expected. you look up at the person standing in front of you, so dazed you hadn’t even noticed you were staring at the carpet.
“the name’s hanta,” your co-star releases your hand, jerking a thumb at himself. he’s saying something about the camera crew, but you don’t really hear it—you’re more focused on how big he is. he’s a lot taller than you and full of energy, the corners of his lips tugging into disarming smiles that almost make you want to melt. “—this one’s mostly improv, y’know? kinda going for an all-natural video here, and your manager totally thought i was the right guy for the job.”
hanta’s standing in front of you, sounding all nice and friendly when he talks. he almost has the audacity to look a little clueless, like he’s completely unaware of how good he looks. you’ve seen him on camera, watched a few of his videos. at shiketsu, during breaks, you’d sometimes hear his name come up in conversations between the girls. some of them would watch UA’s videos before shooting, just to get themselves wet for their unsightly co-stars. once, you may not have seen the appeal. but now, standing as close as you are to him, you definitely understand it. something electric rushes through your stomach and leaves a sparking hot trail as it descends between your thighs.
“sounds great,” you say, even though you blacked out at some point while he was talking and only regained consciousness just now. he probably knows a thing or two about you, but you officially introduce yourself nonetheless. “nice to meet you, hanta.”
the director comes over to shake your hand. “like he said, this is supposed to be a very low-key debut. i’ve prepared a small list of things you might want to say, but otherwise, this is mainly improv. if you’d like to take a seat on that couch right there, we can go ahead and get started.”
. . .
you’re on the couch, sitting up straight with your hands folded in your lap. it’s already a few degrees warmer than when you’d first stepped into the room—the fan had to be unplugged, lest it become an annoying noise in the background during filming. a few camera people busy themselves with setting up and situating the microphones and such, while the director looks through the camera at you.
“hmm. perhaps you could be a little more relaxed? maybe sit back and lean into the couch. we don’t want you to be too stiff, even if you are nervous.”
you’re in the middle of readjusting yourself when hanta clicks his tongue, holding a hand out to motion you to stop moving. “she looks good the way she is. you see nerves, i see confidence and attention.”
the faintest trace of tension curls through the air like dissipating smoke. the two men hold their ground, looking one another in the eye, before the director raises his hands in surrender, exhaling through his nose.
“i suppose i hadn’t thought of it that way.”
someone tells the director something about having set up all of the microphones, while another plugs in a hand-held camera to charge. hanta situates himself in a chair behind the camera, looking like he’s in command of everything, while the actual director sits beside him with a whiteboard and marker.
“you can call cut at any time, if you’re uncomfortable with something. i’ll hold up the whiteboard in case you need any additional guidance or help with lines if you draw a blank.”
“thank you,” you nod at the director and take a deep breath. he glances briefly at hanta, playing it off as though he was just looking toward the camera. “action!”
“so, how’d you hear about us? what brings you to our agency, babe?”
it’s easier to lie, or come up with an answer, when you’re focused on hanta, not the camera. “i’ve seen a few ads online, but i’ve also heard really great things from my friends.”
the girls at shiketsu talked about more than just sero hanta—many of them had little crushes on the UA stars, as well as personal interests in the studio. but with UA studios being a primary rival to shiketsu, conversations remained hushed and secretive. honestly, shiketsu’s downfall turned out to be a success more than anything else; some of the drug addicts could finally recieve help, and the sober talent could look into working elsewhere.
clear and effortless, hanta’s words roll right off his tongue, despite the absence of a script in his lap. he’s looking directly at you, as if the camera doesn’t exist. “i understand you’re looking to work as a model with our agency. could you tell me a little more about what you’re interested in?”
you introduce yourself by name again, face growing warm as you follow his lead. “i’ve done some modelling before, and i took a small break, but i’m ready to get back into it. oh, i’ve never modelled swimwear or underwear before, but i wouldn’t mind giving it a try.”
he smirks, eyes shamelessly raking down your clothed body, as if he’s daring you to strip. “someone isn’t shy. would you mind showing me what you’ve got to offer to our agency?”
it’s acting. it’s fake, and yet, his words make your thighs squeeze together.
you nod, smile wavering. for a moment, you think the director will call for a cut, but he holds up the whiteboard and its instructions: strip down to your underwear & bra.
the jeans are the first to go. denim slides down your thighs, barely catching on your heels, and soon, it’s on the floor. you take care not to move too quickly, too hurried, as you lift your shirt up and over your head. it lands beside your jeans in a pile on the dull carpet, and you’re left in a matching black set.
hanta’s grin only grows wider. “our producers are gonna love you. if you’re interested, i can pull some strings and set you up for a shoot as early as tomorrow. how does underwear sound?”
a genuine smile spreads across your face; you don’t realize how innocent it makes you look, or how much it turns hanta on. oh, and you even sound a little excited! your acting is spectacular, for a newbie. he’s seen your shiketsu videos—trashy, low quality clips of you getting ruined on camera, posted for millions of people to see—and was more than excited to accept this shoot with you. shinsou had let hanta know that he’d specifically requested him for the job because of hanta’s tendency to be easygoing and charismatic with new actresses; at the end of his email, shinsou wrote a note saying that this set-up was him paying off his debt to hanta.
“that sounds great! i wasn’t sure if i could find my groove again, after being out of the industry for so long. could you tell me a little more about the photoshoot or the brand it’s for?”
hanta leans forward, propping his chin up on his fist. “slowww down. i haven’t even told you what i want in return for giving you this job, sweetheart.”
you pout, playing along perfectly. you’re selling this nervous, virgin-turned-slut image really well; hanta’s rock hard, though his slacks do a good job of hiding it. he’d rather have you feel it than see it—the thought of your reaction makes his cock twitch against his thigh. what if he touched you in all the right places, spoke everything you’ve ever wanted to hear into your ear? would you fall apart and forget all about the plot of the video and its loose script in favor of him?
“oh. i didn’t know your offer came with strings attached.”
“it’s just apart of the industry,” hanta murmurs, his eyes hooded with barely restrained desire. he’s so open, displaying his emotions on his face; he looks at you like you’re some kind of dessert that he doesn’t want to keep his hands off of. “anyway, what i want is for you to sleep with me.”
part of your true persona shines through in your breathless response, “i . . okay. yeah. yes, i’ll do it. for the, um, photoshoot.”
hanta draws it out, just for the camera. just because he wants your debut video to do well. definitely not because he’s on the verge of creaming his boxers from excitement and arousal. no. never. (he needs to jerk off more often.)
“that easy, huh? you’re a model, not a pornstar.”
“i could be both,” you say, eyes meeting his in a heated glance.
the director calls for a cut and claps his hands, getting to his feet. he’s going back and forth with two members of the camera crew, and you don’t really realize that the camera’s no longer rolling until hanta’s standing in front of you. tall and broad, his body casts a shadow over you.
your eyes drag up from his waist to his face, where a small grin plays on his lips. “that was pretty good, babe. where’d you learn how to act so well? ooh, and that improv.” he playfully wiggles his eyebrows, and it makes you laugh.
“i don’t know. i kinda picked it up over time, y’know? making porn isn’t that different from making movies.”
“gotcha. i gotta hand it to you, you’ve got—”
“places, everyone! we need to get ready for the next shot.” the director unintentionally interrupts him as he tries to get your attention and hanta’s. he turns around to look at the director, his face souring, but you don’t see it.
“couldn’t have waited until i was done talking?”
“we’re on a tight timetable today,” the director replies, voice clipped. “places, please. i want both of you on the couch, so we can edit the last scene to fade into this one.”
you stand, and hanta lays back on the couch, propping his head up on the armrest. the rest of his body is stretched out over the cushions in a not-so-silent invitation for you to take a seat. heat rushes to your face, and you smile nervously, glancing at the director.
“should i take off my heels or leave them on?”
“leave them on for now,” hanta purrs, even though your question wasn’t directed at him. the director nods jerkily, likely put off by your co-star’s penchant for making filming decisions. “sit down and we can start rolling again.”
without kicking him, you swing a leg up and over his waist; now that you’re hovering above him, you slowly lower yourself onto his lap. the contact makes your eyes widen—he’s hard enough to cut diamonds, his cock pressing firmly against you through the few layers of clothing between your bodies.
he sort of grimaces, hands flying to your waist. “mind if i adjust you? your heel’s kinda digging into my leg.”
hanta barely lifts you more than an inch. he moves you forward and slowly drags you back, the ‘adjustment’ nothing more than a ruse to get some friction. the director either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t call it out; he gestures toward you instead, using his hands to motion forward and backwards.
“if you could get on all fours, that’d be great. we’re trying to transition the talking scene smoothly so that you’re already in the middle of it by the time it fades out,” your hips lift up and off of hanta’s lap as you position yourself according to the director’s instructions. “yes, that’s great! now all you’ve gotta do is arch your back and keep it that way until he moves you later.”
“sorry if my heels are poking you,” you tilt your head forward to whisper the apology into his ear, cheek brushing against his.
his voice is breathy when he replies, “you’re good.”
“action!”
there is a split second where you aren’t sure what to do. but hanta’s hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, and he pulls you in for a kiss. it’s a smooth, fluid action, as if it’s been done a thousand times before. the stubble along his upper lip is rough in contrast with the softness of his lips, which slide hungrily against yours.
hanta tests the limits, running his tongue along the seam of your mouth. breathless, you let him in, moaning softly at the new contact. but as he kisses you, tongue moving with yours, it doesn’t take long for him to get greedy. large palms coast along the planes of your lower back before he starts to insistently push you down, his hips jerking up to meet yours.
“fuckkk,” hanta lets out a broken moan and tucks his face into your neck, breathing you in. then, more for you than the camera, he murmurs, “you have no idea what i wanna do to you.”
what does he want to do to you? would he fuck you with reckless abandon and keep going even when he has to hold your limp body up? what if he decided to sit you on his lap, play with your pussy with one hand, and choke you with the other? you want nothing more than to find out.
“show me what those hips can do, sweetheart.”
you’re already panting. you hadn’t quite realized how hot you’d gotten since the camera had started rolling, or how easily he’d stolen your breath away with those slick kisses. you sit back, aligning your pussy with his cock through all of the clothing, steadying yourself with your palms planted on his pecs. the lean muscle is solid beneath your splayed fingers.
“like this?” it’s a half-moan, half-plea for some praise. hanta answers you with a grind of his hips and a drawn-out groan. he likes it. he likes what you’re doing, even if he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to.
one of the camera people quietly steps toward the couch with a hand-held camera to capture different angles for the video. you’d nearly forgotten about the video, having gotten caught up with your co-star and everything you want to do to him. god, if there wasn’t a camera and a job to do, you’d sit on his face and see if his tongue was more than just silver.
“yeah, you got it,” hanta’s eyes squeeze shut against the indomitable arousal coursing through his body, hot and buzzing under his skin like a live wire.
