synopsisyou and Robby have always had an un-spoken understanding, that if you were two different people you'd fall in love. but he was a mess and refused to bring you down. so instead, fate threatens to take you away forever
warningsANGST. so much angst. stabbing. blood. near death. operations. typical hospital stuff but a happy ending
authornotethis is just completely ripped from that episode of ER when John Carter gets stabbed, like the medical talk is all from that. I also feel like this may be slight ooc robby cause I have struggle with how this man would be affectionate. i had a hell of a lot of fun writing this, angst is by far my favourite, i hope you like too
Pitt masterlist. Other Robby fic!
You weren't sure if it was the thumping in your head or the drum in your heart but you watched Robby closely. It could have been the injury to your head or the closeness of him that had your heart reacting in such a way.
You blamed it on the injury.
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” you joked. One of his gloved hands cupped your chin, nudging your gaze up. The other dabbed gently at the cut to your forehead. “Am I gonna make it?”
There was a line of displeasure in his lips. “Not funny,” he mumbled.
“Sure it is.”
“No, it's not.”
You rolled your eyes before going back to focusing on him.
It was rare you got to watch him in his concentration. Usually you were in the middle of a trauma when he pulled out the serious face and things were moving too fast for you to even catch a glimpse. Now- his focus was all on you. You could study the creases at his brows and the flecks of grey in his beard.
“You ever notice you have these deep lines between your eyebrows when you're concentrating?”
“It's called age,” he said but there was the smallest hint of a smile there.
“Aren't you twenty-seven?”
This time he couldn't stop the smirk of amusement and finally you won.
Robby dabbed away the blood at your cut, changing the gauze. “Don't think you're distracting me.”
You hummed as he tilted your head into the light. “Distracting you from what?”
“Reporting him.”
You grew silent and looked away.
It was Robby's turn to stare at you, eyes without warmth, stern in ways he was with patients that didn't want to listen to good advice. You may be sitting on a bed in exam room four and you may have a chart written up but you were not a patient. “He was scared and confused-”
“ - he pushed you.”
“And I was the one that tripped and bashed my head.”
“He threw you down!”
You winced at his snap and then winced at the pain your wincing brought you.
Robby sighed with some sort of regret. His fingertips brushed your skin as he finished cleaning the cut and you couldn't help but think it was a deliberate move. He'd been so careful not to touch or apply pressure but suddenly the callous of his fingers were there.. “If we don't take care of ourselves nobody else will do it.”
It was the same thing Dana had said to you when she saw the patient push you down and run out the room in distress, hospital gown slipping on his shoulders. She'd taken you under her arm, stirred you to a chair. She was firm in both checking you were okay and that you were going to report him for hurting you.
You look past Robby, trying to see through the glass door. The Pitt carried on it's usual bustle but Dana kept a close eye out on you in the room. “Where is he now?”
“None of your concern,” he said. “The cut's clean, looks like you won't need stitches.”
“You've restrained him haven't you?”
Robby frowned. His head shook slightly in disbelief- like he couldn't believe you. “He hurt you. Jesus- you think I was gonna just tuck him back in bed- you think Dana was!”
You were used to the rise in Robby's voice, as attending it was his job to command everyone. You just didn't like to hear it risen at you. “He woke up, confused and startled.”
The patient was brought in un-conscious at the side of the road, a gash in his arm. Nobody knew his name but you'd admitted him and ran some tests while he was semi-conscious. He'd woken up as you were checking his IV and the next thing you knew hard hands were pushing you away. You'd taken the tray down with you and smacked your head in the process. Then he'd ran and then Robby had you in his arms, willing to pick you up and carry you off if it weren't for your insistence to walk to an exam room.
Robby's body heaved in a sigh as he put his hands on his thighs. “He hurt you,” he repeated, looking up at you through his eyelashes.
You slowly met his gaze as he got closer on the stall in front of you. “I've had worse.”
It wasn't supposed to be a dig but as his eyes met yours in a haze of dark anxiety you figured it came off that way.
Really what happened between you and Robby was ancient history. A whole six months since you'd stopped seeing each other; if that's what it could be called. It was really only one stupid kiss and several flirts that created the thick tension between you two. Nothing had ever been done to encourage it further, yet nothing had also been done to squash it.
Whilst his gaze remained on you, Robby got out his penlight and checked your pupil reaction.
“Any pain?”
“Well, the light's a bit bright.”
He put it down and with his gloved hands he slowly pressed around the small cut on your forehead, hands cupping your face tenderly. “Any pain?”
“No, you've done all this twice now.”
“It's procedure for any patient.”
“It's special treatment,” you grumbled.
Robby grabbed a bandage from the tray. “You're a special patient.”
The heat crept up your cheeks before you stared at the bandage.
“Robby-”
In one hand he held a bandage, in the other a small spider-man plaster that he so obviously got from pedes.
You stared at him. “Really?”
His cheeks tilted in a small teasing grin. “All we have, I'm afraid.”
You seriously doubted it but tapped the spider-man plaster nonetheless. “I'm sure I could have done this myself, you know,” you said as he peeled away the plaster. “Or at least got one of the nurses to do it. I'm sure you're needed somewhere more important.”
He frowned again. “More important?”
“There's a guy that came in with a GSW to the chest ten minutes ago and you're saying you don't need to be there?”
Robby's hands fell to either side of your face, gently taking your cheeks. His thumb brushed the curve of your cheek bone. He could feign he was checking your pupils but you both knew better. “There's nowhere else I need to be.”
Six months ago you'd kissed in a bar ten minutes away from the Pitt. Every day since- you'd been fighting the urge to kiss him again.
At that moment, with his gentle touch and soft gaze, you wondered if he'd been fighting to.
“Look up,” Robby said with a clear of his throat.
You weren't sure what he was trying to check for anymore. Maybe he was just looking for an easy way out.
“I still want you to get a CT scan.”
“Now that's dramatic, I didn't expect that from you.”
“Any nasuea?”
You shook your head as Robby steadied you, sliding the plaster in place.
“Have you been drinking enough today?”
“Two cups of coffee count?”
Robby gave you a plain look as he yanked off the latex gloves, throwing them into a corner of the room. “Ten minutes rest, I'll bring you some food and water.”
You sighed dramatically. “Robby!”
He pushed himself up from his stool. “As you're attending I'm not asking, I'm-”
“Telling?” you guessed.
Robby hovered as you pushed yourself up back on the bed. You wouldn't say it but your head was hurting from the fall. Nothing more than a headache that some painkillers couldn't stop. If you told Robby that yes, you were in pain, you were sure he'd pull the curtain, change you into a gown and play doctor all day.
You lied back on the pillow as Robby plumped it and smoothed out the sheets under you. He was lingering and for a moment you thought of asking him to stay.
Your mouth had opened to ask when the door was nudged open.
“Robby, we got a car crash coming in five,” said Dana. She looked at you then, eyes crinkled in worry. “How you feeling, hun?”
“I'm fine, thanks Dana.”
She nodded once, offering you a small smile before leaving.
You looked up at Robby as his body lingered over yours, one arm stretched high above your head, the other lower. Your gaze flickered up and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan over you. “Ten minutes?” you asked.
“On the clock.”
“Then I'm free to go?”
His head tilted, a sly smirk playing around his thin beard. “I'm not keeping you a prisoner.”
You folded your arms over your chest, glancing away. “Feels like it.”
He chuckled lightly. For a moment his breath lingered over your forehead, closer than before.
When you glanced up he froze, hands clenched on the bed, his jaw taunt. It was as if you'd caught him in the act.
Suddenly you wished you hadn't looked up. You wished you'd let him do whatever he was going to do. Because once he'd been caught he straightened up and threw you an awkward thumbs up. “Ten minutes.”
You trace your finger over the plaster as you slowly left your room, creeping out like you were a teenager sneaking out of your parents to meet a guy. Except you were trying to avoid the guy.
“That was eight minutes!”
You looked up and found Robby at the nurses station, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Were you timing me?”
Robby held up his phone, showing you the timer he had counting down as next to him, Dana snorted. “Have you had something to drink? Or eat?” he asked as you leant over the counter. He was still watching you eagerly, waiting for any sign you were in more pain then you let on so he could send you back to bed.
“Thought you were getting me a drink?”
He rolled his eyes before obliging, sliding away to get you a drink. He turned back only once. “Don't go near him!” he called, the both of you knowing who the he was.
You saluted him, watching him go before turning to Dana. “How is he?”
She peered at you over her glasses. “Terrible. He's been worried sick, was practically watching you through those windows. Didn't blink for a minute!”
“Not Robby, my patient. The John Doe.”
“Well that ain't your concern anymore," she said.
“I want to treat him.”
“He's awake now, we've restrained him in twelve but Robby wants you nowhere near him.”
“Robby is over-reacting,” you sighed.
Dana lifted her shoulders. “Of course he is, it's you. You think he's gonna react rationally?”
Nobody was supposed to know about you and Robby and the thing that lingered in the middle. But somehow, Dana always ended up knowing everything.
You backed away from the counter, assuring Robby was nowhere to be seen. “Twelve, you said right?”
Dana huffed but lucky for you there were a dozen more things she needed to do. “Fine! Go! But take security with you!”
You saluted and headed that way. Outside the door, Ahmed was already there.
“Hey, doc,” he greeted. “He's been asking about you, said he wants to apologise.”
You weren't scared like you thought you'd be, stepping into the room while Ahmed promised to stay outside, just a shout away of you needed him. Your heart wasn't pounding as you slowly moved the curtain, finding the patient lying on the bed, restraints around his wrists and tied down. He wasn't thrashing about. He was calm, clocking you as you walked in.
“You're the nurse?” he said.
“Doctor, actually,” you said, introducing yourself.
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes or add colour to his face. There was nothing in his eyes anyhow. He was pale and the thin bandaging that had been done for his arm while he struggled was bleeding through. “I-I pushed you, I am so sorry.”
You were about to say it was fine, but it wasn't you shouldn't tell him it was. You could accept the apology but still acknowledge that whatever state he was in, you shouldn't have been hurt. “Do you know where you are?”
“The hospital?”
“That's right, PTMC. Can you tell me your name?”
He nodded, gulping. There was a thin layer of sweat over his skin. “David Brown.”
“And do you know what month it is?”
“M-March.”
“Okay, good,” you said, making a quick note of his name in his chart. You sat down on the stool, shuffling to the side of his bed. “Mr Brown-”
“David,” he corrected you.
“David,” you said. “You were brought in just under an hour ago with a pretty bad laceration to your lower right arm. You were found un-conscious. Do you remember anything?”
You watched the sweat bead at his forehead, his eyes scrunched as he tried to think. His breathing grew heavier, face morphed into pain as he tried to think. “It's okay if you don't.”
“I-I don't,” a stray tear fell down his cheek.
“That's okay,” you assured him. “I'm gonna order you a CT and a toxic screening just to rule out any drugs or alcohol in your system. Is that okay?”
David's head jerked in something like a nod before you door swung open, clattering on the other side of the wall.
Robby stood at the end of the bed, face red, hands at his hips. “What are you doing in here?” he snapped.
“Doctor Robby-”
He gave you no time to explain, jutting his head back. “Step outside please, doctor.”
You stood, slowly and walked out slower.
David called out after you. “I really am sorry!”
Robby looked back like he didn't believe him.
The two of you stepped out and you spoke before he could, beating him by a second. “I'm ordering him a CT and toxicity test. That gash on his arms needs to be cleaned and stitched up, it's bleeding out.”
Robby didn't care to hear it. He pulled the curtains over and closed the door as he followed you out. “What did you think you were doing in there?”
“Tending to my patient.”
“I told you to leave him.”
“He wanted to say sorry. Ahmed, didn't he want to apologise?” you said, looking to security for some help.
Ahmed held up his hands. “Oh- I want nothing in this!”
“If he wanted to apologise he could've wrote a letter. Told me to apologise to you,” he said, still holding onto his anger. “I told you to leave it, the guy attacked you!”
“Lightly shoved me from shock!”
“Have you seen what he did to your head?”
“Yeah, a small cut, doesn't even need stitches- that's what you said!”
“It's a wound! There was blood!” he yelled. “You are not to go anywhere near him from now on, do you understand?”
There was a new anger in Robby then, something you saw rarely in him. Dana had said he was worried about you but you saw none of that concern in him now, only anger. Anger because you hadn't listened to him not because of well fair.
“I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to be helping people,” you defended, your own anger not rising to his.
His hands balled into fists. “Help someone who's asking for it. I see you in with that guy again and you're on triage for a week, you understand?”
Where was that softness in his eyes? Where was that care he tended to you in the room all alone?
“You understand?” he snapped again when you didn't answer.
You knew if you turned there'd be several pairs of eyes on the pair of you. Watching, assessing, see how you reacted. Nobody had ever heard Robby speak to you like that because he'd never shouted at you before. “I understand, Doctor Robinavitch.”
“So you yelled at her.”
Robby thought he'd find solace on the roof, that with only him and the night sky he stood a chance at thinking things through logically, for once on the right side of the rail.
Then Jack's voice sounded behind him and the peace he was searching for fell further out of reach.
“Who told you?” he asked, head falling.
“Oh, you know,” he mumbled, shoes shuffling over the roof as he got closer to him. “Just everybody that was in attendance to your little show.”
Jack leant next to him on the rail, staring at him.
Robby could feel his eyes but looked out on the skyline that was more favourable to him. Jacks eyes felt like everybody else that watched him yell at you. He could call it worry- it didn't change the way your face dropped the louder his voice rose.
“You wanna talk about it?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“I heard she got attacked.”
“Or lightly pushed as she'd put it.”
“She's a soldier.”
Robby shook his head. “No, she's a doctor. Today she could have been neither if that man-” the words chocked in his throat. What if he had hurt you even more? Punched you? Strangled you? He'd seen it all in the ER and yes, you'd been hurt before but that didn't mean he needed to have you hurt again.
“I saw her when I was coming up, she seemed fine,” said Jack. “About to clock off, you sure you want to end the day on such a bad note.”
“She doesn't want to talk to me.”
“Come on, she always wants to talk to you,” said Jack. “And I only know that cause you always want to talk to her.”
Robby wished he could say that telling Jack about the kiss so many months ago was a mistake but he couldn't because that would mean kissing you was a mistake. The only mistake made with that kiss is that he hadn't pulled you back in, kissed you every day since. But he'd told Jack on one of those lonely nights when they'd each had one too many beers how much he missed you even if he saw you every day.
“I was so fucking scared, brother,” he admitted with a long exhale of breath. Robby slumped over the rail, catching himself. “Code hula-hoop was called and her name and I- I didn't know...”
Jack's hand was firm on his back. “I know.”
Robby nodded, head tucked down. He wouldn't cry, he wasn't sure how these days but he sure as hell felt like it. It had been a hell of day, worse when he couldn't join your side without you walking off.
“You were worried, you don't know what to do with that,” said Jack.
He could admit that much.
“You go home now, she goes home, you're carrying this weight to the next day and it'll continue,” he said, therapizing him. “You were scared you might have lost her?”
Robby glanced Jack's way. There was never any judgment, only a keen understanding he sometimes didn't like.
“You might lose her if you don't do something about it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Jack shrugged. “Apologise.”
Robby hesitated, the words 'I'm sorry' foreign on his tongue.
Jack chuckled low in his throat. “Is that really so hard for you?”
He nodded and Jack carried on laughing. By the end, even Robby was chuckling through watery eyes.
“Okay, okay, let's try,” said Jack, straightening up, encouraging him to do the same. “Repeat after me, I'm sorry.”
“Jesus-”
“Jesus, you can't even say it-listen we'll go slow, I'm-”
Robby's phone rung in his pocket, thankfully saving him from the embarrassment. “Dana-” he answered as he spotted Jack's phone going too.
“Get down here, now!”
“What's going on?” he asked, though his feet were already moving.
He didn't see the way Jack looked at him, he hardly heard how Dana said your name because when she did Robby dropped his phone and ran.
“Robby!” Jack called but he was off the roof and furiously pressing the elevator button. He managed to slide past the doors before they closed on him. “What did Dana say?”
But Robby couldn't speak. He heard Dana's voice re-play in his head again and again. That you had been attacked, that they needed him. He couldn't think beyond that. Beyond you and attacked there was nothing.
Jack was watching him closely. “Okay-” he must've known it was bad too. “Okay, Robby, we don't know what's going on down there but you gotta stay cool, okay? You gotta stay cool or leave us to it.”
He should've kept a closer eye on you, should've sent you home.
“Robby if you get in our way I'm taking you out of there, understand?”
The doors slid open and Robby ran out, Jack quick on his heels.
“Where?” he barked out. There were no faces around him he could figure out, no Dana, no Langdon- so everyone must have been in with you-
“Trauma one!”
Robby burst through the doors.
The chaos was everywhere and he paused. There were more bodies in the trauma room then he'd ever seen. In between them all a body that he could vaguely re-call as yours. Your trainers- usually white- were seeping in blood.
“Can you open your eyes?”
“No respond to command!”
“Two stab wounds to the left flank! First one L-two, second L-five.”
“Is it the spinal chord?” asked Whitaker.
“Can't tell it depends on the angle!” said Langdon. “Jesus- there's too much blood, I can't see a thing!”
You lied on the bed, blood splattered around your clothes, un-responsive to everyone around you. You were letting them prod, push and pull when you'd hardly let him asses your cut just hours ago.
Hours when you were teasing him and he was thinking about kissing you again.
What had happened.
If it was a papercut you'd be feigning death.
This was the closest you'd ever looked to dying and Robby couldn't feel his legs.
"Doctor Robby?" someone called in the room but it wasn't you. You weren't responding to anyone. “Doctor Robby!”
Jack moved past him, body knocking his. “I'm here!”
“BP seventy over fifty, pulse one-twenty.”
Jack moved around you, pressing the chest piece of the stethoscope to your chest. “Push in two litres of O-neg. Good breath sounds bilaterally.”
Robby's ears were ringing but he could feel himself shake his head. “She's not-she's not O-neg, she's B-positive,” he heard himself mumble.
There was a sharp beeping through the room and Robby thought it was a strange sound for his heart breaking.
“Pulse ox ninety-three!”
“Do we intubate?” asked Mohan.
Your body jerked and as if you were the puppet master tugging on his strings, Robby found his feet and moved to your side.
He moved around until he was the closest to you, replacing anyone else at your side. Others watched, un-sure if they should've told him to wait outside like he was family.
Jack gave them the nod and the room moved again.
“Give me ten by mask, no intubation. Send a trauma panel!” ordered Robby.
“We need X-ray for a chest!” yelled Jack.
“X-ray can come to us! I am not moving her!” he shouted. “Help me roll, let me see!”
The blood on the front of your scrubs was splashed but as they turned you, leaning you on your side Robby's body slumped, something like a chocked sob wracking through his body.
He couldn't see the puncture wounds through the blood that soaked you. Just as Langdon had said it was a mess. “Jesus chr- oh god.”
“Pressure's up to ninety palp!”
“Who did this?” he yelled out as they gently set you back.
“The guy who came in un-conscious earlier!”
Jack looked over at Robby.
Robby felt the muscles in his jaws work and he grunted. “I'll kill him,” he grumbled.
“Robby!” lectured Jack.
But he wasn't going to take back his words. “He's fucking dead.”
“He fled the hospital,” Langdon told him. “Left his knife in the room though, they'll find him.”
It couldn't have been a scalpel, it couldn't have been scissors. The guy came in, found a knife- or brought one from home- to harm you. If Robby ever saw him again he'd kill the guy and deal with the consequences that came.
“Toes are down going, no spinal injury,” said someone else in the room but he was losing all focus that wasn't you.
Garcia walked through the doors, joining the crowd of people around you.
“Tell me you've got an OR booked!” said Jack.
“With her name on it! How we doing in here?”
Santos pushed her way ahead, a small and un-characteristic tremble to her hands. There was another unit of blood pushed into your bloodstream and Robby was seconds away from hooking himself up and giving you his very blood. “Pressure's up!” she reported, lingering over you with a light. “Right pupil five millimetres and reactive -”
Suddenly your body jerked at the light. Your head thrashed side to side as you slowly returned to consciousness.
“Huh... I-wha-”
“Hey! Hey!” Robby pushed his way to you, looming over you and catching your eyes.
They were wild, looking around before settling on him.
“Robby?” you uttered, lips dry, dried blood at your neck. Your eyes were looking around like you couldn't quite see.
“Yeah- yeah it's me.” His hand flew to your hair, brushing it back as your eyes were going from him to around you, panic rising in your eyes. “Look at me, focus on me.”
“What-what?”
“You were stabbed,” he uttered.
Your eyes widened and he brushed back your hair again, doctors moving around the two of you. They could've been right on his back or a thousand miles away. All he focused on was you. Your hands waved around, getting in the way of tubes and the doctors.
Robby grabbed your hand, squeezing.
You focused on him and he tried to smile, tried to make himself convinced everything would be alright. He knew it was a grimace.
He'd never hated his medical training more. Because he knew this amount of blood loss was bad, he knew stabbing so close to the spinal chords was dangerous. He knew you were strong and hated staying still for too long and now you'd be forced to recover.
“My pressure?”
“It's up.” He watched as your eyes teared up, looking away from him again. “Good, that's good.”
Your hair sprawled out as you shook your head. “Am I gonna.... will I walk again?”
Robby hesitated. “Yeah- yeah we think it missed your spinal chord.”
