A/N2: Written for the June Jukebox Scribbles. Prompt: “Tell you a story”
Word Count: 281
Sleep was eluding you yet again. Several rounds of tossing and turning yielding no results other than frustration. Especially when you know the cause: Jonathan is away on business.
You never slept better than when Jonathan was next to you. He made you feel so safe and pleasantly warm. With his side of the bed empty, though, you're feeling cold and lonely.
Grunting in frustration you turn on the lamp and grab your phone. Doing some quick searches you see that Jonathan's time zone would have him still awake, maybe eating dinner. Maybe he'll be delightfully surprised by a phone call.
When you sleepily press the wrong button, you're both surprised by a video call.
"Darling," Jonathan beams. "Not sleeping well?"
"I miss you too much," you pout.
"My own sleep has been rather intermittent as well. Hotel beds simply can't compare to the comfort of being with you."
"I wish I could cuddle you until I fell asleep."
"Alas, it's not an option. But, perhaps I could tell you a story to help you?"
"You'd do that for me?" you tear up.
"Of course. And when you're asleep, I'll hang up the call so you don't have to worry about days charges or anything."
"Thank you, my knight in shining armor!"
Jonathan begins with some stories about his childhood, ones you've heard before but can never get enough of. Focusing on his voice you're able to start letting your mind relax. Your body doesn't feel so cold. Your feeling less alone.
When you drift off to sleep Jonathan smiles. He doesn't end the call, preferring to get more time to just look at you.
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Jesse Van Horn x Paediatrician!Wife!Reader, Brendon Park x Sister!Reader
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You and Brendon Park could be deemed as two sides of the same coin.
Day and night between you two.
And yet.
So very similar.
This was a well known fact amongst those at PTMC.
What wasn't quite as well known.
Was that you.
Were in fact the long time sweetheart of one Jesse Van Horn.
...All of which is brought out into the open as he comes in with his sick daughter, and his son clasping his hand.
Notes: strong language. established relationship. secret relationship. secret family. medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: ~3.6k
Jesse was a breath of fresh air in the ER.
With a wicked sense of humour that often left others hunched over in stitches, belly aching from laughter.
It was simply in his nature to jump in on the joke.
To make light of an otherwise grim situation with dry sarcastic wit.
It was his flavour of choice when it came to coping with the stresses of the ER.
And if that meant moving the life size training dummy to funny places just to make an unsuspecting resident or intern laugh, then so be it.
At work Jesse never pined for attention.
Never fought to be seen.
He simply did the work.
And he did it well.
Strong.
Silent, competent.
With a few little sarcastic remarks and side eyed glances in between.
It was no wonder that each time you came down from pedes to perform a consult, you gravitated towards him.
Finding his presence to be perfect when working with young patients.
At least that was what everyone else assumed.
Unknowing that there was a little more behind you and Jesse always managing to be found side by side whenever you came down…
Unaware that you.
Dr Y/N Park.
Was in fact, Nurse Jesse’s longtime sweetheart. His very wonderful wife.
Unaware that you and Jesse were well and truly deep in love with one another.
Naturally gravitating towards each other’s presence if only to be soothed by having one another nearby.
Those softened glances.
Those sweet smiles.
Murmured words of love you and see you later.
All gone amiss by those in the ER.
All unseen. Unnoticed.
All unaware of the little matching tattoos imprinted upon your skin. A little reminder of your love for each other.
You had met years ago.
Having been dragged to an open mic night at a local bar by your friends. Even if all you had wanted to do was stay home and flop into bed.
You had reluctantly left the house.
Making the most of the night.
Most of the music is drowned out by your friends talking your ear off. Until the strum of the new band that had come on had caught your attention.
Turning your gaze to face the little makeshift stage, you had locked eyes onto one of the band members.
It was kismet.
The night had become a blur.
From the way your friends had practically shoved you into the man’s arms noticing your starstruck gaze.
Locked onto the very hot drummer. With loosely curled hair, to the glinting nose ring, and piercing in his ear, the small little J catching your eye beneath the dim lights.
How his music had seemed to make you fall into a trance.
“You guys sounded great,” you complimented, shooting your friends a scolding gaze before turning to meet his eyes once more.
Trying your absolute best to play it cool.
Despite having your heart simply melt from the way he smiled, a little lopsided, kind and carefree, “Thanks–I uh, noticed you in the crowd, you seemed to get pretty into it,” he scratched the back of his neck.
The way the light seemed to make your eyes sparkle, capturing Jesse’s attention entirely.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he had asked. A little boldly, spurred on by his bandmates shooting him a thumbs up behind you.
You flashed him your pearly white smile, nodding.
The evening spent talking each other’s ear off, tucked away in some booth in the corner of the room.
Relishing in the sound of his laugh, gravel like and melodic.
Perhaps getting to know each other a little better in the privacy of his apartment…
One thing led to another.
Until soon you were trying to match up schedules, trying to carve out time for one another.
Until you were essentially building a life together.
You had him meet your overbearing brother who didn’t know when to give you space. Who had played the role of intimidating your new partner far too well.
But Jesse had taken it well.
Hadn’t backed down.
And instead understood Brendon’s overprotective resolve.
Rather than fighting him, arguing with Brendon. Jesse had taken to showing Brendon just exactly why it was you had fallen so deeply for him.
How his considerate nature and care for you would never think to hurt you in any way.
And just perhaps the next time Jesse saw Brendon he had given him a bottle of scotch, one Brendon had mentioned in passing as one of his favoured ones.
With an arched brow, an impressed look crossing his features.
Realising that Jesse truly listened.
Truly paid attention to you – unlike a few of your previous partners who would unnerve Brendon to no end.
This time it was different.
This time Brendon could understand why you had insisted that Jesse was the one for you.
Had understood why you chose to share your life with him.
Finally having found your partner.
Your equal in life.
With promises of being together, side by side. In this life and the next.
…It was something that those at PTMC were unaware of.
What they did know however.
Was that you and Dr Park were two sides of the same coin.
Whilst Brendon was clipped and cold.
You dissuaded others with humour and a softness to your resolve.
Both keeping others at an arms length it seemed. It was just the way you both were.
Nothing much was known about the Park siblings, apart from the work they did.
You were both so diligent, and hyper focused.
But at times it was hard to remember you were related.
Brendon was the orthopedic surgeon that kept everyone on their toes. That moved through the room, like the Shark they knew him to be.
His presence sliced through any and all conversations.
A quiet falling over the room.
Unlike you.
Whenever you entered a room, you never failed to make it brighten just a bit. You lightened the tone.
Always so considerate, friendly.
No bite to your words.
Unless you were teasing your brother.
You were a paediatric doctor, your speciality was calming down even the most frightened of kids, helping quell nerves and always doing your best in the most dire of circumstances.
You were quick to respond whenever needed – whenever you were required.
And each morning, you always walked through the ED, passing by sharing quick hellos and good mornings.
Little stickers plastered upon your stethoscope, key chains swinging from your bag, a medley of different charms, a small little shark, a star, a little guitar, and an assortment of characters from animated films like Dory, a little Eeyore, and a few other characters.
They clinked gently as you moved through the ED, passing by before going to your department.
Coming back through whenever a consult was needed. And whenever time allowed, you always stopped by to at least share a coffee.
Always enthralled by the little tidbits of gossip.
Pearly whites gleaming, not in a scowl, but in a glistening smile as your laughter would bubble out.
You helped guide the med students giving them a little advice when handling younger patients.
Santos absolutely adored you, and your humour. Whitaker was always amused whenever he saw you take Shark down a peg.
Your heart was the size of a whale’s.
With a demeanour that was soft around the edges, deeply understanding and kind hearted.
So unlike the reputation of your brother’s.
Who’s presence would make everyone who didn’t want to get chided to scramble out of his way. To be anywhere else except for the trauma room he was in.
Well…
Almost everyone.
There were of course a handful of people who could go toe to toe with PTMC’s Shark of the OR.
Those who had garnered his respect.
Such as Dana.
And Robby.
And surprisingly.
Nurse Jesse.
If ever a particularly severe orthopedic trauma case entered through the doors, Perlah and Princess would be quick to shove Jesse over to help.
To throw him to the shark. They had joked.
Jesse would merely send them a side eyed look before moving quickly to work.
And though the chances were slim, if it were a particularly complex case.
Shark would appear.
With piercing eyes.
Controlled movements.
Clipped tone.
With a delivery so blunt it would make even the most thick skinned students rethink their life’s choices.
But around Jesse, he would tip his head with a small nod.
A mutual respect brewed between the two.
Now, while most might assume this simply had to do with the fact that Park was simply civil with the nurses.
The way Park would greet Jesse – or the way Jesse would manage to make Park’s lips curl up in a barely noticeable smile from some random joke would make anyone falter for a second.
No one questioned it anymore.
The odd little dynamic between Brendon Park and Jesse Van Horn had simply become another accepted part of PTMC.
Somehow...
They worked together flawlessly.
Like clockwork.
Like they'd spent years learning each other's rhythms.
Jesse anticipating instruments before Park asked.
Park trusting Jesse's judgment without question, "Retractor."
Jesse handed it over before Park had even finished the word.
"You're getting predictable, Shark."
Brendon's expression remained perfectly flat, "...You're getting annoying."
Jesse grinned, "You say the sweetest things."
Whitaker blinked.
"Why does Dr Park tolerate him?" Santos frowned.
Perlah snorted, "Dunno. Maybe Jesse sold his soul."
Princess nodded solemnly. Before shrugging as she offered, "Or maybe Shark respects competence?"
"...Or maybe Jesse has blackmail," Santos muttered, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
None of them noticed the way Brendon's eyes flicked toward Jesse.
The faintest twitch threatening at the corner of his mouth.
Before letting it simply slide under the rug.
Forgotten for another day.
Until…
One day.
Just a random Tuesday.
Nothing particularly out of the ordinary.
Which, in the emergency department, generally meant it was only a matter of time before everything descended into chaos.
Santos was buried beneath charting.
Whitaker was just trying to get through the day without needing to change scrubs.
Princess and Perlah were restocking supplies. Sending each other little side glances or hushed comments whenever they caught a little snippet of gossip.
Dana was coordinating traumas with her usual effortless efficiency.
And Jesse had been called out of work today.
Barely midway through the day, he was tucked into the corner of the ER. A solemn expression on his face.
Before moving to mutter quietly to Dana, “That was Mina’s school, she’s got a fever–”
In an instant she was shoving him towards the lockers, “Go, get out of here and make sure she’s ok”
He nods, a grateful look entering his eyes.
Even as the others asked where he went, Dana kept the reason close to herself. No reason to divulge information that wasn’t hers to share.
Waving them off, barely stating anything more than that it was for personal reasons.
What no one expected to see however.
Barely an hour later.
Jesse had returned.
But this time he wasn’t alone.
Propped up on his hip, curling into his grasp was a young little girl. Face splotchy, eyes curled up tightly shut. Frown etched onto her face, as she buries her face into the fabric of Jesse’s top.
Linked in his other arm, stands a young boy. A layer of concern laced in his eyes as they flick up to the little girl.
Immediately, everyone noticed something was wrong.
Not catastrophic.
But enough.
This morning Jesse had arrived with easy smiles and dry remarks. But now that had all been wiped away.
Now.
He looked worried.
Dana looked up instantly, "What happened?" Rounding the desk to meet him, eyes darting down to scan over the little girl.
The young boy slightly waved to Dana. A flash of recognition crossed his eyes.
"Mina’s been running a fever"
The little girl buried his face against Jesse's shoulder. Jesse adjusted her higher automatically.
"She started complaining his ear hurt an hour ago."
Dana softened.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Mina blinked watery eyes, "No."
Dana snorted, "Fair enough."
Princess immediately moved into action, "I'll get her checked in." Sympathy flooding her features.
Whitaker froze. Javadi practically nearly stumbled into him, distracted by the scene before them.
Santos practically buzzed from the new information.
Because...
Jesse had a child.
A child currently wrapped up in his arms.
"...Jesse?" Whitaker asked carefully.
Jesse glanced over, "Hm?"
"...Is that your kid?" Santos completed.
Silence.
Jesse blinked, before his brows furrowed "...Yeah–Whose else would it be?"
"...Your kid?" Santos repeated.
Mina lifted her head, tugging at him slightly. "Dad?"
Those watching in curiosity practically combusted from the new information. Muttering amongst each other in utter shock.
None of the nurses appeared to be particularly surprised. Dana least of all. Robby glancing up to see all his med students frozen in place.
He merely sighs from their utter surprise.
The fact that Jesse was a dad was something that had come up over after work drinks with his fellow nurses more than a few times.
But there seemed to be many in the ER who were in complete ignorance of this fact.
"You never told us!"
"You never asked?"
"You have a kid?!"
Jesse shifted Mina again. His grip slightly tightening around Sammy’s hand. Glancing at him to make sure he was ok.
Whitaker looked seconds away from fainting.
Before anyone could recover–
The lift doors open.
"Jesse!"
Everyone turned.
You hurried into the department. Trying your very best not to break into a sprint.
Stethoscope bouncing against your chest.
Tiny cartoon stickers decorating the tubing.
Relief flooded Jesse's face instantly, "Oh thank God."
You moved straight toward him.
Toward Mina.
Your hands automatically reaching for your daughter’s forehead, you murmured softly, sweetly, "Hey, sweetheart."
Mina whimpered, leaning into your grasp, "Mama."
The room went silent.
Because...
Mama.
Your hand moved to Jesse's arm,"You okay?"
He exhaled, "She spiked another fever."
"You should've called me sooner,” you said, brows knitted in concern.
He looked at you as though it were obvious, "You were working."
"So were you,” Your tone was fond.
Not annoyed.
Jesse's responding look was soft.
"You know I would've come,” you added.
"I know,” Jesse nodded, “But I had it covered.
You let a small smile form on your lips in understanding, before crouching down to your little boy, reaching out to bundle him into your arms, “You ok, buddy?”
He nods, before pointing up to Mina, “Is Mina going to be okay?”
You smile at his concern for his little sister, “We’re going to make sure she’s ok, yeah?”
He lets out a small hum in agreement.