“gonna give me that underwear shoot tomorrow, boss?”
you swear you feel his cock jump at your words, and that excites you. it’s only your first shoot, and you’re already making waves. how much could your reputation and popularity skyrocket if you were to get him to cum without even taking his clothes off? wicked delight floods your chest at the thought, and you bear down, pressing more firmly against him.
his throat bobs, and you can see the cogs in his head turning while he tries to think up a response. it must be difficult to do so when you’re batting your lashes innocently, acting as though you’re not riding him like a pony.
hanta makes up a response by the skin of his teeth. even though the director is silently pointing at the whiteboard with instructions, his movements frantic, your co-star absolutely refuses to accept the help. is it pride? is it snootiness? is he just trying to keep up with your improv?
you expect him to show off his desperation, but he flips the script by scoffing at you, like you’ve just said something stupid. “if you think just this will get you a job, you’re sorely mistaken. put in some work, girl.”
the friction is almost too much to tolerate—each deliberate, aching drag of fabric against fabric makes your mind all the more hazy. wetness visibly soaks your panties, dampening the material enough for it to slide too much to one side now and again. hanta notices—of course he does—and it only winds him up tighter, gets him feeling more frustrated.
he smirks up at you, pleased by the concentrated pinch of your brows and the feverish expression taking over your face. this is you putting in work, and it is hot as hell.
“better. i’m slightly more convinced, babe. might put you down as a backup if the main gal cancels.”
your clit catches perfectly on the seam of your underwear and your jaw drops, a moan spilling out of your mouth. it’s louder than either of you expect it to be, and now that it’s out, you can’t seem to stop. one turns into two. two turns into three, and then the room is full of noise that you can’t hear. you can’t even hear anything past your own heartbeat as you chase the ultrahot ecstasy coiling in your gut, the pressure of it increasing with each rough pass of your hips.
hanta just watches you, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to memorize everything. past all of the flushed skin and sweat, there is a sort of reverence buried in his expression. he counts himself lucky to be the very first to see you like this—one could argue that you’re no virgin, and you’ve been in the industry for a couple years, but your experience means nothing. you’re a good actor both in unscripted conversation and on the set; in many of your shiketsu videos, you didn’t look like this. you did a good job of faking orgasms and taking weak dick, and now you’re finally enjoying yourself. only ten minutes in and you’re starting to gasp, mouth running too fast for your brain to keep up.
“oh, oh, i’m gonna cum,” hanta’s hands are still on your erratic hips, and he’s guiding you straight to heaven as you begin to lose your rhythm, “fuck, hanta, i-i’m cumming.”
you probably weren’t supposed to say his name, since he never actually introduced himself in the video. but when you’re saying it like that, who is he to give a damn about the plot of a porn video?
you look gorgeous when the euphoria shatters you, hitting you so hard you fall onto his chest, shuddering as the aftershocks rock your body like little earthquakes. hanta holds you close, and out of the corner of his eye, notices the director’s whiteboard and the black writing scrawled across its surface.
it reads break?? and all hanta can derisively think is how kind the bastard must be.
there’s a beat of silence. no response from hanta, and you’re still slumped against his chest, trying to regulate your breathing. his hand strokes over your back, fingers slipping under your bra straps; you came all over him—he can feel something wet seeping through the front of his pants—and he barely had to lift a finger. it’s a major ego boost, of course. without saying much, he can tell you’re really interested in him . . good, he’s definitely making number one on your yes list.
“cut!”
the camera stops rolling in the nick of time. it doesn’t catch the way his face darkens, and neither do you. his eyes narrow at the director, but he doesn’t say anything aloud.
with a soft sound, you push yourself up and off of his chest until you’re sitting up straight again. your eyes have glazed over with a noticeable desire for more, but the director steps forward before either of you can do anything off-camera.
“are you both doing okay? i’ve got a few bottles of water if either of you need some.”
“thank you,” with a polite nod and dazed smile, you start to move off of your co-star’s lap. water sounds pretty good right about now, honestly. a sip of cold, right out of the fridge water might just give you another orgasm.
hanta moves faster than you do, his hands securing you in place. his grip is solid, preventing you from moving any further. “we should finish the scene first.”
not standing far from you, the director eyes hanta and raises a brow. “it’ll take less than two minutes. a quick break would benefit both of you anyway.”
quite literally, you aren’t in much of a position to say anything. the refreshment can wait ten or fifteen minutes, right? it’s better to deal with it later, if it’s this much of an imposition.
hanta’s dark eyes narrow, “water’s not going anywhere, is it?”
the director almost frowns, but he backs off and gets behind the camera again. you watch as he drinks some of his own water, his eyebrows furrowing when the erased whiteboard is handed to him by a member of the camera crew.
“eyes on me, babe,” your co-star draws your attention back to himself with a gentle hand cupping your jaw. when you look at him, his face is devoid of any negativity; his expression is calm and curious, like he didn’t just butt heads with the director of the shoot. still, you find yourself leaning in close, skin prickling when his breath ghosts against the shell of your ear. “you ready for the next scene?”
heat floods your cheeks. are you ready for the next scene? you swallow, nodding. “yes. yeah, i’m ready. i’ve been ready.”
“action!”
you take the lead, and hanta follows suit. he grinds you down on the bulge straining through his clothes while your hands waste no time slipping under his shirt and hiking it up. the only time either of you pause is when he sits up to pull his shirt off of his head; it goes smoothly, giving you a great view of his upper body.
lean musculature defines his entire torso. his chest looks like something you could take a bite out of, and his waist—god, his waist—is slender, shaped on either side with the sharp curves of a v-line. a dark smattering of hair trails along his lower abdomen and descends past the waistband of his pants. you’d be lying if you said your mouth wasn’t feeling particularly empty at the sight; he notices the hunger in the way that you’re looking at him and he chuckles, lips curving up in a half smile.
“like what you see, huh?”
you make quick work of his belt before hooking your fingers into his waistband and dragging his pants down his thighs. “shouldn’t i be asking you that?” you mutter in reply, buzzing with impatience. finally, his god damn boxers are off. you yank them right off his ankles and toss them to the floor, glad to be rid of them.
hanta’s cock nearly looks as good as it felt. thick, long, and curving to his left, it looks like quite the mouthful. you’re staring at it with this bright look in your eyes, and he swells with pride. yes, he knows he has a great dick, but this just inflates him even more. but then, almost apprehensively, your hand wraps around the base of his cock, and he sits up straighter.
“i wanna – uh, is it okay if i just give it a try?”
it strokes his ego, literally.
hanta nods, fighting back the instinct to push your head down. he really shouldn’t be this damn excited. it’s just a blowjob, something that he’s had plenty of during his time at UA studios. he’ll split his focus, so that he’s outwardly paying attention to you while he inwardly names cities in japan so that he doesn’t cum too quickly.
you’re nervous, at first. silky soft and pretty pink, your tongue experimentally laps at the head of his cock. his precum tastes salty, and the faintest tinge of smoke makes its way to your tastebuds before the flavor dissipates entirely.
one of the crew members silently steps closer, holding onto a large camera. he tilts it in a way that gets the premier angles of this slow, unhurried act of sin. hanta drags in a breath when you wrap your lips around the tip and lightly suck before sliding further toward the base, little by little. the grip of your hand loosens as you take in more of him, letting his cock fill up your mouth.
sendai.
his palm cups the crown of your head, fingers making their way into your hair and curling tightly. you’ve begun bobbing along his cock, almost clumsy as you try to develop a rhythm that works for you. firmly, you start to stroke the lower half of his cock, compensating for the inches you can’t quite fit into your mouth.
yokohama.
thin and permeable, the fabric of your panties is completely soaked through. since you’re on all fours with your ass up as you suck him off, it’s safe to assume that the person holding the camera is zooming in on the wet spot between your thighs. hanta’s heavy on your tongue and sliding even deeper with each movement of your head; tears of both strain and delight gather in your eyes.
nagoya.
hanta may be struggling. he might be finding it very difficult not to tremble against the sheer glory of your mouth, and the city counting method might actually be failing him. if you were to just sit up and ask him what city UA studios is located in, it’d take a minute for the answer to load in his brain. the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, making you gag; everything tightens deliciously around him, and he lets out a moan, fingers winding tighter in your hair.
osaka.
you’re struggling to breathe as the pace increases, growing a little sloppy. each stroke is fast and filthy, better than it has any right to be. you glance up, looking past the tears gathered on your lashes, to see his head tossed back over the armrest while he chews on his lip. the sight of him is a reward and motivation to push yourself a little harder—he doesn’t look that far off from letting out a whine or two. a particularly breathy moan spills out of him before he can muffle it with the back of his free hand, and the sound goes straight to your clit, making you moan in response.
toky—oh.
something salty gathers faintly in the back of your throat, and hanta drags you away, willing his eyes not to roll back when your front teeth graze along the length of his too-sensitive cock. he yanks you off of him with a sticky pop and his eyes meet yours. it’s a clash of lips and teeth and whatever in between when he pulls you into a kiss, releasing the tight grip he’d had on your hair.
you had him on the ropes there.
nobody gets him that close with just their mouth.
fuck, he’s really gotta start jerking off more. or film more scenes with you—but he doesn’t think he could ever get used to that mouth of yours.
operating based off of the director’s hand motions, the guy with the camera steps back to film from a different angle. hanta’s sitting up now, his eyes closed as he pulls you against him, all without breaking the kiss. breathing is close to impossible now, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest when he’s pulling your panties off you.
well, almost.
it’s more difficult than it should be to divest you of your panties, and hanta’s not in the mood to stop so you can properly slide them down your legs. so, he tugs until the fabric gives with an agonized rip, and then tears them right off you. because your bra is easier to work with, it doesn’t meet the same fate; your fingers bump into his as you hustle to get it off.
“god, fuck,” hanta lets out a sigh once you’re finally just as naked as him. his hand finds its way to your bare chest, where he lightly squeezes you. not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp. “tits like yours are my favorite, sweetheart. can’t wait to see ‘em when you’re modelling.”
he sees the confusion pass over your face. “just fuck me,” you say, hips swinging toward his cock. part of him wants to make some stupid quip about the whole modelling script, but it’s time for him to do what he intended to do since the very moment he saw the news about shiketsu studios’ shutdown.
with a short and out of breath laugh, hanta lifts you up. this time, he moves you, turning you around so that your back is facing him. instead of being face to face with your attractive co-star, you’re now looking at the director, who’s quietly doodling on the whiteboard to give you at least a shred of privacy. also, the camera is positioned directly in front of you and capturing your every movement, along with the hand-held being moved around the room for closeups.
“lift your hips, baby. i want you on your knees for a sec,” hanta’s voice is in your ear, guiding you in the right direction. your bare pussy sideswipes his cock on the way up, and the anticipation bubbles up in your chest like carbonation in a shaken soda can. there was so much foreplay, so much buildup, that every second now feels like it’s dragging past much slower than it actually is.
his hand is wrapped around his spit-slick cock, keeping it straight and steady for you. he doesn’t even have to say anything and you’re already sinking down, arching your back as his cock slides into you. it’s a tight fit and an even tighter stretch—each inch punches a gasp out of your lungs and leaves you breathless, shaking against him.
“mhm, y-you got it,” hanta tries his best to keep the stutter out of his voice and fails, but you’re too caught up to notice. for some reason, you’re torturing yourself by sitting down as slowly as you are. he supposes it’s something to be thankful for, though. if you were to just drop yourself down on him when he’s still not over the sensitivity from your mouth, he might end up cumming and ruining the entire scene. but would it really be a bad thing if he had to re-shoot this with you?
maybe there’s a wire or two crossed in your brain, because you start pulling up. yes, up, and away from his cock. he thinks you’re going to pull off when you barely have the tip left inside you, but then you do the very opposite—you sit back, dropping yourself all the way down.