Robby knew that but he couldn't help the tears that fell, couldn't help the small sob that ripped through his throat. You'd been calm at the cut with your head, damn right comedic. Now- you were quiet, whimpering and crying in pain and there wasn't anything he could do.
He was a doctor, he could help and check vitals and squeeze the bag of blood slow.
But he couldn't move from your side.
You nod before your back arched in pain and you yelled out.
“BP eighty palp!”
Robby got up, ignoring the ache in his knees as he loomed over you, trying to calm the pain. “Do something!”
“Robby!”
He looked.
You'd drained the blood dry.
“What?” you uttered, voice trembled in terror.
“Okay she needs to go up, now!” Jack called out.
“Let's get her moving!” yelled Garcia.
You groaned in pain. “What's going on?”
Robby didn't know what to do. It wasn't a conversation of telling a patient what was going on or what wasn't. It was telling you. He stuttered lamely, lost as another tear slid down his cheek. You hadn't even cried yet and he was close to blubbering.
His head bowed to you. He was mumbling, he thinks he was praying.
“Robby-” your hand waved out in front of him and he grabbed it, squeezing. “It hurts.”
“Okay, okay, we're gonna-” what was he gonna do? He pressed your hand to his lips, holding it there.
“Hey, honey,” Jack appeared at your other side and your eyes moved to see him but Robby didn't let go. “Hell of a way to get into the night shift.”
“Jack-” you winced.
Jack looked from you to Robby, the same way he looked at the family of unfortunate patients. “We're taking her up to the OR now.”
Your fingers wiggled in Robby's grasp and he looked back to you. “It's bad huh?”
“No, no,” said Robby smoothing back your hair again.
“Your losing a lot of blood, and your foley output is bright red,” said Jack. “But we're gonna sort it and you'll be fine. You trust me?”
Your breathing was shallow, hard breaths hardly coming out. Still, you tried to smile. “Do I- do I have a choice?” your voice came out through seethes of breath.
Robby closed his eyes tight, as if he could feel the own stabbing in his heart.
“Robb-Robby?”
He glanced at you, your eyes fluttering shut. The little hold you had on his hand weakening. He fumbled up, hands holding your cheeks. “Woah-woah- open your eyes! Look at me- look at me!”
You mumbled, head lulling.
“Going up!”
“Look at me, open your eyes!” he all but shouted at you as your eyes were still rolling to the back of his head, wavering between waking and whatever else was on the other side.
“Robby!”
Robby held onto the side of your bed as the team around you wheeled you away and through. There was a stutter of shock waving through the crowd, fear chocking them, shock eating at them. There was police around, all trying to get a look.
“Talk to her, Robinavitch!” said Garcia.
He didn't talk to patients, he evaluated them, stitched them up when he could.
Robby looked up at Jack, hoping for help. He looked grave, watching Robby un-sure but people came back from worse. You'd come back. “Hey, hey look at me,” he uttered and squeezed your hand. When that didn't work he pulled at your eyelids and finally you responded with a grumble.
The elevator doors slid open and you were hauled in, Robby squeezed in too.
“Wh-what?”
He got a flash of your eyes before they closed again.
Your lips were dry and chapped but Robby kissed you anyway, pressing his lips to yours soft, not pushing afraid he'd hurt you but he wanted you to know he was there.
He smiled. He'd never seen you first thing in the morning, he imagined this is what it was. Groggy eyes, words hardly there but with less pain and blood. Robby pulled back and ignored the blood drying in splatters on your neck. “Are you with me, honey?”
You blinked and groaned in pain. “I don't-I don't know.”
“You're with me, yeah you are, you're with me,” Robby mumbled. “You look very pretty, even covered in blood, you know that?” he mumbled, trying to say it so only you could hear.
There was a huff of a smile followed by pain.
“You can't flirt with me while I'm dying, Robinavitch.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Robby grabbed your face, smooching your cheek maybe a bit too harsh. “You're not going anywhere.”
“You've pushed four bags,” you whispered. “You're gonna push a five.”
There was a huff of laugh from Jack.
Robby sniffed. You were too good at your job sometimes, ignoring the ache in his back as he leant over you. “You shouldn't be counting.”
“What can I say I'm over-qualified,” your eyes shut again but your lips moved in mumbles.
“What is it? What are you saying?” he asked, a crack in his voice. “What? Tell me.... tell me.”
But you weren't really there anymore. You were incoherent, eyes not really there. None of you was really there. “Robby.... Rob.... please, Robby.”
“What? I'm here, I'm right here, okay? Okay, honey?” Robby felt his chest cave in. “What's taking this elevator so long?” he snapped.
“It's bad, I know,” you said, fingers drifting soft over his arm before it dropped. “I can't- I can't-”
The doors slid open, a team waited on the other side.
Garcia pushed you ahead into the team, spouting who she wanted to scrub in, telling them all who she wanted out front watching. Your condition was a perfect teaching sort.
You weren't for teaching. You were for saving!
Robby wanted to tell as much as the team wheeled you away and Jack's arm came out to stop him.
“You can't go in there man,” he said.
“Like hell I can't!”
“No, you can't!” said Jack.
Any other time Robby would have argued more but he had nothing to say. He needed to be there, he wanted to be there but as soon as they cut you open he'd break. As soon as he saw inside your body he'd tie himself to you.
He'd seen over a hundred bodies cut open in his time but yours might break him.
Robby nodded, hands going to the back of his head.
Someone in the room cried and it took him a moment to realise it was him.
“Hey-hey-” Jack embraced him and Robby couldn't reach to hug him back but he could let himself down. “I will go in, I will be there, you know I will do everything to save her. We will save her.”
To save your life, Robby let him go and stood alone. He looked down at his hand as if he could feel the ghost hold of you still there. When he looked down, all he saw was the hair on the back and the tremble of his fingers.
Robby- for the first time since he was a boy- learnt how to cry.
He tried- boy did he try- to get back into the swing of things. Robby walked into the Pitt with red, blotchy eyes and a waver in his voice. He looked at the board, picked up a sixty year old patient with migraines.
“Hello I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby. What seems to be the problem today?”
That was as far as he got before Dana walked in.
“No, no, no, no!” she said, putting the chart down and dragging him out. “I am so sorry Mrs Klepton, we'll get Doctor Shen with you in just a moment. Come with me.”
He was dragged out like a scolded child and shoved into the lounge.
“What do you think you're doing?” she'd snapped.
Robby had put himself in the corner, crowding himself in, arms over his head. What was he doing? Trying to be useful. You'd be up in the OR lord knew how long. If he sat and waited he'd go mad.
Dana leant on the counter. “What'd you think you're doing here, Robinavitch? Get outta here, go home! Better yet go wait for her.”
“I-I can't.”
“Robby.”
He could feel the tears start again. Didn't the human run out of tears eventually? They didn't teach that in med school. “I- I can't. I'm useful in-in here, I'm not- I'm not-”
“Right now there's only one person you can be useful to, so go to her.”
That's how he ended up in the OR waiting room, alone, not flicking through the magazines provided, not even watching the fish in the tank. He was just sitting.
Waiting.
At some point he'd taken the clock down to not watch the hands turn but eventually the sun rose and he was terrified like no other day.
It was going on 05:00 am when the door slowly pushed open. It wasn't with a rattle of relief or with a cheer, it was a slow push.
Robby thought his heart was broken before.
He was hunched over himself, elbows balanced on his knees as he hid his face in his hands and slowly rocked himself. “No... no... no...”
“Robby,” Jack said quietly. His steps were slow but he felt his hand on his back.
Robby flinched, shrinking into himself.
Where was the knife so he could stab himself?
“Robby- she's okay.”
There was a crack in his neck from how quick he looked up. It wasn't enough to convince him, his clinical trained mind wondering all the what would comes? Had it got into your spine? How much blood had you lost.
But Jack listed it off like he knew what Robby needed to hear first. It hadn't hit an aorta, it got an artery hence the bleeding but they'd stabilised it with more blood than they would have liked. But you were alive, though sleeping and they had no worries for you at the moment.
Robby nodded when Jack finished. He must have come right from the OR to tell him because he was still in scrubs and covered in blood. Your blood. “Can I see her?”
You didn't look peaceful. Robby had never thought how uncomfortable the hospital gowns must have been until he saw you lying in one. There was oxygen tube in your nose and an IV in your hand. There was some bruising he hadn't noticed before on your arms from the fall you took.
“What do I do now?” Robby mumbled. He was good at the saving lives part, he just wasn't sure what to do when they hung in limbo.
Jack patted his back, leading the way in the room. “For a doctor you're pretty clueless. You sit with her.”
Robby followed in, un-sure what to do with himself so he held onto either end of his stethoscope.
There was a chair already pulled up to your side as Jack busied himself on the other, checking your IV and BP- all looked good.
Robby had caught you napping at your desk once, fallen asleep while charting. He'd admired you for a moment before slowly waking you with a pen poked in your head. You'd looked so peaceful then- nothing like it now.
“Is she cold?”
“No- I don't think so.”
Robby slowly sank down in the chair and picked up your hand again. It stopped the trembling in his at once.
“I gotta get off, I'll cover the day, do something about the nights. Stay with her, call me if there's any changes,” said Jack.
“Thank you, brother,” said Robby.
There was a dull drumming in your head. Your back was aching and even moving your eyes hurt. Beyond all of that there was something else, something heavier.
Your eyes opened slowly and you found the lights ahead. They burned brighter than the sun, like every morning when you walked into PCMT. You tried to hide, to shield yourself with your hand but you couldn't move it.
Panic coursed through you. Why couldn't you move it? Why could you hardly feel your hand? Dear god-
“Hey,” a gentle voice greeted and you searched for them.
Jack stood over you, leaning at you bed.
Your mouth was parched as you tried to speak.
“You're okay,” said Jack in a whisper. “You remember what happened?”
Step by step you thought back. You were leaving, only checking on David once more before sharp pain hit you in the back and you were shoved. When you came too again faces blurred together and pain blinded you to them all.
There was Robby. Somewhere in all of that.
“I was... stabbed?”
Jack nodded, a small trembled in his chin. “Yeah you were. But you're gonna be okay, there was no injury to your spine.”
“I'll walk?”
“Twelve hours time we'll get you up.”
When you focused you could feel the ache in your arm as if someone was pulling it. There was something heavy at the end like someone was holding it, tight.
Robby was at your other side, lying on your arm and holding you down. His body was curved over, head turned away as his back moved in soft breaths.
“Thought I'd let him sleep. He's been up watching you since you came out the OR,” said Jack.
Robby. He'd stayed.
Had you asked him to? You'd wanted him to. Maybe he understood that.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Jack shook his head. There was no need to thank him, you knew that, but you were thanking him for the life you'd put in his hands and that he'd let Robby be at your side. “You want some time?”
You nodded stiff, feeling the ache in your back more and more. You knew you had months ahead of you of pain but you didn't want to dull it with drugs just yet.
Jack petted down your hair once before taking his hoodie off the back of the chair and leaving, closing the door gently.
In the silence you watched Robby a moment longer, matching your new breaths with his. The weight of him on your hand made you tingle as you slowly worked your fingertips back to life.
You tried to move your hand out from his weight but he stirred.
Groggily he turned and looked around the room, waking up more confused then you were.
“Robby?”
His eyes widened.
Robby moved up at once, looming over your bed as you tried to push yourself up. “Hey, hey, take it easy,” he fretted, eyes raking over your body like he was checking all of you were there. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”
“Robby-” you tried to protest.
“BP is hundred over eighty.”
You tried to entertain him, just as you had with the cut on your head. If you let him go through the motions just might just end up holding his hand again. So you let him try your nerves, let him ask if you were in pain. You let him ask you to wiggle your fingers and toes. You let him lift one leg and the other as high as he could before you winced in pain.
“Can you stop being my doctor for a second and sit back down?”
Robby seemed startled but hid it quickly. He realised Jack was out the room. “He should've woke me, checked you over.”
“You were resting, he said you'd stayed.”
He looked at you, astonished you'd think he'd go anywhere else.
You watched him sink into his chair, clasping his hands together and wedging them between his knees. Your fingers ached to hold him but your body was weak even talking. “You look tired.”
He chuckled low and smiled. His face was pale, eyes red, hair a mess. His entire body was slumped. “I look tired?”
“A nice tired, a handsome tired.”
You focused on your hand, lifting it enough. You watched as Robby looked down and took it without hesitation, he held it tight, grasping it between his big hands and bringing it to his lips.
You felt him kiss your palm.
“I was stabbed?”
Robby nodded, slowly. “Two puncture wounds, missed the spinal chords, nicked an aorta, bled out. That was our biggest worry but-”
“But I'm okay now?”
Slowly, he nodded.
You groaned, shifting your head aside. You'd have rolled over to show your protest but you had a feeling you'd be putting as little pressure on your back for a while. “Is Mr Brown?”
“The police are looking for him,” said Robby, without letting you even work out just what it is you were trying to ask about.
You nodded slowly, looking down to where your hand disappeared in his. “I'll report him this time, I promise.”
Robby stared at you, eyes wide with something you couldn't name. “I just want you to focus on getting better. On coming back... coming back to me.”
You didn't think, even coming out of an op and the haze of pain, that you could ever be where he wasn't. You think, no matter how terrible it seemed, that it was meant to happen this way. The stabbing and scarring that would no doubt end up on your back might have been the best thing to ever happen to you.
“Robby,” you whispered.
He must have heard something in your voice as he slowly stood and hunched over you, a hand lying on the top of your head.
His eyes were watering with tears.
You could remember faint images of this happening before, as you were slowly lulled to sleep by drugs. His hand combing back your hair felt like it had always been doing it. Like you'd always woken to him.
“Did you kiss me?” You didn't know where the memory came from, or even if it was a memory. It could've been a dream.
To his credit Robby didn't startle or flinch. He slowly nodded, leaving room for objection. He leaned over close to you, another hand cradling your cheek. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Robby inhaled sharply. “I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you months before I did. I wanted to kiss you last week and two minutes ago when you woke. I wanted to kiss you covered in blood and... I want to kiss you now.”
You smiled and it brought you no pain. “If my back wasn't in pain I'd be kissing you right now,” you chuckled and then the pain came.
Robby leant down to you, his eyes searching yours. Close enough you could see what was in his eyes, what he'd been hiding. Warmth. Admiration.
His large nose brushed yours as he kissed you slow with no rush of need. His hand was soft as he angled you so he could explore every line and curve if your lip.
Your own hand slowly wound up, around his head, stroking the back of his hair and resting there. He didn't mind the oxygen tube or that she couldn't reach up to meet him. In fact he kissed her like he'd planned it like this a hundred times.
When there was an alarming beep from the machines Robby pulled away quick, studdying them.
“It's just my heartrate,” you said. “Might have been beating a little faster there.”
He agreed but seemed solemn to do so.
You watched the crease between his brows appear again. “You know, if I knew I just needed to be stabbed to have you kiss me again I'd have-”
“Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”
For the sake of his nerves, you didn't.
“You know if I'd have known that it was just gonna take me getting stabbed for you to sell that motorbike, I'd have got stabbed a lot sooner,” you said teasingly as Robby pulled into his new designated parking space outside the ED.
It had been a month since the incident but you were still reaping the small benefits that came with it. Like Robby insisting you stay with him to get the best care, like him getting rid of his motorbike to get a better car that was more comfortable on your back.
Like having so much time with him.
Mornings where he dedicated time in messaging the sore spots of your back and spreading an oil that was going to help the scaring. Like the dinner times when you read him a recipe that he never followed to the t. Like the kisses you stole in the night when he'd watch you and kiss you without straining to go forward.
Robby parked the car and turned off the engine. “If I had a dollar every time you said that,” he grumbled, picking up his bag and exiting.
You were still moving slower, still kept a crutch with you to keep weight off your back. You were coming back to work with a much lighter work load and you were sure Robby would be glued to your side all day like he practically had the month you'd took to recover.
Even before you could open the door Robby was there doing it for you, your own bag in his hand.
“You think anyone's gonna want to see the cool scars I've got, they kind of look like stars,” you said as Robby stayed close by your side, walking in with you.
“You sent them all pictures,” he said, mildly irritated. You and everyone around you seemed to try to crack jokes about the thing. He felt sometimes he was the only one who saw the near death wound for what it was.
“Excuse me- most of them asked for pictures.”
“Completely inappropriate.”
A few ambulance workers saw you, greeting you with smiles you returned while Robby waited next to you, holding up a polite hand in greeting.
It dropped, grazed yours and picked it up, holding on as the two of you walked in.
Usually Robby liked to walk in through triage, get a feel of what was happening but he wasn't risking that many foreign bodies next to you even though they caught David Brown and he was being charged.
Robby had something to live for, had something to protect. Nothing was happening to it. To you.
“It's good to have you back,” said Lupe as the two of you passed her at the door.
“Do you think that was a pun?” you uttered to him, rewarded with the smallest tint of his lips as he pushed open the door.
Loud clapping greeted you with some cheap, paper, party poppers when you walked in. Thee was cheering to and a large banner was hooked up, saying 'welcome home!'.
A place that could have held such terrible memories was brightened up as you jumped from one smiling face, to another.
Next to you, Robby stepped back, blending into the admiring crowd and started to clap too with something more than fondness in his smile. Love. A word that had woven its way into your vocab since moving in with him to get help for your wounds.
A word that summed up so much of what you had.
“You did this for me?” you asked.
“It was all Robby's idea,” said Jack, leading the cheering.
You didn't have to even move. Like he knew what you wanted Robby stepped over to you and kissed you. He always kept his lips irritatingly light, encouraging you to stretch out muscles in your back to join meet him.
You grinned against his lips. “I should be stabbed more often.”
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a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
cw: fem!reader, 18+, phone sex (a little dubcon-y but girlie is into it), daddy kink
You’re a little hazy when you wake up. Your lashes stick together, and your lids feel so heavy. The sunlight has only just begun to filter through your curtains, and you can’t quite piece together why you’re awake at this hour.
Until you register your phone ringing.
Now, the list of people able to call you through your sleep focus is very short. Jack is right at the top.
You reach for your phone immediately, but your movements are still rather sluggish. Just before the call is about to go to voicemail, you manage to answer.
“Jackie?” you murmur drowsily, “What’s wrong?”
You hear a faint shifting at the other end of the line and a sigh of relief.
“God, it’s good to hear your voice, baby.”
Jack sounds a little breathless and more tired than you.
You sit up and brush the fine hairs from your forehead, your brows pulled together in worry.
“You okay, Jackie? Bad day?” you ask.
“Something like that, bun. Just finished my shift. I’m in the parking lot right now,” he answers. “Did I wake you? You sound sleepy, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” you insist.
He’s quiet for a second, and you hear another rustling sound.
“Tell me something, bunny,” Jack requests. “Anything. What did you dream about?”
With your bottom lip pulled between your teeth, you hum as you try to remember.
“I don’t know, Jackie,” you admit, “I think you were there. You usually are. In my dreams, I mean. I think we were at the beach… or at a lake?”
You pull the blanket up to your arms. It’s still much too early to think about so much, but if Jack asks, you deliver.
“Sounds nice,” he mumbles. His voice is hoarse, almost rough like sandpaper. “Keep going.”
Something about the way he speaks makes your tummy flutter.
“Well,” you go on, “There were birds. Green ones.”
“Mhm…”
“They kept circling over us. I don’t think I know any green birds.”
“Me neither.”
You hear him shift again, and this time there is another sound. Like… like fabric moving.
You’re about to question this when Jack suddenly groans.
“Keep talkin’, sweet girl,” he croaked.
“Jackie…?”
“Please. Just talk. That’s all I’m askin’.”
His words are followed by a wet, filthy sound.
You immediately feel the pull in your lower tummy as you begin to realise.
“There- we went swimming,” you go on, a little shakily now, “and saw fish. A bunch of ‘em. Little ones, which were— “
Jack moans softly, which makes you press your thighs together.
“Um…” As you grow more flustered, it gets harder to speak. “They were like rainbows, their scales. The sun made them change colours.”
“Uh huh,” Jack mutters, his voice thin and strangled. “Keep goin’, baby. Just a little longer."
You can’t really focus as you hear the way his hand begins to move faster, slick sounds coming out of the speaker of your phone.
“I… uh, we… we… I don’t remember, Jackie.”
“C’mon, bunny,” he encourages, “You can. Use that pretty little head of yours for me. For Daddy, hm?”
Liquid heat collects at the base of your spine, and you sneak a hand down between your thighs, only applying pressure for now. You’re not allowed to touch without him there.
“Daddy, I don’t remember,” you whine.
“Yeah, you do,” he retorts. “Baby, you do. C’mon, talk to me. Help out your Daddy.”
“We- we sat at the shore,” you continue. You weren’t even sure if it was true or just desperation making you invent things now. “And we saw dragonflies. And you held my hand and told me about your day at work. It was… it was a good day, I think.”
“Mhm.” He inhaled sharply, and you heard fabric rustling again. “So close, bunny. Just a little longer. Daddy’s almost done. Oh, fuck.”
You clench around nothing as he curses, all breathy and needy.
“You.. we just kept sitting and talking. You, um, you kissed my cheek. And then you held me.”
The last word has barely left your mouth when a godless noise spills from his mouth.
“Fuck, bunny, yes. Yes, keep talking with that sweet voice of yours. Please, baby.”