Santos stared.
Then pointed.
Then stared again.
Everyone’s eyes flicking between you and Jesse.
Even the nursing staff was stumped. Utterly shocked by the new information.
Not once.
Never.
Had either of you mentioned that you were married…Let alone parents of two little kids…
Mouths agape as they watch the scene unfold.
Dana guiding you both to one of the open bays, you’re quick to slip into doctor mode as you check up on your little girl. Going through all the necessary checks.
While Jesse sits with Sammy, occupying him.
Javadi’s eyes widened even more if it were possible, tugging onto Santos’ arm, “Do you know what this means?”
Her brows furrow looking at Javadi in question.
Mohan shares a look with Javadi as she makes the same realisation.
“What–oh!” Santos states.
Whitaker furrowing his brows darting between them all before looking back over to the little family.
“What?”
Santos looks at him, “Jesse’s married to Y/N, as in Dr Park…which means”
“Means what?” He looks at her quizzically.
“That means Jesse is related to–”
As though summoned, their mouths snap shut at the sight of the very man they were referring to.
Steely eyed as they scan the room.
Not a single orthopedic trauma in sight.
And yet his locked jaw.
His tense shoulders.
Before meeting Robby’s gaze.
Robby merely points a finger to the bay where you were, “They’re over there”
Brendon offers a curt nod in thanks, taking quick strides to reach the bay.
Paying no attention to the audience formed nearby.
His sharpness immediately melts as the young boy leaps out of Jesse’s lap scrambling to Brendon, who lifts him with ease.
“Uncle Shark!”
“Hey kiddo,” he said, eyes drifting for a moment to meet your eyes, the silent question residing behind his blue eyes.
Whilst you shoot him a thumbs up, a curt nod.
A silent. It’s all ok. Nothing major.
His shoulders relax.
His demeanor softens, looking back at Sammy as his little hands clasp at Brendon’s face to turn his attention back to himself.
“Do you want to say it Mina?” Sammy calls back.
Your heart melts at his thoughtfulness for his little sister.
“Yes!” she says, eyes gleaming at the sight of her uncle. A small spark in her eyes, as the medicine begins to kick in.
Whilst you bite back a grin, already knowing what was about to be said.
“Shark Bait!” she calls out.
Brendon’s lips purse for a moment, before he mumbles. The noise, barely louder than a whisper.
Sammy grins cheekily, “Can’t hear you~”
“Hoo Ha Ha,” he says louder.
Whilst Mina giggles out, coinciding with Sammy’s laughs.
Any sense of embarrassment never makes its way onto Brendon’s features, as he instead grins at his niece and nephew.
It never failed to amuse them whenever they did this.
Never getting old.
Whilst you and Jesse laugh softly. With a small shake of your head.
Santos clutches onto Whitaker’s arm, stunned, “Is it just me or did Shark literally quote Finding Nemo”
“I think I’m having a stroke,” Whitaker mutters out.
Mina tugs onto your arm, eyes wide. Head tilting in question, “Can Sharkie come over to our house to play? He needs to be Elsa!”
You nod, “You’ll have to ask him nicely.”
She peers up at her uncle, whilst Sammy does the same.
“Pretty please”
“Only if you promise to get better soon,” Brendon replies.
Princess comes up beside Jesse, elbowing him gently, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us your wife was Park.”
“It never came up,” he shrugs.
While Princess scoffs. Before raising her brows, with a slight impressed look, “She’s quite a catch”
“Don’t I know it,” he replies with a grin.
“Though I don’t understand how Shark didn’t scare you away,” she adds. Watching as the doctor in question is busy entertaining the two young kids.
You move to stand beside Princess adding, "Brendon isn't terrifying."
Jesse merely laughs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, "You've lost perspective."
His grin faltered for a second, dipping lower, “Is it ok I brought Mina here?”
Your arm curling around his waist, “You made the right call”
He arches a brow, “ Even if I interrupted your day
“Never an interruption when it comes to you and the kids,” You say, shaking your head.
The ER watched.
Speechless.
Because somehow...
None of this fit together.
Shark.
Warm-hearted paediatrician.
Sarcastic nurse.
Two very loved children.
Finding Nemo references.
Frozen sing alongs.
How you and Jesse always were side by side.
Why Jesse never shied away from Shark’s cold resolve.
The little matching tattoos that no one had noticed enough to associate.
Or the little rings hung around both of your necks, tucked beneath your scrubs for safe keeping.
And yet somehow...
It all fit perfectly.
You smile softly at the little family you cherished so dearly. In simple awe of the overwhelming love felt in this moment.
Jesse’s arm snug around you.
Mina and Sammy consume the entirety of Brendon’s attention as they talk his ear off.
Both Brendon and Sammy doing their best to distract Mina from her aches.
As Sammy leads the way into singing, “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming–”
He nudges Brendon, “C’mon Uncle Shark, it’s Mina’s favourite”
He reluctantly nods before singing along, voice low as he tries to keep it down, whilst Sammy beams, “Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do? We swim, swim, swim”
Your little baby girl, looking better by the minute.
Your panic settles and subsides.
A pager buzzes in your pocket, duty calling. You hesitate. Before Jesse plants a kiss to your temple in reassurance, “We’ve got it handled. We’ll see you at home–I’ll make chicken soup”
You nod, before wrapping up your kids in cuddles, promising that you’ll see them later.
Brendon reassures you that he’ll help Jesse, whilst you thank him for the help. Grateful to have such a supportive brother.
The ER watches you duck away.
Before flicking back to the scene before them.
It was unbelievable that Jesse Van Horn, their witty colleague.
Was in fact the brother in law to Brendon Park the Shark.
It was safe to say that as soon as your girl was feeling better and as soon as Jesse would be back at work.
That a flood of questions would be headed his way.
But for now they let the little family simply bask in their peace.
…
And just perhaps.
Santos might just boldly mutter out with a grin, “Shark Bait,” the next time Brendon Park comes down for a consult.
Whilst he lets out a disgruntled hum.
...
It was safe to say there was never a dull moment in your life.
With Jesse as your loving husband.
Two little bundles of joy, in the form of your daughter, Mina and son, Sammy.
With Brendon as their doting Uncle Shark.
No matter what came your way.
No matter if the entirety of PTMC would flock to you in utter shock about the fact that your husband was Jesse.
No matter if his coworkers all looked at him in awe as he handled Brendon.
With endless questions about, how, when and why this had all come to be.
You both took it in stride.
With a little hum.
A bounce in your steps.
Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed (I'm a lil iffy but overall happy with it) definitely wanted to incorporate Shark being the absolute fixation of his niece and nephew. And Jesse would totally be unafraid of Brendon (like you just have a stern face- is that meant to scare me??) and honestly that simply makes Brendon respect him a lot more. Fun fact Mina apparently means Fishy as well so that’s a cute little thing. Let me know what you thought ✨
As of right now, this is the last instalment for the Shiver Collection (Unless inspo strikes for other ideas/characters - I am playing around with the idea of Frank or even Shen?? idk)
Hope you've enjoyed them! It's been a lot of fun exploring different stories featuring the reader as Park the Shark's sister 🦈
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
If you enjoyed, consider checking out my Pitt Masterlist here!
Warnings: mentions of racism in the 40s, flirting, fluff. Steve Rogers is a fucking simp for his wife and I will die on this hill.
Word count: 412
Times word count has successfully been ≤300: 35
For the June Jukebox Scribbles challenge hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles | June 11 (swap-out #1): Chosen lyric—I'm proud of who I am.
You DO NOT have my permission to repost or upload my fic anywhere, including into an AI, tumblr, or other sites! Reblogs only!
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There was a lot about coming back from the 40s that was disorienting to Steve, but perhaps the strangest was that his fiancée's appearance had changed.
Adelaide was (technically) immortal. She hadn't aged a day since they met, even though she'd lived outside of the ice for all 70 years he'd been gone. She was still beautiful, of course—nothing could change that—but, as the times had changed, so had her appearance. Apparently, the coal-black hair and the amber eyes he'd loved so dearly were the results of a weekly spell, masking the parts of her appearance that gave her away as not quite human. The eyes were easy enough to adjust to, given her old ones already had a tint of red to them, but her hair took a while to recognize.
One night, as they sat in bed together, Steve playing aimlessly with her braids, he had a question: "Addie, honey?"
"Hmm?" She still stared at him like she was trying to memorize his face, like she was terrified he would get lost for another 70 years. It made his heart ache.
"If you already changed so much of yourself back then to fit in… why didn't you change the rest of it, too?" he asked softly. "I know it wasn't easy for you or your dad or your sister. I know it wasn't easy being in a mixed-race relationship. If you were already hiding, why not just… hide all of it? Make it easier for yourself?"
Adelaide thought on it for a while, unsure of how to phrase it. She took a few deep breaths, a sigh, and laced her fingers with his. "I'm proud of who I am," was the simple answer. "From what my dad told me, on Locar, everyone looks the same. My skin, my hair, my eyes are all things that make me instantly recognizable. More than that, they tell others that I have power, that I'm special. Why would I ever wanna get rid of that?"
Steve pressed a kiss to her forehead, resting his own on hers for a moment. "God, I love you," he whispered.
"Even with purple hair?" she teased.
"Especially with purple hair. Purple looks good on you."
"You think everything looks good on me."
"I think nothing looks good on you, too," he smirked. Adelaide whacked him with a pillow.
"Way to ruin the moment, pervert," she laughed.
"No such thing as a ruined moment. Not when it's with you."
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How do you think Price would react the next morning if he got drunk and hit reader like they were one of his soldiers?
Ohhh nonny I don't think price is surviving to the next morning if he hits you.
If he comes home well and truly drunk, pissed enough to be yelling at you over something, so far gone that he hits you? There will he a split second of clarity the moment after the hit, realizing the boundary he's crossed, before he doubles down and refuses to apologize.
He yells more, gets in your face and tears you down like he would a soldier after a fight. Until you're physically shaking and flinching away from him, making price feel like a real man. Like someone in control before he stomps off to sleep.
Which leaves you, terrified tucked behind the sofa you bought with john when you first moved in. You do the only thing you can think of, face already bruising, and call the number john gave you "only for emergencies. Doesn't matter what, he'll help you."
"...ello?" The voice that picks up is rough, grainy.
"I...I didn't know who to call...." you choke on a sob. Terrified. "I don't know what to do."
Which is how, two hours later you're drinking a milk-shake in some diner parking lot, legs dangling over the bed of ghosts truck while he makes phonecalls far away enough you can't hear anything. You don't know what to feel. You love john, of course you do he's the man of your dreams but...but you've never feared for your life like that before.
It's fine. You decide not to think about it. Simon will handle it, he assured you. He even promised not to kill john when you had panicked and begged him to be nice, explaining that john was just drunk and he's usually never like that—
Yeah. Simon said he'll just talk to price, set things straight.
He doesn't tell you that said talking to will happen in the middle of the woods with a baseball bat and duct tape.
BABY LOGIC
jack abbot x f! reader | 1.5k
fluff, suggestive themes, no use of y/n
ft baby abbot and robby
Jack had always thought your daughter would grow up to be a genius. You were an emergency medicine resident, he was an attending, the knowledge transfer was bound to happen. That’s what anyone would’ve thought. But, boy was he wrong.
His adorable little pocket sunshine of a daughter is currently nibbling on his scrub top. Jack wants to chastise her, tell her it carries the worst of the hospital in it, but she’s six months old and incapable of comprehension.
What she was trying to reach? Milk. Your little one does not understand biology. That he can let it slide, no half-year old kid would know it. But shouldn’t she know by now that only her mom will be able to feed her?
How many times in the middle of the night has Jack woken up to find her screaming her ears off, only to wake you up and deposit the bundle of sweetness into your lap with a kiss to your forehead and an apology in his mouth?
Gladly Jack would feed her if he were able to produce milk. But humans and other mammals alike, males are not genetically evolved to nourish their offspring. Because if he could, he would.
“Bug, there’s nothing here,” he tries telling her. Which does nothing good, except earn a chuckle Jack knew very personally. The voice and its owner — a perpetual pain in his butt since the first year of med school — make themselves known with another chuckle. To which Jack can only groan, “what’re you doin’ here?”
“Here to see my goddaughter.” Robby and his insane timing. Why must he choose this specific moment to display his affection? Of every low point Jack has quietly accumulated throughout his life, Robby has been there. It is impossible to figure out how Robby knows these embarrassing moments and decides to pop up, but he always does.
The statistical probability of this is insulting. Of all the rooms in this hospital, of all the moments in a day, Robby walks in for the exact one where Jack is being actively suckled at by his infant daughter. He could’ve walked in when Jack was skillfully changing her diaper — wait that’s not better. Thing is it’s unfair, with drool on his shirt and a six-month-old clamped to his pec, is when Robby decides to be a present and loving godfather.
“How did you know I was here?” Jack prods, all the while trying to keep your baby from latching onto his nipples through his shirt, it not being much of a barrier at all.
Robby completely ignores Jack’s question — like he usually does, like that one time when Jack asked him, directly, in plain English, whether he'd eaten the rest of his leftovers from the fridge, and Robby held eye contact with him for four full seconds and then asked if Jack had seen the new attending in neuro — and nods towards the baby, “she good?”
“Yeah, she’s — she’s just —” Jack cannot bring himself to say out loud that his daughter is gnawing at his muscles in hopes of quenching her thirst. Some things you just don't say. Some things you carry alone.
“God. Is she trying to — feed from you?” Robby throws his head back in a bashful laugh. Jack feels his hands itch to put him in a chokehold, the only thing keeping him away from doing that being his current object of affection, his lovely daughter. The laugh alone tells him this is a story that'll be recounted many years to come. Told at every bar they ever drink at, Christmas, at the next three people's weddings, at Jack's funeral probably, Robby having outlived the former purely out of spite. “Told you to go easy on the weights,” Robby continues, pushing past Jack’s glares. But the latter can only seem so intimidating with little sunshine on his arms, babbling with spit oozing from the corner of her mouth.
“You know what, why don’t you take her?” Jack practically shoves the baby into Robby’s arms, the latter immediately straightening up to hold her without missing a beat.