“holy shit,” hanta half exclaims, half groans. he wraps an arm around your middle and feels your heart pounding out of your chest as you struggle for breath. incoherent mumbles and whines slip out of your mouth, nothing that he can understand, but he just presses a kiss to the nape of your neck and looks to his left, then right. he reaches for your now tattered panties and offers them up to your mouth. he’s planning to make you scream, and this might prevent your sounds from being picked up as background noise on the videos of anyone that may be filming nearby.
you bite down on the panties, hips twisting impatiently on his cock. he’s both filling you up and stretching you out, but neither sensation is enough. you won’t be satisfied until he fucks you so hard you forget this is being filmed.
hanta’s hands come up under your thighs, and he holds you firmly, slightly pushing you up. the muscles in his arms pull taut, stretching with the effort, and he looks good. slick with sweat and flushed all the way down to his chest, with the cherry on top being that divine look on his face when he’s really enjoying himself.
you want to see him so badly. you almost want to call cut so someone can move a mirror in front of you, but you’d be lost in your own world and fucking by the time they came back with it.
“keep looking into the lens, babe. i want all of this on camera, and i’m pretty sure you will too.”
low and quiet, his words make their way to your ears. what he’s saying isn’t loud enough for the microphones to pick up, but it’s clear that something’s going on, with the way you nod feverishly in response.
it isn’t slow, and it isn’t controlled.
with about as much grace as that of a wild animal ready to mate, sero hanta begins fucking up into you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to have you. his cock bullies itself deep against your cervix and stretches out your cunt in a way that renders you speechless. a graceless sob tears out of your throat, just barely muffled by your wet panties, and it only inspires him to go beyond.
clap, clap, clap.
your ass is bouncing off of him with each and every vigorous thrust. because you’re facing forward, you have no choice but to look into the camera as he fucks away any coherent thought you could possibly have. embarrassment over having sex in a room with people you don’t know watching and filming you? gone. nervousness about your raunchy debut at UA studios? nowhere to be found. all of it vanishes into thin air, until the only thing left in your empty head is the echo of his name trembling on your tongue.
stars shoot across your vision, glowing and golden as he fucks you into oblivion. hanta’s panting, his ragged breaths hot and balmy against your back. his heart is pounding out of his chest like he’s running on the treadmill at the gym, but he grits his teeth against the exhaustion setting in and shifts his hips.
“oh, shit,” your mouth falls open in a sob, back arching hard in his grasp, and he smiles. “right there—oh my god, d-don’t you dare stop.”
“looks like i found it, huh?” the cockiness makes its way through his voice, and if you weren’t falling apart right now, you’d roll your eyes before retorting something back.
wetness pours from your soaked cunt and makes the slide of skin against skin all the more filthy. there’s enough to dampen the couch, but neither of you can bring yourselves to care about it. thick and curved, his cock is lodged in all of the places you could possibly want it; each nudge of the tip against your cervix is controlled, just barely, but you can feel the strain of restraint behind it.
god, just the thought of him destroying you this much while also still holding back is enough to push the tears over your lashline. they run down your cheeks in crystalline trails, and you must be audibly crying now, because hanta chokes out a groan, tipping his forehead against your shoulder.
“i’m gonna—fuck, i can’t, i’m so close,” your head is falling back, teeth clenching around the ruined panties, and impending euphoria surges through you like a cresting wave. at this point, teetering on the very precipice of something big, you’ve stopped making sense. hanta can almost make out what you’re babbling through the panties; each word is broken and choked thanks to the change in his rhythm. instead of holding you up and fucking into you that way, he’s decided to drive his hips up and pull you down onto his cock; each thrust hits much harder than it did before. “p-please, hanta, you’re gonna make me cum—!”
that’s right.
he’s going to make you cum, and he’s going to make you cum hard.
he yanks the panties out of your mouth and drops his hand from your chest. hot with intent and moving quickly, his fingers make their way down toward your clit, where he begins to rub it. twisting and arching—a little like you’re possessed—you gasp as it all starts to become too much.
“go ahead, sweetheart,” hanta murmurs into your ear, no longer caring if it’s picked up on the video or not, “tell them. tell everyone that’ll see this who’s fucking you this good.”
your breath escapes you when you sob out his name again.
teeth sink into the slope of your shoulder, but you’re too lost to feel the sting. this time, when he speaks, his voice is husky with conviction and acidic desire. “i want to hear you cum all over me, okay? ugh, fuck, if this wasn’t your first goddamn shoot, i’d—”
you cum all over him with a noisy keen of his name, and it’s the only thing on your tongue as you ride it out, slumping back against his chest. he follows shortly afterwards, spilling hot and thick inside your pussy.
hanta wishes he could just lay here with you on him, but his eyes open and he ends up looking straight into the camera. standing behind it is the director, holding up the whiteboard and some directions that he couldn’t care less about. instead, he presses a kiss to your temple, almost smiling at the way your body twitches in response.
he has definitely made number one on your yes list.
good. he hasn’t gotten his fill of you yet.
hanta smirks as his eyes run over your exhausted, spent body. then, he looks into the camera, holding you close and spreading your thighs to showcase the mess between them.
“looks like someone’s officially secured her first photoshoot.”
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in which jack abbot had a rough shift, and accidentally takes it out on his sweet girlfriend.
warnings; mean!jack for literally 2 seconds, mentions of bad past relationships, reader has low self-esteem kinda
a/n; the 1k follower special is finally here!! i really hope u guys enjoy this!! <3<3
word count; 1.3k
masterlist
A bead of sweat dropped down your temple, as you hauled a handful of grocery bags into the kitchen, spotting Jack in the living room, pulling off his scrub top.
”Oh hi, honey!” You smiled, dropping the groceries on the table. Jack filling in for Robby this week meant that you could actually spend evenings together, sometimes.
He murmured a non-committal ’hello’ back, which you brushed off to him just being exhausted. You knew being a doctor was a physically and mentally taxing job. Quietly humming under your breath, you put the groceries away, turning the oven on so you could start prepping dinner.
By then, Jack had swapped into more comfortable clothes, his prosthesis now pulled off and stood upright against the side of the couch. You brought over a water bottle for him, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw.
”Dinner won’t take long. Maybe like thirty minutes.” You spoke softly, tidying up some discarded clothes from the living room, while Jack turned the TV on. He was quiet, but that didn’t bother you.
Sometimes after long shifts he was just tired. But you knew he was listening, and you didn’t mind filling in the silence.
You rambled on about what you did and saw during the day, twisting off to a five-minute drabble of a cute stray cat you saw. Jack loved listening to your rambles, since his job didn’t give him much time to be on his phone, he liked the daily debriefs he got from you after work.
”Oh— and honey, could you take a look at the dryer later? It’s making that weird clunking noise again. And the bathroom sink-”
”Jesus! Can you just let me be for one goddamn second?” Jack snapped out of nowhere, making your spine go rigid. His jaw was tight grit, and his hands were flying around, as if to emphasize his point.
Your eyes caught his, and you could see the angry look fade instantly. He never snapped. Hell, he never got angry. Not at you.
The laundry in your hands was forgotten now, and you had that awkward, forced smile on your face. He’s just having a bad day— he didn’t mean to take it out on you. Don’t cry.
”Yeah— sorry.” You cleared your throat awkwardly, dropping the laundry on the couch, wiping your hands on your thighs, ”Uh, I can just…I’ll call someone about the dryer. It’s fine.”
”Shit, sweetheart. I’m sorry—” Jack’s words died in his throat, as he watched you walk into the kitchen. He knew you inside out, and he knew damn well he practically just stuck a dagger into your heart.
It’s not your fault he’s having a bad day. He’s being unfair— he knows that. He’s just exhausted. With a long sigh, he buries his head in his hands. He needs to cool off for a second.
Meanwhile, you’re in the kitchen, eyes burning from the tears you’re holding back. You hadn’t meant to be an inconvenience. The dryer has just been bugging you for a while, and Jack always tells you to go to him when you have any problems.
Maybe you didn’t read the room. Maybe you ask too much? Your brain ran over every possible reasoning, but every single thing came with the conclusion that you’re asking for too much, being too needy.
Jack knew you were beating yourself up. He remembers that night, when you two laid in silence, and you unloaded some of your burdens on him. How in past relationships you were made to feel like an inconvenience. From that day onward, Jack wanted to make sure he’d never make you feel that way.
And he messed up royally. There you were, still prepping dinner for him, even when your sniffles echoed in the kitchen. God, he was just the worst boyfriend ever. You do so much for him, and he takes out his frustrations on you? If his mother was here, she’d smack him.
You were asking for so little, he knows that. It’s rare of you to even ask him for anything, but now you did, and he just snapped at you like a dick. He wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to poison him. Though, he knows you’re not like that.
After cooling off for a little, Jack grabbed his crutches and hoisted himself off the couch with a groan, slowly padding his way to the kitchen doorway, where we watched you for a while. The tight set of your shoulders as you chopped vegetables, the small sniffles escaping you. Even the way your hand would occasionally lift to swip over your cheeks.
“Sweetheart, stop that.” He spoke in a low rumble, walking up behind you. One crutch abandoned, so that he could wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you to his chest. His lips pressed onto the crown of your head, “You shouldn’t be cooking. I should be doing everything. I’m sorry I snapped.”
“It’s fine, Jack-” You started, but he shook his head, hand coming up to ease the knifee out of your grip.
Once the knife was set down, he gently covered your hand with his. “No, it’s not fine. I had a shit day at work, and I took it out on you. And that’s not fine. Not in any possible way. You did nothing wrong, it was all me.”
He could tell you were about to argue again, so he swiveled you around, his hand moving to grasp your jaw, “Don’t. I know you’re about to say ‘it’s fine’ again, but it’s not. I was a dick. I’m gonna make it up to you.”
Watching your sad eyes, he thumbed away the remains of tears off of your cheeks, eyes softening at the look on your face. God, he’s the worst.
And Jack knew you’d still forgive him immediately, but he won’t stop apologizing. He once vowed to never be the guy who makes you feel small, and he’d went and did that anyways.
“Tomorrow’s my day off. I’m fixing the dryer. The sink. Then, I’m taking my girl out.” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, “We’ll go to the bookstore. Your favorite coffee place. Anything you want.”
“Jack, that isn’t necessary-”
His hand pressed over your mouth. “Ah-ah. There’s no talking your way out of this, sweetheart. I was a jerk, and I’m damn well going to make it up to you. I’m sorry I snapped at you. It wasn’t fair of me at all.”
The tension in your shoulders slowly eased, heart warming at the care and attention he pays to you. Not one person in your life would go this far just to apologize. But Jack would. He’d walk through fire for you. If you’re cold, he’ll gladly crank up the heating, even if he’s overheating. He’ll get up early to make breakfast, just so you can sleep a little longer.
Every single thing he does for you is a testimony of his love.
“There she is.” He whispered softly, a small smile quirking up his lips, as he watched you slowly return to your normal self. He let his hand slide down to rest on your hip, gently patting it, “How about you sit down, sweetheart? Let me finish dinner. Then we’ll cuddle on the couch and I feed you, yeah?”
And well, you knew there was no arguing with him. So you gave him a meek nod, moving to sit down at the table, not before handing Jack a stool though, so he didn’t need to cook one-handed.