“Daddy,” you whimper, your cunt pulsing now. “I don’t remember anything else. Just you and me at the water and the fishies and the dragonflies and—”
You’re interrupted by the deep, throaty moan that claws itself up from his chest only to fall from his lips like a tidal wave.
“Oh, fuck,” Jack gasps. “Yes. That’s my bunny.”
It’s quiet for a moment, only his heavy breathing and your needy little gasps as you rock into your hand, your hips moving almost involuntarily.
It always takes Jack a few seconds to catch his breath when he cums like that.
“Bunny?” he murmurs then.
“Yeah?” you whisper.
“Get that hand off your cunt right now. She’s mine. And I’m coming over right now to take good care of her.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
Summary: Jack came on too strong, so you broke up with him. But now you're left wondering…why did you end things with a man that you're actually totally in love with?
Warning: (MDNI 18+) ex's to lovers, angst, language, emotionally constipated reader (low key self sabotaging), love avoidance, fear of vulnerability, mentions of a miscarriage (not descriptive), alcohol, tipsy reader, feelings, mutual pining/yearning, steamy kissing, pet names, mentions of injury during car accident (not reader), teenagers causing grey hairs (driving under the influence), cool fun aunt vibes, hurt/comfort, mean girls movie references, sexual tension, more steamy and horny kissing, smidge dirty talk, fluffy/happy ending cause its me, loverboy!jack
A/N: This story is a love letter to all the aunties out there. I hope people enjoy <3 dividers by @saradika-graphics
Your colleagues were discussing the renovation timeline for the Carter residence. On your screen was the shared design board for their master suite, filled with images of tufted headboards, marble tile samples, and serene grey palettes. But the elegant visuals swam before your eyes. All you could see was the stark, antiseptic white of an examination room; all you could feel was the cold, metallic touch of stirrups against your heels.
"...and we really need to confirm the plumbing fixtures before the tile guy starts work in the ensuite," said Leo, your senior project manager. He tapped the table with his pen, directing his gaze down the line, and called out your name. "…you sourced those beautiful matte black shower sets. The client loved them, but the wife is now concerned about water spots. What's your take on the maintenance versus the aesthetic? Should we pivot to a brushed nickel?"
Your name was repeated, and Leo's voice cut through the fog. Everyone was looking at you.
"Sorry," you managed, your voice strangely thin. "Could you repeat the question?"
"Are you with us?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a note of professional impatience.
"Y-yes. Sorry. Just… a lot on my mind." You offered a weak smile that felt like it might crack your face.
The meeting droned on for another ten eternal minutes before it ended. You moved on autopilot, gathering your notebook and pen, your movements slow and heavy. You walked back to your cubicle and sank into your chair, the world feeling muffled and distant.
"Hey." It was Laura from the next desk over, leaning around the partition. A look of concern replaced her usual easy-going smile. "You okay? You looked like you were on another planet in there."
You opened your mouth to give the standard easy lie.
I'm fine. Just tired.
The words were right there, polished and ready. But they didn't come out. Instead, your throat closed. You stared at your computer monitor, the sleek black surface reflecting a version of you that looked terrible.
"I don't know," you whispered.
The confession hung there, and Laura's expression softened, but she didn't press. She just gave a slow nod, a silent offer of space.
You turned back to your screen, but it wasn't a file you saw.
You were sitting on the crinkling paper of the exam table, a thin gown over your lap. Dr. Montgomery was washing her hands at the sink, her back to you. You came in for the bleeding, the cramping that felt like a fist twisting inside you. Dr. Montgomery turned, her face a careful mask of professional compassion that did nothing to soften the blow.
"I know the bleeding was more than usual, and the pain concerned you," she said, her voice gentle. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The ultrasound was very clear. What you are experiencing... it's a miscarriage. Your body is passing a pregnancy. I'd estimate you were about six weeks along."
The words landed like a physical blow. The room tilted.
A pregnancy?
The concept was so foreign, so impossible, it simply bounced off the numb wall of your shock. You hadn't been trying. You hadn't even suspected. Your period was always irregular. The fatigue, the nausea you blamed on stress...
"But I'm on the pill," you heard yourself say, the words sharp and too loud in the quiet room. You looked up at Dr. Montgomery, searching her face for an answer, for a mistake. "I take it every day.. I don't... I don't know how this happened."
The statement hung there, less a question and more a plea for the world to make sense again.
"No form of contraception is one hundred percent effective, even with perfect use. It's rare, but it happens. The body can be unpredictable. That doesn't make it your fault."
"O-okay," you stuttered.
"I know you're probably in shock," Dr. Montgomery continued, watching your face. "It's a lot to process. Miscarriages, particularly this early, are far more common than people think. I have some numbers for you—for counseling, support groups. There's no right or wrong way to feel about this."
You stared at your hands, clenched in the thin material of the gown. A strange, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up. Feel? How were you supposed to feel about losing something you never knew you had? Grief felt like a costume that didn't fit, meant for someone else, for a planned nursery and broken dreams. Your reality was confusion, a dizzying void where a secret had been and was now just... gone.
"I don't... I don't know how I feel." The admission was pathetic, but it was the only truth you had. "I'm in shock."
Dr. Montgomery nodded. "That is all perfectly normal. Shock isn't just about sadness. It's about the entire system trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. There is no timeline for this. Be gentle with yourself." She handed you a printed sheet with numbers and websites, the paper crisp and impersonal in your trembling hand. "Go home if you can. Rest. Your body needs it. And your mind will catch up, in its own time."
The memory of this morning faded, replaced by the solid, unyielding reality of your desk. You took a long, shaky breath and turned back to your computer screen, where a 3D rendering of a client's living room waited. You mechanically clicked on the sectional sofa, adjusting the fabric swatch to a calming seafoam green. You typed notes into the project file with numb fingers: Client prefers matte finishes. Source organic linen for throw pillows. The words were fucking meaningless. The afternoon passed in a blur of fabric samples, paint codes, and vendor emails, each task a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of static.
At exactly 6 o'clock, you shut down your computer. The drive home was a series of autopilot turns and stops, the city passing by your car windows like a silent film. You pulled into your driveway, the familiar sight of your front door offering no comfort. You collected the mail from the box—a utility bill, a furniture catalog, a flyer for a pizza place. Inside, your house felt immense and heavy. You dropped the mail on the kitchen counter.
You walked into the living room and sank into the cushions, the fabric feeling strangely coarse against your skin. You pulled your phone from your bag, your thumb moving on its own to your messages. You typed a name at the top: Jack.
The cursor blinked in the empty text field, a tiny, demanding heartbeat.
Your fingers hovered over the screen, the words forming and dissolving in your mind like mist. How did you even fucking begin?
You typed, your movements stiff.
Jack. It's me.
You deleted it. Too formal. You weren't formal.
You tried again, the truth coming out in a blunt, clumsy rush.
I had a doctor's appointment today. I was pregnant. I didn't know. I'm not anymore. But, I thought you should know.
Your thumb hovered over the send button. The sentences sat there, black and brutal on the bright screen. Was this a text message kind of thing? Or a phone call? Was there an etiquette for informing your ex-boyfriend that you were pregnant with his kid and then oh oops, your body decided to play fucking Russian roulette on you.
You didn't send it, lowering the phone and the screen darkening as it rested on your thigh. Why would he want to hear from you? You had broken up with him a month ago, and you were pretending you were fine.
Jack wasn't like any guy you had ever dated before. He was a disruption to your entire design philosophy of love—a philosophy built on safe distances, and men who communicated in vague subtext and last-minute plans.
You met him through one of your clients. Dana was an ER nurse, tough as nails with a heart of gold, and you helped her turn her dated home into a functional, calming sanctuary after her brutal shifts. She threw a small get-together once you finished the interior design on her home. Jack was there, and he was one of her colleagues from the hospital. He was handsome in an intensely unfair way, with beautiful hazel eyes that missed nothing and a quiet steadiness that felt like an anchor in the noisy room. He found you by the window seat you designed for Dana and her husband, a cozy nook for them to decompress.
"Dana said her home finally feels like a place where the adrenaline can drain away," he'd said, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the usual party chatter. "That's a rare gift to give someone."
An hour later, Jack asked for your number, and his gaze was direct and unwavering. He called the next day. He took you to a quiet, unpretentious restaurant a couple days later. He was direct. No games. He listened, really listened, when you talked, and his questions were insightful. He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth when he dropped you off at home. Jack waited a respectful but not distant couple of dates before he took you back to his place.
That night, he fucked you in a way you'd never been fucked before. It wasn't just the sex (though that was transformative). It wasn't just his deep, purposeful strokes that seemed to reach something untouched inside you, and his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time. It was the way he took command of your pleasure. It was the way he worshipped your body with his mouth and hands. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to linger, leaving you utterly shattered and reassembled in his arms.
He asked you to be his girlfriend a week later. Was this how men in their 40's were? No slow burn, no months of "seeing where things go," just a decisive, full-throttle commitment? A month later, he bought you the exact expensive electric toothbrush model he used, in a different color, and it was already charging in his bathroom holder next to his. He didn't just give you a drawer at his house after 2 months; he cleared out an entire section of his walk-in closet, saying, "Hangers are better than a drawer. Things don't get wrinkled." After 3 months, he surprised you with a weekend at a rustic-but-luxurious cabin in the Laurel Highlands.
You were curled on the oversized leather sofa, the fire crackling, a blanket over your legs. Then he turned his head, his gaze finding yours in the flickering light.
"I love you," he said, the words leaving his lips as a simple, undeniable fact, like stating the time or the weather. Your heart didn't flutter; it seized. A cold, sharp panic shot through your veins, freezing the cozy warmth of the moment. Your smile felt stiff, plastered on.
I love you launched after a mere 12 weeks?
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You could see the exact moment he registered your panic—a slight tightening around his eyes, a microscopic shift in his posture.
So…you kissed him because you didn't know what to say—but you didn't say it back.
After returning to Pittsburgh, your panic made you pull away. You created distance with flimsy excuses about a crushing work deadline, about needing "headspace" to focus. You became short over text, cancelling plans at the last minute. One night, you started a fight over something trivial—and in your fear, you ended it. It somehow felt safer than confronting the terrifying, perfect weight of his love.
The words "I think we need to break up" tasted like shit in your mouth. "This is all going too fast for me. I'm… just not in the same place as you."
He didn't yell. He just went very still, his hazel eyes analyzing you.
"Okay," he said, his voice flat.
You broke up with the most substantial man you had ever known because his love felt too real, too fast, and you weren't sure you were built to handle it. The truth was you loved him too, and that was the most terrifying part of all. Because love, in your experience, was a prelude to loss. It was a vulnerability you couldn't afford. Letting him go now, while it was still early, was a mercy. For him, and for you. Staying would only mean watching him eventually see the real, flawed, frightened you—and then, he would inevitably leave. That was the unspoken script you knew by heart. So you took the pen and wrote the ending yourself, a tragic but controlled finale.
He would have been a good father, you suddenly thought.
You didn't even know if you wanted kids. The future had always been a vague, hazy concept you preferred not to examine too closely. In an instant, ugly sobs racked your body. You cried until your throat was scraped raw and your head throbbed. But the terrible truth was you didn't know what you were grieving. Was it the ghost of a child who would have had his calm eyes and your stubborn streak?
Or… were you simply, finally, grieving Jack?
You decided not to contact him.
Of course, the responsible thing to do after a secret, soul-crushing loss was to get blindingly drunk with your girlfriends days later. You laughed too loud, you danced with a frantic energy, and you still hadn't told a soul. By last call, the world had a pleasant, fuzzy edge. You ordered an Uber, fumbling with your phone. You were going to type in your address… but your fingers (traitorous and memory-laden) didn't type that. They typed in an address your heart knew by muscle memory: Jack's. It was a silly, drunk girl idea. He was probably at work. But a small, desperate part of you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he had a rare night off. You weren't falling-down drunk, but you were floating, untethered enough for grief and cheap vodka to steer the ship. That's why you had the dumb, beautiful, catastrophic idea to tell the driver to take you to him.
It was 2:07 am when the Uber pulled up to his familiar house. You stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against your skin, while you stared at his house. The liquid courage was rapidly souring into pure, cold terror.
What were you going to say?
You hesitated outside his door, and then finally rang his doorbell. When you didn’t see any lights turn on after a minute, you let your knuckles fall against the wood, three soft, uncertain taps. The silence on the other side stretched, long enough for you to start backing away. Then you heard the deadbolt turn.
The door opened, not all the way, just enough to reveal him. He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly mussed since he had clearly been fucking sleeping. His face shifted from mild, late-night annoyance to blank shock, then to something unreadable. His eyes scanned you quickly, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, your dress that was way too short, and the way you swayed just a fraction on your feet.
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. All the rehearsed lines, the drunken confessions, evaporated. You just stood there, exposed, waiting for him to shut the door. He didn't. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Are you drunk?"
A weak, defensive laugh escaped you. "I was," you joked, the words feeling hollow. "But I'm feeling pretty sober right now."
It was the truest thing you said all night. The sight of him, the reality of being here, had burned away the alcohol's haze. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, and he pulled you inside, your body stumbling across the threshold. You automatically toed off your heels, and he guided you, his hand now a steady pressure on your lower back, to the familiar couch. You sank into the cushions, the soft fabric smelling like him, like home. You watched him move to the kitchen, his back to you and the muscles in his shoulders tense. His gait was slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his step that you hadn't noticed earlier. You felt guilty since he had to put his prosthetic back on when he answered the door. He took a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then snatched one of those powdered electrolyte packets from a box on the counter. Jack ripped it open with his teeth, poured it in, and grabbed a butter knife to stir the powder.
He walked back over to you, holding the glass out.
"Here. It'll help with the hangover you're building."
"Thanks," you mumbled, the word slurring at the edges as you took the glass. Your fingers brushed his, and you fumbled, nearly dropping it. You took a gulp, and the flavor was aggressively artificial, a shock to your system. He finally sank into the armchair opposite you, the leather sighing under his weight. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, his fingers pressing into his closed eyes.
"Okay," he sighed, the word heavy with exhaustion. He dropped his hand and looked at you, his gaze clear and utterly drained. "Why are you here? And let's skip the part where you were just 'in the neighborhood.' or some bullshit."
You set the half-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft click, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. The words were there… so you forced them out.
"I just..." the words were thick and sticking in your dry throat. "I miss you, Jack."
He let out a short, humorless sound—a scoff that was more like a punch to the gut. He leaned back in the armchair, his expression not angry, but chillingly detached.
"You miss me," he repeated, analyzing the statement.
"Yes."
"You're drunk, and you're lonely. That's not missing me."
You flinched and stared at your hands. They twisted together in your lap, and you felt like you were unable to meet the ice in his gaze.
"I deserve that," you finally said. You wanted to tell him everything. But… the voice in your head was a familiar, cruel critic.
It hissed at you now, slick and poisonous.
Tell him about the miscarriage? It sneered. So he can do what? Console you about the baby you two accidentally created? That's what you want, isn't it? You want to drop this bomb so he has to catch you. You walked away from him, and now that you've failed at that too, you come crawling back to make it his problem. You don't get to use this pain as a key to unlock his kindness. You forfeited that right. You deserve the cold. You deserve to choke on the words you were too afraid to say when they actually mattered.
The voice was so loud, so convincing.
It painted your desperation as manipulation, your grief as a weapon. So you sat there, trapped in the suffocating silence. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, the war inside you rendering you utterly mute. He was waiting. You could see the question in his eyes, the last frayed thread of his patience. But… the words wouldn't come. The critic had won.
"I'll get my keys," he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. He stood up, the movement sharp. "Let me drive you home."
You took a shuddering breath, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling over.
"I know you don't want me here," you blurted out, a desperate, wet hiccup catching in your throat. You stood up and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "And I know that I don't really have the right to show up here."
"You don't…" he started, then stopped, correcting himself with a brutal honesty. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I can't handle you being here. There's a difference."
You swayed slightly on your feet, the emotional vertigo merging with the physical. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to hold the pieces together.
"I know. And I'm… God, Jack, I am so sorry. For how I ended things. For the way I did it." You swallowed hard, your apology feeling pathetic and small. "I got scared. I see something real, something good, and my first instinct is to run. I push people away before they can get close enough to really see me... or before I can disappoint them."
"Why?"
"Because the higher the high, the harder the fall…" you hugged yourself tighter, the room feeling both too large and too small. The answer was a miserable, well-worn truth you'd carried for years.
He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing your words.
“I know I’m not making any sense… but I don't miss you because I'm lonely or drunk," you paused, gathering the shattered pieces of your nerve, and the truth tumbled out—inaudible. "It's because I love you."
"What?" he asked.
A hysterical, fleeting thought crossed your mind: Of course he didn't hear it. The universe wouldn't let you be that brave. You looked at his frowning face, his eyes searching yours for the answer he missed. So, you took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul.
"I said," you repeated. "It's because I love you, Jack."
You watched the shock ripple across his face, and you closed the distance between you in three quick, unsteady steps. Your hands came up slowly, framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.
"You've been drinking. You don't know what you're saying."
"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick. "I know what I'm saying." You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his. For a few suspended seconds, he didn't pull away. Then, with a rough, shuddering sound that was half-surrender, half-agony, he kissed you back. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry claiming thing. A 1 month drought breaking in an instant. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, hauling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turned messy and hot. Your mouth opened under his, and the taste of him (familiar and devastating) unraveled you. A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat as you felt yourself get wet. His tongue swept against yours, blurring into a white-hot haze of sensation and want. You could feel the hard line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own.
But just as you were losing yourself in it, just as your hips pressed instinctively against his, he tore his mouth away. The kiss broke with a sharp, wet sound. Jack’s hands, which had been gripping your hips with bruising intensity a second before, came up and pressed firmly against your shoulders, creating a space between your bodies. His breath was coming in ragged pants, his lips swollen, eyes dark with a storm of desire.
"We can't... I can't do this," he said, the words strained.
"Why not?" you pleaded, the question a raw wound.
"Because when you left… you didn't just walk out the door. You took the sun with you. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have every color... drain out of your world?"
"Jack, I—"
"It’s not your fault," he interrupted, his voice softening into a weary rasp. "I know I came on too strong. I saw a future with you, and I just charged at it. I didn't stop to see if you were running beside me or if I was just dragging you along." He let out a short, humorless breath. "I'm sorry for that. Truly."
The apology was so unexpected and so utterly…Jack. It was a fucking knife twist.
"But…" your voice broke. "I love you. I want a future with you too."
"Sweetheart," he said, the old endearment slipping out, rough and achingly familiar. "You've been drinking."
"Ugh, stop saying that!" you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. “Don't you dare use it as an excuse to dismiss this! Dismiss me, fine. Tell me to go to hell, fine." You jabbed a finger in his direction, the movement jerky. "But don't you dare pretend that what I'm saying is bullshit!"
He rubbed a hand over his face, a slow, heavy drag from forehead to chin, as if trying to scrub away the entire night.
"I'm not saying it's bullshit necessarily." He didn't meet your fiery gaze, instead looking at a point on the floor near your feet. "But—"
"But what?" you pleaded, eyes glossy and slightly unfocused. They locked onto him with a fierce bleary intensity.
"I can't just switch the color back on with you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
A cold, hollow ache bloomed deep in your chest, spreading outwards until your fingers felt numb.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
The repetition of it echoed in the fuzzy chambers of your mind.
"I'll take you home." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture closing off. "Seriously, you need to get some sleep. Sober up." The instruction was quiet, devoid of malice, but it was a dismissal all the same. "This... this isn't a conversation for tonight."
"Don't bother," you said, your voice surprisingly steady, though it felt weak. "I'll get an Uber. I've... I've embarrassed myself enough for one night without needing a chauffeur to underscore the point."
"Hey—"
You ignored him, your focus entirely on confirming a ride. You blinked hard, as you shoved your feet back into your heels, your movements hurried and graceless.
"Seriously, I can drive you home," Jack said, his voice closer now, edged with a frustration that wasn't anger but something more helpless. You stood up as the confirmation chime from your phone sounded at the same time.
"Car's here," you stated, opening the door, not turning around, and already walking toward the curb.
He rushed out after you, the door swinging shut behind him. "Wait—" he started, but the bright headlights of a silver sedan swung around the corner. You didn't give him another chance and just pulled the car door open. slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed with a solid, muffled thunk.
Through the window, you saw Jack standing frozen on the sidewalk. The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a podcast playing softly, said your name to confirm the ride, and you nodded. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look back as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. The ache in your chest tightened into a hard, cold knot. The hum of the car, the murmur of the radio, it all felt miles away.
You let your head fall back against the seat, finally allowing the tears to fall silently, the passing streetlights painting fleeting stripes of gold across your closed, stinging eyes.
For weeks, a slow, quiet ache had taken up residence in Jack's chest, a persistent bleed he couldn't stop. He would remember you ending it and breaking his heart. And then… that night (your confession) it replayed on a loop.
I love you.
The problem wasn't the memory; it was the question that poisoned it. Had you meant it? Or was it just the whiskey talking?
It was 2:21 am and he was currently standing beside a gurney in a private bay, his focus entirely on the teenage girl before him. She had a deep, bleeding laceration on her forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise around her eye from the airbag. A cervical collar was in place as a precaution. School's out, he thought. The summer months always brought a specific, grim tempo to the OR. Teenagers with time on their hands and poor impulse control as their only guide.