As Jack sorts out the spit situation, little bug has found residence in Robby’s chest, pawing at his scrub — worse condition than Jack's — as she tries to figure out a way to milk. So, the shape and geography of the area wasn’t the problem; your daughter is. If she’s that hungry, shouldn’t she latch onto the bottle? Apparently bottles are beneath her, as she pays them no mind, only snuggling deeper into Robby’s embrace now.
"See, it's not just me."
Like always, Robby ignores Jack's tantrums and rocks her, swaying from left to right as he eyes Jack, who now seems very victorious about establishing the fact that his daughter needs to be latched no matter the anatomy and physiology, and maybe is a little dumber than he’d thought. That is a terrible thing to think about a baby — much more, to think about his own baby — but that’s where Jacks head is at.
Thank god you decided to walk in that exact moment, confusion painting your face as you raise one eyebrow at the situation. Like a sunflower finding sun, your baby slots herself against Robby, straining her neck to find you, her own North Star. “What’s going on here?”
Jack has never felt luckier. That’s an overstatement, he knows. He’s felt lucky everyday since you came into his life, but particularly now with you glancing up at him with smile laced lips, and soft sighs from working for four hours straight without feeding.
“Our beloved daughter missed you, is all.” Missed you and your boobs, and tried to burrow into mine and Robby's, is what he doesn't say. Like she was summoned, your baby raises her arms from Robby’s hold, babbling a string of bah-bah-bah, exact to her social development, the little genius she apparently is, now that she has you in her sights.
The same child who spent twenty minutes trying to nurse from two men with no relevant equipment is now performing perfect developmental milestones on cue. Fine. She'll be fine.
Walking closer to both men, your own arms open, reaching in the air, a laugh bubbling up from your throat, the soft kind, the honest kind, the full kind. Jack sees your body sense little bug, smell, sound, and everything heightened. Coupled with the laughter, your letdown reflex makes itself known as two perfect patches of wetness coat your blouse, the warmth of it you register almost immediately, eyes darting between both Jack and Robby, a little insecure, a little flustered.
While Jack has seen you in everything and nothing, Robby hasn’t — of course, why would he? — and a redness climbs up his face, tinging his ears pink, as he tries to divert his gaze from your chest to the baby in his arms, who is now oblivious and content now that she has you within grasp.
Jack watches this unfold in real time. Robby, undone by a biological reflex. The ears going first, embarrassment creeping up from behind him, working its way forward.
Robby hands her over to you, immediately taking a step back, putting distance between you both as he rubs the nape of his neck with his hand, stuttering, “uhmm — I think— I should go.”
Not waiting for a response, Robby walks past you both, still completely red. Jack had never thought a biological response would petrify his friend, what with the countless number of bizarre things they've collectively and individually witnessed during their careers. A man who has genuinely seen everything emergency medicine has to throw at a person, walking very quickly away from a breastfeeding-adjacent situation like it might follow him into the hall.
Little bug throws her arms over your face, trying to grab your attention from her godfather.
“Poor Robby.” You mutter as you start feeding your daughter.
“He’ll live,” Jack replies instantly, though he knows the image of Robby's ears going full red while he stared intensely at the crown of the baby's head will sustain him through at least two more shifts. Maybe three.
When your baby is almost done, Jack takes that opportunity to ask you one thing that's been plaguing his mind forever. Forever would be a stretch, let's say almost six months. Six months of being in the general vicinity of a thing and very much not included in it. Watching his daughter treat this like the most obvious arrangement in the world, and Jack, who understands the oxytocin, the prolactin, the whole cascade, understanding perfectly well why, and still experiencing what he can only describe, clinically, as being left out. “You know, now that she's old enough to start complimentary feeds…” He looks at you expectantly.
“Mhmm?”
“It’s only fair I get a taste… since she's this addicted.”
A swat lands on his arm before he can close his mouth. But your face tells him a different story. And he knows exactly what it means.
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summary: When you've been feeling sick for a few weeks, Jack expects to face the worst. But a trip to the emergency room reveals something he never expected. And you have to face the fact you're there for each other in sickness and health... and everything between.
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of abbot being a widower, lots of uncertainty and anxiety, age gap (but reader is implied to be a bit older), talks about infertility/ trouble getting pregnant. let me know if I need to add anything!
notes: had this idea a few days ago and like the devious baby fever pilled gal I am and managed to bang it out in two evenings. thank you jack abbot for being my current muse.
Jack’s work shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty hospital hall. He’s running, a layer of sweat already beading at his temple. The glass ambulance bay door hits the wall with a teeth chattering thud. Jack is almost suprised it didn't shatter with his thrust.
He pants, eyes scanning the hospital’s back lot, trying to find the ambulance he knew was on his way.
“Mr. Abbot, we have your wife here- she fainted in the grocer’s parking lot…”
Jack knew he shouldn't have left you. He'd had a feeling. The looming dread that had been creeping up on him the past couple of weeks.
You'd been feeling out of it for a while now. A lethargic and nauseating achiness you couldn't quite shake, no matter how much tylenol or herbal teas you’d tried.
You had played it off as nothing. Just a headache that came and went. An upset stomach due to the day old chinese food you’d eaten.
“It's fine, Jack. I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m okay. I’m here. You don't have to worry.”
But Jack worried.
He was always worrying.
He knew that little things sometimes added up to a bigger, meaner somethings. That if you missed the signs, you might catch it too late.
What exactly? Jack wasn't sure. He didn’t particularly want to find out.
But he sure as hell wasn't gonna let you blow it off now.
His heart pounds as the ambulance finally pulls into the bay, the emergency lights blaring an ugly red and orange. Jack bary registers the EMT saying hello to him, his eyes focused on your splayed out form, laying on the gurney.
“Hey baby,” he says, voice cracking slightly.
“Jack,” you look up at him blearily, your eyes hazy, a bandage already taped to your forehead. Jack is quick to come by your side as the EMT lowers the gurney, his hand running over the back of your hair.
“One of the bystanders said she hit her head going down. It's not too bad. Just needs some cleaning. Same for her legs,” the EMT says to Jack as she watches him carefully lift the bandage.
Jack lets out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and leading your gurney back into the Pitt.
“What the hell Jack. You just ran off-” Robby calls out, watching Jack come back in. He stops once he sees you, your scraped up knees and bandaged head, the confused expression on your face. “What happened?”
“She fainted. We’ll need to start her on an iv, get her fluids and run a couple of blood tests. Do you still feel dizzy?”
“I don’t… Jack, what’s going on?” You look up at Jack, confused, panic written across your face. Jack looks back at the EMT who shakes her head.
“She was having trouble remembering the fall. Only remembers her headache and feeling sick.”
Jack remembers how you had looked this morning. The purple bruises around your eyes and the wince you'd tried to hide when he said goodbye.
“I don't have to go in today. Shen can cover if Robby really needs him to.”
“Go Jack. They need you more than me.”
He should have known better.
Robby comes beside the railing of the gurney, helping to pull it into a trauma room. You look around, your chest beginning to rise and fall quicker as your eyes begin to clear of the confused fog.
“What’s going on?”
“Jack, stay with your wife.”
“I am with her,” he throws back at Robby, turning to grab the bag of fluids Princess was moving to hand him.
“No. Stay with her as Jack. Not Dr. Abbot,” Robby tosses back, gesturing to your wide and fearful eyes. Jack swallows thickly, torn.
Especially when you groan, turning towards Robby and vomiting off the side of the gurney railing.
Jack’s heart hurts, pounding heavily against his sternum. You were here. The one place he hated seeing you.
Jack knows he can help take care of you right now. Bandage you up and order labs. He can solve the mystery behind why you were suddenly so ill. Why you haven’t been feeling well lately.
He can handle that. Dr. Jack Abbot, night attending and army vet, can handle bad news.
But just Jack. Mr. Jack Abbot, loving husband and worried widower, cannot.
He can’t take another bad diagnosis.
Jack looks up at Robby who’s helping Princess clean up the vomit, and then back at you. And he makes a decision.
“Hey,” Jack says, pushing down the railing on his side of your gurney and sitting on the edge. “Hey, honey-” He takes your head in his hands, taking the damp cloth Robby hands him and helping to clean your face.
Jack sits with you, his scrub top abandoned, his hand clasped tightly over yours. He watches as the color slowly comes back into your face, helps you take a sip of juice when your hand trembles too much to hold the cup. He stays silent for it all, Robby cleaning and bandaging your scrapes, Perlah coming in to draw your blood, the hospital gown Princess helps you into. He watches it all with a wariness. An awful churning in his gut.
A fear gnawing away at him.
“Jack,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. He hums, glancing up at you from where he was sitting beside your gurney. “It’s going to be alright.”
“I know,” he whispers back. You hadn’t said much to each other. Mostly hushed whispers and clinging to each other's hand. Like raising your voices was too much for the already overstimulating hospital room.
Jack’s knee is bouncing up and down anxiously. He couldn’t help it, his mind turning over the many diagnoses, the myriad of things that could be wrong with you. You gently wrangle your hand out of his iron grip, reaching over to rest it on his jostling knee. Jack stills at the feeling of your warm palm over the fabric of his scrub pants, swallowing. You smile.
“Whatever it is… we’ll be okay.”
"I know," Jack repeats again. But it's hard to really believe it.
He's been here once before. A hospital room just like this. The woman he loves loved sitting by his side. Slowly wasting away. And he didn’t even know it.
He sees the symptoms, too familiar and painful. The exhaustion and fatigue that wore you down. The migraines and brain fog, lethargicness and nausea that plagued you. He sees it and he knows. Whatever labs Robby is currently looking at holds a future he’s not sure he’s ready for.
You sigh, your hand moving upwards to run through his salt and pepper curls. They had already been mussed and messed up from his own hand raking through them. Jack sighs at the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning his head against your side. You hum, holding him close.
“I didn’t even get to do any shopping. I just… passed out in the parking lot.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jack mumbles into your gown. “I’ll order some groceries for delivery later.”
“I really wanted to get that new cream cheese to try. The one with the jalapenos.” You sigh. “Gosh, I wish they could just inject that into my iv. Maybe I’d perk up faster.”
Jack can’t help but crack a smile. You hum happily, still petting his hair.
“There he is.” Jack looks up at you, his mouth open to say something. To apologize for worrying. For being so scared.
But he doesn’t get a chance.
The door to your room opens, Robby’s familiar silhouette shadowing behind the curtain.
“Jack?”
Jack clears his throat. “Yeah?”
Robby peeks his head through the fabric.
“I’ve got the test results back.” He comes in and sits down on the stool by the foot of your bed with a grunt. You give Jack a nervous look, your hand finding his again. He takes it, squeezing gently. Grounding. Robby clears his throat.
“Well, your blood panels came back fine. No signs of infection or disease.”
“So…what is it? What’s wrong with her?” Jack asks, swallowing thickly. Robby looks down at the lab work in his hands, peering over the frames of his glasses at the two of you.
“Nothing.”
The word hits harder than Jack could have expected. Of all the things he had anticipated-
You frown, looking confused.
“Nothing,” you repeat, the question no louder than a breath of air. Robby smiles and nods.
“Well, nothing that won’t go away in nine months. Congratulations kids. You're gonna have a baby."
Both of you go very still. Your mouth falls open, Jack’s eyes practically bug out of his head. Robby sits there smugly, folding the lab results over.
“A…” Jack starts, trailing off as he leans forward. Surely he’d heard Robby wrong.
“I- a baby?” You ask, dumbstruck.
“Hmm.” Robby nods. “From what I can tell you’re roughly six weeks along. Of course, you’d need an ultrasound and larger blood panel to be able to tell more accurately.”
“Pregnant,” Jack breathes. His eyes dart around the room, finally meeting Robby’s. “But how?”
Robby raises an eyebrow.
“It’s a simple process. I don’t think I have to explain the exact mechanics on conceiving to you Jack-”
"No, I know- I mean how... I can't even...
"We aren't exactly prime candidates for conceiving," you finish for Jack.
He can feel your fingers wrap tighter around his hand, your shoulder brushing against his.
Robby gives you a look, his features softening. “I know. I know, I don’t know why. It happens. Sometimes fertility problems resolve themselves. No on can pinpoint why exactly. Could be hormonal changes, medication changes, reduced stress-”
You and Jack finally glance over at each other. He looks at you, eyes raking over your face, the glimmer of hope you were trying to hide. And it hits him.
The sabbatical, he thinks. The long overdue vacation he'd finally gotten around to taking.
Three months without either of you worrying about work or patients. Three months of just the two of you; long walks in the park, lazy mornings spent in bed. Decadent yet nutritious dinners and way too many trips to the ice cream shop down the street.
Leaving behind the worries of your every day.
The sabbatical he’d finally come back from not even a few weeks ago. Just before you had begun to get sick-
You're the first to smile. A small curve upwards, more nervous than anything.
"I'm pregnant."
Jack breathes heavily in his chair.
“You are,” Robby smiles. You take a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. “There’s quite a few things we’ll have to go over. I’m sure Jack knows this speech like the back of his hand, but it’s still customary…”
Jack is half listening as Robby goes on about the usual procedure. The prenatal vitamins you’ll need, the appointments you’ll have to set up. The safety precautions and symptoms and internal changes. The risks considering Jack was older and you weren’t very young yourself.
Jack is so far zoned out he doesn’t even realize you’re calling his name.
“Jack. Honey," you shake his shoulder, frowning. “Are you okay?”
Jack opens his mouth, looking between you and Robby. He glances once at your stomach. Hidden behind the hospital gown. Looking exactly like it had yesterday.
But it was different. There wasn’t some disease growing inside you. Some foreign thing making you sick and slowly sucking the life out of you.
There was a baby growing there. You were sick because you were making another life.
Jack is hit by the realization that for the next nine months, you were going to be going through all kinds of changes. All kinds of hurdles and milestones.
A baby.
Jack suddenly feels sick.
“I have to go,” he blurts, shaking your hand off of his shoulder and beelining out of the hospital room.
“Jack!” You call out, your voice raising with surprise.
“I just need some air!”
Jack doesn’t turn back. He can’t. He can’t let you see the utter terror written on his face.