Usually, you feel bad whenever you let him do stuff. His work is draining as it is, so you tend to avoid having him do stuff around the house as much as possible– if you can do it yourself.
Jack, of course, knew that you were bound to start feeling bad. So instead, he kept distracting you with his words, asking you to elaborate on your activities for the day.
Dinner went smooth. You two cuddled together on the couch, with Jack feeding you bites of food, while letting you have full control over the remote. You could watch exactly what you wanted to, tonight is all about you.
And the morning after, when you were doing laundry early in the morning, the weird sound coming from the dryer was gone.
summary — jack has seen you leave a trail of broken hearts and bad dates, and he’s determined to prove to you that you’re looking for love in all the wrong places.
warnings — 12.6k words. age gap (jack’s around 50; reader’s a 4th year resident, so 20s), attending/resident power dynamic; mentor/mentee relationship, idiots in love maybe?? yearning!jack, jealous!jack, jack ‘i’ll pay for it’ abbot strikes Again!!!! hurt + comfort (one instance of jack being an ass, but he smooths it over during the same shift - they can’t stay mad at each other), mild angst, patient death, jack’s leg - reader helps him adjust the prosthetic and takes care of him during a long shift, canon-typical medical scenes and probably lots of inaccuracies (i’m an english major reddit is my best friend) ; on-page patient death, reader performing compressions, reader DATES DATES and may be unprofessional (affectionately she just wants to find love and her entire life revolves around the hospital who can blame her), reader’s written to have hair she brushes and can pin up, she also gets on her toes to kiss him but that can be ignored i just liked the image jack basically bribes her into a date, no smut but they’re So very much thinking about it, rushed-ish ending i think?
notes — wrote this in a slump it took so Unbelievably long and i’m not even sure i like it but i wanted to post something before i give up on writing anything ever again!!!!
It was midnight and a peds nurse was lingering by the ambulance doors, and Jack knew that he wasn’t meant to be there. Lewis was his name, maybe, but Jack couldn’t even be sure of that — and knew he had no reason to be sure of it, because the guy wasn’t meant to be there. Running the ER in the middle of the night, with all of the day’s patients handed off, and the night’s still finding their way through triage, was difficult in itself, and he didn’t have the energy to also babysit Ryan-or-Lewis-or-whoever hovering there like a little boy waiting to be picked up from school.
“Is he meant to be here?” Jack asked, closing the space toward the desk where Lena was pointing something, jutting his thumb in the direction of the guy.
Lena flattened a printout on the desk with two fingers, hardly sparing him a glance.
“Him. Peds. Why is he there?” he tried again.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said, but the corner of her mouth had flicked up, proving that she was simply choosing not to tell him.
“He’s off his unit,” he said. He knew he sounded just slightly silly stating the obvious.
“Seems so.”
“Send him back, then,” Jack drawled, incredulous, hands finding his hips. “There’s enough shit going on here.”
“You send him back,” she retorted, amused just slightly. “If you’re so concerned.”
Jack looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as his hands went to rest on his hips. When he looked back down, he found you walking toward the nurse and it suddenly made complete sense.
He let out a sigh. “This has to be a joke.”
His eyes, as they did more often than was appropriate, caught on you, hair coming down loose from where you’d pinned it, the scrubs lopsided at one hip, riding lower than where they’d started at the beginning of the night. You turned to say something to the guy quickly, and the movement caught the slip, your scrub top moving up half an inch, and Jack’s eyes went there before his brain could tell him that was wrong, some groove in him that noticed you before it noticed anything useful. He had a second of pure, unhelpful distraction before his brain reminded him that he was an attending and had things to do.
“I actually think it’s funny,” Lena said, shrugging.
Of course it had something to do with you. He should’ve figured it out the second he saw the guy standing there with his hands in the pouch of his scrubs, rocking heel to toe like the floor was just too exciting to be standing on. Nobody loitered around the ambulance bay at midnight for good reason. People came through those doors bleeding or they didn’t come through them at all, and this guy had shown up with nothing wrong with him, except maybe a case for some lovesickness.
“I’m gonna make this stop,” Jack said, already pushing himself away from the nurse’s station.
Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t say anything that gets you sat down with HR.”
“She can goddamn try me,” he said, and went. Also because Jack was fairly sure you would never report him to HR.
He crossed the floor and caught the tail-end of your conversation as he closed in.
“ — just tell me when you’re free, that’s all I’m asking,” the guy was saying.
You were already half-turned, already gone as you waved a hand loosely beside you. “I don’t know, I just don’t think we should try again.”
Jack blew out a breath, standing a few feet short of you, your back facing him. Why was he not surprised? He’d been keeping tally without meaning to, and he knew that was embarrassing. There was the radiology fellow who’d started hand-delivering films that very well could’ve gone through the system; the travel nurse who’d washed through in six weeks and left the floor faintly weird in his wake; the anaesthesia resident who now took the long way around the department if he saw you at the end of it, as though he were a dog who’d learned the fence was electric. And now this one, apparently, Peds with his whole hopeful heart hanging out in Jack’s department.
“You’re so sweet for coming down here,” you practically crooned at him, shifting on your heels, eyes flicking down to the form in your hand. “But I really do have a whole long night ahead of me, and I know my answer’s not gonna change, so I won’t make you wait around for it, okay?”
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes when you said the words with the upward lilt of a woman sending a toddler back to his mother. He wanted to laugh a little when he saw that the guy had taken it standing up like it was a gift.
The hell of it was that Jack understood the man. He understood every last one of them because he stood next to you fifty hours a week, had been doing so for three years, and whatever the department thought of him after his consistent therapy, he was not carved out of stone.
Jack was afraid that if he hadn’t been your attending these last four years and a little younger, wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d have been eating out of the palm of your hand.
You gave the guy a there-there pat, and it was only then did his eyes land on Jack, who he probably knew was your fucking attending. You turned then, and immediately said, “Oh, Dr. Abbot, I’ve got the guy in six’s labs back, the potassium —”
“Mhm.” Jack’s hands came up and landed on your shoulders before you’d finished the sentence, squaring you off the spot where you stood and turning you bodily back toward the floor like you were a gurney.
“It is four-point-nine, but the EKG’s good, so I was gonna recheck in —”
“Let’s recheck it now,” he said. He kept you moving, his palms broad through the cotton of your scrubs, steering you a few feet till your own feet caught onto the idea.
You grumbled something under your breath, and once he’d stopped you right in front of six, you turned to face him with your brows raised.
“Say something?” he asked, tipping his chin down.
“You seem like you’re mad at me,” you said.
“Huh. I do?” He let go of your shoulders — noticing, distantly, the exact second his hands came off and suddenly felt too empty — and reached past you to pluck six’s chart off the tray, more to have something to do with them than needing it. “You’re right. You should recheck in ten minutes.”
“You’re mad at me,” you said again, crossing your arms over your chest.
He blew out a breath, and suddenly felt just a little silly at getting worked up over a nurse by the doors when there was a large, glowing board behind him full of names that needed his complete, undivided attention.
You were a senior resident, after all, four years deep, one of his sharpest — you’d treated the guy in six, hadn’t you, you’d flagged it and called for the EKG and made the right call on the recheck before he’d even asked, all while dismantling some man’s hopes. Somehow, your mess and competence ran on the same current. You never let the first touch the second. He’d have loved, some nights, to have an excuse to be mad — a missed lab, a blown line, anything he could write up and point at — and you kept declining to hand him one. All of this meant he was left with this vague swampy irritation, and Jack wasn’t the sort of mentor who liked to hound upon that.
“No, sweetheart, I just love it when you get random men hanging around the department,” he settled on saying, feeling his shoulders visibly loosen a fraction.
You winced, eyes darting over to the emptiness in front of the doors now. “Sorry.”
“You’d say it won’t happen again, but we both know better.” He shrugged. Then, he reached out his hand — he wasn’t sure why, except that it just happened naturally — and patted you once on the shoulder, then on the second turned you to face the curtains leading to your patient. “Doctor up.”
And you did, the loose, embarrassed shape of you being replaced in the space of a single breath, being replaced by something Jack had watched grow into you over the years and still hadn’t quite gotten used to.
Trauma called it in nine minutes later, an MVC, unrestrained driver, GCS dropping in the field. Jack was working on a laceration in four when he heard the crackled warning, and by the time he’d looked up out the curtains, you were already moving, gowned and at the head of the bay calling out assignments like you’d been doing this for a decade.
“I need two units O-neg before he rolls in,” you said, voice pitched high enough to carry without yelling, cutting clean through the perpetual noise of the department. “Somebody get me a second eighteen-gauge ready, and I want an ultrasound in here.”
Donnie and Mateo were already moving, and so were the people around you, falling into your orbit like the room had easily reorganized itself around your voice the second it went up. Jack stood by the curtain, gloves from the lac still on, and found he couldn’t make himself move just yet.
The doors banged open. EMS wheeled the stretcher through fast, calling out vitals over each other, and you were already on the patient’s side before the gurney had fully stopped moving, hands moving on his neck, chest, eyes scanning his pupils in a matter of ten seconds. He began walking over, catching your voice as you called out your reads as someone hung the blood and someone else prepped the ultrasound wand. “Page neuro now.”
“On it,” Mateo said, already moving.
You had both hands on the patient, running the primary survey quickly, confirming, checking, discarding possibilities out in short, clipped sentences Jack recognized as the sound of your brain running six steps ahead of your mouth. Sweat had started on your hairline. You called out for OR to be on standby, eyes flickering around the room and landing on Jack. “OR, please,” you said, aimed at him, brows going up.
“On it,” Jack said, because there was no way he was going to let you be wrong about needing something and didn’t make sure you got it.
The next six minutes went by fast and loud, in bursts and then suddenly quiet, the room narrowing down on functionality. You stood at the center of it; you called it and ran it. You got the man upstairs stable enough that Walsh didn’t sound worried for one second, and that was a compliment from her.
Jack watched the whole thing from four feet back, arms crossed, and chipping in when your brain had snagged. He was feeling a heat in his chest helplessly and entirely unprofessional, it was always present when he was able to see, in real-time, how far you’d come from your first day of residency when your hands were a second too slow on the central line and how your voice would pitch up at the end of every read, asking for permission every time instead of stating it like a fact, eyes finding him across the room each time, checking.
There was none of that left in you now, he realized, had done so a long time ago. He thought, watching you now, that this was the closest thing he’d let himself do to falling in years, standing uselessly riveted as he watched a woman he’d taught outgrow the need for him in real time, and finding that instead of the loss he’d expected to feel when the day finally came, all he felt was warm and terrifying and too much like pride.
When the room had started clearing out, he watched your mouth drop open as you let out a heavy breath, eyes going over to him. The second he watched you realize he was still there, your face shifted, the relief turning into something sharper.
“Why didn’t you jump in?” You crossed the floor toward him in four hard strides, gloves already peeled off and balled tight in one fist, snapping the second one free with a motion that looked terrifyingly like it wanted to be aimed at him. “His pressure tanked for thirty seconds and you just watched.”
“You had it.”
“You didn’t know that,” you said, voice going up an octave, adrenaline still thrumming through you, hands coming up the gesture at the blood-streaked floor. “I could’ve missed something. You’re the attending, Jack, you’re supposed to catch if I missed something —”
“I would’ve,” he interrupted, stepping in close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him properly. “The second you needed me, I would’ve stepped in. I wasn’t gonna take it from you before you did.”