"Just hold still for me," Jack said, his voice calm but firm as he examined the wound under the bright light. "This is going to need a few stitches to close properly. Dr. Ellis is going to get a CT scan to rule out a concussion."
Nearby, Ellis was reviewing the girl's chart on a tablet, nodding. "Ambulance report says she was alert and oriented at the scene. GCS 15. We'll get the scan for definitive clearance."
"Local anesthetic is drawn up, Dr. Abbot." Nazley was setting up a suture tray, laying out the sterile instruments.
"Have the parents been contacted?" Jack asked, not looking up from his work, his focus on the wound edges.
"Just got off the phone," Mateo said, hanging up the wall phone nearby. "Parents are out of town. She's staying with an aunt. The aunt is on her way in now, said she can be here in 15 minutes and gave verbal consent to proceed with whatever we need to do."
"You'll feel a little pinch and then some pressure," Jack injected the anesthetic around the edges of the laceration gently. "Your friend who was driving is getting an X-ray on his arm. We'll know more soon."
As if on cue, the curtain to the bay rustled aside. Shen and Crus walked in.
"Update on the driver. X-ray is back," Shen said with a tablet in his hand. "It's a confirmed, non-displaced fracture of the distal radius. A clean break. Ortho is with him now. He's stable and alert." Shen paused, his eyes locking onto Jack's, then flicking to the girl on the table. She was staring at the ceiling, a single tear falling through the grime on her temple. "But the tox screen came back. We found alcohol in his system."
Jack let out a soft, sharp tsk from between his teeth. He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line.
"Is he going to get in trouble?" the girl asked.
"Yes," Jack grunted. "But, if it's his first offense, he'll probably just lose his license for a year and get to pick up trash on the highway every Saturday. Community service is a real blast. Very scenic". Jack picked up the needle holder. "You'll feel the first stitch now." The first stitch went in with a precise, sharp tug. The girl's breath hissed between her teeth.
"I'm so gonna be grounded for, like, the rest of high school," she mumbled, the words thick with self-pity and the dawning reality of parental wrath.
"Being grounded implies there's a home to go back to," Jack said, as he placed another neat stitch. "It implies people give a shit about you. That's not the worst problem to have," He tied off the suture.
A faint, almost unwilling snort of watery laughter escaped the girl.
"Look at it this way," he continued, his voice taking on a darkly pragmatic, almost amused edge. "You weren't driving. So, technically, you're having a significantly better night than your friend. He gets a cast, a court date, and a lifelong lesson in poor decision-making." Jack placed another stitch. "You get a cool scar and a thrilling story you can maybe embellish later, and a very, very long lecture from your aunt—and later your parents—about picking better friends. You're looking at a few weeks without your phone. Maybe a few extra chores. It's a better deal. Trust me."
"A scar?" the patient blurted out, her voice rising an octave. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Jack let out a slow, patient breath. He finished the stitch he was working on and then deliberately set his tools down on the tray.
"Look at me. Breathe." He waited for a beat until her wild eyes focused on his. "It's not forever. I'm using the finest sutures we have. With proper care—keeping it clean and using the ointment we'll give you—this is going to fade. In a few months, it'll be a faint line. In a year, you'll have to squint to see it." He made eye contact, holding her gaze. "Now, the stiller you hold, the straighter and smaller this temporary mark will be. Deal?"
She stared at him, her panicked breaths beginning to slow, hitching on a sob that was more relief than fear. She gave a tiny, jerky nod.
"Deal," she smiled, and then squinted her eyes. "You look familiar."
"I do?" Jack blinked, his brow furrowing just a touch.
"Yeah."
"I don't think we've met. I'd remember. I'm pretty good with faces."
Suddenly a voice from the hallway outside the curtained bay was muffled but unmistakable—a nurse's firm, professional baritone trying to block someone. "Ma'am, you can't just—" Then, came a second voice. Sharper. Panicked. And it shouted the girl's full, legal name. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and suddenly stripped of all professional detachment, locked onto the curtain. Every muscle in his body went rigid because he recognized the voice.
"What the fuck," he breathed. He was already turning, his stool scraping back violently on the floor as he stood up. The commotion outside intensified. The nurse's voice grew more insistent.
"Ma'am, I need you to wait in the family area. The doctors are with her now." But the other voice, rose above it, raw and frayed at the edges with a terror. "That's my niece! She's a minor, let me see her!"
Jack's hand shot out and yanked the faded blue privacy curtain.
And there you were.
Your gaze, locked on the arguing nurse, snapped toward the sudden movement. It swept past the opening curtain, past the medical bay, and landed directly on him.
"Jack?"
Then, from behind Jack, a small, shaky voice pierced the stillness. "Auntie?"
Both of your heads turned in unison toward the bed.
"I can explain," she whispered, the words trembling.
After Jack confirmed your niece was fine and finished her stitches… the adrenaline that had been holding you together drained away all at once. In its place, a cold, sharp fury ignited in your chest, so sudden and intense it stole your breath. The fear was gone. Now, you were just pissed the fuck off. Especially when you noticed that your niece wasn't in the oversized, comfortable sweatshirt and pajama pants she had left your house in. She was wearing a black, sheer-mesh top over a tight, silver bralette, and impossibly short denim skirt. The outfit screamed "party," not "sleepover at Hannah's house."
"You said you were going to a sleepover," you stated, each word precise and icy. "You lied to me to go to some party, get drunk, and God knows what else!"
"Her tox screen came back clean, actually," Ellis muttered.
"Shut up," Jack mouthed at Ellis.
"What are you wearing?" you gestured sharply at her, your hand slicing through the air toward her outfit.
"It's just clothes! Everyone dresses like this!" she defended.
You leaned a hip against the bed rail, crossing your arms.
"Uh-huh. Sure. It's very scholarly." You let the silence hang for a beat, your eyes not leaving hers. "Who's it for?"
Your niece's mouth opened, then closed. She looked from you to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. "What? No one. It's not for anyone."
"Honey, I know the look," you growled. "I invented the look! I wore a skirt shorter than that in 2008 for the captain of the hockey team. I froze my ass off that night. So, I know the 'I'm trying to catch a specific person's eye' outfit when I see it."
Your niece stared at you, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her defensive pout at the oddly specific memory. Mateo let out a low, amused chuckle from his spot by the monitors. Jack's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, warning glare.
Keep it the fuck professional
He held her gaze until Mateo gave a slight, chastised nod, the smirk vanishing from his face as he turned back to her charts with exaggerated focus.
"He's... he's not an athlete," you heard your niece say.
You raised a single eyebrow, your expression shifting to one of dramatic, knowing suspicion.
"Oh. I see." You leaned back, tapping a finger against your chin. "Not an athlete. So…the plot thickens. Let me guess... the brooding artist type? Smells like cigarettes?"
"He's a musician," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.
"A musician!" you declared. "He's a singer?"
"He... he plays guitar," she rolled her eyes.
"Ah! A guitarist!" you announced, throwing your hands up as if she'd just revealed a profound truth. "Of course! Slightly better than a bassist, marginally worse than a drummer."
Shen choked slightly on his coffee, a laugh muffled into his fist. Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and despite his stern demeanor… his lips twitched slightly at the corners. He was always so attracted to the fact that you could use sarcasm and humor even during the most serious of situations.
"Okay, I get it!" your niece snapped. The tears were gone, burned away by a surge of defensive anger. She glared at you. "I messed up. You've made your point. No need to be so over the top about this. You're being so dramatic!"
Jack, sensing the nuclear family drama reaching critical mass, cleared his throat softly.
"You know, we're just gonna step out for a minute," Jack said, voice calm and diplomatic. "Let you two... do your thing." You gave Jack a single, curt nod. He gathered a chart from the counter and motioned for everyone in the room to leave. They clearly wanted to stay and watch the fight, but he wanted to give you some privacy. He was the last one out, but as Jack reached the doorway, he paused. His hand rested on the frame, and he turned back.
"You're lucky to have an aunt who loves and cares about you this much," he said, his words directed at your niece, but his eyes were already shifting— his focus landing squarely on you. You hadn't seen him since that fucking embarrassing night when you made a fool of yourself.
"She seems like a good kid," he said. Then, he let the door click softly shut behind him, leaving you both alone.
The silence that followed was thick.
"Dramatic?" you repeated, taking a deliberate step closer to the bed. Your eyes locked on hers, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty replace her anger. "You think this," you said, your voice trembling now not with suppressed laughter but with unraveling fear, "is me being dramatic?" You leaned in, your face now just inches from hers. "I got a phone call from the hospital at 2 fucking am telling me that you got into a car accident with a random guy. I drove here not knowing if you were conscious. I'm not your legal guardian, so they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. 'Are you family?' 'I'm her aunt.' 'Are you listed as an emergency contact?' 'No, but—' 'We can only release information to parents or legal guardians.' Well, guess what? Her parents are 2 thousand miles away right now. So what can you tell me? The person who is fucking here!"
Her lower lip trembled.
"Why did you get into that car with that boy? You're smarter than that. I know you are. And why, for the love of god, didn't you call me? I have always told you, the one rule, the only rule that matters, is that if you're ever in a bind, you call me. No questions asked. No judgment. Just... call. And I'll come. I'll always come."
"I was going too," she swallowed hard. "The truth was… he seemed perfectly fine. He was laughing, he was walking straight, he was making sense. Everyone was saying I was overreacting, that he was just buzzed. And I started to feel… lame and stupid for worrying."
You sank slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside her bed, your shoulders slumping. Reaching out, you took one of her hands in both of yours, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles.
"Look," you began, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I know you and your friends see me as the cool, fun aunt who doesn't snitch about their secret tattoos, piercings, and relationships. And… I mean, I would be lying if I said that I didn't do my share of monumentally stupid shit in high school. I did." You looked up, meeting her watery gaze directly, your expression deadly serious. "But I never, ever got into a car with someone if I even suspected they had a sip of alcohol. Not once. That wasn't a rule from my parents. That was a rule I made for myself."
She nodded.
"Come here, you little shit," you murmured.
She didn't hesitate and buried her face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt, and you pressed a kiss to her temple.
"You scared the living hell out of me," you whispered into her hair.
"I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I'm sorry. Really."
Finally, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"So," she said, her voice still a little wobbly. "That's the guy you were dating?"
"Yeah. That's him," you busied yourself smoothing down her rumpled hospital gown. "How did you know?"
She gave a small, knowing shrug. "Saw his badge. And... I recognized him from the picture you sent me."
A slow, reluctant smile touched your lips as the memory surfaced—the empty cartons of Chinese food, the truly awful monster movie roaring on the TV, and Jack, snoring softly on your couch before the credits even rolled. You had taken a picture of him (he didn't know), and you sent it to her as a secret, a piece of your private world.
Might bring this one around soon… you had texted her.
But… that never happened.
"He's really funny and nice, Auntie," she said softly, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillow. "I like him. Do you think you'll get back together?"
"I don't know." The ache in your chest was sudden and sharp, a physical tightness that made your next breath feel shallow. You couldn't talk about Jack, so you changed the subject.
"So. This boy. The one who caused all the… excitement," you rolled your eyes. "What's this stupid boy's name, anyway?"
Her face instantly transformed, the previous softness replaced by a vibrant, eager light. She leaned forward, wincing only slightly. "Tyler," she said, the name bursting from her with giddy energy. "His name is Tyler. And he…" she bit her lip, "...he kissed me tonight," she finished in a rushed, breathless whisper.
You stared at her. The dreamy look in her eyes—it was a mirror. A perfect, agonizing reflection of your own younger 16 year old self, diving headfirst into infatuation with a charming smile and zero forethought. Falling for some boy who wasn't exactly the best influence. The kind of kid who'd drink and drive.
"Tyler, huh? Well, I'm sure when your Mom and Dad hear about this, their first thought will be, 'We must invite this fine young gentleman for dinner!'"
You watched the horror solidify on her face from your sarcastic comment. The giddy afterglow of the kiss was gone, completely incinerated by the cold blast of consequence. And, honestly, there was no way your brother would be into wanting to meet this kid. There's no way he would be fine with his daughter having a crush on the kid who caused her to get hurt.
"Which reminds me… let's give them a call." You stood up, the chair screeching back, and pulled out your phone. Your thumb found her mom's contact. You hit dial. It rang once, twice.
"Hello…?" Your sister-in-law's voice was tiny through the speaker, laced with confusion and a hint of sleep. You felt bad because they were on a long-overdue romantic getaway vacation in Belize while your niece was staying with you. "Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"
You closed your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Um…"
You were jabbing at the button for the salt and vinegar chips. The machine whirred, clunked, and nothing happened. You sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool glass.
"Stupid piece of…" you muttered, giving the machine a half-hearted kick with the toe of your shoe.
"Pro tip: the one on the third floor by psych only takes exact change, but it always delivers. This one's a heartless bastard. I think it enjoys watching the suffering," a familiar voice said from behind you.
You turned. Jack was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, looking amused. He pushed off and walked over.
"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode. "We got the scans back. She doesn't have a concussion."
"Oh. Good. That's… really good," you managed, the words feeling inadequate.
"It is," Jack agreed. "But we're gonna keep her overnight. Just in case. Standard protocol."
"Yeah," you said, a weak, humorless laugh escaping you. "Her parents are gonna love that medical bill. 'Happy Anniversary' to them.
"You should go home," he said gently. "You look exhausted."
"Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor? Or your way of saying I look like shit when I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"
"You never look like shit," he insisted, and his voice was completely serious.
"I'm too wired to go home," you admitted and then wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll just… crash in the waiting room once I feel tired."
Jack studied your face for a long moment.
"I can get a cot brought into her room, so that you sleep in there with her," he reassured. He knew how much your niece meant to you, and he knew how scared you must have been tonight.
"Really?" you asked, the word coming out small and hopeful, betraying how much the idea of leaving her alone terrified you. "I thought no overnight guests were allowed in the rooms?"
"Fuck that. I'll put the order in. It'll be there in twenty minutes."
Your vision was suddenly completely blurry.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything's okay. She's safe. The scary part is over."
He didn't ask. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.
And you broke. The dam holding back the night's terror and relief and sheer fucking overwhelming responsibility finally shattered. You stepped into the hug, burying your face against his scrubs, and the tears came hard. After a minute, the storm passed. You pulled back, sniffling wetly, your face a mess. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over you.
"Sorry," you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm getting snot all over your scrubs."
"They've seen worse than your snot, trust me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled packet of tissues, offering it to you. "Here."
You dabbed clumsily at your eyes, then your nose. A few strands of your hair, damp with tears, were stuck to your cheek. As you sniffled, Jack's hand came up again; he gently brushed the wet hair away from your skin, his fingertips tracing a soft path from your temple to behind your ear.
The harsh fluorescent light caught the subtle flecks of emerald and moss in his irises.
You took a half-step back, breaking the gentle contact. "I'm… I'm sorry I ambushed you that night. It was fucked up." He opened his mouth, likely to offer one of his easy dismissals, but you cut him off, "No, seriously. It was. I was a mess, and I dumped it all on you." You swallowed hard, holding his beautiful, concerned gaze. "But I really did mean what I said. Every word of it."
His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.
You looked down at your hands, twisting the now-soggy tissue. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "And there's… there's another reason I came over that night."
"What reason?" His brow furrowed.
"I had a miscarriage," you forced yourself to meet his eyes again, the hazel green now seeming like a deep, troubled sea. "…the week before. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the OB-GYN told me," you let out a gasp that bordered on a sob. "And I'm realizing I'm probably saying this at the worst possible fucking time, with my niece in a hospital bed down the hall, and…" you gestured vaguely at your own tear-stained face, at the whole chaotic scene.
"Why didn't you tell me the day you found out?" he swallowed hard, as if fighting down a wave of nausea. The thought of you alone, carrying that secret and that pain while he sat across from you that night (fucking oblivious) made his stomach clench violently. "I would have… God," He cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing gently against your cheekbone. "I would have… I would have been there. Properly."
"I-I don't know," you choked out. "I guess… I guess I was punishing myself."
His expression shattered.
"I wish you hadn't done that", he pulled you tight against his chest, as if he could physically pull the lingering pain out of you and into himself. He couldn't stop his tears from falling and getting lost in your hair when you kept apologizing—he begged you to stop. Then, his lips pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. He held the contact for a long, trembling moment before he reluctantly eased back.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, the words gruff, almost desperate. His thumb stroked your cheek, a shaky, repetitive motion as if to soothe himself as much as you. Jack realized he could have been a father (if you had chosen to keep the child) and that was something he was still processing. "Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need anything?"
"I'm okay. Really. I'm doing better now. It was just... super hormonal at first. A real shitstorm of feelings. Questioning my fertility, you know, all the fun fucking stuff." You tried to inject a note of dark humor into your voice.
"Listen to me," his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "A miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you. It is not a verdict on your body or your future."
"Can't you tell I'm great at catastrophizing?" you joked. "Gold medalist, right here. I’m great at taking a situation and immediately spiraling it into the worst possible, most permanent outcome. It's a real talent.”
"You can't live your life like that," he shot back. "You can't let the fear of what might happen dictate everything. It's a fucking prison."
"Logically, I know you're right. But knowing something in my head and... and feeling it in the pit of my stomach are two very completely different things."
"You're the smartest person I know, and you're telling me your stomach's outvoting your brain?" he teased.
"Apparently," you sighed dramatically. After more conversation, he couldn't seem to let go of the concern lingering in his eyes. He kept checking in on you, softly asking if you wanted to sit down or just be held. Each time, you reassured him and insisted you were fine—you promised him that you had processed it, and felt like you were finally moving forward. Despite your words, he still reached for you again and again, pulling you into comforting hugs.
Just then, Shen’s voice cut through the hallway.
"Yo, Abbot! Incoming. One critical head injury, possible spinal. They're rolling in now."
Jack's head snapped toward the sound. Shen stood a few yards away, a chart in hand, his brow furrowed in clear, blatant confusion as he took in the intimate scene of Jack's hands on you. A war flashed across Jack's features—duty versus need.
With a ragged sigh, he turned back to you to lean in and press a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Fuck—I gotta go," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.
"It's okay," you reached out to gently squeeze his arm.
"Go sleep. Please," he begged, nudging his nose against yours.
"You got it, Doc."
Jack stood on the front step of your townhouse, his finger having just left the doorbell. It had been 2 days since he'd discharged your niece, handing you a prescription and a stern look, telling you to keep him updated. The texts that followed had been brief—your updates on her pain level and him checking in. So here he was making an excuse about examining your niece's stitches that felt flimsy even to him. He shifted his weight nervously. In his hand was a modest, cheerful bouquet of sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.
Your niece looked up at him when she answered the door, her small face marked by the healing sutures on her forehead and the large bruise beneath her eye. She recognized him immediately, her eyes widening just a fraction.
"Dr. Abbot," she stated.
He crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level, the flowers rustling slightly in his grasp.
"You can call me Jack," he said, his tone warm but measured. His eyes, however, were already moving in a clinical sweep—assessing her forehead, the color and swelling of the bruise, and the alertness in her gaze. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay." She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked both innocent and strangely mature. "But my parents are due back tomorrow from their vacation. They cut their trip short, so I'm preparing for a lecture that will last until I graduate college and a probable ban on anything fun."
Jack's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, the parental debrief. A tough crowd."
"Are those for my aunt?" she pointed at the bouquet in his hand.
They are actually for you," he said, offering them to her.
"Thank you."
She took the offered bouquet carefully, bringing the bright blooms to her nose for a tentative sniff. A small, pleased smile touched her lips before she looked back up at him.
"She's taking a shower," she announced, as if revealing a minor secret. "But you can come inside. It's fine."
Your niece stepped back, holding the door open wider for him. Jack rose from his crouch and crossed the threshold, the familiar, faint scent of your townhouse—something subtly sweet, like your perfume he loved so much—washing over him. He followed your niece, watching as she went straight to the kitchen counter. She pulled a simple glass vase from a lower cabinet, filled it at the sink with a focus that made him smile, and carefully arranged the sunflowers and daisies. She placed the vase in the center of the dining table with a satisfied nod.
Turning back to him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "Would you like some water?" she offered, her tone impeccably formal.
"Sure," he chuckled. "I'd love some water. Thank you."
She nodded and turned to get a glass, her small frame moving with purpose. As she carefully filled it from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
"You know," she said, her voice casual but her eyes sly, "I didn't realize doctors still made house calls."
Jack leaned a hip against the counter, accepting the water she handed to him with a grateful nod. The comment was playful, but also perceptive. Had you told her about him? Or was he just 'Dr. Abbot' (who happened to have a concerningly detailed knowledge of your preferred takeout order) that signed off on those discharge papers the other day.
"They usually don't," he acknowledged, taking a sip. "But this is a special exception."
She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter.
"Right. Special exception." She drew out the words just a little.
Just then, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Your voice, slightly raised with exasperation, floated into the room before you did. "What the fuck? Are you talking on your god damn phone? You're in deep shit, remember? I told you, and your parents told you no phone—"
You appeared in the archway to the living room, and the words died in your throat. Jack's gaze snapped to you. You were standing there, a bath towel wrapped securely around your body from chest to mid-thigh. The towel was modest, but it outlined the shape of your breasts and hugged the dip of your waist. Beads of water trailed down your collarbone. He knew exactly where they were heading, knew the taste of your skin there. His mouth went dry despite the water in his hand.