He marches down the hall, ignoring the looks the nurses give him, the confusion Trinity and Mel share as he storms out down the crowded hallway and to the stairwell.
You find Jack outside. Not on the roof like you’d panicked he’d be.
Robby had come back, shaking his head, trying to calm your racing heart.
No. After finally convincing Robby to let you help him look, You find Jack sitting on one of the benches in the park across the way from PTMC. He’s sitting there, elbows braced against his knees, staring off into the distance.
You approach him carefully, blades of grass crunching beneath the slip on clogs the hospital provided. Your clothes feel cold against you, comforting and familiar after the scratchy hospital gown. You glance back at Robby who stands at the edge of the park. He nods, encouraging you to keep going.
As you get closer, you realize Jack’s not just staring off at nothing. You catch sight of his eyes, focused and glistening beneath the late afternoon light. You follow his sight line, watching a little family on the other side of the park. A broad shouldered man tossing a foam ball to a toddler girl, her mother laughing as her girl toddles about.
You watch Jack for a moment, staying out of his sight line. You don't have to try very hard to guess what he's thinking about. The sheer amount of worry and confusion he's feeling.
You felt it yourself. The whiplash of expecting the worst outcome only to learn you were carrying something wonderful. There was still the nervousness of what the future would look like.
The schedules that would need rearranging, the house child proofed, your office room cleared out in space for another little person. Doctors appointments and ultrasound photos taped to the fridge, onesies and books and diapers tucked away in a closet.
In spite of the excitement you felt, the confused yet exhilarating feeling of knowing you were going to be a mother, you were scared.
There was a whole person you'd have to take care of. You'd have to grow and birth. You weren't exactly a spry chicken. Neither was Jack. And there were more risks and complications that came with that.
On top of all the things that came with pregnancy.
You might not be dying from some malady. But pregnancy was no small thing either.
You finally take a step forward, placing your hand gently on Jack’s shoulder. He snaps out of his stupor, back straightening, a panic written in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be up-”
“I’m okay.” He frowns. You point to the space beside him on the bench. “Can I sit?”
Jack nods, scooting over a bit. You sit. Jack wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand; being closer now, you can see they’re red rimmed and glassy. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first.
But he’s the first to open his mouth again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run out if there. That was a dick move."
You swallow against the thick lump in your throat, trying to keep the well of anger rising at bay. It wasn’t hard to. The fear and anxiety laid bare in Jack’s voice. The thoughts he tried so hard to hide from you unveiled.
You nod. “Yeah. It kinda was."
He takes a breath, reaching out to hold your hand. You take it, his thumb brushing along the ridge of your knuckles.
"I just... this whole time I was worried I was going to lose you. I kept thinking about all the ways I’d have to watch you die. All the treatments or surgeries…” he chuckles dryly. “I was so worried about you. And now all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to have a kid walking down the aisle in a cap and gown when I’m 70.”
You sigh, the breeze a gentle comfort as it blows against your cheeks.
“That's all you’re thinking about? College already?” You give his hand a small, loving squeeze. Teasing. A clearing amidst the stormy turmoil you both had been worrying over.
“Well,” he shrugs slowly. “You know, between wondering if the pregnancy will hold. Or birth. Or what elementary school drop offs will look like and dinners and the house and my crazy schedule-”
“I know. I know, it’s a lot.”
Jack nods. “It is… and I’m scared.”
You look at him. Your heart aches with the pure sincerity written on his face. Jack was never one to hide his feelings. But he rarely gave them away easily. Not like this.
Truth written in the glassy mist of his eyes, the worry carried in the tightness of his hand around yours.
“I know,” you nod. “I know it’s not going to be easy. Robby explained the risks.”
The long list of complications and genetic disorders and risky side effects run through your mind. You hadn’t known just how fragile pregnancy became the older you got. It was just never something that had crossed your mind. To think or worry about. But now…
You continue.
“I know this wasn’t what we had planned, Jack. Us. Having kids… and I know you may not want- may not think we can do this. But I don’t think this is such a bad thing.”
Jack’s eyes widen, his frown deepening.
“What, woah. No I don’t want you thinking that. I don’t- I don’t think that.”
“Really?” You take a deep breath, hopeful. Jack finally smiles. A small and gentle quirk of his mouth.
“Really. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I just… I didn’t think that I could have one.”
“A baby?” You clarify. He nods.
“I told you about what happened in the army. With my leg and, well, everything else. And you told me having kids wasn’t exactly going to be easy for you.” It’s your turn to nod.
Between Jack’s injury and age, your genetics and seemingly lackluster fertility, a baby had just never been a part of your plan. And you were fine with it. Life was crazy enough as it was.
“I know. But here we are.”
Jack nods, looking out into the park again. He’s watching the small family again, eyes glued to the man as he hoists his giggling daughter into his arms.
“Here we are,” he mumbles.
“We don’t have to figure everything out right now Jack. There’s still time.”
“Seven months and two weeks,” he huffs. You chuckle.
Robby makes Jack leave the hospital early with you.
Although Jack would use the term ‘make’ loosely, considering he had already decided he wasn’t staying the moment he saw you in the ambulance’s hull. You’re cleared to leave not long after Robby drags the both of you back into the ED, making sure to stop by the pharmacy to pick up your new prescriptions.
The prenatal vitamins and nausea medication sit among Jack’s own clutter of meds on the kitchen counter. Jack told you not to worry about groceries or the car still at the store. He’d take care of all of it in the morning.
For now, he just wanted to clean away the sterile smell of the hospital lingering on both of your clothes and get to bed.
He’s grateful, for once, that you're exhausted enough to fall asleep the minute your head hits the pillow. You’re breathing softly beneath the sheets before Jack can even pull his prosthetic off, your hand lain out on his side, like you still wanted him to hold it unconsciously.
But sleep doesn’t come for him. Jack lays awake for a long while.
The moonlight casts wispy shadows along the wall and he watches them, thinking. He plays with his wedding ring, twirling it between his fingers with mesmerizing ease.
Not the ring you'd slipped onto his left hand years ago, the dark amber band that still glistens on his ring finger. Jack plays with the wedding ring he wore a long time ago, still a young man figuring things out. From his first marriage. His first wife.
It wasn't often he pulled the ring out. Sometimes it hurt too much to even look at it; to think about and remember her. Jack fiddles with the ring now, holding it against his lips as if he could whisper all his worries into it.
The worries which still rested in the side of his ribs, changed but there all the same. Jack can’t help but think of all the things he never got to do with her. The future they’d planned cut short by an illness he couldn’t cure. Maybe it’s why he felt so scared now.
This unplanned thing laid out before him. Far out of his control.
Jack tosses and turns, his mind reeling with memories and thoughts about the future. He quietly gets up, setting the ring on his nightstand and fitting his prosthetic back on. He slips out of your bedroom, making sure you were still settled before wandering down the hall.
He’d always wanted to be a father. That wasn’t the problem. Hearing that you were pregnant had resurfaced those feelings like they’d never been buried. The idea of having a mini him, with matching curls and crooked smile. Or a mini you, with your bright eyes and pretty nose.
The problem was that desire had been locked away for a very long time. After he got injured in the army. After he became a widow. Even after he met you. Jack had begun to accept that being someone’s parent was just not in the cards he’d been dealt. But now…
Jack stands in the living room, staring around the dark room. He moves quietly, picking up a random glass and setting it in the kitchen, moving the tossed couch pillows back into their designated places. He can’t sit still when he tries. The air suffocating inside in spite of the cooling system blowing gently.
Jack ends up sitting outside on the back porch, his head in his hands.
What would she have thought? After all this time.
A baby.
Jack’s not even sure he should begin to want this. To let himself hope. There was so much uncertainty with a later in life pregnancy, of an older parent conceiving a child. The constant what ifs and complications. So much to worry about.
Jack sighs, running a hand through his mussed curls as he realizes how tired he is. Of feeling on edge. Of never feeling like he could settle. The worry of something bad happening again. Of being all alone-
A noise sounds from the bushes running along the fence.
Leaves rustle softly, twigs crunching beneath something weighty. Jack looks up, brows furrowing. He squints, standing and flipping on the porch light to illuminate the dark backyard. The rustling sounds again, and Jack inches closer.
He pauses. And then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, instantly quieting himself.
The rabbit which had ducked back into the foliage at the sound of his voice peeks it’s head out again in the new silence. Her nose twitching, beady black eyes staring straight into Jack. He lets out a breath, in awe of the rare sight. He knew there were plenty of rabbits that lived around the neighborhood. He often saw where they burrowed through your garden or ate certain plants. But actually seeing one was rarer.
Of all the nights…
He goes still when the rabbit moves. Inching slowly out of the bush. She turns back, snuffling softly and moving forward again. A baby in tow.
Now, Jack was not a very superstitious man. At least, not by nature. He laughed when Ellis chastised him for saying the “q” word in the ED, rolled his eyes when Joy and Nazely talked about karma.
But if life had taught Jack anything, it was to never ignore the signs.
He watches the pair of rabbits hop through the backyard, eyes following their path until they squeeze through the cracked boards of the fence, disappearing into the night. Jack lets out a slow and much needed exhale, the cool air of the night finally feeling fresh.
New.
Second chances that don't always happen every day.
Baby rabbit.
Baby Abbot.
He liked the sound of that. And maybe, this time, there wouldn’t be so much to worry about. Not with you by his side.
"Jaack!" You call out from the kicthen, where you're putting the first few bags of groceries away.
"Yeah?" Jack's voice echoes down the hall, the sound of more paper bags rustling.
"Did you get- never mind!" You grin as you find the tub of cream cheese you'd been dying to get your hands on, practically tearing the package open and digging in. You let out a satisfied hum as you eat a spoonful of the spicy spread, nodding in satisfaction.
Jack enters the kitchen, arms full of groceries, an amused look on his face.
"As good as you'd hoped it'd be?" You hum again.
"Better. I think your child already has great taste in cuisine."
Jack stills for a fraction of a second, then smiles. He sets down the bags and moves over by your side, pressing a kiss to your forehead, carefully around the tender cut still hidden by a bandage.
"Yeah they do."
You both put away the food and various household items you'd needed to stock up on. Trash bags and pasta, that lavender creamer you loved and Jack's protein bars he always carried in his scrub pockets.
You munch on a bagel- properly toasted and spread with your cream cheese because Jack insisted on at least being civilized about your cravings- going through the last bag. The bag crinkles as you feel around inside; you frown as your hand comes into contact with something soft. Fluffy. You peer inside.
A little stuffed bunny peers back at you. You stare at it for a moment, and then you laugh.
"Jack?"
"What?" He asks, folding the towel he'd just used to wash his hands. You smile, holding up the bunny. His ears go pink and he gives you a bashful grin.
"I just thought... well I thought it might be cute for the baby. You know, rabbits are thought to be good luck charms or something."
AN: Loosely inspired by Ana Huang's King of Wrath - I have been wanting to write something like this for a while for Bren but I couldn't get all the pieces together in my head but until I read that book and was ahhhh this is how it would happen.
Summary: Jealousy is not an emotion Brendon Park is accustomed to.
SET AFTER:
Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC's fiery new attending.
Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.
The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.
A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...
This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a 'sticky' situation.
The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.
SET BEFORE:
Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.
Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.
The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...
Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.
Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.
A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.
The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.
The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.
The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.
The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.
A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.
The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.
Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.
Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.
Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.
The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.
Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.
Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.
Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.
The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.
Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that's happened.
Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.
Roses - Brendon is forced to deal with a vindictive POS when a dozen red roses are delivered to your door.
The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.
Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.
A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn't expect.
Home - Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.
The Change Up - When you struggle to reacclimate at home Brendon realises you need a change up.
Jealousy.
It’s not an emotion that Brendon Park feels, especially not with a woman like you. One who berates him, who infuriates him, who fucks him and then leaves him ruined in his sheets while she dresses as the lights from the city play her skin through the open windows of his condo.
But here he is at one of those obnoxious hospital galas, his chest it’s full of shattered glass because you’ve just walked in with that asshole Noah from radiology. He remembers him from Jesse’s Fourth of July party as the guy that didn’t pay enough attention to realise you were freezing. He’s certainly paying you a lot of attention right now, his hand gliding down along your backless dress, thumb skimming over the space where Brendon’s mouth had been just two days ago.
If he undresses you tonight, he’ll find the bite mark that Brendon left on your right ass cheek. The perfect indentation of his teeth on a pretty little peach.
But Noah… he won’t be undressing you tonight, Brendon’s going to make sure of that.
He waits for the opportune moment, lingering closely on the fringes of the event, stalking you as you move through the crowd with the same purposeful grace you undertake in the E.D.
It’s when Noah leaves you unattended to get a drink from the bar that he pounces, his arm sliding across your waist, hand clapped over your mouth drawing you into the darkness of the alcove that hides the door to the library. It slams shut behind you as you drive an elbow into his solar plexus, knocking the air right out of his lungs.
“You fucking asshole.” You snarl as you turn around to face him. You shove at his chest and he grips your arms, hurling you against his body. “You’re lucky I don’t murd-”
His mouth claims yours, crashing against berry red lips as he kisses you with a ferocity he’s been feeling since the moment you stepped into this ballroom tonight. You fight him, just for a second, but then your fingers curl in his tuxedo jacket, dragging him closer. His tongue traces along the seam of your mouth, forcing it open as he shoves you up against the hundred year old bookcase, the paperbacks vibrating as he drives his knee between your thighs causing the slit of your dress to reveal a gateway to heaven.
“If you want me to stop I will.” He mumbles as his hand delves between the fabric, his fingertips doodling lazy patterns along the inside of your thigh. “Otherwise, I’m going to remind you of exactly who you belong to sweetheart and it’s not the man in the other room.”
The sensation of his fingers skirting over your panties must be maddening, he can feel your excitement underneath the lace, the thrill at being taken like this.
“Tell. Me. To. Stop.” He annunciates every word, but you don’t repeat them.
This thing between the two of you, it’s messed up in all the right ways. It’s the reason he’s never heard a no from your lips, no matter how much fucked up shit the two of you get into.