“You can’t gamble like that with a patient —” Your chest was rising and falling fast, gloves now crushed in your fist, and he could see the fear catching up now that everything around you had gone quiet enough to let it, something that looked more like fear of yourself than for the patient. “What if I’d frozen —?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached his hand out, thumb catching a smear of the blood at your jaw you’d accidentally smeared on yourself, wiping it off carefully with the pad of his thumb, and felt you go still under it. “You don’t trust my judgement?”
“You know I do. You just could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve. He dropped his hand from your jaw only to catch your wrist instead. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you being brilliant. Kinda liked watching it happen.”
Your mouth opened, surely to let out some unnecessary retort, and died there when he pressed one slow stroke of his thumb against your wrist, raising a brow.
“Relax,” he said, voice going rough as he leaned in a little, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Just take the win. That’s an order.”
“Now you wanna give orders,” you mumbled.
He barked out a short laugh, letting go of your wrist. “Only when you’re being stubborn for no reason.”
It was sometime during the second year of your residency when he’d started catching your drift. It had started with a random Friday shift. He’d seen you at the station, elbows on the counter, telling Lena something conspiratorially. Jack was meant to be reading a chart but couldn’t help how his ears had perked up. Anything to get through the shift, he supposed.
“ — no, but he was perfect on paper,” you were saying, “kept his house clean and everything. He told me he kept his plant alive for six years —”
“So, what happened?” Lena said flatly, like she already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear anyway.
“He wanted to take me bowling on the second date,” you said through a sigh. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve gotta hear me out —”
“I’m genuinely not going anywhere.”
“ — for the first date, bowling’s fun. But he took me to a nice dinner the first time, he set a standard, and then the second date he goes bowling, which means the effort’s already —” You created a little downward slope with your hand. “And if it’s already sliding on date two, where’s it at on date two hundred? I can already see my marriage with him and it’s bad.”
It seemed you had a criteria, Jack learned then. It was proven even more when he’d heard you talk about your other failed dates, seen them, and learned — without ever wanting to — what they were, to an extent.
He knew you couldn’t stand a man who ordered for you without asking. He knew you’d written off a fellow for the way he talked about his mother, and another one — an accountant, a rare specimen who had no clue what an EKG was — over a text message you’d read aloud to Ellis in a voice of complete horror, though Jack had never caught what it actually said, only your face while you read it. He knew you gave people precisely three dates, that this was a rule you held if the first and second date went well, three apparently being the magic number at which a person could no longer hide the demon they were going to turn out to be (your words).
He knew, too, that you only allowed one kiss after the first date, if even that. It was never up for negotiation, no matter how beautifully the night had gone, for you never wanted to end up “emotionally overdrawn on an account you hadn’t even opened yet.”
He knew you a man lost real points if, over the three dates, if it involved drinks, he ordered the same one. He knew a man gained them, silently and instantly, for being able to sit in a lull without narrating his way out of it, and that you considered this the single rarest trait in modern dating.
He knew you were looking for something you had no name for and would recognize on sight, which struck him as a hell of a way to run a search.
He’d have told you, if you asked, that he tuned most of the station chatter out as a matter of survival, for while he enjoyed the occasional gossip, he couldn’t very well absorb everyone’s business. And that was true about everyone’s business but yours, apparently, because yours came in clear.
Your business he retained against his own better judgement, and he realized — once, during a slow shift — that he could’ve drawn you a better map of your taste than you seemed to carry yourself. He could’ve told you, if you asked, exactly the kind of man who’d finally clear your bar, and exactly why he had yet to show up.
It was almost nice, some nights, watching you try anyway. The ER was a place where everyone was kept tethered to the world by a thread, and everyone who worked in it long enough to develop some version of the same calluses. Jack had grown his years ago, and he wore them invisible, occasionally aching, and had come to terms with it being permanent.
Love, for Jack, had stopped being a real noun before you’d shown up, somewhere between things he used to want and things he’d decided weren’t for him anymore.
You still believed in it. You’d watched this place take everything soft out of grown men twice your seniority and somehow walked through the same fire hopeful, still convinced, against every scrap of evidence, that somewhere there was a person worth all that hoping.
For that reason, he had decided to not interrupt your endeavors, not until now, when he noticed you during hand-off before your night shift with him started, in front of Robby, of all people.
While Jack loved Robby like a brother, he had a documented, department-wide, actuarially reliable seven-week expiration date on every woman he charmed out of this building. He’d heard intra-departmental gossip about him. There was, Jack was fairly sure, a running joke about it that predated your residency by years.
He knew you definitely were not finding love in his best friend. But Jack felt the buzzing in his mind go quiet and mean watching how you with him.
You laughed at something and Jack lost, for one humiliating second, the thread of what he’d walked over to say. It happened sometimes, more than he’d admit to anyone. Ordinary noises out of you hit him somewhere in his chest before the better part of him flagged it as a problem, and he had to physically clear his throat before finding his footing again.
“ — Italian’s always good after pulling a double,” Robby was saying. “But I do love some microwave ramen, too, when I’m missing my med student days.”
“Oh, so your standards have been raised being chief?” you said, and Jack could hear the smile and wariness in it.
“For sure —”
Jack let out a huff, something resembling a laugh, as his feet planted him between the two of you. He was close enough that his shoulder nudged yours and you had to step back to keep your balance. He felt your weight land for a second against him with a satisfaction he had no, absolutely no business feeling for something so small. So childish.
He turned to Robby, spreading his hands wide, mock outrage. “My resident.”
Robby looked mildly amused, unbothered, so Jack added, before he could respond, “Go home before I report you to HR.”
“You’d do that to me?”
“In a heartbeat. Have some shame.” Jack kept his shoulder where it was still angled half in front of you, an old, unexamined instinct keeping the line drawn even though Robby had already backed off.
He tipped his head toward the doors, toward the gold light coming up in them, the day shift draining out around you both. “There’s a whole rich life waitin’ for you out there.”
Robby just smiled and pushed off the counter, giving you a small wave before he left.
Jack turned to you then, brows furrowed. “Seriously?”
You let out a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard?”
“Soundin’ a lot like a frat brother right now. Never have those words been said in an ER,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” you said, rushing the words out with something more honest in them. “For the record. I know what — he’s got a reputation.” You picked at the counter. “I was just talking to him. He’s funny.”
Jack had to recalibrate for a second. “You were talkin’ sweet to him.”
“I talk sweet to everyone.” You lifted a shoulder, completely unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”
He rolled his eyes at that. He reached over for your cup of coffee sitting between you — closer to his elbow than yours — and drank a sip, eyes going up to the ceiling at the sheer volume of syrup you’d decided you needed in your bloodstream today. “The hell?” he muttered, turning the cup slightly as if that would help. “Are you trying to embalm yourself?”
“Give it back.”
“In a minute.” He took a second sip, slower this time, and watched you over the rim of the cup. Then, he set it back a few degrees off how you’d had it, just to see your jaw tick.
You pulled the cup back in, thumbed it around until the lid faced you again, and drank from it without breaking your explanation. “I’m offended you think I’ll get wine and dined by the chief attending.” You tilted your head. “Give me some credit here. I won’t be his seven weeks.”
“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm. “Well, good. Don’t think he’ll clear your bar anyway.”
“See, you get it,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “At least someone around here does.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head slightly forward that even he hadn’t realized that he had shifted the distance just slightly. “Better than most.”
Your eyes widened slightly at that, and Jack took that as his cue to step back, clear his throat, as he jerked his chin toward the board.
“Alright, time to work. Stop the play,” he said, trying to get his voice the right level. “Go look at chest pain on three.”
“So bossy,” you said, but you were already turning around to go to three.
Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? For some reason, he had to remind himself that.
It was what he had to remind himself as his hands hovered your trembling ones as you tried to pump air into Mrs. Foley’s lungs, knowing she was already gone — had been for a while now, if he was honest — longer than it took you to admit. He knew it, he’d grown the grim ability to recognize when a body stopped being a patient and being someone you were performing compressions on for the family’s sake, for your own need to have done everything.
He’d let it run anyway, because you hadn’t accepted it yet, and he’d wanted to give you that extra minute to arrive at it on your own.
Mateo had come up to Jack’s side, snapping his gloves off, the sound of it overshadowed by your own heaving.
“She has to call it,” he murmured. “You want me to —”
“No.” Jack’s eyes, he felt, could not move away from your distress. “I’ve got her.”
Mateo looked at him for a moment longer than the moment warranted, and then he stepped back and let Jack be. You were still going, your compressions had gone harder, faster, less like genuine medicine and more like you were pleading with Mrs. Foley herself now. Sweat had gone to the hair at your temple. Your jaw was set in a clench Jack recognized all too well, and for a moment, Jack wished that he didn’t have to be so acutely tuned into watching what the job did to others, the same way it did to him.
He stepped in behind your shoulder, close, and brought his hand down over yours where they were locked on the old woman’s chest.
“Look at the clock,” he said quietly into your ear.
“One more round —”
“You’ve done plenty.” He pressed, gently, until your hands stilled under his, and felt your entire body resist it. “You know she was gone before we could’ve even done anything —”
“She’s been my patient for years —”
Jack knew then that while you may have been an excellent doctor, his senior resident that had bloomed under his mentorship but still could’ve gone without him and done just the same, it wasn’t a good feeling to wonder if the job would dim you the way it had him.
“I know.” He kept his hands over yours with enough pressure so as to not let you drive them down again. “That’s why it’s yours to call. But you’ve gotta call it, Doctor.”
Your breath hitched as you turned your neck to face him, and there was a pool brimming on your lashline that you kept at bay, nodding. Your hands under his stopped straining upward, and he felt the exact second you accepted it, for it moved through your shoulders and down your spine and left you a little smaller standing there, the fight trickling into the moment after, which Jack always thought was worse.
“Time of death,” you said, forcing your voice back into the procedural tone, “oh-three-forty-one.” You peeled your gloves off finger-by-finger.
His hand found the small of your back after taking the minute, leading you to the little family consult room with the boxed tissues and fake ficus with a couch that had absorbed more bad news since longer than you or he had worked there. He shut the door with the flat of his hand and let the floor’s noise cut to a hum through the drywall.
You stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed, holding yourself, and stayed silent.
Jack propped himself against the table, arms folded, as he breathed out a small sigh through his nose. He knew you weren’t a talker after the bad ones. Some residents came out of a loss with their mouths running, narrating it into something survivable, and some went quiet and small and had to be waited out, and you were the second kind. So he waited.
You broke it eventually, like he always knew you would have. “I’ve got a butterscotch she gave me seven months ago in my locker still,” you murmured, craning your neck so you were looking at the ceiling. You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand roughly.
“Think I’ve got one, too,” he murmured, wincing as he tried to shift his weight.
It had been building up for the past few hours, a hot ring of wrong down below the knee where the socket had gone slick and furnace-warm because it was past hour fourteen, when he’d sweated the fit and never changed the liner because there’d been no window that wasn’t already accounted for. He shifted his weight off it, trying again, and reached down to thumb the release, breaking the seal.
He let out a short, punched out sigh as he pulled himself down onto the chair behind him, one hand balancing himself on the table. “Sorry,” he gruffed out, jaw clenching.