"Jack," you said, your voice a mix of surprise and something softer. You adjusted the towel at your chest, a reflexive, self-conscious gesture that made his stomach tighten. "I—uh—didn't know you were here."
He cleared his throat, setting the water glass down on the counter.
"House call," he smiled toward your niece, who was watching the exchange with keen interest. "Checking in. She passed with flying colors."
"Good to know," you answered.
"Well, since my warden has descended," your niece said, motioning toward you, "For my last supper, we were gonna order some sushi and re-watch the OG Mean Girls. You should join us, Jack."
"Oh, I think Jack," you shifted on your feet, the towel feeling suddenly very small. "—I mean, Dr. Abbot—has better things to do," you said quickly, your voice a little too high.
Jack's eyes never left yours. He caught your nervous energy. He wanted to chase it.
"I would love to," he said. "If that's okay with your aunt."
The direct question, asked in front of her, pinned you. You swallowed, then gave a small, almost nod. "Sure. That sounds... nice. Let me just go get changed."
You turned to head back upstairs. A knowing smirk played on your niece's lips as she looked directly at Jack once she heard your bedroom door close.
"By the way. I totally love that necklace you got my aunt. Her birth month constellation necklace," she winked at him.
Jack felt a hot, sharp thrill cut through the awkwardness.
So she knew.
You could not believe that Jack had never seen Mean Girls before.
The sushi was spread out on the coffee table, and Mean Girls was queued up. Your niece had claimed the middle cushion of the sofa, forcing you to sit on one side and Jack on the other. She was the buffer, but she also felt more like a chaperone. As the movie played on, the initial awkwardness began to melt into something warmer, more comfortable. Jack found himself asking questions, genuinely engaged. You'd explain a nuance, and your niece would jump in with a modern example, creating a running commentary. Jack's arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind your niece. His fingers, however, were just close enough that the very tips occasionally brushed against the sleeve of your sweater where it lay over the sofa back.
When Aaron Samuels asked what day it was, your niece chimed in perfectly on cue with, "It’s October 3rd," A few scenes later, during the infamous "She doesn't even go here!" rant, Jack let out a genuine chuckle, shaking his head. During a lull in the action, Jack leaned forward slightly to look past your niece at you. He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, then asked, his tone one of genuine, baffled curiosity.
"So," he began, "is this… is this really what high school is like for a teenage girl? The… the burn books, the war over a guy, the relentless social calculus?"
You and your niece turned your heads in perfect unison, locking eyes with him. There was a beat of silent understanding between the two of you, a shared female exasperation that spanned generations. Then, in perfect harmony, you both deadpanned:
"Yes."
The simplicity and synchronicity of your answer made Jack lean back, a look of mock defeat on his face.
"Jesus. I'm suddenly very glad I was a teenage boy."
As the credits began to roll after the final "Junior Plastics" scene (where Cady jokingly imagined them being hit by a school bus), your niece let out a contented sigh.
"That," she declared, grabbing the last piece of spicy tuna roll, "never gets old." She stood up, gathering empty plates. "I'm gonna go load the dishwasher and then go to bed. Thanks for joining us, Jack."
"My pleasure," Jack replied. He meant it. The normalcy of it, the domestic bubble of takeout and a movie, was a stark, soothing contrast to the chaos of the ER. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade tension in his shoulders had eased. He was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.
"Hey, Auntie," your niece paused in the doorway to the kitchen with the plates, "I'm sorry you've had to take time off from work to look after me. Or, shall I say, be on house arrest with me."
"Dude, stop. I needed this,” you offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Seriously. It's been kinda nice just... relaxing at home. No commute, no deadlines. I'm honestly just going to take the rest of the week off even though your parents come back tomorrow."
"Oh, so basically," she said, her tone dripping with mock insight, "if my 'accident' hadn't happened, you wouldn't be enjoying this lovely little 'time off' right now. Is that the story we're going with my parents?"
"Nice try," you let out a short, genuine laugh. "Now go load the dishwasher."
She glanced between you and Jack, her smirk returning. "Anyway, I'm beat. Don't stay up too late talking about…" with a final, knowing wiggle of her eyebrows, "….whatever."
You rolled your eyes.
"Love you, goodnight!" she sing-songed.
"Love you more. Goodnight!" you chirped back.
Both of you heard her loading the dishwasher, and then her footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the sound of your guestroom door closing. The sudden absence of her bubbly commentary left a thick, intimate silence in the living room. You heard the low hum of the dishwasher beginning its cycle in the kitchen and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart in your ears. You could feel the heat of Jack's body from across the space your niece had occupied. His arm was still resting on the back of the couch.
He didn't move it. Instead, he turned his head to look at you.
"She's something else," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He shifted then, just slightly, turning his body towards you. The movement brought his knee within an inch of touching yours on the cushion. His gaze dropped to your throat, to the constellation necklace he bought you, then back up to your eyes.
You smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "I'm sort of obsessed with her.”
"You're great with her. It's obvious that you're a big part of her life. I loved seeing you two together tonight." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tension tightening the line of his jaw. "I guess... before, it never felt like you wanted me to meet her even though I knew how important she was to you."
Jack had always known you were close to your family—how you'd often talked about your niece with an excitement that made it clear she was a central part of your world. He remembered you explaining that you and your brother had a 10 year age difference, and that you'd barley been in high school yourself when your niece was born. While you could technically be her mother, your niece clearly saw you as a big sister.
"I didn't," you confessed with a pained expression, "because I knew if she met you, she'd get attached to you."
"And that's a bad thing?" he frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"No," you cut in softly, shaking your head. "It's just…remember, I'm really good at catastrophizing."
You knew all too well how kids could latch onto someone they cared about, especially when it came to someone their family was involved with. You remembered how she had been so visibly upset when your last serious relationship ended—how her small face had crumpled with sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.
Jack exhaled slowly. "You can catastrophize all the scenarios you want. Hell, you can build a hundred endings in your head." He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on your own knee. His fingers slid between yours, lacing them together with a firm, possessive grip. "But I'm not going anywhere."
The tight coil of anxiety that had lived in your chest since you met him began (hesitantly) to unwind.
"Okay," you whispered, turning your hand in his, and pressing your palm more fully against his.
His other hand went to the delicate constellation necklace at your throat. His touch was startlingly gentle as he hooked a single finger under the chain. He tugged, just enough to pull it away from your skin for a moment before letting it fall against your collarbone.
"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on the point of contact. "No work for you for the rest of the week?"
"Nope."
He dragged his finger along the chain, tracing its path across your skin, the pad of his finger brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat. A shiver you couldn't suppress raced down your spine. He felt it; a faint, satisfied smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "In an interesting turn of events, I happen to be off for the next couple of days, too." His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up, holding you completely captive.
"Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?" he asked, yanking you over to straddle his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, looking up at you with heart eyes.
You nodded deliriously.
"That is so fetch," he said with an utterly disarming perfect grin.
A snort escaped you, followed by a full-bodied, helpless laugh that shook your entire frame against his. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, his own laughter mingling with yours.
"Fetch, huh?" you murmured.
"Trying to make it happen," he breathed back, his gaze dropping to your lips.
And then he was kissing you. It started soft, a sweet, lingering press of his mouth against yours. But then the kiss deepened, turning hungry and consuming. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head just so, while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, arching you against him. You could feel the hard, eager length of him straining against his jeans, which was a thrilling pressure right where you needed it the most. A low, desperate sound escaped you, vibrating into his mouth. Your own hands were frantic, sliding under his shirt to feel the hot, smooth skin of his back, your nails scraping lightly down his spine. He groaned, the sound raw and needy, and his tongue sweeping against yours in a deep claiming rhythm that made your head spin. The kiss turned messy, wet, and perfectly frantic. Jack broke from your lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat, sucking a mark high on your collarbone that you know would bruise.
"We can't," you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears. The rational part of your brain screamed about the teenager upstairs, the squeaky couch springs, and the sheer insanity of this. But that part was drowned out by the roaring in your blood, by the feel of his hard cock against you, and by the desperate, primal look in his eyes.
"We're not," he countered, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through your chest. But his actions betrayed him. His hips arched up, grinding against you in a slow, torturous rhythm that drove a ragged gasp from your throat. "We're just kissing."
A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short as his mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin.
"This type of kissing is a felony in several states," you managed to say.
"Only the boring states," he murmured against your skin, his tongue soothing the slight sting. He shifted, one hand sliding to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip. The position opened you up to him completely, the thin barriers of clothing now feeling utterly, agonizingly insufficient. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, and he captured the sound with his mouth. After a few more kisses, you pulled back just enough to see his eyes. They were closed, his long lashes dark against his skin. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and like he was holding onto his last shred of sanity by his fingernails. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart where your chest was pressed to his.
"What should I wear on our date?"
His eyes fluttered open. The want was still there, a banked fire, but it was tempered now by a dawning, rueful awareness of your niece upstairs. His thumb stroked a gentle arc over the bare skin of your thigh where his hand still rested.
"Preferably nothing," he said with a playful edge.
You snickered, shoving lightly at his shoulder, though you made no move to dislodge his hand or your leg from his hip. "Charming. I was thinking more along the lines of that little black dress you always pretend not to stare at."
"I don't pretend," he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening. "I stare openly and with great appreciation. It's the polite thing to do."
You tilted your head. "Well, my boyfriend always did have excellent taste in what I wear… and I love him very much."
His heart slammed against his ribs, a wild, dizzying rush flooding his chest. You said it the other night when you were tipsy, but this… this was different. This was real. This was you, clear-eyed and deliberate, calling him yours and saying you loved him. The happiness that swelled inside him was almost too much to contain, a bright, aching pressure behind his sternum that made his throat tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, the heat of your skin grounding him as he fought to keep his expression from cracking wide open.
"Oh, you do?" A slow, disbelieving smile curved his mouth.
"I do," you answered.
Jack's hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. "Careful with that kind of talk," he grunted. "A man might start getting ideas."
"What kind of ideas?"
Jack's grin turned wicked. "The kind where I peel that little black dress off you with my teeth as soon as I pick you up for our date tomorrow."
You shivered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Jack…"
"Seems you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," he teased, voice thick with promise. "When I can make good on every filthy thought running through my head right now." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And when I can tell you properly that I love you, more."
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for your old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect to the hands he holds down, and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, placing a bruising kiss on your lips as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
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SUMMARY: It is no secret that Jack thinks the absolute world of you and your beautiful daughter, Juliet. You’ve been trying to plan a sleepover for the longest time to integrate Jack more into Juliet’s life, but his night shift schedule makes this near enough impossible. But, when you take a nasty hit at work, Jack is there to make sure you’re well looked after for the night, bringing about the sleepover in a way you didn’t quite expect.
NOTES: Aggressive patient, physical injury (head trauma), medical settings, writer doesn’t know medical terms but is trying her best, mild worry over childcare, implied single mother reader, established relationship, existing relationship between Juliet + Jack but not to point of him moving in etc.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
It had happened in a split second during a frantic influx of patients from a multi-car pile-up on the bridge. A disoriented, highly combative patient had panicked, thrashing wildly as you tried to secure him to the gurney. His arm had swung out with terrifying, desperate force, catching you squarely across the jaw and sending you stumbling backward into a heavy metal crash cart.
The impact of the steel against your back was painful, but it was the sharp, sickening crack of your head whipping against the corner of the monitor mount that ended your shift. The world tilted violently on its axis, a loud, high-pitched ringing filling your ears as your knees buckled and your vision splintered into static.
When you finally opened your eyes, the frantic noise of the trauma bay had been replaced by the quiet, steady hum of an observation room. The lights had been dimmed to a merciful, soft glow, but even that felt like needles pressing into your brain.
The thudding behind your temples was monumental, a heavy, sickening pulse that made you close your eyes again with a soft, miserable whimper. Almost immediately, a warm, calloused hand slipped into yours, squeezing gently. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know who it was; Jack’s touch was instantly recognisable.
"Hey, easy now. Don't try to sit up just yet," Jack murmured, his voice incredibly quiet and gentle. He leaned closer to the bed, his free hand reaching up to carefully brush a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead, mindful of the heavy, throbbing bruise forming near your hairline.
"Jack..." you whispered, your throat feeling dry and scratchy as you struggled to focus on his face. "What happened? Everything hurts."
"You took a really nasty hit, sweetheart," Jack explained softly, his thumb tracing soothing circles over the back of your hand. "A patient clipped you, and you hit your head on the crash cart. Javadi checked you over, and you've got a pretty significant concussion."
You groaned, trying to shift your weight, but a wave of nausea washed over you. "I need to get up. My shift—"
"Your shift is over, nurse," Jack interrupted with a warm, teasing smile, though his eyes remained deeply concerned. "Robby wants you to stay here for observation for at least twelve hours, just to be absolutely sure there's no delayed swelling. You're strictly off-duty."
The word observation hit you like a bucket of ice water, instantly slicing through the thick, pain-filled fog of your brain. Your heart rate spiked, the monitor beside the bed letting out a series of rapid, high-pitched beeps that made Jack's brow furrow in concern.
You tried to push yourself up on your elbows, panic rising in your chest. "No, no, I can't stay! Jack, I have to go. Juliet finishes at the after-school club in less than an hour. I need to pick her up. Jack, I can't just leave her there!"
"Hey, look at me. Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe," Jack coaxed, his hand moving to your shoulder, applying a firm but incredibly tender pressure to keep you still. "Don't work yourself up. You're going to make your head hurt worse."
"You don't understand, she'll be so scared if I'm not the one at the gates," you pleaded, tears of frustration and pain leaking from the corners of your eyes. "I don't have anyone else to call. Maybe the neighbour, but she works late, and—"
"Hey, stop. Take a breath for me," Jack cut in softly, squeezing your hand tight. He leaned in close, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, avoiding the bruise. "Do you really think I'd let Jules sit there worrying? Or let you stress yourself into a migraine?"
You stared up at him, your vision slightly blurry. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going to go pick her up," Jack said, his voice steady, carrying an absolute certainty that immediately made the tight knot in your chest loosen. "I'll drive over right now, collect her from the club, and bring her back here."
"But... your shift tonight?" you whispered, looking at him in confusion. "You can't just leave, Jack. It's chaos out there."
"I've already spoken to the Chief, and I'm taking the night off. My leg's been giving me a bit of grief anyway, so they were happy to let me off," Jack lied smoothly, giving you a reassuring wink. "Besides, looking after my girl and our little Jules is much more important than this ER."
The words ‘our little Jules’ made your heart swell with a warmth that completely eclipsed the dull ache in your head. For the past few weeks, the two of you had been tentatively discussing the idea of trial sleepovers, taking the slow, careful steps toward moving in together and truly becoming a family.
"Are you sure?" you asked, your voice cracking with emotion. "She can be a bit of a handful when she's tired, Jack. And she might be confused seeing you instead of me."
"I'm absolutely sure," Jack promised, offering you a bright, confident smile. "Jules and I are best friends, remember? She loves my stories. I'll explain to her that you had a little bump at work and need to rest your eyes for a bit."
"You're too good to us," you murmured, letting your head sink back into the pillows as a wave of relief washed over you.
"Don’t be silly. I'm just looking after you," Jack whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He lingered there for a moment, letting you feel his warmth and stability. "Now, I want you to close those eyes and try to get some sleep. No worrying. I've got everything covered."
"Okay," you breathed, already feeling the heavy pull of exhaustion now that the panic had subsided. "Be safe. Tell her I love her."
"I will, sweetheart. I'll be back before you know it," Jack said softly. He gave your hand one final, reassuring squeeze before quietly slipping out of the room, leaving you to finally let the darkness take you over.
By the time the heavy doors of the ER family room swung open, Juliet was perched high on Jack’s shoulders, her tiny hands gripped firmly in his thick, curly hair as she giggled. She was a bright, energetic five-year-old, and the moment Jack had picked her up from her after-school club, her initial confusion about seeing him instead of you had vanished into pure, unadulterated excitement. To her, Jack was the tall, gentle giant who told the best stories, and getting a piggyback ride through the hospital corridors was the ultimate adventure.
"Look, Robby! I'm taller than the ceiling! I'm taller than Jack!" Jules chirped, pointing a finger triumphantly toward the ceiling tiles as Jack carefully navigated the doorframe, lowering his head slightly to make sure she didn't actually bump into anything.
"Whoa, easy there, giant," Robby said, immediately abandoning a stack of charts on the table with a wide, welcoming grin. He knelt down on the linoleum floor so he was at eye level with her as Jack gently slid her down his front. "You might be taller than the ceiling, Jules, but are you talented enough to beat me in a colouring contest?”
Within minutes, the sterile family room was transformed into a chaotic, makeshift sanctuary of warmth and crayon wax. The Pitt staff, fiercely protective of you and incredibly fond of your little girl, took it in shifts to slip away from the bustling department just to keep her entertained and distracted from the medical equipment hums outside. Samira popped in between treating patients, carrying a plastic tray from the staff room containing a tiny cup of apple juice and a packet of chocolate biscuits she had raided from someone’s snack stash.
"She has her mother's eyes, Jack," Dana murmured softly, standing near the doorway and watching Jules furiously colour the tail of a dinosaur while Dennis dramatically pretended to struggle with his own drawing. She turned her gaze to Jack, her voice dropping to a quiet, professional register. "How is she doing? Our patient, I mean."
"She's resting. The head CT was completely clear, thank god, but the concussion is still making her groggy and nauseous," Jack replied, resting his hand on his hip. "I want to get her home the very second you clear her. Jules is going to want to be right by her side, and I need to make sure we handle that transition gently."
"We'll keep the little helper thoroughly occupied here until the final discharge papers are printed and signed," Dana promised, offering a warm, reassuring squeeze to his shoulder. "Go sit with her for a bit, Jack. Don't worry about Jules for a single second. We've got her covered."
True to her word, the Pitt crew kept Jules thoroughly entertained, turning the observation wing's quiet corner into a revolving door of affection. When Dennis had to run off to assist with a trauma incoming from the ambulance bay, Trinity slid seamlessly into his spot. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her usual sarcastic edge melting away entirely as she let Jules paint her fingernails with a washable, neon-pink felt-tip marker.
"You have to stay very still, or it goes outside the lines," Jules instructed with immense gravity, holding Trinity’s hand with her tiny fingers.
"My hands are like steel. They will not move," Trinity replied, her tone dry but her eyes sparkling with rare tenderness as she let the little girl scribble over her cuticles. "But if you get this on my scrubs, I'm telling your mom you did it."
Jack watched the scene from the doorway for a long moment, a quiet, profound sense of gratitude washing over him. This hospital could be a brutal, exhausting place, but the people in it were a family, and they were protecting his. When Dana finally walked down the corridor with the signed discharge papers in hand, Jack quietly thanked the staff, scooped up Jules in one strong arm, and went to retrieve you.
Supporting you was a delicate process. You were still incredibly drained, your balance thoroughly compromised by the vertigo. You leaned heavily against his side, your head tucked against his shoulder to shield your eyes from the corridor lights as he guided you out to his car. Jules walked right beside him, holding onto Jack's trousers with a sudden, quiet solemnity, sensing that something wasn't quite right with you.
The drive back to your apartment was blissfully quiet, the rhythmic, low hum of the engine and the gentle rain pattering against the windscreen soothing your pounding head. When Jack finally unlocked the front door, the familiar, comforting scent of lavender and clean laundry made you let out a long, shaky breath of relief.
Jack led you straight to the bedroom, his arm securely around your waist as he helped you sit on the edge of the mattress. He was incredibly gentle, kneeling down to slide your shoes off and pulling back the heavy duvet so you could finally rest.
"I want to stay with Mommy!" Jules's voice suddenly cut through the quiet room, trembling and fragile. She stood in the doorway, her little face crumpling as big, silent tears began to spill down her cheeks. "I want to look after her! I don't want to go to my room, Jack. Please, let me stay!"
"Oh, sweetheart, come here," you whispered weakly, your heart breaking at the sight of her tears. You reached out a trembling arm, though the sudden movement made your head spin.
Jules didn't hesitate as she scrambled onto the mattress, throwing her little arms around your neck and burying her face in your chest, crying quietly. You wrapped your arms around her, kissing the top of her soft hair, whispering quiet reassurances that you were okay, just a little tired. Jack stood by the bed, his chest tightening at the sheer vulnerability of the two people who had completely rewritten his universe.
"Tell you what, Jules," Jack said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed so he was close to both of you. He reached out, his large hand gently stroking the back of Jules's head. "How about we have a sleepover tonight? Right here. We can all stay together, and we can keep a very close eye on mommy to make sure she gets better."
Jules sniffled, lifting her tear-streaked face from your shoulder to look at him. "A real sleepover? Like we talked about?"
"Exactly like we talked about," Jack murmured, his voice dripping with absolute affection. "But to do that, we need to make sure mommy has plenty of room to rest her head. If I tuck you in right on this side, will you promise to be very quiet and gentle?"
The little girl nodded eagerly, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her jumper. "I promise. I'll be quiet, Jack."
"That's my girl," Jack whispered.
With practiced, gentle care, Jack helped tuck the two of you in, ensuring you had enough pillows to keep your head slightly elevated to ease the throbbing pressure, and making sure Jules was nestled safely and snugly against your side. The bedroom was dark and quiet, the only light coming from the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the curtains.
Before climbing into the bed himself, Jack sat down on the small wooden chair in the corner of the room. He reached down, unlatching his prosthetic with a quiet, metallic click. He set it carefully against the wall, stretching with a faint sigh of relief as the pressure of the day was finally released.