His thumb skims over your clit and a whimper escapes your throat, one that resonates through his entire body like a call to the wild as his fingers hook in your underwear, pushing the damp lace aside.
“You can’t, can you?” He whispers, his middle finger tapping against that needy little hole as he works your clit with his thumb. “Because you want this, you want me.”
Your breath catches as he eases his finger inside you, a low moan erupting from your mouth. His palm claps over it, stifling the noise and you give him a furious glare as a smirk crosses his features.
“We don’t want him to hear now would we, my little rage machine?” Brendon taunts as he slips in another finger, curling them so they hit that sweet spot. Your body arches against him, those pert nipples of yours pebbling against the fabric of your dress. “He’s probably out there right now looking for you. What would he say if he found you like this, getting off on my hand like the bad girl you are?”
Oh, that does a little something for you. You clench around his fingers, soaking his palm as his fingers piston in and out of you, striking their target every single time.
“You like that Rae?” His voice is a filthy rasp as he increases the pressure on your clit, keeping the same slow and steady pace as he draws deviant circles over the needy little nub. “The thought of him seeing exactly who you belong to. Watching us, knowing that I’m the only man who can make you come like this, so he’d better fuck off home alone.”
Your chest heaves, your breath coming in ragged pants as your skin starts to flush underneath his palm. The rapture is coming, his naughty little minx giving into him because the pleasure he bestows upon her is simply too much.
“That’s it Rae.” He coaxes as you start to tighten, gripping his fingers so impossibly hard that he knows you’re about to gush all over him. “Show me who owns this pussy.”
Those words, it’s enough to get you over the edge. You climax against his hand, your rich honey dripping down his fingers as a muffled scream erupts from behind his palm. He keeps it there, his eyes fixed on yours as he withdraws his fingers from your cunt, pressing them to his lips before sucking them into his mouth. He groans around them, your taste bursting on his tongue as he licks every decadent drop off them.
His palm falls away, your lipstick smeared across your lips, and you look so beautiful in that moment, so reckless. You push off the bookcase, your dress falling back into its natural state, your mouth opening to say something, berate him probably.
“I…”
The library door opens interrupting you, a masculine laugh you both recognise, followed by the deeper guffaw of your boss carrying through the room. Your eyes widen as you look to Brendon, who bites his lower lip as Jesse and Robby tumble inside, a tangle of limbs, fervent kisses and unfastened buttons.
Brendon clears his throat and the two break apart like they’ve been struck by lightning, guilty expressions sliding across their features until they lock on to the two of you.
“It looks like this library is getting a lot of action tonight.” Jesse remarks with a knowing grin as Robby pulls at his collar trying to look contrite and failing.
“We were just leaving.” You tell them, snatching up Brendon’s hand in an iron clad grasp and tugging him along with you. “Enjoy your night.”
You slip past them into the dark alcove of the ballroom, the door closing behind you. There’s a thud and a moan and you have no doubt that one of them is now on their knees, ruining the other.
“Did you know?” You ask Brendon, leaning against the pillar as you take your phone out of your purse so you can fix your lipstick. “That they were…”
You don’t have the words for what they are, just like you both don’t have the words for what you are.
“Yes.” Brendon says, the edges of his mouth curving up into a smile as he thinks about how happy Jesse’s been recently. “Yes, I knew.”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!
Hiiii I don’t know if requests are open but I can’t stop thinking about history teacher Steve 😓 or Joe even, saw him answering a question about what he’d do if he wasn’t famous and he said he’d probably be a teacher
But I think Steve would be secretly a history nerd and not even on purpose and I can totally see him becoming a teacher ☹️ and and and English teacher reader
Lessons in dating history
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-0424
Classification: Fluff
Word count: 1,5k
Divider by me ;)
Kids had very vivid imaginations. They could make up monsters during playtime, their own best friends and see love where you believed there was none.
Yours and Steve’s classrooms faced each other, so in the mornings as you stood by the door welcoming in the children to class, your gazes often met in shy glances. The old brick building of Hawkins Middle School still carried the faint scent of chalk dust and floor wax even after the town had tried its best to move on from everything that had happened years ago.
You taught English in room 212 and Steve Harrington had somehow ended up right across the hall in room 211, teaching history to the same group of energetic sixth graders. It wasn’t something either of you had planned but life after the nightmares of Hawkins had taken strange turns for everyone.
Today the hallway was quieter than usual between periods. You had been wrestling with a lesson plan on early American literature when you realized your notes on colonial timelines were a mess because the dates refused to line up neatly with the stories you wanted to share.
Steve’s voice drifted across the hall, steady and warm, explaining something about the Louisiana Purchase. You glanced at your watch, his class still had twenty minutes left but the question in your head wouldn’t wait.
You smoothed your simple dress and stepped across the hall. The door to room 211 stood open. Inside, desks were arranged in neat rows but the students were anything but neat. A few boys in the back were folding paper airplanes under their desks, while two girls near the window whispered and giggled behind their textbooks and one kid was balancing a pencil on his nose, clearly testing how long it would stay there before it clattered onto the floor.
Steve stood at the front near the blackboard, chalk in hand, drawing a rough map of the Mississippi River. His hair was still that same perfect swoop, though a little shorter now for practicality. He wore a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and khaki dress pants that somehow made him look both professional and like the former King of Hawkins High who had never quite lost his charm. When he spotted you in the doorway, his brown eyes lit up in that familiar way that made your stomach do a small flip.
“Miss,” he said, using the polite title the kids knew you by, “everything okay?”
A dozen heads swiveled toward you as the paper airplane folded itself into stillness and the pencil clattered to the floor. Suddenly every sixth grader in the room found the interaction far more interesting than westward expansion.
You smiled, trying to ignore the way your cheeks warmed. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Harrington. I just had a quick question about the colonial period. My notes on the timeline for the Salem witch trials are all jumbled and I thought since you covered the Puritans last week…”
Steve set the chalk down without hesitation. “Of course, come on in. We were just finishing up anyway.” He turned to the class, his tone easy and confident. “Everyone, eyes up here for one more minute. Who can tell me why the Louisiana Purchase was a big deal for the United States?”
A few hands shot up. While one boy answered proudly, Steve stepped closer to you near the front desk and the kids watched like hawks. You could practically feel their imaginations spinning stories already.
He leaned in just enough to keep his voice low but still audible. “The witch trials stuff lines up around 1692, right after some of the earlier settlements. I’ve got a good map in my desk if you want to borrow it. The timelines match better if you tie them to the religious tensions from England carrying over.”
You nodded, genuinely grateful. His explanation was clear and enthusiastic in that subtle way he had when he forgot to play it cool. You had always suspected Steve was a history nerd at heart, the kind who read extra books not because he had to but because the stories stuck with him. It was endearing.
“Thanks, that helps more than you know,” you said. “I owe you one.”
One of the girls in the front row sighed audibly, a dreamy little sound that made her friends elbow her. Steve’s ears turned faintly pink but he kept his focus on you.
“Actually,” he said, glancing once at the clock, “class, start packing up. Quietly.” Then, softer to you, “If you have a free minute after the bell, maybe we could talk in the hall? I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
The room erupted into whispers the second the dismissal bell rang a few minutes later. Students shoved notebooks into backpacks with exaggerated slowness, clearly hoping to catch every word. You and Steve stepped just outside into the hallway between your two doors, the flow of kids parting around you like a stream around rocks.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you had noticed over the months. “So, this is probably not the smoothest way to do this, but I’ve been thinking about it for weeks…Uh would you want to grab dinner sometime? Not school cafeteria mystery meat, an actual dinner. Maybe that little Italian place on Main Street this Friday?”
You blinked, heart picking up speed. The hallway smelled like pencil shavings and the faint lemon cleaner the janitors used and a few lingering students hovered near the drinking fountain, pretending not to eavesdrop.
You could not help the teasing smile that spread across your face. “Dinner? With me? Are you sure this isn’t just to keep your kids happy? The kids have been pairing us up since the first week of school. I even heard one of them say we’d make a cute ‘history-English power couple’…whatever that means.”
Steve laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made the teasing worth it. “I swear it’s not for them. Though they’d probably throw a parade if they knew…This is for me. I like talking to you in the mornings, I like how you get excited about books the same way I get excited about old maps and battles and I…I really like the way you look at me across the hall even when you think I don’t notice.”
Heat rose in your face again. You glanced toward your classroom where a few of your own students were already settling in for the next period. “Alright, Harrington…dinner sounds nice, but what if this doesn’t work out? We’re literally across the hall from each other every day. Who between us will be transferring then? I can’t exactly move my whole English library in one go and you’d have to haul all those heavy textbooks and maps…I’d feel bad.”
He grinned, nodding. “I’d transfer…History can go anywhere. Besides, I’d never make you give up your window view. You like watching the birds out there during planning period...I notice things too.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Smooth, very smooth…Okay, Friday…but if the kids start making heart-shaped cards for us by Monday, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal,” Steve said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll pick you up at seven…And don’t worry about the timelines, I’ll bring that map.”
You both turned to head back into your classrooms at the same time. The moment you stepped through your doorway, a wave of applause and cheers erupted from both rooms. Your students and Steve’s had clearly been watching through the open doors and the windows facing the hall. One boy in Steve’s class let out a loud whoop while a girl in yours started clapping so hard her bracelets jangled.
Steve paused in his doorway, turned back and gave you a quick, private smile before disappearing inside. You closed your own door gently, cheeks warming but heart light.
As the applause died down and you tried to settle the class into the next lesson, your mind wandered to the possibility of two Harringtons at Hawkins Middle School. The thought made you smile wider than it should have and the kids would lose their minds in the best way. They already saw love everywhere, spinning stories out of shy glances and hallway conversations.
So, maybe this time they were right.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant haze of discussions about short stories and stolen glances across the hall whenever you both stepped out to monitor the corridor. Steve caught your eye once and mouthed “Friday” with an exaggerated wink, to which you rolled your eyes playfully but nodded.
By the final bell, the rumor mill had already started. A group of students waved at both of you as they headed for the buses, whispering excitedly. You stood by your door again, watching the flow of backpacks and laughter and wondered what the school would make of it all if things turned out right. Two teachers, two classrooms facing each other and a whole lot of young imaginations cheering you on.
It felt like the start of a pretty good story.
One you would not mind writing together, one ordinary school day at a time.
a/n: If you enjoyed this, consider saving the archive. More stories are coming, and requests are always welcome! Likes, reblogs and comments help others find my work and mean more to me than you know. Thank you so much for reading 💛
The first thing price does when he gets back home is carry you to bed and take you right there.
He takes his time enjoying you. Kisses into your mouth and runs his tongue along your teeth, hands smoothing along your skin like he's learning every bump and crease for the first time. You're practically sitting in a puddle of your own arousal when he finally hooks your knees over his shoulder and—
"John...did you...did you just fucking sniff me!?!?" You prop up on your hands, face burning and trying to shuffle away in embarrassment "what the hell!"
"Fuckin' hold still, christ kid—" price grunts, hooking a forearm around your thighs and hauling you right back into position. He glares up at you, already dipping back down "what? I can't enjoy you anymore? Fuckin' missed the smell of your cunt—"
"John! That's gross!" You gasp, only to freeze and moan when he licks a fat strip across you. He rumbles in delight, going back in for another lick, nose pressed right against your clit and inhaling your scent.
"Don't care." He has the care to at least rub a soothing palm up your side, "been' surrounded by stench for the past month. Needed this, christ love—"
He spends hours down there, refusing to move even while you catch a break between rounds. It's only when you threaten to wear the perfume he hates that he actually fucks you. Still, his nose is tucked into the crook of your neck the whole time, all to pleased you still use the body wash he likes.
Your husband is gross, obsessed with your smell, but at the end of the day...it's nice to know he loves you so much.
⸝⸝ SUMMARY — ❝ he only texts after midnight. you know it's toxic, and promise yourself this time you'll end it. but somewhere between his baby blues and the sick satisfaction of knowing you're the one he keeps coming back to, you end up crying in his lap. good thing ari thinks you're prettiest when those tears are for him. ❞ ⧽ TBD
！ SMUT, p in v, creampie, dacryphilia, light dubcon, dry humping, face squishing, pwp, praise kink, faux sympathy/soft mean!ari, finger sucking, size kink, toxic situationship, pet names (baby, babygirl, crybaby), 18+ MDNI » based on this request » MASTERLIST ⟡˙⋆
You up? | 2:47 AM
The notification lights up your ceiling. You know who it is before you even read the contact name. You tell yourself its because no-one else texts at this hour. In reality, the more embarrassing truth is that knowing and hoping have started to feel like the same thing.
You should reply not for you. Let him sit with that rejection the way you've sat with two weeks of silence.
Better yet, you shouldn't reply at all. You should leave him on read, let that little notification sit there unacknowledged while he spirals for once, wondering if you've finally moved on.
Best option - the one that would require something adjacent to self-respect - you should block his number. Should have done it weeks ago, when you'd seen him out with another girl and your friends had spent the entire cab ride home telling you what you already knew. He's never going to commit. He's never going to change. Block his number.
You'd promised you would.
You hadn't, obviously. Instead, you’ve had Ari Levinson saved as “DO NOT ANSWER” for the past four weeks. Like seeing those words flash across your screen would be enough to override six months of muscle memory and bad decisions.
But it hasn’t helped even once. And it doesn’t help now, at 2:47 in the morning, when your phone buzzes again because your hand moves before your brain can interfere.
I know you're awake | 2:49 AM
Arrogant bastard. He doesn't know anything. Except he does, doesn't he? Knows you like he's mapped you from the inside out. Knows the glow of your screen is already bleeding blue light across your rumpled sheets. Knows you're staring at his text with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing it does whenever he reminds you that he's out there, somewhere in the city, thinking about you.
yes. | 2:52 AM
Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing, deleting, retyping. The hesitation should comfort you - evidence that maybe he's nervous too, that maybe this costs him something. But you know Ari well enough to recognize the tactic. He's drawing it out. Making you wait. Building the tension because he knows exactly what those little dots do to your pulse.
Your heart hammers against your ribs and you hate him for it. Hate that your body is already ahead of you, already warm and restless, muscle memory doing the work your dignity should be doing. But six months of Ari has ruined you for anything or anyone else.