Your eyes flickered down to the prosthetic limb he was balancing against the pole of the table and you were already moving before he could finish apologizing. You never asked if he needed a hand. You’d learned sometime during your second year that asking him gave him a chance to say no, and you’d quit handing him that chance sometime during your second year, so now you just came. You went down on one knee at the pole of the table.
“Don’t say sorry,” you mumbled, eyes not meeting him.
His jaw stayed tight and he didn’t fight it, fight you. That was a formality and you both knew it, a thing he did with his shoulders and not his hands, but he watched the top of your head and thought — like he always did, each time, and never said out loud — there was no one else on god’s green earth he’d let do this in the way you did. Not the prosthetist, who did it clinically. Not the VA, who did it tired. You did it each time like it was nothing and everything at once, as though this something not worth remarking on.
He very badly wanted to thank you, despite how small he always felt when you did this. He wanted to tell you that you were, without question, better at this than anyone who was paid to do it.
Your fingers found the socket and went for the liner because you knew the fit went bad and the sweat before it went bad anywhere a person could see, knew he’d have to run it slick and furnace-hot than spend the fourteen minutes off the floor. You rolled it back with the flat of your thumb, easing the trapped heat out of it, and he felt the pressure of the ring of raw below his knee and had to clench his jaw to not let the relief show on his face. You spared him anyway by keeping your eyes down where they’d been.
“You’ll strip your skin doing this,” you said conversationally, the roughness still present in your voice from the code. “You know that. You keep running it past twelve and one of these nights it’s cellulitis and I’m admitting you.”
“If only I could be so lucky.”
He ducked his head slightly, a part of him wanting to catch the reaction, and he saw how one corner of your lip was barely turned up.
You thumbed a line of red where the socket’s edge had bitten in, checking it, and your touch went careful around there. “This is new. The edge is catching higher than it was.”
“Went to a new liner last month,” he said, voice low. “Not broke in yet.”
“Then you break it on your days off. Not on a fourteen hour.” You finally looked up at him, shaking your head with this flat, fond expression he’d come to realize was your favorite way to look at him. “You’d write me up for less.”
“I’d write you up for a lot less,” he agreed, thinking back on the time you’d fought him tooth-and-nail over staying through a migraine, refusing, point-blank, to hand off a soft rule-out chest pain at eleven when the migraine had started very visibly began creeping up on you.
He’d caught you before you’d said a word about it because you’d begun squinting at the numbers and pressed the heel of your hand against one eye for a moment too long between patients, thinking nobody was watching. He was, he realized, always watching you in some way.
“Go home,” he’d said quietly, catching you by the elbow outside the curtain. “That’s not a request.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got a migraine.”
“I’ve got a job.” Your jaw had clenched, stubbornly, and Jack had thought that even if he’d put all his strength into it, he wouldn’t have been able to unclench it for you. “I’m not handing off a chest pain because my head hurts. This guy has waited long enough for a bed. I’m not the priority here.”
He’d wanted to tell you that you were, actually, that you were exactly the priority, and watching you white-knuckle forms with your pupils blown different sizes from pain scared him more than any board full of critical pains ever had. But he’d just pulled down the light two notches, told the nurses to shadow eleven’s discharge, and put a bottle of water and two Tylenol on your desk without a word. And thank god, you’d taken the Tylenol and finished the shift standing up because sitting made the room tilt worse, and only taken on non-critical cases. You’d refused until the end that you should’ve gone home three hours earlier.
Now, you huffed something that was nearly a laugh, your first real once since the code, and went back to setting. And Jack sat there with his arms crossed in the dark with your hands on the worst-guarded part of him and the door shut against the whole floor, and thought about how he believed nobody deserved you. People were vile and sucked and cut in line and let doors swing shut behind them, and you handed out three dates to men who wrote sonnets in your voicemail and couldn’t clear a bar you’d never once lowered for anyone. He’d thought, more nights than he liked to admit, that these people had no idea what they were auditioning for.
His eyes snagged on you because there was nothing else in this small room worth looking at. There was still salt dried in your lashline from the code. You were a wreck and you were fixing his leg anyway, still half-shaking from a woman you couldn’t save, and it hadn’t occurred to you to stop and put yourself back together first. It never did. Jack had seen the care run out of you before you ever decided to spend it.
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Foley,” he said.
You shook your head, face still angled down, thumb pausing mid-motion. “I’ll be okay,” you murmured, lifting up one shoulder. “I just hate that she couldn’t get here sooner.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he said plainly. “Family said she’s been feeling off for two days now.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked, betraying the flatness you were trying to present. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
You lifted your head for a moment, then, looking at him with a sad smile he knew you were painting on to get him to stop talking.
He nodded stiffly, tipping his chin down. “Alright. Finish my leg and we’ll run this floor together.”
Up in radiology a few nights later, Jack had gone himself to sort out a reading that had been sitting long and he’d cornered a tech and got what he needed and was already halfway out the door, jacket sleeves still rolled from the last set of compressions, when he saw the guy standing off by the light boxes.
Younger. A resident, he supposed, in scrubs a size too crisp for someone who’d actually been on the shift long enough to earn wrinkles in them. He’d been watching Jack the whole time — Jack could feel it, the itch of being observed — shifting his weight heel to toe against the linoleum floor.
“Somethin’ on my face?” Jack said flatly because he really did have to get back to the floor.
“You’re — sorry, you’re Dr. Abbot, right?”
“Last I checked.”
The guy’s hand came out of his jacket’s pocket, and there was a piece of folded paper in it. Jack looked at it like it was a spider, hoping — no, praying — it had something to do with work.
“Could you give this to her?” the guy asked, and Jack’s hope died, as he stepped closer. “The senior resident on your shift. She’ll — she’ll know who it’s from.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack murmured, brows pulling in together. “You ever heard of texting, kid?”
“I did,” he said, and Jack could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She stopped answering, so I figured, maybe on paper, she’d actually —”
“Take the hint,” Jack grumbled, snatching the paper out of his hand. Then, as he turned to the door, he said, “You know I work in the ER?” When the guy only nodded quickly, he added, “You know she works in the ER?”
“I — yeah. Obviously.”
“Then you know she doesn’t need this.” He held up the paper between him and the guy. “She’s got enough on her plate without some guy too chicken to call her handing me a note like I’m her mailman.”
The guy opened his mouth, nose scrunching at Jack’s words, but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” Jack was already walking, note tucked in his pocket, done with the conversation. “Try calling next time. Or don’t.”
The guy looked at least a little sheepish, a little ashamed, and Jack thought good, he should feel ashamed. He wasn’t sure what the protocol in dating was now — he’d been just a little rusty and out of the stretch for a stretch of years he preferred not to count in single digits — but he was fairly certain that whatever the rules had curdled up to, this could not possibly be inside them.
He rode the elevator down with the note in his pockets, and he could feel the small stiff square of another man’s hope pressing over the outside of his thigh.
He found you at your desk, hands running restlessly through your hair as you spoke into the microphone, charting. The words were coming out of you bluntly, mechanic and after saying the same variation a thousand times over. There was a pen behind your ear you’d forgotten about and the residue of a lab value gone blue across the back of your hand where you’d scrawled it hours ago and never washed off.
He stood there for a second before you noticed him, and thought — not for the first time and with the same low irritation he always felt about it — that he had no earthly business being the man this got routed to.
Jack leaned down so his head hovered beside yours, scanning your work on the screen, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, head tilted to read your screen at an angle that had nothing to do with actually needing to see it.
“The man wants an espresso martini?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he read over your notes, right by your ear.
You jumped just slightly and swivelled on your stool to face him, then back at the screen. “Shit — Jack. Announce yourself.” You scanned the words on your notes, shaking your head and already backspacing. “No, that was me talking to myself. Stupid mic picked it up.”
“Long as it’s just the one,” he drawled, staying there in your space a little longer, watching the side of your face instead of the screen now. “Those things sneak up on you.”
“Speaking from experience?” You turned on your stool to face him fully, chin tilting up to meet his eyes, something playful and a little challenging in it.
“I’ve got a couple decades on you. Everything’s snuck up on me.”
You held his gaze a little longer, then looked away first, tongue coming out over your lips for a second. He took a small satisfaction in not being the one who blinked first.
He blew out a breath through his nose, remembering, with reluctance now, what he’d actually come here to do. “Speaking of sneaking up.” He pulled out the note from his pocket. “I got something to deliver to you —”
You furrowed your brows when he handed it to you. “Secret admirer?” you asked jokingly.
He barked out a short laugh. “Nothin’ secret about it. You ignoring some radiology fellow?”
You grimaced, opening the note and scanning over the words quickly. He could’ve left, but stayed instead and watched you read it. The frown only pulled deeper, and he saw your eye twitch once as you scanned the words.
Against his better judgement, he murmured, “That bad?”
“Uh — no, it’s okay.” You shrugged stiffly.
“Huh,” he breathed out, studying you outright now. “Wonder what you’re doin’ to these guys to get them so wound up.”
You chuckled, mostly to yourself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His chest tightened at that. It was unfair how you could make anything to him sound like something he’d been waiting to hear. He swallowed. “Suppose I would.”
“That an offer, Dr. Abbot?”
“Might be,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.
You laughed — surprised, the tension in your shoulders breaking slightly — and shook your head, folding the note back up. “You’re ridiculous. Well, thank you for getting it to me. I’m sorry he bothered you with this —” You swivelled, placing the note on your desk before picking up your phone. “That’s really weird.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jack said, and left it there, because you’d already turned and had your phone in one hand and the microphone in the other. The small furrow was back between your brows, and he’d learned there was a point past which pushing you got him a brighter, smaller version of whatever you were covering.
He drifted toward the far end of the station where Mateo was crouched at the crash cart running his palm along the drawers, checking seals, restocking and checking the fact of it on slower nights like this.
“She okay?” Mateo asked, snapping the drawer, seemingly having caught the interaction.
“Oh, you know.” Jack leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms crossing. “The belle of our ball. Can’t clock in without collecting a proposal.”
Mateo huffed. “She loves love.”
“That she does.” Jack watched you across the station, the phone lit against your ear now. “Don’t know why she keeps doing that to herself, though.”
“She’s an optimist.” Mateo clicked a seal into place, then moved down the cart. “Thinks someone’s gonna turn out different.”
Jack hummed, then, because the question had been sitting low and unlovely for a couple hours, he asked, “You two give it a run ever?”
Mateo turned his neck to look up at Jack. “Me and —” He jutted his thumb behind him to vaguely gesture at you. “Her?”
“Mhm.” Jack kept his eyes on you. “You’re close.”
“Nah.” Mateo went back to the cart, shaking his head as he chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’d pass a single one of her tests. Besides, I got my eye on someone.”
“Apparently I don’t make the list either, I guess,” Jack murmured.
Mateo laughed through his nose, eyeing Jack with something new now. “You want to?”
Jack caught it, reaching his palm and smacking it against Mateo’s curls with no force. “No. Now, do your job.”
“I am —” He laughed through the words, eyes scanning over Jack’s stiffened posture now. “It’s good you don’t, then. Couldn’t handle her anyway.”
“Sure, I could,” Jack said immediately.
Mateo’s head turned again, lips curving upwards at Jack’s words, and he felt momentarily blindsided by his own mouth, entirely too honest for something that had started as a joke.