Using the bedpost for balance, he hopped the short distance over to the empty side of the double bed, sliding beneath the heavy covers. The mattress shifted slightly under his weight, and almost instantly, you drifted closer to his warmth.
Jack reached out, his strong, protective arm draping over both of you, drawing you and Jules secure against his chest. Your head found the familiar, comfortable hollow of his collarbone, and Jules let out a soft, sleepy sigh, her little hand resting on Jack's forearm.
"I've got you both," Jack whispered into the quiet dark, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, and then another to the top of Jules’s head. "Robby and the day shift guys looked after us today, but I've got the night shift now. Go to sleep. I'm right here."
Summary: Your last group of the day happen to be doctors from a local hospital. When one gets too handsy, another stands up for you, wooing you in the process.
Contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v sex, semi-public (secluded) sex, reader faces sexual harrassment (ass slapping, crude comments, etc), lmk if i missed any!
A/N: divider from @thecutestgrotto ! im not even gonna lie i loved this idea but i kind of hate the way i executed it so if this sucks im sorry
The sun is hot, beating down on Jack's scalp, even through his golf cap. Sweat brews underneath, tickling his curls in a way that tells him he's going to have a rough day.
Dread bubbles in his stomach as he reluctantly shuts the door to his truck, taking in the greens before him. They're large, many acres over a large country club, one he's unsure he could pronounce the name of, let alone fit in at.
He spots the pro shop, so large and intimidating he feels like a cartoon character, cowering under an evil giant. An evil giant in white linens and golf gloves.
So to speak, this is not his crowd. All the same, he grabs his golf clubs, and begins his journey into this hellacious day.
As he approaches, he spots the reason he's here— some hospital higher up he's been sent to impress in order to garner some more PTO for his staff.
They're lucky he loves them.
"Dr. Abbot!" The big-wig croons, a plain man aptly named Dr. Alex Smith. Jack's face stretches in a tight smile as he extends his hand for a shake. "How are you? So happy you could join us."
"I'm alright," he replies, a nonchalant air in his tone. "It's a gorgeous day."
He's not typically one for niceties and small talk, but today? It's a bit of a different story.
As Dana so lovingly puts it, he's shit at hiding his feelings, and he needs to fix his fuckin' face. He's going to need all the luck he can get.
"Absolutely beautiful!" He booms, clapping him on the back.
The man's hand is large and aggressive, and Jack assumes the two adjectives will describe today quite well.
Soon, a golf cart rolls down the gravel. a blessing that spares him from more small talk. His relief is momentary, though, because what he sees behind the wheel nearly gives him a heart attack.
You're sitting there, the prettiest thing he's seen in years. Pink manicured nails perch atop the black leather as you slow down, shifting the gear.
His eyes drift from your sweet face, down to the white tennis dress clinging to your curves. It's enough to make him dizzy, and he wills himself to look at something, anything else.
He regrets this, because of course he does, as he takes in the rest of your cart. It's bigger than your average golf cart, and, in his defense, what you've done with it makes it seem a lot bigger.
Jack takes it in, a bright pink explosion assaulting his vision. A pink disco ball swings from the rearview mirror, reflecting off your pretty face in shiny glass shards.
A baby pink tarp protects you from the sun, and the protective urge in him yearns to put a cap on your head. He's seen enough scalp damage in the ED to last him a lifetime.
Jutting out of the side is a little cabinet, filled to the brim with snacks. The counter below has little handles on the side, and he can only imagine the different types of alcohol in there.
In the haze of you, he thinks he hears a low whistle coming from his left, coincidentally where Dr. Smith posts up beside him. Anger burns through him, and he extends his neck, twisting his head from side to side, desperate to shake it off.
You pop up, breaking his bubble with a sweet, 'hi!', and a wiggle of your fingers. Your manicure flashes in the sun at your greeting, and he wills himself to think of dead puppies, his grandma, anything to rid his brain of your beauty.
Smith is first to approach, holding out a hand for you to shake. Ever so polite, you accept, greeting each member of their group with the same level of enthusiasm.
"Last, but not least!" You chirp, holding your hand out to Jack.
He freezes, forgetting he's actually there, and not an invisible passerby. Eyes darting to your hand, it feels robotic, the way he extends his own, letting you lead the shake.
God, what kind of man is he?
Looking past you, Smith has already planted himself in the front seat of the cart, and nothing about that sits right with Jack. The rest of the group is relegated to another, normal golf cart, trailing behind yours to the first hole.
His eyes can't help but burn into the back of you, keeping an eye on Smith, as well. Jack doesn't know much, but he knows damn well that if he touched you, he'd simply see red.
This passion, this fire, scares him. He just learned your name all of five minutes ago, didn't even know you existed when he opened his eyes this morning.
Yet, you've captivated him. Your kind smile, your bubbly personality, it's enough to make a man go weak in the knees.
Though, he supposes that's why you were hired. He can't be the only man who's felt this way in your presence, in fact, he's probably far from it.
The thought makes his stomach twist, and he pushes it down as the cart comes to a stop. He averts his gaze as you swing out of your own vehicle, though you make it difficult, you're so pretty.
With a snap of your sweet fingers, you gather the attention of the men in record time. It's impressive, the way the group flocks to you, and Jack's no exception.
Guilt roils through him as you meet his gaze, a smile spreading your lips in a way that makes his heart pound. You deserve better than his leering, though the way your eyes linger for a moment gives him a sliver of hope.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he snaps his head away from you. Your voice floods his ears, soft enough to lull him to sleep if he really tried hard enough.
"Okay," you start, clapping your hands together. "So, here is how my cart works- any time you're hungry, or thirsty, let me know, and I'll get you taken care of."
I'll get you taken care of. Fuck, Jack, you pervert.
"All of your orders will be put on the tab of an…" rummaging for a small receipt tucked in one of the cabinets. "Alex Smith?"
Jack's heart lurches, stomach turning at his name.
"Doctor, sweetheart," he clarifies, and Jack can't help his eye roll. "Dr. Alex Smith."
Fix your fuckin' face, Abbot, Dana's voice plays in his head.
He sees you tense at the nickname, and his fingers clench in a fist. Desperate to ease your discomfort, he butts in.
"Thank you," he huffs, and your gaze snaps to his. "For- y'know-" he clears his throat, regretting opening his mouth. "Being there for us today."
His breath hitches at the eye contact, the first time he's been brave enough to give your face a proper look. You're so stunning, his heart hurts. You give him a small smile, and somehow his chest puffs on its own.
"Of course! Are you a doctor too?" Your smile widens with your question, and Jack nearly trips just standing there.
"Uh-yeah, yeah, I am," he coughs into a closed fist, holding out his free one for you to shake. "Dr. Abbot."
The regret is instant, once your hand touches his. It's electric, sending shockwaves through his veins. Smooth fingers wrapping around his calloused ones, your firm shake a pleasant surprise.
He can feel his hand clamming up, a small voice in the back of his head chanting, wrong, wrong, this is wrong. Clearing his throat, he brings his hand back like he's been shocked. In a way, he has.
Your smile falters, and he's unsure if he's seeing properly as you return your attention back to the rest of the group.
"Our drink options range from water, to soda, to some beers and hard seltzers. We don't sell hard liquor, just to be clear," you hold up a stern finger, a coy smile on your pretty face.
Your instructions were met with nods and grumbles of approval, and Jack is entranced by how easily you've captivated this group of grown men.
"Okay!" You chirp, clapping your hands together. "Let me know if you guys need anything, have so much fun!"
His heart patters at your squeal, and he tampers it down as best he can. He'll never see you again after today, and it has to stay that way.
The doctors within his group saddle up to the first hole, Jack hanging towards the back. Jack has golfed before, but it's definitely not his preferred activity, especially after losing his leg.
Peeking out of his peripheral, you make it all the more enticing, much to his everlasting dismay. Perched on the bench of your cart, you give a peppy clap, maybe a 'woo-hoo!', if they swing really well.
It makes Jack's stomach hurt, knowing he won't get that from you. Walking up to the hole, his first hit is instantly out of bounds.
"Woah! Bad morning, Abbot?" Smith asks, dripping with condescension.
His heart rate spikes, flitting his gaze over to the man, but he's not looking at him. He's got a thumb pointed toward Jack, wagging it as if to say, 'get a load of this guy.'
This would irritate Jack on any normal day, but with Smith's gaze on you, the way it lingers, like it's a joke he's not in on, it's enough to make him disintegrate.
The rest of the morning, his swing is just as terrible. Silly distractions flit through his mind, the wind rustling through your skirt, the tap of your pretty nails on the beer bottles you keep popping for Smith.
Smith. Jack has half a mind to report him to the board after today. The way he leers at you, flirts with you the drunker he gets, it's enough to make him vomit all over the pristine greens.
You take it all with a smile, friendly enough to keep him at bay, but not too overindulgent, as if to suggest reciprocated interest. The amount of times you've probably had to deal with this is something Jack would rather not think about.
"Woah! You see that, pretty girl?" Smith croons, pointing toward the birdie he just hit. "Not the only stroke I'm good at."
Jack's head snaps up, white hot rage simmering deep in his belly. His mouth moves before his brain can catch up.
"I'm sorry, what did you just say to her?" He asks, and the entire group snaps their heads in is direction.
His ears turn pink, but he refuses to back down.
Smith rears his head back, as if he's never been called out for his predatory behavior. He probably hasn't.
"Uhm-" he chuckles, scrambling for words. "Why do you care so much, Abbot? You wanna find out?"
Jack rolls his eyes, teeing up to his own ball.
"Just want to make sure you're keepin' it professional, Smith," he says, hitting the ball without making eye contact. "This is a work function, you know."
"Yeah, well if you care that much about being a professional, maybe you'd swing better," he condescends, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder.
He flinches at the contact, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Boys, boys!" Your sweet voice flutters. "Please keep it kosher, or I'm going to have to end our game early."
You approach Jack as you speak, and his heart thumps louder in his chest.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you coo, and his cheeks burn. "But I can take care of myself, I'm a big girl."
He rolls his eyes, desperate to tamper down his desire at the name you've bestowed upon yourself.
"Sorry, 'f course you are," he shakes his head, looking down. "'s just not right. He shouldn't speak to you that way."
Then, you do the unexpected. A delicate hand perches on his forearm, forcing his gaze back to you.
"You're sweet," you whisper, so quiet he can barely even hear it. "I'm okay, promise," you squeeze his muscle, and he expects you to walk away, for that to be the end of it.
But you don't. You stay, saddling up next to him to watch the rest of the group take their turn. The lingering smell of your sweet perfume fills his nose, and he nearly passes out.
He nods, not really wanting to believe you. The instinct to protect you looms large over his head, a solar eclipse of possession that threatens to choke him.
He shifts on his leg, a dull ache starting to settle in where the bone meets prosthetic. He leans on his golf club like it's a cane— the juxtaposition of you next to him, hands on your hips, left one jutting out, clutches his heart.
He's desperate to be as subtle as possible, not wanting to put any more attention on himself, but you notice. Of course you do, your pretty head flitting towards his stance.
"Oh! Do you need to sit? I'm so sorry, where are my manners!" You chastise, and he attempts a self-deprecating wave.
"No, no, gosh, I'm okay, you've been perfectly pleasant," he replies, training his eyes on the ground beneath him.
"Well, let me continue to do so and offer you a seat," you hold an arm out, and he accepts, grateful through the fog of his embarrassment.
Escorting him to your cart, he takes a seat, a long groan escaping his lips at the relief. Maneuvering his bad knee, his pant leg rides up, exposing the carbon fiber of his prosthetic.
A small gasp escapes your lips at the sight, and his heart sinks. The last thing he needed was your pity.
"I'm fine, please, don't," he waves a hand around, avoiding eye contact as embarrassment creeps up his spine.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I wasn't-" you shake your head, and he instantly feels guilty for opening his mouth in the first place. "I just= I should've mentioned this at first, but we have chairs for accessibility! Here-"
He watches as you reach towards the top of the cart, a pull out drawer nestled above the snack cabinet. Your waist stretches as you reach, and he nearly has to palm himself to keep his cool. In it, you reach and pull out a folding lawn chair, wiggling it in the air in offering.
He can't help but smile, despite the guilt relentless in his veins. He nods, the apples of his cheeks pink and pert.
"This will be much more comfortable, Dr. Abbot," you coo, placing your hands on his shoulders as he settles in.
A long sigh leaves him as he sits, his breath hitching at the contact. He's near a blissful state, the bubble of your attention closing in around him.
That is, until, he remembers who he's with.
"Hey!" Smith yells from across the greens. "If I knew losing my leg would get me special treatment, I would've gone with ya to Afghanistan, buddy!"
He cackles, high fiving the men surrounding him. Jack's stomach burns with shame, embarrassment, rage.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith," you call, and his heart stops. "That's incredibly inappropriate. It's not special treatment, I'm just making sure he's as comfortable as you guys are, please refrain from making comments like that again."
His heart sings, a symphony conducted by your sweet words. He looks down, tears pricking the back of his eyes. He can't remember the last time someone spoke up for him like that, and God, did he ache.
"Ohhh, c'mon, baby," Smith croons, his unsteady gait bringing him closer to you. "I'm just bein' funny. What? You don't like funny guys?"
Your face pinches as he comes closer, standing proud and strong nonetheless. God, he admires you so much.
"I like it when guys make jokes that don't poke fun at someone's trauma," the pep in your voice is gone, and a chill runs down Jack's spine.
"Pssh, please," Smith rolls his eyes, saddling up beside you. "You can't pretend you haven't been giving me eyes all morning."
Jack watches the scene unfold, tensing up as he wraps his arm around your waist.
"Smith-" Jack warns, but it's too late.
His hand goes lower, until it's reached your backside, a pinch followed by a swat. You jump, your hands instinctively reaching back to protect you. Jack sees red.
He's up, the ache in his leg now next to nothing, nothing compared to the rage he feels on your behalf. Rearing his fist back, he socks Smith in the face before he can think otherwise.
"Oh my God!" You squeal, and he darts his gaze over to you.
Your eyes are wide, scared and glossy. His heart hurts.
"What the fuck Abbot!" Smith seethes, gritting through his teeth and writhing on the ground.
"Smith I-" Jack starts, but he bites his apology back. He's not fucking sorry, so why should he try to save face now?
"You can kiss your position fucking goodbye," he spits up at him
"Uhm- I have to=let me call my manager," you croak, shaky fingers fumbling for your cell phone.
You lift the device to your ear as you run behind the cart. Jack's heart clutches, he swears he can see you wipe away a tear before you fully disappeared.
Jack's heart pounds in his chest the longer he can't see you, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his hands start to shake.
He itches to chase you, to follow you and wipe your tears and ask if you're okay. His heart drops, though, knowing that it's not possible, that he's absolutely fucked it.
You're soon replaced by a man, approaching the group with his own golf cart. You don't take off until he's there, but when you do, you nearly kick up dust with your speed.
Guilt is acid in his stomach, bubbling and popping like witch's stew. His adrenaline is relentless, moving his feet for him as he runs to the spare golf cart.
He thanks whatever powers that be that the keys rest in the ignition. Wasting no time, he turns it, moving the gear into drive and pressing his foot on the pedal.
He finds you in the main hall, nursing a fruity drink at the bar. His heart sinks looking at you, slumped over, head down, quiet shakes rocking your shoulders.
It's only now that the adrenaline eventually subsides, deep breaths heaving his chest. Regret swoops over him, that live long guilt he's wrestled with all day rearing its ugly head.
He doesn't back down, though. He's just slower, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as he nears your bar stool.
"Hey," he says.
It's slow, careful. His heart hurts when you look up, your glossy eyes meeting his. He watches you snap back into your professionalism, wiping your tears and offering him a watery smile.
"Hi, Dr. Abbot," you croak. "I'm so sorry I took off on you guys, I just- that's never happened to me before."
"No," he waves a gentle hand. "No apologies, if anything, it's me who should be apologizing. I feel like I made it worse. You told me you could handle yourself, and I should have listened."
He hovers by the neighboring stool, not wanting to push your boundaries unless offered.
"No, no, it's okay," you say, sitting up a bit straighter. "You can sit, I won't break."
Your smile lights him up from the inside out, and he slides onto the brown leather. His heart picks up in speed as he settles into the new proximity, his thigh brushing against yours.
"Hey! Josh!" You call to the bartender, a young man who immediately responds. "Can I get a…" you trail off, eyeing Jack up and down before deciding, "a jack and coke. Thanks!"
"My name's actually Jack. How'd you know?" He asks, and your mouth drops in sweet surprise.
"What! No way!" You swat his bicep, and the brief contact gives him enough energy to run to the moon. "Dr. Jack Abbot. I like it!"
He flushes a deep red, one that spreads from his cheeks all the way down his neck. Bringing a hand to his nape, he scruffs once, twice, three times to quell his rapid heart rate.
It's then that Josh brings his drink, and he gratefully accepts. Taking a big swig, he feels your eyes burning into him.
"Hey, Jack?" You ask, your voice tender and sweet. "Wanna go for a drive?"
Your question intrigues him, and he winds up in your passenger's seat, down the back roads of a country club you intimately know.
"This is where my dad would take me when I was little," you tell him, pulling into a cove of willow trees along the path.
"Yeah? You've been coming here for a while?" He asks as you park, the wind rustling the beautiful view in front of you two.
"My dad is now president of the board," you admit with an eye roll. "This job was just to keep me out of his hair."
"Wow," he blinks. "So that's why you didn't care about running off in the middle of your group?"
It's a risky tease, he knows that, but it's so worth it when he sees you smile. He flushes, can't help himself when he says,
"You're so pretty."
Your breath hitches at the compliment, and he'd regret it if your eyes hadn't sparkled. It's so easy for him to get lost in your eyes, to almost forget how you got to this point, but then he does, and his face falls.
"Listen, I'm sorry, I don't want to put myself on you, especially if you don't want it. Not after today," he shakes his head, eyes trained in his lap. "But I think you're incredibly beautiful, and way out of my league. I'm thankful you even looked at me today, let alone-"
He's cut off by your lips on his, a gentle, soft hand scraping his cheek. It pushes a light 'oomph!' from his lips, though he doesn't hesitate to kiss you back.
There's a string of spit connecting you when you pull away, and Jack breathes out a long, heavy sigh.
"I actually couldn't stop looking at you, Jack," you confess, and his heart swells. "Even when you missed every single hole."
He throws his head back in a sweet laugh, grasping your arm as you lean into your own giggles.
"I only missed because I couldn't stop thinking about the prettiest girl in the world only feet away," he confesses, rubbing the fabric of your dress between his fingertips.
"You're too nice to me," you mutter, resting your hands on his shoulders. "I want you, Jack. Is that okay?"
He shoots his gaze up, his mouth slightly parted.
"You do?" He asks, not quite believing his own ears.
His belly burns as you nod your head, leaning your face closer to his.
"And I don't want this to be just sex, how do you feel about that?" You whisper, your lips against his, taunting him.
He nods, his hand finding your waist.
"Yeah, I feel good about that," he chokes out, a Cheshire smile spreading your lips.
"Good," you quip, swinging your legs over his hips. "But we're gonna start with sex. That okay?"
He nods, eager like a school boy, but he doesn't have time to be embarrassed when your mouth meets his.
It's intense this time, deep and passionate, your tongue running over his bottom lip. His hands settle on your waist, a light squeeze encouraging you to put your full weight on him.
It's electrifying, the way you connect. your weight coating him with desire. He feels himself twitch in his pants, a muffled groan escaping him as you roll your hips.
"Feel good, Doctor?" You ask, eliciting a gasp from the deepest parts of his chest.
"So good, you're a dream," he mumbles, grazing his nose against yours.
You kiss him again, rolling your tongue over his at your newfound access. Rolling your hips once more, he plants his feet on the ground, thrusting up into your clothed center.
"Ah!" You whine, throwing your head back. He peppers kisses along your neck, surprised when you press down on his hips with yours, wiggling a little. "You're not doing any of the work, handsome," a coy smile spreads your lips. "Let me, your poor leg's been through enough."
He swears he could cum right then and there. Fully hard now, you continue your motions, now slipping your arms through your sleeves.
The top of your dress falls, exposing your pretty tits to the late afternoon sun. His head darts around, looking for any stragglers. There's no one, and a wave of relief floods through him.
"You're sweet," you coo, fingertips returning his gaze to you. "But nobody comes back here, trust me."
"Oh, so you take all your golf guys here, huh?" He asks. It's playful, but the possibility of your answer makes him seethe.
"Only the important ones, the ones I really need," you mutter, nipping his lobe before sitting up on your knees.
You wiggle the rest of your dress off, sliding it down your knees and flinging it off your ankles. His eyes widen as you mount him again, now in nothing but your panties.
His finger traces the waistband, and your breath hitches in his ear.
"You're so fucking beautiful, Jesus Christ," he whispers, smashing his lips against yours once more.
You fiddle with his belt buckle, moving to his zipper, pulling him out with an eagerness that strokes his ego. He's heavy, his cock flopping against his polo shirt.
Your eyes go wide, and his heart pounds against his ribcage. He can't believe you, sweet, beautiful, stunning you, is interested in him. He feels like a million bucks.
"God, how's this gonna fit in me, Jackie?" You ask, giving him a few strokes.