Ruined you for anything that isn't his big hands on your hips holding you exactly where he wants you, his thick cock filling you up so perfectly your eyes roll back, his voice low in your ear talking you through it until you're shaking. Ari Levinson is a lot of bad things. But between your thighs he is devastatingly, infuriatingly good.
Good | 2:53 AM
Been thinking about you. | 2:53 AM
The ease of it makes you want to scream. Been thinking about you. As if that explains the two weeks of silence. As if that justifies showing up in your notifications like he still has the right.
You should ask where he's been. Who he's been with. If she knows he's texting you at three in the fucking morning.
But your thighs clench anyway, because your body doesn't care about your pride. Your body remembers what been thinking about you means in Ari's vocabulary. Remembers the last time he'd said it, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at your apartment after midnight. You'd barely gotten the door open before his mouth was on yours, walking you backward into your apartment with his hands already sliding under your shirt.
“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he'd growled against your throat, and you'd melted like you always do, let him peel you out of your clothes and fuck you against the kitchen counter.
You'd had bruises on your hips for a week after. Had pressed your fingers into them whenever you needed to remember that you were real to him, that you weren't just imagining the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
yeah? | 2:55 AM
what about? | 2:55 AM
There's a pause. Longer this time. You can picture him so clearly it hurts. Sprawled in his bed, chest bare, all that dark hair dusting across muscle and tapering down his stomach in a trail your tongue knows by memory. The broad sprawl of his shoulders. The thick arms. The heavy muscle of his thighs. The kind of body that makes you feel small in ways you've stopped pretending you don't love.
And already half-hard just from the anticipation of watching you slowly give in via text message.
You know what about | 3:00 AM
You do know. God help you, you know exactly what he's thinking about and your body has already started making decisions without consulting you.
that's not an answer | 3:00 AM
ari | 3:00 AM
You add his name in a second text, and you realise you’re already chasing. That’s what he does. He texts you first, casts the line, and then sits back and watches you swim toward him every time.
I'm thinking about the way your thighs shake when you're trying not to cum before I say you can | 3:01 AM
Heat floods through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading outward until your skin feels too hot. Your free hand slides under your waistband without a second thought, fingers slipping through how wet you are and your hips tilt up into your own touch. But all you can think about is how much better he feels.
you're an asshole | 3:02 AM
I know | 3:03 AM
Let me come over anyway | 3:03 AM
And there it is. The ask that isn't really an ask because you both know how this ends. The presumption that should offend you but doesn't because he's earned it, hasn't he? Six months of this dance, of you saying no and meaning yes, of drawing boundaries and then opening the door anyway when he shows up with that look in his eyes.
You stare at the message until the words start to blur. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.
This is the moment. The fork in the road where you prove to yourself, to your friends, to your therapist, to everyone who's watched you self-destruct over Ari fucking Levinson that you're capable of choosing yourself. That you're more than the girl who waits for 3 AM texts. That you deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like a toy he keeps on the shelf until he wants something warm to sink into.
i'm not the one you should be texting at 3am | 3:05 AM
There. Boundaries. Self-respect. All the things you're supposed to have.
Probably not | 3:06 AM
But you're the one I want | 3:06 AM
Four words and you feel them everywhere. The lie tastes bitter even secondhand, transmitted through pixels and cellular data. The one I want. Not the only one - you're not quite delusional enough to believe that. But the one he wants right now.
Presumably she's asleep, blissfully unaware that her—what? Boyfriend? Situationship? Whatever Ari is to her—is currently sexting his other whatever-the-fuck-you-are. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's asleep next to him and he's doing this anyway, getting off on the proximity of the secret. The thought makes you nauseous and aroused in equal measure.
You should say to fuck off. Should tell him to lose your number, block him for real this time, delete the photos from your phone and burn the clothes he's left in your closet. Should pull your hand out from under your waistband and go to sleep. Should feel literally anything other than the dark, sick satisfaction currently unfurling in your chest at the thought of him choosing your bed over hers.
fine | 3:09 AM
You send it before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you drop your phone face down on the mattress like you can't stand to look at what you've just done. Three seconds later you pick it back up.
One word. All that internal warfare and it comes down to four letters and no punctuation, casual as anything, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. Like your fingers aren’t still moving absently between your thighs because your body made the decision before you even sent that text.
20 minutes | 3:10 AM
Be ready for me | 3:11 AM
The command in those last four words makes your stomach flip. You drop your phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body already preparing itself.
Twenty minutes to shower, to shave, to make yourself into the version of yourself that he wants. Twenty minutes to pretend you haven't been wanting this every single night for two weeks. Twenty minutes to become the girl who's winning, even though you both know she's losing.
Your phone buzzes twice more, and you grab it so fast you nearly drop it.
Wear that black set | 3:13 AM
You know the one | 3:13 AM
You do know. Of course you know. The lace set he'd bought you a month ago, presented in expensive tissue paper after he'd cancelled dinner plans for the third time. “Let me make it up to you,” he'd murmured, watching you unwrap it with heat in his eyes.
You'd worn it for him that same night. Had modelled the set while Ari sat on the edge of your bed watching you with dark eyes and that infuriating half smile, turning you with one finger like you were something he'd commissioned. Had ended up on your back with the lace pushed aside and his mouth on your throat while he fucked you slow enough to make you beg for it.
The sick satisfaction blooms darker, spreading wider through your chest like poison ivy.
── ⟢ ₊ 🌙 ˚・🥀 ⊹
The knock comes at exactly 3:32 AM. Three sharp raps, confident and unapologetic. The knock of someone who has never once considered that he might not be welcome.
You've been perched awkwardly on the arm of your couch for the last three minutes, fingers worrying the tie of your robe into knots. The black lace sits against your skin like a reminder of every bad decision that's led to this moment, delicate and expensive and utterly wasted on what's about to happen. The set and the silk robe thrown over it feels like costuming, like you’re playing the part of someone in control.
You're not in control. You haven't been since the first time Ari Levinson looked at you like you were something worth ruining himself for.
Padding over to the door, silk robe whispering against your thighs, you take one steadying breath before you open it. And there he is.
He's devastating. That's the only word for it. Big in a way that makes your apartment feel like a dollhouse. Shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, and tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
The t-shirt stretched across his chest leaves nothing to the imagination, which is almost funny because your imagination doesn't need the help anymore. You know that body. Know it embarrassingly well. Know exactly how it feels to be underneath it - small, delicate and so deliciously overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Your thighs press together involuntarily at the thought.
His hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer than he is. And the beard - god the beard - is fuller than the last time you saw him, framing a mouth that knows exactly how to destroy you.
But it's his eyes that do the real damage. Blue enough to drown in, they rake over you with a possessive appreciation that’s entirely unapologetic.
“Look at you,” Ari rumbles, voice already rough, deeper than usual. His eyes linger where your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the black lace underneath, tongue flicking out to brush his bottom lip. “You trying to kill me?”
“You told me to wear it.” You lean against the doorframe, trying for casual, but your pulse is hammering visibly in your throat and you know he can see it.
“I did.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and the smile that crosses his face is slow and pleased and entirely too satisfied with itself. His eyes sweep over you once again, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him. “And you listened, you’re always such a good girl for me.”
His praise unfurls something warm and pathetic in your chest. You hate how much you want to be his good girl, how desperately you crave the affection he'll give you.
The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly your apartment feels too small, the air too thick. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it somewhere without looking. Underneath, the sleeves of his t-shirt are pushed to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. And attached to those big hands that know exactly how to take you apart.
You make yourself look back up at his face. It doesn't help. His eyes are already on you, full of heat and already dark.
“Hi,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant.
“Hi, baby.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His palm spans from your chin to your ear, and you feel small in a way that makes your stomach flip. He could break you so easily. In some ways, he already has. “Missed you.”
The words land like a gut punch. “And whose fault is that?”
“I know.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. “I'm sorry.”
He's not, though. You both know he's not. Sorry would mean changing, would mean choosing you in daylight instead of just in the dark. But then his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further, and his mouth hovers just above yours. Waiting. The bastard is waiting for you to close the distance, chase it, prove how much you want him.
“You're an asshole,” you whisper against his lips.
“You said that already.” His breath mingles with yours. “Say it again. I like when you're mean to me.”
You should. Should call him every name you've been saving up for two weeks. Should ask him where he's been, who he's been with, if she knows he's here. Should demand answers or respect or literally anything other than this.
Instead you kiss him.
His hand tightens in your hair the second your lips touch his, taking over immediately, changing the angle to deepen it on his terms. Your mouth opens instinctively when his tongue presses against your bottom lip, and he licks into you like he owns it. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound whole, pulls back just enough to drag his teeth across your bottom lip before coming back deeper. Tasting you. Taking his time. His other hand grips your jaw, holding you steady, and the message is clear - you're not going anywhere, and you both know it.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he groans, punctuating it with another kiss. “Missed those pretty noises you make for me.”
Pulling back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, he swipes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down. Without thinking, your tongue dips out and chases his thumb. He notices. Of course he notices, the corner of his mouth curving as he steps back and drops onto your couch. One arm stretches along the back it, the other rests on his thigh, and his legs spread wide in an easy sprawl.
“Come here, baby.”
He tilts his head at the space between his knees, one finger curling in a single lazy beckon, and your feet are moving before your brain has any say in the matter.
You stop between his thighs and his hands find your hips immediately. Big, warm, and immediately possessive, settling on your hips with a certainty that makes your breath catch. You make the mistake of looking down at him and catching those deadly blue eyes looking back up at you through thick lashes, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Standing between his spread thighs you feel it acutely, how much larger he is. How solid. His hands nearly span your entire waist and something about that, about being held so easily, makes heat pool low and insistent.
His fingers find the tie of your robe and toy with it, unhurried, knuckles grazing your stomach through the silk.
“This is pretty,” he murmurs, tugging one end of the belt slowly until the bow dissolves. Your robe falls open and his eyes drop, taking in the full view of black lace underneath. “But I like what's underneath better.”
The silk whispers off your shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but scraps of lace while he remains completely, infuriatingly dressed. And that thought alone - the disparity of it - sends heat rushing straight between your thighs. His eyes devour you slowly, like you're something he's very pleased with himself for having.
The thick bulge straining against his jeans suggests he's more than just pleased.
A sharp inhale escapes you when his hand palms your ass, tugging you closer between his spread thighs until his mouth finds your midriff. Warm lips press against your skin in lazy kisses as your hands slide into his hair. His hands smooth up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips, anchoring you in place, and his mouth moves across your skin slow enough to make you dizzy.
“Do me a favour, babygirl,” he rumbles against you, thumb tracing the lace at your hip, light enough to make you shiver. “Give me a little spin, yeah?” The timbre of his voice has dropped somewhere sinful. “Want to see all of you.”
Your face flushes but you obey, turning in the circle of his thighs while his hand guides you. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the curve of your ass where the lace cuts high, on the line of your spine, on the backs of your thighs.
“God, I missed this view,” he groans. “Come back here.”
When you complete the turn, both his hands reach for you, gripping your hips and pulling you forward into his lap in one smooth motion that steals your breath. You end up straddling him, thighs spread wide over his, the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin. His mouth finds yours immediately, greedier this time, more demanding, tongue sliding against yours while his hands roam. Your waist, your back, your ass, mapping you like he's reminding himself of everything he's been missing.
One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace until it peaks, and then he pinches lightly. You gasp into his mouth, hips grinding forward instinctively.
“That's it,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ love the sounds you make. Love feeling you respond to me.”
His hips roll up slightly and the pressure against your clit makes your head fall back. He takes advantage immediately, mouth moving to your throat, beard scraping sensitive skin as he kisses and bites his way down to your collarbone.
“Ari—” Your hands fist in his hair, needing something to hold onto.
“I've got you baby.” His hands slide to your hips, guiding you into a rhythm, encouraging you to grind against him. “That's my girl, take what you need. Use me.”
So you do. Hips rolling, chasing the friction, grinding down against the thick ridge of him while his mouth stays greedy on your throat. His hands guide you, encourage you, grip harder when you hit the right angle. The lace between your thighs is soaked through, dragging against denim with every roll of your hips.
“Soaking these pretty panties,” he rasps against your collarbone, like he can feel exactly how wet you are through his jeans. “Love having you like this. Love watching you fall apart. All for me.”
The praise washes over you, warm and devastating. He's always been good at this - making you feel seen, special, like you're the only person in the world who matters. It's intoxicating and dangerous and you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in him.
Your hips are moving faster now, chasing more friction, and he matches your rhythm with slow, controlled rolls of his hips that drag against your clit through your panties and make your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part around a needy little sound you have absolutely no control over, hips stuttering forward greedily as your head tips back.
“Fuck, look at you. So beautiful when you're desperate for it.” His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb pressing against your parted lips and tilting your chin back down until you meet his eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, and the heat in them makes your breath stutter. “You have any idea what you do to me babygirl? How fucking crazy you make me?”
You want to believe him. Want to believe that this means something, that you're not just convenient and willing at 3 AM. But the wanting is what breaks you. His hips roll up and pleasure spikes through you sharp. You're so turned on it aches, so close to the edge already, and underneath all of it is the creeping, horrible feeling of wanting this to mean what it doesn't mean.
“My girl.” His mouth brushes yours as he says it, barely a kiss. The hand on your cheek slides into your hair as his hips keep moving. You can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, wants you, and for a moment it's so easy to believe that wanting and choosing are the same thing.
“You'll always be my girl, won't you? You know that.”
The thing is, you do know. That's the problem. You know it in the way his name in your phone makes your stomach drop. In the way you put on the black lace without hesitating. In the way your body has been his since the first time he touched you and has never quite figured out how to belong to itself again. You know it in your bones.
But knowing you're his and knowing he's yours are two very different things. And only one of them is true.
The first tear slips free before you can stop it and you instinctively try to hide your face in his neck. Seeking his warmth, his scent and the solid size of him, because he has ruined you so thoroughly that even now, even like this, he’s what your body reaches for. He’s the reason you’re crying and he’s who you want to cry into and that’s the most pathetic part of it.