“Sure, you could,” Mateo teased, drawing out the words.
“Shut it.” Jack grabbed a box of gloves off the cart and set it down two shelves lower than it needed to go, purely to do something with his hands that didn’t involve reaching for Mateo’s collar. “Wasn’t a real question.”
Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.
Most of the time, Jack was fine with watching your love life play out in 3D. More often than not, he knew they’d never work out. You were just too good for anyone who came sniffing, and there was a grim comfort in that, in knowing the fellows and the nurses would wash through and out and leave you exactly where he found you, three feet down the counter from him, close enough to keep.
Tonight the comfort wasn’t coming. Mateo’s accidental interrogation had rubbed Jack wrongly, somewhere he had yet to fully locate yet, and was sitting in his chest like a splinter he kept forgetting was there until he turned the corner over the night, saw you, and noticed it was there. He should’ve let it stay as nothing, but his brain had apparently decided three hours later was the correct time to relitigate the whole exchange, turning it over at odd intervals between patients like a tongue worrying a chipped tooth.
It was the bad sort of slow in the ER, the sort that let his brain fill up with things he’d have no time for on a real night. Ellis had wandered over to your desk with two energy drinks and placed her arms loosely beside your computer.
Jack was distantly aware he had misplaced labs to hand back to you because they’d gotten lost in the system, and he told himself that was the whole reason his body had started moving in your direction.
“I got a rundown from Marge,” Ellis said, dropping into an empty stool beside you. “Apparently he wrote it out of the OR.”
“You’re joking,” you muttered. “I don’t understand it.”
Jack stood there with the labs in his hand, close enough to hear it.
“I’m still wondering if I should respond,” you were saying, half into your hands. “Is this romantic? This one’s never happened before.”
Ellis laughed slightly with you, and the two of you had built one of those small pockets that slow nights sometimes allowed, thirty seconds of being people instead of clinicians.
Jack set the labs down at the edge of your keyboard harder than he meant to, the papers slapping flat against the desk, and both of you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. Fuck — had he? It sure felt like he was operating off of whatever chemical cocktail his brain had whipped up for nights like this, some ugly little compound of jealousy and exhaustion. He was fairly sure if you pulled his labs right now they’d look like a man in the middle of a bad reaction to something not yet figured out in the scientific world.
“Labs on eight got lost.” His palm stayed on the sheet for a few seconds too long, some instinct telling him to keep his hand on something solid before the rest of him did something stupid. “You’ll want to recheck the trop.”
His eyes cut, against every ounce of better judgement he had left, to the note still folded in your hand, the same one he’d carried down like it was radioactive, the same note that had clearly done something for you that four years of Jack standing next to you clearly hadn’t. An unreasonable, low feeling creeped up behind his ribs at the sight of it, hot and out of proportion to a piece of folded-fucking-paper.
Ellis’s smile went uncertain as he felt her gaze snag on him.
You blinked up at him, and whatever had been sitting easy in your face a second ago curdled itself away, the corners of your mouth retreating. He knew this same retreat, had watched you recalibrate your muscles, swiftly, built to be unreadable against anyone who hadn’t spent four years learning your face.
His stomach dropped and heat climbed up the back of his neck, jaw tightening on its own. He hated that his body had learned to answer you the way it answered a motor alarm. He hated more that some raw, cornered part in him — still smarting about Mateo’s offhand comment and sore from that folded note — felt it wasn’t soothed.
You blinked up at him, and the laugh faded off your face, and you said, easily, warm, “Yeah — course. I’ll get right on that.”
He shrugged up one shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned, already walking away. “Whenever there’s a gap on your social calendar, I guess.”
He heard the small silence that opened behind him, and he could practically imagine you and Ellis looking at each other. Then, he heard you push back from the desk, the stool wheels catching, and your footsteps coming after him like he’d known they would, because you were the last person to let something like that go.
“Hey.” You fell into step beside him, voice pitched low, still giving him more benefit than the doubt had earned in the last ten seconds. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” He tilted his neck up slightly to do a quick scan of the board, some stubborn muscle in his neck refusing to let him meet your eyes. “Got a department to run.”
“And you’ve been running it great. You just became weird right now.” He could feel you working it over beside him, shifting on your feet as you toed the line between resident and the hard-won territory neither of you had ever named. “Jack.”
“You want to laugh about your shitty dates, that’s your business,” he said instead of letting it go, sounding too far from the man who’d had his hands hovering over yours an hour ago, watching you put in a chest tube, telling you that you’d done well. “Do it a little quieter. This is an ER, not a lunch table.”
His words stopped you for half a step. Jack kept walking, an ugly, cowardly momentum carrying him three more steps before you caught back up.
He heard you recalibrate your voice in real time when you said, “I was charting on a slow shift,” carefully. “You’ve made worse jokes when it’s even more busy. What’s this about?”
“It’s about you treating this place like it’s your dating pool and not your place of work.” The words came out much uglier than he meant, and he didn’t have it in him to call them back. “It’s not professional. It reflects on the department. Reflects on me. Somebody’s gotta say it, and apparently that’s me, since you clearly enjoy it too much to stop.”
You stopped walking altogether this time. He turned to face your stillness whole, then, and found your eyes narrowed at him, looking like you’d been hit from a direction you hadn’t been completely guarding against.
He let out a breath, fingers going up to his forehead to wipe at sweat that wasn’t there. “I’m just saying what —”
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice going level and courteous, as you nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re my attending, it reflects on you. I’ll keep my personal life out of work.”
“That’s not —” he tried, but you were already turning away, shoulders squared and chin level, professional armor snapping into place just like he’d told you to. It should have made him feel better to watch you take it so cleanly, to not make a big deal out of it. All it made him feel was like something had been surgically removed from him.
“Stop —” he tried again, to your back now, and the sentence died somewhere between his teeth and the air. That was okay. There was no end to the sentence that didn’t sound worse than the beginning anyway.
He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand still half-raised toward you, fingers curling back into his palm when he realized you weren’t there to reach. Jack felt, distantly, uselessly, like the only thing standing still in the entire building.
“Great going,” he heard Lena say, trailing past him, a tray tucked against her hip, not even breaking stride. “You got rid of the one entertainment we’ve got around here.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he caught up with her in three steps, jaw working around words that wanted to spill out defensively and came out simply tired. “It’s not entertainment if she keeps getting hurt,” he grumbled. “She’s not a show. Stop treating her like one.”
“Didn’t look like she was the one getting hurt tonight,” she said, rounding a corner and leaving him standing there.
Jack let out a low groan, running a palm down the lower half of his face, and dropped his hand only when he’d scrubbed enough friction into his jaw to feel it sting a little, which was at least a sensation he’d chosen, at least tonight. He stood there a second longer, staring at nothing in particular. His hands found his hips on reflex.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, and dragged both hands back through his hair, gripping once at the roots before letting go.
He rolled his neck, felt it pop unsatisfyingly, and pushed off the wall he hadn’t even realized he was leaning against. His leg fucking ached, the burn starting behind his knee. He ignored it like he always did and started walking anyway, jaw still held tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could physically hold himself together with the seams of his own black scrubs.
It was by the lockers after hand-off that Jack saw you next. Both of you had conveniently managed to work over-time; he because there was nothing to get home to, and you — he’d heard through the grapevine — because one of your patient’s little sister was coming in toward close, and you simply wanted to talk with her instead of handing the situation off to one of the day residents.
Usually, nobody had asked you to stay when you did. Most times, there was no version of staying that showed up in your favor; he and Shen were gone, so there was no attending grading you on it; no hours that counted. It was just for a kid who was going to get bad news from a face she’d seen before, so you cost yourself hours of sleep you most definitely needed to be the soft spot for a stranger’s little sister, and hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, and he knew you would’ve been embarrassed if he brought it up.
He found you using the little mirror inside your locker to apply some kind of pink-tubed gloss with one hand while the other ran its fingers through your hair. Jack pursed his lips, eyeing you from the doorway, because he was pretty sure you’d done something different to it in the last ten minutes.
“Look nice,” he tried, biting the bullet and walking toward his own locker. “Goin’ somewhere?”
You caught his eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. “Just breakfast,” you said, and there was none of the earlier lilt in it, the warmth that you’d always aimed at him gone functional. You capped the gloss with more force than it needed and dropped it into your bag.
Jack stood there a second too long with his hand over his own locker without opening it. He’d expected — and he knew he was more optimistic than usual for doing so — your easy back-and-forth, his slip-up from earlier forgotten. He wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet or you not looking at him properly, hairbrush working through your hair in short strokes.
He’d saved around thirty lives tonight, and that was what he was good at. He was not good, and had never claimed to be good, at the aftermath of hurting a person he’d have put his own body between a stretcher and wall for, without meaning to, over something that had never been about the radiology fellow at all.
He opted out of opening his locker and chose instead to lean his bicep against the locker, eyeing you in front of him. “Mad at me?” he murmured.
You let out a short breath, shaking your head, and he tracked all your micro-expressions through the mirror. “On the clock?”
“Well, we’ve both been off it for a while now,” he said, watching the shape of your mouth in the mirror, waiting for it to give something away. It didn’t. “But no. Asking as your —” He stopped himself, because ‘friend’ seemed not to be the honest word though it was the first one that popped up. “Off the clock. Whatever I am to you right now.”
You set the hairbrush down on the little shelf with more care than the moment needed. “It’s okay, Jack,” you said, shaking your head.
“Don’t think it is. Try again.”
You watched him for a second in the mirror, then you turned.
“It’s just embarrassing,” you said, and the words came out smaller than anything he’d heard out of you in years. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I respect you and I hate that you’d think for one second I don’t take this place seriously.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just barely, and you pressed your lips together. “So, yeah. It’s embarrassing to have my attending confirming I’m exactly what people think I am.”
He was shaking his head before you could even finish the sentence. “Nobody thinks —”
“You do,” you said, voice rising slightly. “So, off the clock, I’m embarrassed, and tonight, I’m going to be your resident. Because I agree with you. It’s been unprofessional of me to keep dating within the hospital —” You threw your arms up halfway by your side, and you let out a short laugh that came out dry and wrong. “And I hate that you’ve probably been thinking it for four years.”
“I haven’t,” he said too fast. God, he’d come here to make tonight better for you, not to make you re-evaluate all your years working with him. “Sure, I thought it was none of my business how you spend your good nights off. Didn’t stop me from thinking they didn’t deserve ‘em.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that now ‘cause you feel bad.”
“Wish it were that simple,” he said, and chose to leave it unelaborated because it wasn’t that simple and he had no intention of explaining exactly why. “Half the time, you know it’s not gonna work out. You’re breaking my heart by making me watch you break yours.”
You blinked, and he watched the fight loosen out of you by inches. “It’s just a free breakfast, Jack. Nothing to get your heart broken over.”
Jack let out a huff through his nose, mouth opening to say what, he didn’t know. “Is that all? ‘Cause I can get you free breakfast for the rest of your life.”
You laughed, disbelieving, through your nose, some of the night’s weight finally cracking off of you. “You’ve got a weird way of apologizing.”
“Just to my favorite resident.” He pointed his index finger at you, lazy, and pushed himself off the lockers. His shoulder blades left a faint dust-print on the metal where he’d been leaning. He thumbed in the combination without looking at the dial — muscle memory, years of the same locker — and the door swung open with a rusted squeak. He pulled out his bag. “So?”