A shiver unzips his spine, and he throws his head back against the seat. Chest heaving, his stomach burns with desire for you. The curve of your waist under his fingers, the delicate touch on his cock, it's enough to make him insane. You make him insane.
Swinging your legs off of him, you kneel along the bench, ass up in the air. He pouts at the loss of your warmth, and you smile. You pinch his cheek, placing a chaste kiss there after.
"You're cute," you dote, and he blushes. "I'm gonna put your cock in my mouth now, 'kay?"
He nods, still in disbelief this is even happening. Your lips wrap around him, and his vision goes white. Jaw going slack, he lets a strangled groan pass through him.
"Wow, wow, oh God, sweetheart, that's so good," he whispers, hand in your hair as you take more and more of him. "Holy shit."
You wiggle your ass at the compliment, hollowing your cheeks as you reach his base. Your nose tickles the curls that pepper his skin, and he has to hold himself back from bucking up into you.
"Fuck!" He shouts, squeezing his eyes shut as he free hand finds your ass.
It slips into your panties, palming your bare ass in his big hand. You shake into him again, and he nearly blows his load then.
He feels the front of your panties move, then, and he looks to find your hand slipping in them.
"Ah, ah!" He swats your hand away, taking over. "Let me, gorgeous."
Your folds are so slick, his stomach burns. They're silky, smooth with your desire, and if all he does for the rest of his life is make you cum. he'd be happy with that.
He finds your clit, reveling in your little jump, little squeal around his dick. The vibrations rattle through him, and his stomach burns with hot desire.
Pulling off of him with a gasp, you rest your head on his thigh, stroking his cock as he continues to touch you.
"I'm gonna cum, Jackie, feels too good," you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing a sweet kiss to the thick skin.
"Yeah, go ahead, baby, that's such a good idea, hm?" He asks, picking up his pace a little. "Gonna get you nice and relaxed so you can take this cock, 'kay sweetie?"
You nod, squeezing your eyes shut, a few loose moans escaping your lips. It's like a dream, the pleasure etching itself across your face. Fire blooms in his veins, his desire for you almost palpable.
"Oh, Jackie!" You squeal, body tensing as you soak his fingers.
"Thaaat's it," he coos, rubbing you through your release. "That's my girl, good job, good job."
You gasp, clinging to his forearm as you come down.
"Oh my gosh, that was incredible, thank you Jackie," you smile up at him, slowly sitting up.
His hands stabilize you, settling your shaking body back over his. Your tits dangle in his face, and he can't help but pepper kisses along the plush skin.
"You ready, angel?" He looks up at you, and your eager nod is his final cue before he pushes your hips down.
You swallow his tip, your walls tight and slick, his eyes rolling back into his head. It's dizzying, how tight you are around him.
"Oh! Jackie it's already so big, how am I gonna take all of you?" You ask, and his heart pounds.
"God, you can't say that to me, gonna blow my load before you can even do that," he breathes out a laugh, finding your eyes.
Your eyes glaze over as you sink further down onto him, his stomach burning. He grips your hips, pushing you further down onto him.
Once you're seated, he nearly blacks out. He gives you a swift slap to your ass, encouraging you to find your rhythm.
You listen, the good girl you are, bouncing up and down, up and down. It's slow at first, intoxicating and tantalizing as you drag his length through your walls.
"Fuck," he breaths, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Good?" You ask, lips pressed to his temple.
The warm air of your words absorb in his skin, if he could eat them, he would.
"So good, fuckin' perfect," he whispers, hands gripping your ass as you speed up.
Blood roars in his ears, his eyes blazing as they follow your breasts, bouncing with each thrust.
It's overwhelming, almost, the jiggle of your plush skin against his.
"Oh Jackie, 'm gonna cum again," you whimper, planting your hands on his shoulders and speeding up.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he breathes. "Me too, gonna cum. Cum with me?"
You nod, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Embarrassingly enough, this is what does it for him. The intimacy pushes him over the edge, fire pooling low in his abdomen with his release.
He dissolves into the pleasure, helping you rock against him. Your sweet cries echo through the empty space, mixing with his grunts and groans.
"Jackie, fuck, that's so good, fuck, fuck," you whine, and he presses a quick slap to your ass as he twitches, coming down from his high.
You settle on him with a shiver, relaxing into his chest and wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
Breathing together, he rubs his hand up and down your back, adding a light scratch and invoking goosebumps.
You press kisses all along his shoulder, on each freckle, his tummy burning with something sweeter, brighter than before.
"Hey," you whisper, biting the shell of his ear. "I know this is totally backwards, but hear me out."
Before you get any further, he lifts up your head, boring his eyes into yours.
"What, sweet girl?" He asks, pressing a quick kiss to your smile.
"I say," you start, "we get cleaned up, and you come join me in the Great Hall for dinner. I memorized Smith's tab, we can put it on there," you finish with a wink.
He throws his head back with a laugh, bringing you in for another kiss.
"That sounds amazing," he coos, cradling the nape of your neck in his hand.
"And theennnn," you drawl, slipping off him and reaching for your dress. "We can go back to mine, and I can show you something that no other customer has seen," you wiggle your eyebrows, and his heart skips.
꒰ ⟡ 𝟣𝟪+ blurb — ❤︎ 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐓 & 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐅𝐅 . . It’s longer, a gleaming silver, gilding over his chin and jaw, while you’re forced to feel it. That thickened, rough, unshaven texture alongside every thick, wet lap he makes at your little puffed-up pussy. His tongue, licking and slipping through sticky folds, soft and sweet in contrast to the sharp texture of his facial hair, which is unintentionally marking up your thighs. It has just grown so much, prickly and nearly white, rubbing against your tender, pulsing hole while his tongue licks up in languid glides. His chin firms itself on your perineum to feel your pulsing little slit rubbing against the coarseness; to feel his baby grinding up on his own face. Jack just wants you shuddering, helpless and humping his silvered, rough-fuzzed jaw. His lips part to slick you up with saliva, allowing a thick, wet string to connect his face to your needy, swelling pussy. The wetness pools up in the seam of your clit, and he spreads his tongue onto you, flat and demanding, stiffening it for a moment on your needy bud, before licking and kissing into where your clit hood is exposed — pulled back, alit, and inflamed, all from his face between your thighs.
"Gonna lick you 'til you're raw." Jack admits hoarsely into your little cunt. "Just need to have my mouth on you, honey."
He wraps himself on the thickened flesh of your bulbed-up clit, suckling wildly and coating his chin in you during his latch. His thicker scruff frictions right against the skin of your chubby and delicate pussy lips, before his tongue swirls hard, just once more, and retracts away from where you're spread. His fat, aged and freckled hands keep your soft thighs speared wide open, just to observe your desperate, aching hole. You’re beard-burned and sensitive, a soppy little cunt rubbed raw from his face; chafed up, creamy, and fluttering wetly around nothing. Jack's jaw is steeped in you, wet on the growth that shrouds the curve of his face and neck. He takes a long, rough breath, an open-mouthed aspiration to taste your sweetness through the air, swallowing the scent as his head lilts in working condescension. Silver curls, dampened with his own sweat, swath over his lined forehead with the tilt.
“Aww, pumpkin… does she like it? Little pussy likes my scruff? I think she does…" Jack coos, his voice enough to make your legs quiver under his pinion. He inhales, puckers his lips, and effuses a jet of his hot breath, runneled right to your needy hole. His lips upturn, thumbs pinching deeper into your thighs.
"Look at her. She’s already clamping up – just ‘cause Daddy had his mouth on you…”
A finger glides through the mess, thick and seeping down irritated, velveted flesh, clinging to the sheets below your puckered hole. Jack can't halt his hand, which lifts to press his thumb pad to the cleft of your ass, like he's surveilling the vicious throb of you through your puddle of arousal.
“Is it all stingy, baby? Should Daddy shave so he doesn't hurt your little pussy anymore?”
Your head shakes violently, writhing on the sheets, whimpering as you gush out more between your forcedly spread thighs.
“No? You like it? I can tell. My baby’s already too close…” Jack sighs with a sated grin, and his digits ascend back up to your throbby little hole.
“Should we let her, hm? Let your little cunt just cum – all messy on Daddy’s beard?” It’s rhetorical, plainly mean, and Jack completely rescinds a response from you when his jaw presses right up against where you're pulsing. He fucks his tongue inside, driving it in deep, without warning or clemency.
Jack adheres his face and stubbly bristles to your soft, sloppy folds, prompting you to leak, fresh and hot, all over him. The strong muscle licks inside at inner walls, his fingers rubbing at your quivering clit to feel you grip onto him in tighter, cinching pulses. He pulls away just enough to watch your tiny hole cling to his tongue, his scratchy fuzz slick and sticking to your slit, and then he's lapping at you, from entrance to bud once more. He curves his lips onto your swelled clit, suckling and licking into the fleshy rift. Your whines crack open to sharp-pitched moans when your orgasm torments every nerve ending, muscle, and cell. Your belly swoops, warming in your release, riveting the heat through to your trembling thighs. Your eyes shimmer with tears through the cascades of pleasure and the prickle of his chin, which Jack rubs over your poor pussy well into the aftershocks. And he still doesn’t stop – his silver hair is lambent and streaked with your cum, and he strokes his mouth down you to elicit a shiver, patting your hip in coax. “That’s it – My good little girl. Daddy’s just gonna get you real clean now.”
Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
warning/tags: minors DNI, p0rn with little plot, masturbating, sexting, pet names (sweetheart and good girl) robby loves talking you through it, unprotected piv, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, body hair, fingering, creampie, handjob, kinda softdom!robby, age gap (I imagined reader being in her 20s or 30s but could be in her 40s too, tried to keep it broad)
For those of you who read it the first or second time I uploaded it: during the days the fic was down, I expanded some scenes, added a bit more dialogue, and made it a little kinkier along the way. You might want to read it again for some extra content
He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.
Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.
But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.
He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.
So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.
He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe.
Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.
He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?
As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?
He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”
He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought.
Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.
But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now.
At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.
He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.
Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”
Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.
He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.
He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.
The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body.
Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.
But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation.
It’s a Match!
On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.
You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.
How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”
Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.
Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away.
How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.
You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.
You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.
His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.
His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically.
You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before.
It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”
It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”
Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.
Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.
Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:
It’s a Match!
Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.
“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.
He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think.
A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”
Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match.
Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.
It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.
His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.
Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.
You: hii :)
Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.
You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.
He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.
Another message came through a minute later.
You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha
Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.
Robby: hey
yeah, I saw it
listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident
sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird
He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work.
You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.
Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.
Robby: Sorry about the confusion
i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this.
You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.
but hey, we all have our moments i guess
Robby: i’m not the type
this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.
You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder
Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.
Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?
You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious
He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?
Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?
You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know, you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though
Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity
or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that
You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise
Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.
But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.
Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.
You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice
He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight
You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard to be
but still finding you here is a nice change :)
Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down
You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is
Robby: fair enough.
your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up
fifty five isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?
You: haha yeah well
i like older men
Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?
No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.
Robby: It’s okay to have preferences
everyone does.
You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.
Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.
Robby: makes sense
i usually go for women closer to my stage of life
we have more in common that way
You: do age gaps bother you?
Robby: in what way?
You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?
Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want
as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.
You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?
Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me
but usually around my age
He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.
He typed before he could second-guess himself.
Robby: how much older are we talking anyway?
the men you usually like i mean.
Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.
You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)
Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.
Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?
or is it mostly the older crowd?
You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.
Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.
You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)
Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.
He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.
Robby: Nothing to apologize for
honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected
You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance
Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either
there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you
You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest
Robby: Really? that can’t be right
you’re selling yourself short.
You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot
The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.
All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.
Robby: thanks i guess
you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl
The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.
You: good girl? 😏
Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird
just a figure of speech i suppose.
You: should i call you daddy then? ;)
Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.
The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.
You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol
Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.
Robby: Don’t worry about it
i know it was a joke, no harm done
You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke
He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.
Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.
You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight
Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep
early shift tomorrow and all
You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something
The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.
Robby: that would be very inappropriate
i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross
You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now
You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting.
Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that
we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow
You: nah i’m pretty sure i can
Robby: No.
You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.
He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying.
Robby: what do you mean?
You: sexting, duh
He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.
Robby: that’s basically the same thing.
You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.
Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.
This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.
But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.
Robby: what do you want me to say?
You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot
He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought
Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?
The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.
You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?
Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch.
Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed
You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(
He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.
You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do
You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.
Robby: i feel stupid doing this.
You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself
Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.
Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?
You: yessss that was so much better. keep going
If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.
Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?
You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver.
You: yes. they’re open
Robby: Perfect
i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could
run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are
As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.
You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.
Robby: that’s my girl
now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me
You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.
You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.
Robby: fuck i knew you would be
i want you to circle your clit for me now
Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need
i’d take my time, taste every inch of you
Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.
Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me
You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please
Robby: Good
now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep
curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake
i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening
When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles.
Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open
i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this
imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit
Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.
You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please
Robby: you were the one who told me to do this
You: i know i did. but it’s not enough
send me your address
He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.
Robby: what for?
you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?
You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.
Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.
Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride.
You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.
You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there
You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.
You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.
But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.
Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.
He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”
Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach.
As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively.
The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.
“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts.
From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.
The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.
Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.
You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”
His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.
“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”
You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.
“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub.
He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”
Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.
Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”
He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”
You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.
The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit.
His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth.
He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”
“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips.
Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed.
Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”
You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher.
Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher.
“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”
The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”
You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.
“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”
The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.
You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.
Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”
You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.
“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”
Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust.
You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.
“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”
He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”
You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”
Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.
Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”
He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”
He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”
The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.
You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.
A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.
You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”
Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”
Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.
Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.
After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”
You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.
A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”
You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”
You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.
The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”
He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.
The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.
As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”
You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.
“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”
You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”
You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.
“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.
Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.
And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.
His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.
With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.
“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.
“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”
You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”
You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.
“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”
By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”
He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”
You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”
Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”
Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.
Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”
Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.
God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.
You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”
At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you.
The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”
You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”
“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”
With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.
You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.
There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”
He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”
The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.
“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”
He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”
You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.
A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.
If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it
Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.
I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.
Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷
I don’t know if you’ve done this yet. But Stepdad Jack filming while he absolutely mutilates you. Like I’m talking cum everywhere, sheets coming off the bed, scratches allll over his back. Like I’m talking Tommy Lee & Pamala Anderson. (If you know what I mean)
nonnie i've def not written something like this before 🫣 ngl you got me worried about the usage of 'mutilate' here lolll
i never watched that video nor i ever plan to but based on your description i got the vision ! this is giving me such aged up, much older jack vibes. this might be my most disgusting piece of writing yet
𓊆 cw: big hefty age gap, daddy / papa kink, rough sloppy messy sex, sub!reader, he calls her 'little girl' and 'little miss', squirting, dirty talk, roleplaying, overstimulation, facial, swallowing, scratching, manhandling, gets soft at the end, aftercare 𓊇 ‧₊˚ ┊ wc: 1.4k
you're currently seated on jack's lap, grinding on his cock. you can feel the mixture of both his and yours' sweat (and amongst other fluids) sliding off your back, his strong pectorals and the softness of his belly rubbing against you at every movement. the wetness left large stains scattered across the sheets, courtesy of the five orgasms he's given you (and counting) and he's not going to stop any time soon. you don't have the faintest idea how long you two have been going at it. your bet? it’s probably been hours.
how'd this old man approaching his sixties didn't shoot his load the moment you unzipped his pants?
jack brushes some loose hairs away from your ear before licking the back of it, he whispers — "look at yourself."
you look up to see the LCD screen of the camcorder he got from god knows where deep in his basement that's obviously seen better days.
you can see a little bit of jack's mostly salt than pepper hair, you can see him looking at you through the screen with a lustful gaze, you can see how his frame is almost swallowing you due to how fucking big he is compared to you. seriously, no one's grandad should look this sexy. and you. . .
you look fucking sinful. your mascara has run down your cheeks — you've been crying a lot because you're so goddamn tired but jack's been making you feel so good to beg him to stop. your lipstick has completely rubbed off of your lips. you can also see some drool and snot sticking to your skin. disgusting. but fuck, you can't deny how hot you look right now. the way your hips are winding on his cock, and how it drives the old man crazy. his head keeps tilting back, yelling and groaning up at the ceiling, eyes rolling to the back of his skull — like a man possessed.
jack hazily stares back at your eyes through the screen, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. "a throne for a princess."
now it's your turn to cry out of pleasure, the loudness echoing off the walls.
"jesus– fuck!!" your voice was strangled, nails digging into the meat of jack's thighs.
he hissed, then he taunts you. "why? you gonna cum again?"
you didn't answer him. instead, you grumbled in a weak objection. that's a clear enough answer.
jack gets up from the bed bringing you with him. he's still balls deep inside of you when he looks at the screen to make sure he's getting the right angles. he takes hold of both of your arms and pins them behind your back before he starts to pound hard in and out of you.
are his joints not on fire? his back must be killing him too but his determination to make you come for the sixth time outweighs his own needs.
the camera captures the recoil of your breasts from the force of jack's thrusts. you can't speak at all, you think that's what he wants — your only role in his film was to act as his personal pornstar, someone who doesn’t have to speak or think. someone who just moans and acts slutty — and fuck, you love it.
he sneaks a hand around your body to play with your clit, you start to squirm away from him from overstimulation. he’s everywhere. his cock, his breath, his scent. . . you’re drowning in him.
“squirt again for me, baby. squirt all over this floor until your smell is stuck in this room for days.”
you unhinge your jaw with a silent scream as you spray your juices one. . . two. . . three. . . four times. you can not hold your entire body up by yourself, jack has to maneuver you into a bent over position by the dresser where the camera is placed.
jack presses himself on your sweaty back, then breathes against your hairline. “what do you say, beautiful?”
it takes everything in you to moan out the words, “siiiixxxxx. . .” you sob, “thank you for making me feel good. love you, daddy.”
“love you too, baby.” you can see him smile fondly at you, there’s genuine love and adoration in his eyes — a stark difference compared to that first time he bent you over his knee, when there was only lust.
“ready for the next one? lucky number seven?”
“. . .dunno.” you think you’re at your breaking point and you’re really tired.
his demeanour changed into concern, “just say the word, baby. we can stop. you’re the boss here.”
you can’t stop the single tear that escaped your eye, jack swiped over it with his thumb before tilting your head to face him. he gives you a sweet kiss on the lips.
he may be the 'daddy' or the 'papa' but you got him wrapped around your finger. he has always spoiled you but you think you should do the same to him because he deserves it as much as you.
a wide smile breaks across your face. jack returns one of his own.
with a single nod, “i’m okay, papa. let’s do it.”
he carefully pulls out of you, takes the camera and hands it to you. you clutch it to your chest as he picks you up in a bridal carry and carries you back to the bed.
he retrieves the object back from you and sets it on the bedside table. he makes a few adjustments on its angles and your positions.
you are sprawled on the mattress, your limbs feeling like jelly. he pushes your legs apart then hooks them around his waist.
you place a hand on his thigh. you softly ask, “your leg still okay?”
he simply smiled, “i’m okay.”
you hummed with a pout, unconvinced. your expression makes him huff a laugh. “i promise.”
jack takes hold of his still hard, heavy cock. he gives your cunt a few ‘love taps’ before he pushes in you again. he’d been inside you all this time and yet the stretch still knocks the air out of your lungs.
he draws himself closer to you, brushing his lips against yours. he starts pounding deep and hard. this will be orgasm number seven — he has to make it so fucking good for you, you pass out.
he’s not giving you enough time to breathe, you can’t help but to just close your eyes shut and take what he’s giving you. you also don’t realise that you’re scratching down his back, your nails are surely leaving marks deep into his skin.
jack grunts in pain but he keeps going. he’s so close to reaching his peak.
“give it to me. fu– fucking squeeze the fuck out of my cock.”
you let out a high keen, “i’m cumming! aah–!” you start to convulse beneath him, still leaving marks not only on his back but on his beefy biceps as well.
not letting you recover, he drags you to the edge of the bed and lets you drop to the floor. his hands shove you into a kneeling position.
as if on autopilot mode, you open your mouth wide, sticking your tongue out. jack pumps his dick with quickness, “that’s a good little girl. fuck, you’re so pretty.” he moans long and loud, “staystillstaystillstaystill. take alllll of your papa’s cum. c’mon.”
some of the first spurts landed on your forehead and cheeks, you angled your head to catch the remaining spend.
when he’s sure he squeezed out all of it, he tells you to keep his cum on your tongue and stay in place. he briskly makes his way over to the bedside table to grab the camcorder. he returns standing in front of you, pointing the lens to your face, and zooming in.
“swallow.”
you obey, your eyes close at the delectable taste of your old lover.
jack sighed, in awe of you. “show off those manners, little miss.”
you giggled, “that’s seven. thank you for the gift, daddy!” you bite your lip, hoping to come off as flirtatious in the video.
“you gonna meet up with old men you talk to on the internet at hotels again?”
“nuh-uh.”
“that’s a good girl. . . you’re gonna be my new favourite plaything.” he caresses the side of your jaw.
recording ends.
jack carelessly chucks the camcorder on the bed.
he runs both of his hands through his curls, wiping the dripping sweat off his face in the process. and like a switch, “i’ll run a bath for us then room service?”
you inch closer to his right kneecap to give it a gentle kiss. you rest your cheek against it, you look up at him. “then a massage?”