But his hand catches your face before you can, palm curving around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks. Your lips pucker involuntarily into a helpless little pout, fresh tears spilling over his fingers as he forces you to look directly at him.
“Oh baby,” he coos, soft and devastating and not entirely kind. His hips roll up and you whimper through the pout he’s forcing on your lips, grinding you against his erection in a rhythm that makes your body sing even as your heart splinters “What’s this? What’s going on in that pretty head?”
His thumb swipes at your tears almost lazily, eyes tracking each one with a toxic mix of heat and hunger and satisfaction barely concealed beneath concern. The humiliation and the pleasure coil into something indistinguishable from each other, and the need between your thighs deepens with every tear he collects.
“I cant do this anymore,” you manage, small and pathetic and entirely unconvincing.
More tears follow, hot and wet against your cheeks. Beneath you he's harder than before, thick and obvious through his jeans, his free hand pressing your hips down into a rhythm you're helpless to resist. The friction drags a moan out of you that breaks halfway into a sob, messy and humiliating, and you're still pouty-lipped and crying in his palm as it happens. He watches it happen with those dark, greedy eyes before schooling his expression back into something that looks like concern.
He tilts his head, blue eyes wide and earnest, and you feel insane. Like you've invented the problem out of thin air. “Where’s this coming from?”
The gentleness of his tone is pure performance. Like he has no idea why you'd be falling apart in his lap. Like he isn’t the architect of every wound he’s now pretending to care about. Like your tears aren’t exactly what he came here for.
“You know where.” You try to pull away but his hand tightens on your cheeks, keeping you seated firmly in his lap, keeping the thick ridge of his cock pressed right against your clit through the soaked lace.
“I really don't, baby.” His thumb swipes another tear, slow and unhurried, and his hips roll up just enough to make your breath catch mid-sob. “Talk to me. Let it all out.”
But you can't. Can't articulate the war happening inside you. The way your body is screaming yes while your heart is screaming no. Can't explain that you're furious and desperate and so far gone for him that the anger only makes you want him more.
More tears spill over and you watch his pupils dilate, watch his breath catch.
“We're done,” you finally say, the words muffled and graceless against the pout his fingers are still forcing on your lips. “I mean it this time.”
For a second he just stares at you, and then his expression shifts into something that makes your stomach drop. Not surprised - of course not - just entirely indulgent like you're a child throwing a tantrum.
“Aww, baby.” His voice goes soft, syrupy, as though he's talking you down from something small and silly. “Hey, hey. It's okay, good girl. Let it all out.”
“I'm serious—”
“Shh, I know. I know you are.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, wet and trembling, and his tongue drags slowly across his own like he's already thinking about tasting them. “You're upset. You've got all these big feelings and nowhere to put them, yeah? Go on baby, show me how much you're feeling right now, cry because it’s over.”
The patronizing tone makes you cry harder, which seems to be exactly what he wants. His eyes track each tear with rapt attention, that small smile playing at his mouth. Your face is still caught in his grip, bottom lip still protruding in that humiliating little pout, wobbling with each wet sob
He uses that grip on your face to pull you forward into his mouth before you can reply. The kiss is messy and wet and salty with your tears, his tongue licking into you like he's tasting the evidence of everything you feel for him, everything you just tried to end. You moan into it despite yourself and he swallows that too, hips rolling up beneath you slow and deliberate, keeping the rhythm, reminding your body what it wants even as your heart tries to want something else.
He pulls back only to drag his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, following the wet trails your tears have left behind. His tongue collects them one by one and the groan that rumbles out of him against your skin makes your thighs clench around his, as he keeps you pressed against the hard length of him that proves he's not taking any of this seriously.
“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth moving to find more, greedy. “My pretty little crybaby.”
Once satiated with your tears, his hand finally releases your cheeks and you collapse forward immediately, face buried in the crook of his neck where you wanted to be ten minutes ago. Your arms loop weakly around his broad shoulders, breath ragged and wet, nose pressed into his skin. You're still crying - soft, hiccuping sobs you can't quite get a handle on - yet your hips continue to grind desperately against him because your body has clearly given up on listening to your better judgment.
His other hand slides down between your bodies, palm grazing your stomach, the lace at your hip, and then the soaked fabric between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers against the soaked lace makes you moan into his throat before you can stop yourself, hips bucking helplessly into the contact.
“Ari, I said—I ended it—” But your protest is weak and entirely unconvincing because the rest dissolves into a moan that you muffle desperately against his neck.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You're drenched.”
His fingers trace the wet fabric, and another wet moan escapes you as he presses against your clit. “See? Your body knows what it wants even if you're confused up here.” His thumb taps gently at your temple, patronising and tender all at once.
Pushing the lace aside, the first stroke of his thick fingers through your wetness makes you moan into his neck. He hums his approval into your hair before sinking two fingers into you in one slow stroke, and your whole body shudders.
“Ari, you're not listening,” you manage between ragged breaths, hips grinding down onto his hand despite every word coming out of your mouth. “I ended it. I told you I—” Another moan chokes off the sentence as he curls his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.
“I am listening, babygirl. I hear you,” he soothes, infuriatingly gentle. “You're very upset. Very hurt. And you're handling it by making a big declaration at four in the morning while you're sitting in my lap in that lace I bought you.” He keeps pumping his fingers into you as he talks, and your whole body jolts, hips grinding down into him. “While you're soaking my fingers and grinding on my cock.”
He works you slowly, deliberately, fingers curling with the kind of patience that feels like torture. Your protests dissolve into something more honest - desperate little whines against his neck, mewled into his neck because that's the only place you can hide. Your tears keep falling even as your hips chase his hand, even as your fingers claw at his shoulders, even as every coherent thought you had about ending this burns away to nothing.
“Please, please, please—”
You’re so close, desperately close, trembling on the edge of it when he pulls his fingers free. The sound you make is pathetic and defeated, and goes wilfully ignored.
Ari brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that vibrates through his chest.
“Fuck, don't know what's sweeter, baby.” His eyes track between his fingers and your wet cheeks, dark and considering. “You or those pretty tears.”
He sucks them clean one more time like he can't help himself, then reaches down.
The zip of his jeans is the loudest sound in the room. He frees himself and an eager moan actually escapes you because god, his cock is so pretty. Thick and hard and flushed dark, the swollen head already glistening, a drop of precum sliding down to streak against your inner thigh.
The kind of cock that's ruined your standards permanently.
Those big hands close around your hips with that ease that always makes you feel like a doll he's positioning. And he uses every inch of those broad shoulders and corded forearms to drag your soaked pussy along the length of him without pushing in. Just sliding you over him, painting himself in your wet heat while the lace stays bunched to the side and you make needy little sounds against his throat.
The fat head of his cock catches your clit and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Ari,” you whine, a desperate little plea. “Please.”
“Please what, babygirl?” His voice is pure honey, dark and indulgent. “Tell me what you need.”
“Need you to—” Another gasp as he catches your clit again.
“Use your words, c’mon, know you can do it.” He guides your hips forward again, achingly slow, the thick head of him nudging against your entrance before he pulls you back. Not pushing in, just making sure you know exactly what you're begging for.
“Inside,” you sob against his neck. “Please, I need your cock Ari.”
“Hmm,” he teases, almost thoughtful as he tilts his head. His hands still on your hips, holding you hovering right there, right on the edge of it. “I would, baby. You know I would.” He pauses, and you feel your heart drop into your stomach. His thumb strokes your hip in possessive circles. “But I thought you ended it. Thought you meant it this time.”
Your face snaps up to his, panic and need crashing into each other behind your eyes.
“Ari, please, no—I need you, I need—”
“Aww.” His voice softens, faux-tender, that infuriating little crease appearing between his brows. “Baby, no, I'm just doing what you asked me to do. It’s over, right? We’re done. That's what you said.” He drags you slowly over him again and the head of his cock catches your clit and you sob, fresh tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “Wouldn't want to take advantage.”
“I didn't mean it.” The words tumble out of you in a desperate rush, choked and wet and humiliating. “Ari I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, please, please I'm sorry—” You kiss him before he can answer, messy and needy, lips chasing his, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close. “Please, I need you, I need it, please don't stop—”
You feel his cock twitch against your folds. Hot and obvious. A pulse of want he can't hide. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased, and you can feel him smiling.
“Shhh,” he breathes against your lips between kisses, voice dropping to something dark and pleased. “Look at you. Crying and begging and apologising. So fucking pretty when you're like this. Gone all dumb for my cock, haven't you?”
He drags you over him again, slow and torturous, the slick head of him catching your clit and making you whine.
“Yes,” The word falls out of you broken and grateful. “Yes, please, Ari—”
“Yeah?” His mouth moves against yours, almost amused. “You want me to take care of you? Even after you tried to end it?” Another devastating drag. “Even after you broke my heart?”
“Please, I'm yours, please—” Your hips are still chasing him, still desperate, every word collapsing into the next.
“Okay, baby. Okay.” His tone is generous now. Magnanimous, like he's bestowing something. “I'll give it to you because that's what I do, isn't it? I take care of my girl.” His hand slides to grip the base of his cock, the other tightening on your hip. “This is why you're mine, crying so pretty for my cock.”
He lines the thick, swollen head of his cock up at your entrance, and guides you down with his hand on your hip. The first inch of him has your eyes rolling back already, stretching you open with that familiar fullness that your body has been craving for two weeks.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, head tipping back briefly. “Tightest little cunt I've ever felt. Made for me, isn't it?”
You try to chase his mouth, desperate to keep kissing him, but your jaw won't cooperate. Instead, it keeps falling slack with every inch you take, lips parting uselessly around the moans pouring out of you. By the time you're fully seated your forehead is resting against his, your mouth hanging open against his lips.
“Dumb already,” he rumbles, watching your face with dark amusement, watching your wet, glassy eyes blink slowly back at him. “What am I going to do with you, baby?” His thumb finds your bottom lip, slipping into your open mouth and pressing down on your tongue. “Suck. Good girl. Keep that mouth occupied.”
You close your lips around his thumb obediently, sucking, eyes fluttering shut around the dual fullness of him in your mouth and inside you. His hips give a small, lazy roll beneath you and you whimper around his fingers.
“Go on, show me how much my little crybaby needed this.”
You find your rhythm slowly, hips rolling, chasing the friction, thighs burning with the effort of it. Ari watches you from beneath heavy lids, enjoying every second of making you work for it - not helping, not even a little. Just watching you ride him like you’re entertainment, thumb still pressed to your tongue, free hand coming up to pop the clasp of your bra like he has all the time in the world.
It falls away and his hand cups your breast immediately, squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple before pinching it sharply. You whimper around his thumb, drool clinging to his knuckle, trailing down your chin in thin little strings.
He pinches harder and you clench around him hard enough to make him hiss, so he does it again just to feel you grip him. You're close. So desperately close you can feel it shimmering just out of reach, coiling tight in your belly with every roll of your hips. Soft whining sounds escape around his thumb with every breath.
“You getting close, baby? Want to cum?”
You nod frantically, eyes wet and pleading, drool slipping down his hand. A thin string of it pulls from your lips as you try to form the word yes.
“Then beg for it,” he purrs, lazy and mean. “You want it so bad? Let's hear it.”
You try. You really try - tongue working uselessly around his thumb, shaping syllables as best you can. What escapes is something that vaguely resembles please, mangled by saliva and his cruel pressure on your tongue, deliberately obstructing the attempt.
His grin is slow and wolfish. “That supposed to be begging?”
A desperate whine vibrates against his thumb. He presses it deeper in response, just to feel you gag, just to watch your lips stretch wider around him, and your eyes well with fresh tears.
“Nah.” His mouth drags to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Not good enough, babygirl. All I hear is spit and nonsense.” His free hand drops between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit - just a mean, fleeting touch - and you sob desperately. “Drooling all over my fingers like a needy little thing. Can't even beg right - guess you don't want it that bad, huh?”
A pathetic cry claws its way out of you, half-strangled by the thumb still in your mouth. You shake your head wildly, eyes glassy and wide. So you try harder. Put everything you have left into it, hips still rolling desperately, thighs shaking.
“P-plea'—Ari—please—wan'—wan'—cum—”
Slurred, barely English, mangled around his thumb. But desperate. Unmistakably desperate.
He groans - deep, hungry and satisfied - hips finally snapping up to meet yours. He drags his thumb from your mouth just long enough to hear the broken sob of relief that breaks loose from your lips before his mouth crashes against yours.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your tongue. “Fucking good girl.”
He fucks up into you hard, one big hand gripping the curve of your ass to slam you down to meet every thrust. The other stays between you to circle you clit with perfect pressure. Every snap of his hips hits you so deep you can feel it in your teeth. The sound of it is filthy, slick and wet and rhythmic, your apartment filled with the obscene slap of skin and your broken, mindless cries.
“Fuckin' look at you,” he growls against your jaw. “That’s my fucking girl, riding my cock so pretty.”
You can't answer. Can barely hold yourself upright. His name is the only word left in your mouth—Ari Ari Ari Ari—a desperate, broken loop as he drives into you.
“That's right.” His thumb works your clit faster, mouth dragging across your jaw. “Say it. Whose are you? Whose pussy is this?”
“Ari—” you moan. “Ari, Ari, Ari—”
“Yeah, that's right. Mine, so let me feel my pussy soak my cock.”
You break apart. Your whole body convulses, walls clamping down around him so hard he hisses, the orgasm tearing through you in wave after wave while his hips never stop, never slow. His name is still falling helplessly out of your mouth in a broken chant as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into you while you sob and shake and clench around him.
“Fuck—fuck, baby, just like that—strangling my cock.”
His rhythm goes sloppier. Hungrier. His hand leaves your clit and his arm wraps around your waist instead, holding you against him, pinning you in place so he can fuck up into you with everything he has left.
“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fill this perfect pussy with my cum.”
You nod helplessly, squeezing around him and he loses it. His hips drive up one last time, burying himself deep, and groans against your skin as he spills inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every hot, possessive flood while you tremble in his lap, his cock still twitching, his hand still gripping your ass like he can't quite let go.