“So what?”
“You ditch the fellow.” He slung the bag up over his shoulder, close enough now that he caught the tail-end of the perfume you’d lightly spritzed over yourself. “I buy.”
You looked at him for a second too long, lips pushing to one side, as though you were gauging whether this was a bit or not, another line he’d tossed and wanted to let die on its own. He stood there, jaw set and features relaxing to show you he did mean it, more than he wanted to admit, if he was being honest with himself.
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m not?” He nodded once at your locker, your bag sitting on the shelf. “Grab your stuff. We’re going.”
“Fine,” you said finally, reaching over and zipping your backpack all the way before throwing it over one shoulder. “Can you drive? I’ve been taking the subway.”
“Why?” he asked drily. “You’ve got a car.”
Jack realized, as he watched you slide in across from him and folding both hands around the coffee before it was all the way poured, that he’d never once been on a date where the woman had no idea it was one.
It wasn’t lost on him what that made him, a man old enough to know better, letting a thing be one thing on his side of the table and another thing entirely on yours, saying nothing to square the difference. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he was going to feed you.
You ordered a short stack, eggs, hash brown, decaf on loop. She wrote it down, definitely having heard worse from better.
“Thanks for the treat, Jack,” you said when Dina left, bringing the rim of your cup to your lips. “Don’t think I could’ve done another breakfast to let him down gently.”
“We have to make some changes to your lifestyle,” Jack replied, voice rough, as he eyed you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmured. “We?”
“Well, I did have to deliver a note to you today. In all my life working here, that’s never happened.”
You laughed around the rim of your cup. “In my defense, I don’t think anyone’s wrote me a note out of an OR either. That’s a first for both of us.”
“Glad we share the experience.”
Dina came by with a pot and topped you off without being asked, and placed the food in front of you. Jack watched you reach for the salt before your fork had even touched the eggs, shaking it twice over the plate.
“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke by forty.”
“You’re gonna give me a stroke right now if you comment on my food.” But you set the shaker down after the third shake, which he noticed and had to bite back a smile.
Dina dropped his plate in front of him — bacon, eggs, no pancakes — and you were reaching for it with a piece of your fork before she’d even finished setting his fork down. He gave you a faux-frown, picking up his fork and, without looking, spreading a piece of your hashbrown off the opposite plate in trade. He wasn’t sure when the two of you had started stealing bites and sips off of each other’s stuff, only that it’d started somewhere and calcified into something neither of you mentioned.
“Rude,” you said, mouth already full.
“Learned it from you,” he muttered, nudging his plate an inch closer to your side of the table, which you took full advantage of.
Dina’s radio crackled through something twangy and close-to-familiar behind the counter, competing with the clatter of a skillet somewhere in the back, the whole place smelling like batter and grease soaked into decades of countertop, syrup that had dried a hundred small amber rings nobody had ever fully scrubbed off.
“I’ve never been here before.” You absentmindedly cut the hashbrown in half as your eyes raked over the place. “This a regular spot for you?”
“Since before you joined,” he said easily, but his brows furrowed as he realized he’d been coming here alone for years. He was in the same booth when he could get it, ordered the same order, and it struck to him only now, watching you eat your hashbrowns, how much smaller and less lonely a booth felt with you taking up the other half of it. “Used to be the only quiet I got on some weeks.”
You hummed. “And now?”
“Guess the quiet’s pretty negotiable.” He shrugged. “I can go without it.”
You smiled down at your plate, something easy working at the corner of your mouth. A thread of syrup had gathered at the seam of your lips — you hadn’t noticed, too busy considering his answer — and before he’d cleared the impulse with the rest of himself, his thumb was already moving, catching it at the corner quickly, no different than when he swiped under your lashline for salt after a bad night.
You stayed still, having gotten used to his hands somewhere during your residency.
“You’re a mess,” he said, wiping his thumb off on the paper napkin folded under his elbow.
“You’ve got coffee on your scrub top,” you said, eyes flicking down to his chest. His brows furrowed and he looked down, and you were right. “Pot, kettle.”
He’d been about to say something else, he could’ve sworn it, but had lost every word of it watching you smile so unguarded, free enough to let him look at you. He had to reach for his coffee just to have something to do with his hands.
When the check came, folded in its little plastic tray, you both reached for it at once. Your hand landed flat over his knuckles. Neither of you moved it for a second, for his hand stayed exactly where it was, broad and unmoving under yours, and something unspoken passed through the two inches of fornica between your faces as he raised a brow at you. He slid the tray out from under you slowly.
“Said I’m buying,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
The drive back had been quieter than the one there had been. It was nearing ten in the morning, and he knew both of you had stayed up longer than intended, especially for two people who had to clock back in in a shorter amount of time than he deemed plausible to reset completely.
He’d cracked the window down an inch, and the air coming through carried the smell of wet pavement and the sound of a garbage truck grinding its gears three streets over. Your neighborhood, he was learning, woke up slow; there was a paperboy on a bike, a guy in scrubs different from yours locking up his own car after a shift that wasn’t at the PTMC, and Jack drove through it with two fingers loose over the wheel. Neither of you had bothered with the radio.
You’d gone somewhere billowy around your third cup of decaf, all the sharp edges of the night replaced with something looser and sleepier, and you gave him directions in a voice gone thick from exhaustion as you were likely starting to feel it behind your eyes.
He pulled his car along the curb and let it idle, one shoe braced against the floorboard, watching the numbers of your building.
“Gonna sleep?” he asked.
“Gonna try.” You were already working the bag strap over your shoulder, hair falling loose out of the knot you’d put it up in at some point at the diner, strands of it catching the early light. “I’ve got no idea how you do this then take SWAT calls.”
“You’d be able to do it, too, if I put you on the field.”
You mumbled something, letting your head drop against the window for a second, before picking itself back up. “Stop threatening me, Jack.”
He watched you fight your eyelids, his mouth pulling up at the corners at the sight. “C’mon. Get inside before I gotta carry you up.”
You snorted, half-hearted. “You can’t. You’d throw your hip out.”
“Try me.” He was already rounding the hood before you’d gathered your bearings, boots loud on the quiet street, and you let out another laugh and let him get there first, too tired to argue about who gets to open what.
He walked you up the cracked path, palm settling at the small of your back, and you leaned back into it, half your weight given over without you noticing it.
At the door, you fumbled with your keys out from under a granola wrapper and a capless pen, missed the lock twice, and gave up trying on the third. You turned to face him instead with your back against the frame and your bag slowly sliding off one shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said, words coming out loose and filtered by the exhaustion even as you tried to meet his eyes head-on. “For the — everything. The explanation. And the breakfast.”
Jack felt his lips curve up, fingers flexing at his sides. “Anytime.”
“And for driving me there — thank you. And for the drive back.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna go inside?” he said, voice going quieter as he looked down at the ground, at how the toes of your shoes were almost touching. “Or keep thanking me until you fall asleep standing up?”
You cocked your head to the side, your lips moving upwards into a fuller smile. His own mouth curved as he shifted on his feet slightly, closing the barely-there inch between his shoes and yours.
“Jack?”
He hummed, and you went up slightly onto your toes before he’d finished deciding what to do with you. Or maybe he’d moved in first, or maybe there was no real order to it at all. His mouth found yours somewhere in that uncertainty, slowly despite it, because he’d already worked out every version of this moment and this one had simply appeared in front of him.
His hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb settling into the soft hollow just beneath your ears. Your skin was warm despite the cold snap in the air, much softer than he’d let himself imagine, and he felt the exact second your breath caught against his mouth, a small stutter that made his fingers curve around your jaw, index resting against your cheekbone.
He kept it slow, it was the only thing he had any real control over right now, the pace of it instead of the fact of it. He used what little he had left, dragging his mouth against yours, like he could somehow make up for four years of nothing by refusing to rush the first thirty seconds of something. His other hand found your waist, and his palm felt how your back curved into him, the hitch of your ribs on an inhale, and he pressed you back the last inch against the doorframe more to ground himself.
Your fist found the front of his canvas jacket, dragging him in the last stubborn space he’d been too careful to close himself, and a sound came out of his chest that embarrassed him a little. He felt you smile against his mouth, and his entire body felt warm at having been caught enjoying this entirely as much as he was.
He tilted his head so his forehead pressed against yours and pulled his mouth away. His lips jutted out slightly, feeling suddenly empty and unwilling to put the full distance back between the two of you.
Your eyes were still shut, and you were breathing unevenly. “Thank you,” you murmured.
He huffed a short laugh, and in it, realized how breathless he, too, was.
You tipped your chin back up, already chasing him.
Jack felt the want knot up inside him, greedy and unreasonably leaning back in to meet you halfway before the rest of him had caught up and made him stop. He made a small sound in his throat and pinched his eyes shut, letting you get right up to the edge of it, breath already tangling with his, wanting so badly to just let it happen, before his finger came up between you, pressed light against your bottom lip to stop you a hair short. It was more for his own sake than the words he remembered you telling someone years ago ringing in his head.
“Ah-ah.” His voice came out rough with want, entirely at odds with his actions. “Your rule. Only one kiss after the first date. I’m trying —” he exhaled hard, almost dramatically, “— trying real hard here to make it to the second.”
“Huh?” Your eyes peeled open. “This was a date?”
“Best one you’ve had I’m guessing, with the way you’re breaking your rules.” His finger stayed right where it was, and he watched your eyes struggle to focus, still glassy from the kiss. He could feel the warm huff of breath breaking unsteady against his fingertip, could feel your mouth soft and parted underneath it, waiting on him.
You pressed a peck against his finger instead, your mouth barely dragging against his skin as a shy smile formed behind it that he felt more than saw. “Maybe.”
“Well, good.” He smiled, despite himself, and pushed himself off your forehead, opting instead to press his lips there. “Get some sleep,” he murmured against your hairline, lips lingering a little longer there. “Might be able to get a full seven hours.”
“Will you?”
“Doubt it.” He pulled back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone — his touch feather-light, tracking the exact curve of it, memorizing the route — before he made himself drop his hand entirely, fingers curling loosely at his sides because suddenly he had no idea what to do with them without you under them. “Kinda got a lot on my mind now.”
“Yeah?” You bit back a smile, still not quite steady on your feet. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”
“Not a chance.” He bent a fraction and hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag where it’d slid down to your elbow, dragging it slowly back up to your shoulders, knuckles grazing your arms the whole way. “You’ll find out. Eventually.”
He forced himself to step off the mat — one step back, then the second, putting real distance between you now — forcing ease into his expression that he definitely wasn’t feeling. He stopped a few feet away from you anyway, unable to fully commit to walking away, watching you stunned and still in your doorway, mouth a little kiss-soft. He felt so completely helpless and pleased at the sight. “Text me when you’re up and I’ll get to planning date two.”
You raised a hand into a wave, fingers curling in the air.
“Bye, Jack,” you said, and his name came out of your mouth softer than you probably meant it to, smooth and cushy the way it never sounded on shift.
He lifted his chin up at you once and made himself turn, finally, finding the path back to his car. He made it to the curb before he looked back again, and you were still standing there, one hand braced on the door, watching him go with an expression he was sure he was going to think of the entire drive home.
Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.
this was real perfection!!!!! and the angst ohmygod the way abbot yearns for her was so so so so so wonderful & beautiful
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