You come down slowly, in pieces, his arms still locked around you and his cock still buried deep. His mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, your tear-tracked cheeks. Soft, sweet kisses that are a complete contrast to what he just did to you.
“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice gentle and warm. “Always so good for me. Always so fucking perfect.”
You can't even respond. Just whimper against his shoulder while his hand strokes up and down your spine, gentling you, his other hand cradling the back of your head. You're floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, and he holds you through all of it, patient and warm and impossibly tender.
Praise pours out of him in a low, constant stream, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe in it, just for a minute.
When he finally pulls out you feel his cum start to slip out of you immediately. Hot and slick, sliding down between your thighs onto the warm wet head of him still pressed against you. He glances down and tuts, both amused and disapproving.
“Mm. Look at the mess you're making, baby.” His thumb catches some of it where it's beading on his cock and brings it back up to your bottom lip, smearing it there, watching your face. Your tongue darts out before you've made any conscious decision about it. He hums, deeply pleased. “You made the mess, reckon you ought to help clean it up.”
He guides you off his lap slowly, careful with you, until your knees meet the floor between his spread thighs. You look up at him from there - face wet, lips parted, cum running down the insides of your thighs onto your apartment floor - and the expression on his face stops your breath in your chest.
That undone, almost tender expression he never wears anywhere but here. Only ever when he thinks you can't tell, when his guard has slipped, when you've fucked him past the point where he can keep the walls up.
It's the drug. It's always been the drug. It's why you didn't block his number when you said you would. Why you opened the door at 3:32 AM. Why you let him talk you out of ending it without ever actually arguing. Why you'll do the same thing the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Because no one else has ever looked at you the way Ari Levinson looks at you right now.
His thumb traces your bottom lip, possessive yet tender. “Open up, babygirl.”
more mads: honestly, i'm not entirely sure that's what the request meant, but i started listening to "don't smile" to get inspo for the fic and my mind immediately went to dacryphilia and that was it really, so um, sorry if this isn't what you meant anon, but i hope you, and anyone else who read this enjoyed anyway!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 <33
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Prompt: June 10th - Pink Pony Club - Chappell Roan / “Every night's another reason why I left it all”
Character: Walter Marshall
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
“I thought you looked familiar.” The growl comes from the other side of the book cover.
You look above the pages as Walter glares at you, arms crossed, brows low over his blue eyes. They might be nice if he wasn’t always scowling. You go to lift the book higher and he catches it. You let him push it down.
“Can I help you?”
“Sure can, Kitty.” He sneers.
You sigh. “I’m not that anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter. When were you going to tell me?”
“I pay my rent. That’s all that matters–”
“It’s my liability to decide what matters.” He retorts.
You tilt your head and rip the book away from his grasp. He smacks the back of it, nearly knocking it out of your hands. You put it on your lap.
“Well, you know now.”
“Kitty–”
“Don’t call me that.” You snap. “You’re my landlord, not my goddamn parole officer.” You hurl the book at him and stand. “By the way, it ended six months ago. I’m a free woman to do what I want. Detective.”
“I know how it goes.” He scoffs.
You roll your eyes and spin away. You dodge away from his reach without looking. You do too. Doesn’t matter if a man wears a badge or a ball cap, they’re all the same.
Every night's another reason why I left it all,” you mutter. “Knowing I don’t have to deal with pricks I don’t want.”
Warnings: non-graphic mention of wounds that are supposed to be fatal (Sol has a healing factor just shy of Deadpool), anxious Wesley, kind of hurt/comfort in a way, RIP their carpet.
Word count: 497
Times word count has successfully been ≤300: 34
For the June Jukebox Scribbles challenge hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles | June 10: Alt lyric—God, what have you done?
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She was never late.
In the rare instance she wouldn't be home on time, she always sent him a text or made a quick call, but never this. She never made him worry.
Now, here he was, nursing a bottle of whiskey and wondering at what point it was okay to call the station. Three hours after Solestia's shift had ended, he finally heard the blessed sound of a lock in the door, and she came tumbling through—quite literally.
"Tia!" he exclaimed, leaping from his seat and letting his drink fall to the floor so he could catch her before she stumbled. "God, what have you done?" he asked, worried, and pushed the hair out of her face. She had cuts, scrapes, bruises, a few bullet holes; her clothes were saturated in a sea of crimson that she wasn't sure belonged more to her or the people she'd been fighting.
"Took on more than I could handle," she said breathlessly, thankful that Wesley helped her to the couch. "Lost my phone and my wallet. Body got thrown in a dumpster with my side arm. Took a few hours for"—she paused to hiss at the pain of Wesley gently patting some of her facial wounds with a washcloth to clean them—"the worst of it to heal up so I could move again."
"You get any names?" he asked, teeth clenched. "Pictures, CCTV cams, evidence?" She grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her for a moment.
"For what? A human would be dead, Wes; it wasn't exactly the kind of attack you can prosecute."
"So, maybe there isn't a precedent for this, but it shouldn't mean you can't get justice!" he argued, "You have just as many rights as anyone else I represent."
"Wes," she pleaded, taking his face in her hands. "I'll be fine. I'm okay. I still got to come home to you, and that's all that matters. I'd rather it be me than the poor girl they had initially because she wouldn't recover from what they wanted to do." He certainly wasn't happy with it, but it was at least comforting to know she had a reason.
"Alright. You at least have a way to keep them from doing this to someone else, right?" Sol shot him an unamused look, still spirited despite her injuries.
"Of course I do. You know I am a detective, right? And a damn good one, at that? Ben's tracking them down right now."
"Studies have shown that police incompetence is—" Wesley started, but she cut him off with a hand over his mouth.
"Simmer down, law boy," she chuckled. "Just help me clean up and hold me while we watch a movie, or something." Even through his worry for her and his rage at her attackers, he couldn't help but smile.
"Anything you want. I just hope you know I won't be letting go for a long time."
"And that's exactly why I love you."
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Pairing: Dad!Thor x Female Reader
Warnings: Domestic fluff, bedtime chaos, family softness
Words: 300 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles connected to this
Prompt: June 11th - “Tell you a story.”
Bedtime had become a battlefield. A soft one, admittedly, littered with blankets instead of shields and stuffed animals instead of sword... But a battlefield all the same.
Your youngest had already surrendered, warm and milk-heavy against your shoulder, one fist curled in your shirt as you rocked him near the nursery door. The older two, however, had formed an alliance.
A dangerous one.
They sat cross-legged on the rug steadfast in their choice: your daughter with her arms folded, your son wearing the solemn expression of a prince wronged by unjust law.
Thor stood before them, hair loose around his shoulders, taking the matter with the gravity of treaty work.
“No bed,” your daughter announced firmly.
“Not tired,” your son added, immediately yawning.
“I see,” Thor’s brows lifted. “Then we must negotiate.”
That got their attention.
He lowered himself onto the rug with a quiet groan, far too large for the little room and yet somehow perfectly at home in it. Both children leaned forward, suspicious but interested.
“One drink of honeyed milk,” he said, holding up a finger. “One final check beneath the bed for monsters, though any monster with sense would fear your mother more than me.”
Your daughter giggled.
“And,” Thor continued, voice dropping, “I shall tell you a story.”
Your son narrowed his eyes. “A big one?”
“A mighty one.” Thor nodded
“With dragons?”
“Several.” You smiled wider listening.
“With me in it?” Your son inquired.
“You shall be leading the charge.”
Your daughter pointed at herself. “And me?”
Thor pressed a hand to his heart. “My fiercest general.”
They considered.
Then, together, they nodded.
Thor looked up at you, victorious and helplessly proud.
Five minutes later, both children were tucked beneath blankets, eyes wide as Thor whispered of dragons who feared bedtime most of all.
PAIRING/STARRING: Dad’s best friend!Syverson x fem!reader.
WORD COUNT: 299.
SUMMARY: Damn it if you don’t have a crush on your dad’s best friend!
CONTENT: AGE GAP (legal), casual drinking, flirting, partial nudity, sexual undertones, implied smut after ending.
A/N: The 11th of Jukebox brings us Little Bitty Pretty One – Thurston Harris / “Tell you a story”.
As per usual: please like, comment, and especially reblog – that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my taglist for the challenge and my general MASTERLIST for more.
Crush
You’re on the back porch, watching your dad and his best friend, Syverson, bicker about how to start the grill. It’s tradition and in a moment your dad will realize there’s not enough coals and he’ll be off to buy more.
That’ll be your chance. You’ve been watching Sy from a distance for ages now. You like what you see.
“Goddamn it! Gonna need more coals!” your dad’s voice rings out. “Be right back!”
As he trudges off, Sy grabs his beer and saunters up onto the porch to lean against the railing.
You’ve made sure to look extra nice today: a flimsy, yellow sundress with butterfly sleeves and a low cut that shows off your cleavage. The way you’re sitting the skirt is riding up, showing off your thighs. And the way he’s looking, you know he likes it.
“He’ll be gone for a while,” you say to break the silence.
“Mhm,” Sy agrees. “Tell you a story...’bout a girl who grew up to be too pretty for her own good. Knew it too.”
You bat your lashes at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He puts the bottle down, then comes to stand before you. His crotch is right at eye level and it’s hard not to stare at the bulge. “Got the head of a dirty old man all twisted.”
You can’t help but clench your thighs. He sees the movement, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
“So what’d he do?” you ask.
Syverson kneels before you, big hands on your knees, pushing them apart. It makes your skirt ride up a bit more, revealing that you’re not wearing any panties. His eyes darken at the sight.
“He showed the girl how much he liked her, making sure she understood it’d have to be a secret.”
Warnings: Sensual/erotic tension, implied sex, post-war atmosphere
Words: 299 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles
Prompt: June 11th - Don’t Stop Believing - Journey / “Hidin’ somewhere in the night.”
Bangkok heat pressed through the open shutters, thick with river damp and exhaust, with jasmine from the courtyard below and cigarette smoke curling up from the street. Somewhere beneath the window, men laughed too loudly. Somewhere farther off, a motorbike coughed itself awake.
The war was supposed to be ending.
That was what men said in bars when they wanted to sound certain. Conrad never sounded certain. He lay beside you in the narrow hotel bed, one arm beneath your head, eyes open to the dark as if he knew better than to trust quiet.
Your fingers traced the old scar near his ribs.
He caught your wrist before you reached the next one.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“You always say that.”
“You never listen.”
His voice was rough with sleep and heat, with the kind of want he kept leashed until the room was dark enough to hide it. Your thigh shifted over his, slow, deliberate, and his breath caught despite all that practiced control.
Outside, the city went on.
Inside, his hand slid to your hip.
There were things hidden in dark places. Memories. Blood. The names men did not say after they came home from jungles that kept pieces of them. Conrad carried his carefully, tucked behind dry humour and steady hands.
But here, in this bed, he let you find some of them.
His mouth brushed your shoulder, then your throat. Not soft. Not gentle. Moving in the way a starving man might touch something he did not expect to keep.
“James,” you whispered.
His fingers tightened.
The streetlight cut through the shutters in thin gold lines, striping his bare chest, his lowered lashes, the hunger he could not bury.
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You hadn't planned for the night to go like this... a continuation of the other Nick fics in the Jukebox.
Warnings: continued allusion to a threesome
Words: 297
June Jukebox Masterlist | Main Masterlist
You thought you were being discreet.
After you’d uttered the words I want to be bad, your darling husband had taken them very much on board. Torturing you at events, always leaving you wanting.
It had been no surprise that he’d noticed you noticing her.
She had a body that made your mouth go dry and a smile just as wicked.
And then Nick had joined you both and turned the evening on it’s head.
Not jealousy, not humour.
"I know you like what you see," he murmured against your ear, “you’re staring.” His voice was low enough that only you could hear, his eyes, though, were on her.
You turned away, just a little, just enough to give her your attention and him exactly what he wanted.
His lips were at your ear once again, before you'd even finished your drink.
"Tell me what you want." Not a question. Never a question with Nick. “Her? In our bed?”
Her eyes met yours, flitting between your eyes and your mouth, then she turned to Nick.
She'd heard every word. The slight curve of her smile told you so before she'd even opened her mouth.
"I thought you'd never ask," she said, curling her fingertips around your wrist.
Her hand was warm, brushing lightly over your pulse.
Had you? Asked?
Did it even matter? She and Nick had both seized the moment.
As if they'd both seen the wishful thoughts that had crossed your mind.
You hadn't planned for the evening to go this way, but Nick was an opportunistic man, and the woman's touch was electric on your skin.
His hand found the small of your back, warm and certain. He always knew you. Better than you knew yourself.
Warnings: Angst, paid companionship, implied intimacy, goodbyes
Words: 300 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles (OH I AM COMING BACK FOR THESE TWO)
Prompt: June 11th - “A smell of wine and cheap perfume.”
Tortuga was always loud, even this high above the street. Your rooms held onto everything: salt rot, damp wood, a smell of wine and cheap perfume worked deep into the sheets.
James Norrington stood in the middle of it like a man who no longer belonged anywhere.
Not here. Not with you. Not yet back among polished boots and proper titles, though something in his face told you he had found a road back there..
His hands were steadier. His eyes were not.
“You came back,” you started
“For tonight.” There it was.
Not cruel. Worse. Honest.
He placed coins on the little table by the bed, the old ritual between you, though it had been months since you last let his money mean anything.
You looked at the coins.
Then at him.
James’s mouth tightened as though he expected refusal, pity, anger. You gave him none of them. Only crossed the room and undid the first button of his coat with fingers that did not shake until he closed his eyes.
He held you that night like penance.
Giving into a hunger. Even if it felt like goodbye.
This time he wasn’t pretending you were someone else.
After, when sleep finally dragged him under, you lay awake beside him and studied the hard line of his profile in candlelight. He looked younger like this. Almost peaceful. Almost yours.
But dawn would come, and with it whatever respectability he had bartered his soul to reclaim.
Your life would remain here, with rum-soaked streets and painted mouths and men who never stayed.
Carefully, you took the coins from the table and slipped them back into his pocket.
James stirred but didn’t wake.
You pressed your lips to his shoulder.
“Go be better,” you whispered. Even if it meant leaving you behind.