“deal.” as he starts to lean forward to help you up, he hisses and rubs the skin of his lower back. “maybe a full body massage?" ♡
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Hello lovelies, thank you so much for 400 followers! It blows my mind that there are 400 people who enjoy my blog and the things I write! I’m so grateful for each and every single one of you 🫶 To celebrate, I thought it would be fun to share some of my recent favourite fics and highlight some of the amazingly talented writers on here (almost all of these fics have smut so minors do not interact)!
My favourite series:
To Be Loved Is To Be Known (Dr Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @shoniebalognie
Eye of the Hurricane (Andrew "Pope" Cody x fem!reader) | @romantic-insomniac
Show Me How (Dr. Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @cicadasexfest
Sweet as Pie (headchef!Jack Abbot x pastry chef!fem!reader) | @di1fluvr
Shared Custody (Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader) | @cinnxmxngxrl
Love You Anyway (Andrew "Pope" Cody x F! Brother's Best Friend reader) | @rynwrites4fun
Redamancy Series (Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader) | @softundermoonlight
Jack x controversially young gf!reader | @eternalabbot
Robby x controversially young gf!reader | @eternalabbot
Confessions of a Night Shift Nurse (Jack Abbot x fem!reader) | @sleepingbeautiiies
My favourite one shots:
imgonnagetyouback (Dr. Robby x f!resident!reader) | @robinavitchslut
You Belong To Me (Pervy!Robby x Nurse!reader) | @shoniebalognie
Forever Mine (Pervy!Robby x Nurse!reader) | @shoniebalognie
Hard To Get (Dr. Robby x reader) | @bluetimeombre
My Best Friend (Bsf!Andrew "Pope" Cody x Fem!reader) | @rhettsunshine
I Pay For It More Than I Did Back Then (Jack Abbot x Shy!Fem!reader) | @ceriseangels
Just Ride (Dr. Robby x f!reader) | @robinavitchslut
Hate (Titus Danforth x f!reader) | @yournamesnob
Temperature Control (Jack Abbot x fem!reader) | @mrshatosy
I'm Not Afraid Of Hard Work, I Get Everything I Want (Michael Robinavitch x Fem!reader) | @ceriseangels
Slim Pickins (Jack Abbot x reader) | @seewhoyouwanttosee
then, there is the opportunist (Brendon Park x fem!reader) | @jackrrabbot
You're Just In Time, Make Your Tea And Your Toast (Sabbatical!Robby x Fem!Waitress!reader) | @ceriseangels
teasing uncle!robby (uncle!Robby x reader) | @robinavitchslut
Baby Fever (Jack Abbot x peds!f!reader x Michael "Robby" Robinavitch) | @di1fluvr
Until the Water Runs Clear (Jack Abbot x f!resident!reader) | @kissalready
stepdad!Robby finds your OF account (stepdad!Robby x reader) | @robinavitchslut
your dad's best friend jack abbot helping you with your "virginity problem" (dbf!Jack Abbot x reader) | @valleyanimalz
robby taking advantage of his young, pretty intern (toxic!bigdick!perv!robby x intern!virgin!fem!reader) | @drjohncarters
ErectileDysfunction!Robby (Dr. Robby x reader) | @cinnxmxngxrl
we always want what we can't have (perv!Jack Abbot x Robby's wife!reader) | @yournamesnob
flick the tip (andrew pope cody x f!reader) | @grimgasm
Finals Season (Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x fem!reader) | @rollerskategirl
Brett Richards x fem!reader | @belleeebelleee
Sweetheart (Andrew Cody x shy!f!reader) | @pearlessance
He's a stalker, perv, and kidnapper (Boyd Fowler x reader) | @valleyanimalz
Every Hour (Jack Abbot x reader) | @drjohncarters
Always Go Older (Jack Abbot x reader) | @bluetimeombre
Shaky breaths and beating hearts (Jack Abbot x shy!reader - part of jack x shy!reader series) | @moodyabbott
Lighthouse; b. park (Brendon Park x reader) | @soulareclypse
Summer Heat (married!Rabbot x son's gf!reader) | @yournamesnob
Sammy Bryant x Nanny Reader Headcannon | @tumbleweedstillhaspanic
Cabin Fever (Dr. Robby x reader) | @bluetimeombre
Your pervy "uncle" jack abbot can't get you out of his head (Jack Abbot x reader) | @valleyanimalz
Little Green Monster (Jack Abbot x reader) | @seewhoyouwanttosee
My favourite blurbs/drabbles:
Class Time (Professor!Robby x student!reader) | @shoniebalognie
Grant Reilly, Yours (Grant Reilly x reader) | @wistfulyears
telling robby you want to have a baby with him (Dr. Robby x f!reader) | @robinavitchslut
Breeding kink with icky!stepdad!Robby (icky!stepdad!Robby x female!reader) | @robinavitchgf
Andy (Andrew "Pope" Cody x fem!reader) | @firewalkwithmme
Dividers by @robinavitchslut
Pls let me know if you do not want to be tagged or if any links don't work!
warnings: threesome. established relationship between reader and michael. kinda of mlm (jack touches robby's dick, but he's really touching you). voyeurism. exhibitionism.
notes: sorry i have been distracted these last few weeks, so i have not been on my best game. but i am back now (tentatively). this fic should be up soon-ish as it's mostly done, just need a lil bit of fine tuning.
the pitt masterlist | masterlist | ask
...
Vulgar noises filled your empty house, moaning loudly, Michael allowed you to use him, his hands wandering anywhere and everywhere. You circled your hips, trying to find the right angle. Once you did, you planted your hands on Michael and began sliding your pussy against him.
“You gonna cum, baby?” He panted, his cock already leaking too much for his liking. He never knew that he could produce so much precum before you, but what could he say? There was just something about you that made him insatiable, even for his age.
“Wanna cum by just humping my cock?” He teased, fully well knowing that he was on the verge of cumming himself, but there was no way he was getting off before you could. “Sweet, desperate thing.”
“Do the two of you ever stop?” You heard Jack sleepily grumble as he took the two of you in. If he had a dollar every time he caught the two of you making out, or fucking, he’d have enough to buy a summer house in Martha’s Vineyard.
“Do you want us to stop, brother?” Michael asked, as he moved his hands down to your ass, grabbing the flesh there. He pushed you closer to his cock, making you really feel the veins on the underside of his cock.
No, Jack never wanted the two of you to stop. Luckily the first time Robby asked that, he immediately said no, otherwise he would have never known how sweet and tight your pussy is.
“Michael,” you moaned softly, hands pawing at his shoulders. You look towards the other man, raking in his figure, stopping where his bulge was appearing. “Jack,” you breathed, feeling a new gush of arousal through you.
“Hi baby,” he raked his eyes down your figure, down to where Robby’s cock was sandwiched between your folds. He reached out his fingers, pads touching your clit lightly making you shudder on top of your boyfriend. “She’s wet,” he said, as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing already.
“Think she likes fucking me while you’re asleep,” Michael grinned, his breath hitching as Jack accidentally touched the tip of his cock.
“And I think you like it when your best friend touches your cock,” you rebutted as you took Jack’s hand and placed it firmly on your clit, his other fingers accidentally caressing Michael’s cock.
“Jesus, brother,” Jack exhaled, but didn’t move his hand. He played around, his fingers tracing your little nub. Pinching your clit, a shocked gasp left you, “You like that, honey?”
“Jack,” you reached out for him, as soon as he was in reach, you grabbed the back of his neck and melted your mouths together. Moaning into his mouth, you rutted your cunt faster against Michael’s cock.
summary — jack has seen you leave a trail of broken hearts and bad dates, and he’s determined to prove to you that you’re looking for love in all the wrong places.
warnings — 12.6k words. age gap (jack’s around 50; reader’s a 4th year resident, so 20s), attending/resident power dynamic; mentor/mentee relationship, idiots in love maybe?? yearning!jack, jealous!jack, jack ‘i’ll pay for it’ abbot strikes Again!!!! hurt + comfort (one instance of jack being an ass, but he smooths it over during the same shift - they can’t stay mad at each other), mild angst, patient death, jack’s leg - reader helps him adjust the prosthetic and takes care of him during a long shift, canon-typical medical scenes and probably lots of inaccuracies (i’m an english major reddit is my best friend) ; on-page patient death, reader performing compressions, reader DATES DATES and may be unprofessional (affectionately she just wants to find love and her entire life revolves around the hospital who can blame her), reader’s written to have hair she brushes and can pin up, she also gets on her toes to kiss him but that can be ignored i just liked the image jack basically bribes her into a date, no smut but they’re So very much thinking about it, rushed-ish ending i think?
notes — wrote this in a slump it took so Unbelievably long and i’m not even sure i like it but i wanted to post something before i give up on writing anything ever again!!!!
It was midnight and a peds nurse was lingering by the ambulance doors, and Jack knew that he wasn’t meant to be there. Lewis was his name, maybe, but Jack couldn’t even be sure of that — and knew he had no reason to be sure of it, because the guy wasn’t meant to be there. Running the ER in the middle of the night, with all of the day’s patients handed off, and the night’s still finding their way through triage, was difficult in itself, and he didn’t have the energy to also babysit Ryan-or-Lewis-or-whoever hovering there like a little boy waiting to be picked up from school.
“Is he meant to be here?” Jack asked, closing the space toward the desk where Lena was pointing something, jutting his thumb in the direction of the guy.
Lena flattened a printout on the desk with two fingers, hardly sparing him a glance.
“Him. Peds. Why is he there?” he tried again.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said, but the corner of her mouth had flicked up, proving that she was simply choosing not to tell him.
“He’s off his unit,” he said. He knew he sounded just slightly silly stating the obvious.
“Seems so.”
“Send him back, then,” Jack drawled, incredulous, hands finding his hips. “There’s enough shit going on here.”
“You send him back,” she retorted, amused just slightly. “If you’re so concerned.”
Jack looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as his hands went to rest on his hips. When he looked back down, he found you walking toward the nurse and it suddenly made complete sense.
He let out a sigh. “This has to be a joke.”
His eyes, as they did more often than was appropriate, caught on you, hair coming down loose from where you’d pinned it, the scrubs lopsided at one hip, riding lower than where they’d started at the beginning of the night. You turned to say something to the guy quickly, and the movement caught the slip, your scrub top moving up half an inch, and Jack’s eyes went there before his brain could tell him that was wrong, some groove in him that noticed you before it noticed anything useful. He had a second of pure, unhelpful distraction before his brain reminded him that he was an attending and had things to do.
“I actually think it’s funny,” Lena said, shrugging.
Of course it had something to do with you. He should’ve figured it out the second he saw the guy standing there with his hands in the pouch of his scrubs, rocking heel to toe like the floor was just too exciting to be standing on. Nobody loitered around the ambulance bay at midnight for good reason. People came through those doors bleeding or they didn’t come through them at all, and this guy had shown up with nothing wrong with him, except maybe a case for some lovesickness.
“I’m gonna make this stop,” Jack said, already pushing himself away from the nurse’s station.
Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t say anything that gets you sat down with HR.”
“She can goddamn try me,” he said, and went. Also because Jack was fairly sure you would never report him to HR.
He crossed the floor and caught the tail-end of your conversation as he closed in.
“ — just tell me when you’re free, that’s all I’m asking,” the guy was saying.
You were already half-turned, already gone as you waved a hand loosely beside you. “I don’t know, I just don’t think we should try again.”
Jack blew out a breath, standing a few feet short of you, your back facing him. Why was he not surprised? He’d been keeping tally without meaning to, and he knew that was embarrassing. There was the radiology fellow who’d started hand-delivering films that very well could’ve gone through the system; the travel nurse who’d washed through in six weeks and left the floor faintly weird in his wake; the anaesthesia resident who now took the long way around the department if he saw you at the end of it, as though he were a dog who’d learned the fence was electric. And now this one, apparently, Peds with his whole hopeful heart hanging out in Jack’s department.
“You’re so sweet for coming down here,” you practically crooned at him, shifting on your heels, eyes flicking down to the form in your hand. “But I really do have a whole long night ahead of me, and I know my answer’s not gonna change, so I won’t make you wait around for it, okay?”
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes when you said the words with the upward lilt of a woman sending a toddler back to his mother. He wanted to laugh a little when he saw that the guy had taken it standing up like it was a gift.
The hell of it was that Jack understood the man. He understood every last one of them because he stood next to you fifty hours a week, had been doing so for three years, and whatever the department thought of him after his consistent therapy, he was not carved out of stone.
Jack was afraid that if he hadn’t been your attending these last four years and a little younger, wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d have been eating out of the palm of your hand.
You gave the guy a there-there pat, and it was only then did his eyes land on Jack, who he probably knew was your fucking attending. You turned then, and immediately said, “Oh, Dr. Abbot, I’ve got the guy in six’s labs back, the potassium —”
“Mhm.” Jack’s hands came up and landed on your shoulders before you’d finished the sentence, squaring you off the spot where you stood and turning you bodily back toward the floor like you were a gurney.
“It is four-point-nine, but the EKG’s good, so I was gonna recheck in —”
“Let’s recheck it now,” he said. He kept you moving, his palms broad through the cotton of your scrubs, steering you a few feet till your own feet caught onto the idea.
You grumbled something under your breath, and once he’d stopped you right in front of six, you turned to face him with your brows raised.
“Say something?” he asked, tipping his chin down.
“You seem like you’re mad at me,” you said.
“Huh. I do?” He let go of your shoulders — noticing, distantly, the exact second his hands came off and suddenly felt too empty — and reached past you to pluck six’s chart off the tray, more to have something to do with them than needing it. “You’re right. You should recheck in ten minutes.”
“You’re mad at me,” you said again, crossing your arms over your chest.
He blew out a breath, and suddenly felt just a little silly at getting worked up over a nurse by the doors when there was a large, glowing board behind him full of names that needed his complete, undivided attention.
You were a senior resident, after all, four years deep, one of his sharpest — you’d treated the guy in six, hadn’t you, you’d flagged it and called for the EKG and made the right call on the recheck before he’d even asked, all while dismantling some man’s hopes. Somehow, your mess and competence ran on the same current. You never let the first touch the second. He’d have loved, some nights, to have an excuse to be mad — a missed lab, a blown line, anything he could write up and point at — and you kept declining to hand him one. All of this meant he was left with this vague swampy irritation, and Jack wasn’t the sort of mentor who liked to hound upon that.
“No, sweetheart, I just love it when you get random men hanging around the department,” he settled on saying, feeling his shoulders visibly loosen a fraction.
You winced, eyes darting over to the emptiness in front of the doors now. “Sorry.”
“You’d say it won’t happen again, but we both know better.” He shrugged. Then, he reached out his hand — he wasn’t sure why, except that it just happened naturally — and patted you once on the shoulder, then on the second turned you to face the curtains leading to your patient. “Doctor up.”
And you did, the loose, embarrassed shape of you being replaced in the space of a single breath, being replaced by something Jack had watched grow into you over the years and still hadn’t quite gotten used to.
Trauma called it in nine minutes later, an MVC, unrestrained driver, GCS dropping in the field. Jack was working on a laceration in four when he heard the crackled warning, and by the time he’d looked up out the curtains, you were already moving, gowned and at the head of the bay calling out assignments like you’d been doing this for a decade.
“I need two units O-neg before he rolls in,” you said, voice pitched high enough to carry without yelling, cutting clean through the perpetual noise of the department. “Somebody get me a second eighteen-gauge ready, and I want an ultrasound in here.”
Donnie and Mateo were already moving, and so were the people around you, falling into your orbit like the room had easily reorganized itself around your voice the second it went up. Jack stood by the curtain, gloves from the lac still on, and found he couldn’t make himself move just yet.
The doors banged open. EMS wheeled the stretcher through fast, calling out vitals over each other, and you were already on the patient’s side before the gurney had fully stopped moving, hands moving on his neck, chest, eyes scanning his pupils in a matter of ten seconds. He began walking over, catching your voice as you called out your reads as someone hung the blood and someone else prepped the ultrasound wand. “Page neuro now.”
“On it,” Mateo said, already moving.
You had both hands on the patient, running the primary survey quickly, confirming, checking, discarding possibilities out in short, clipped sentences Jack recognized as the sound of your brain running six steps ahead of your mouth. Sweat had started on your hairline. You called out for OR to be on standby, eyes flickering around the room and landing on Jack. “OR, please,” you said, aimed at him, brows going up.
“On it,” Jack said, because there was no way he was going to let you be wrong about needing something and didn’t make sure you got it.
The next six minutes went by fast and loud, in bursts and then suddenly quiet, the room narrowing down on functionality. You stood at the center of it; you called it and ran it. You got the man upstairs stable enough that Walsh didn’t sound worried for one second, and that was a compliment from her.
Jack watched the whole thing from four feet back, arms crossed, and chipping in when your brain had snagged. He was feeling a heat in his chest helplessly and entirely unprofessional, it was always present when he was able to see, in real-time, how far you’d come from your first day of residency when your hands were a second too slow on the central line and how your voice would pitch up at the end of every read, asking for permission every time instead of stating it like a fact, eyes finding him across the room each time, checking.
There was none of that left in you now, he realized, had done so a long time ago. He thought, watching you now, that this was the closest thing he’d let himself do to falling in years, standing uselessly riveted as he watched a woman he’d taught outgrow the need for him in real time, and finding that instead of the loss he’d expected to feel when the day finally came, all he felt was warm and terrifying and too much like pride.
When the room had started clearing out, he watched your mouth drop open as you let out a heavy breath, eyes going over to him. The second he watched you realize he was still there, your face shifted, the relief turning into something sharper.
“Why didn’t you jump in?” You crossed the floor toward him in four hard strides, gloves already peeled off and balled tight in one fist, snapping the second one free with a motion that looked terrifyingly like it wanted to be aimed at him. “His pressure tanked for thirty seconds and you just watched.”
“You had it.”
“You didn’t know that,” you said, voice going up an octave, adrenaline still thrumming through you, hands coming up the gesture at the blood-streaked floor. “I could’ve missed something. You’re the attending, Jack, you’re supposed to catch if I missed something —”
“I would’ve,” he interrupted, stepping in close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him properly. “The second you needed me, I would’ve stepped in. I wasn’t gonna take it from you before you did.”
“You can’t gamble like that with a patient —” Your chest was rising and falling fast, gloves now crushed in your fist, and he could see the fear catching up now that everything around you had gone quiet enough to let it, something that looked more like fear of yourself than for the patient. “What if I’d frozen —?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached his hand out, thumb catching a smear of the blood at your jaw you’d accidentally smeared on yourself, wiping it off carefully with the pad of his thumb, and felt you go still under it. “You don’t trust my judgement?”
“You know I do. You just could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve. He dropped his hand from your jaw only to catch your wrist instead. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you being brilliant. Kinda liked watching it happen.”
Your mouth opened, surely to let out some unnecessary retort, and died there when he pressed one slow stroke of his thumb against your wrist, raising a brow.
“Relax,” he said, voice going rough as he leaned in a little, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Just take the win. That’s an order.”
“Now you wanna give orders,” you mumbled.
He barked out a short laugh, letting go of your wrist. “Only when you’re being stubborn for no reason.”
It was sometime during the second year of your residency when he’d started catching your drift. It had started with a random Friday shift. He’d seen you at the station, elbows on the counter, telling Lena something conspiratorially. Jack was meant to be reading a chart but couldn’t help how his ears had perked up. Anything to get through the shift, he supposed.
“ — no, but he was perfect on paper,” you were saying, “kept his house clean and everything. He told me he kept his plant alive for six years —”
“So, what happened?” Lena said flatly, like she already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear anyway.
“He wanted to take me bowling on the second date,” you said through a sigh. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve gotta hear me out —”
“I’m genuinely not going anywhere.”
“ — for the first date, bowling’s fun. But he took me to a nice dinner the first time, he set a standard, and then the second date he goes bowling, which means the effort’s already —” You created a little downward slope with your hand. “And if it’s already sliding on date two, where’s it at on date two hundred? I can already see my marriage with him and it’s bad.”
It seemed you had a criteria, Jack learned then. It was proven even more when he’d heard you talk about your other failed dates, seen them, and learned — without ever wanting to — what they were, to an extent.
He knew you couldn’t stand a man who ordered for you without asking. He knew you’d written off a fellow for the way he talked about his mother, and another one — an accountant, a rare specimen who had no clue what an EKG was — over a text message you’d read aloud to Ellis in a voice of complete horror, though Jack had never caught what it actually said, only your face while you read it. He knew you gave people precisely three dates, that this was a rule you held if the first and second date went well, three apparently being the magic number at which a person could no longer hide the demon they were going to turn out to be (your words).
He knew, too, that you only allowed one kiss after the first date, if even that. It was never up for negotiation, no matter how beautifully the night had gone, for you never wanted to end up “emotionally overdrawn on an account you hadn’t even opened yet.”
He knew you a man lost real points if, over the three dates, if it involved drinks, he ordered the same one. He knew a man gained them, silently and instantly, for being able to sit in a lull without narrating his way out of it, and that you considered this the single rarest trait in modern dating.
He knew you were looking for something you had no name for and would recognize on sight, which struck him as a hell of a way to run a search.
He’d have told you, if you asked, that he tuned most of the station chatter out as a matter of survival, for while he enjoyed the occasional gossip, he couldn’t very well absorb everyone’s business. And that was true about everyone’s business but yours, apparently, because yours came in clear.
Your business he retained against his own better judgement, and he realized — once, during a slow shift — that he could’ve drawn you a better map of your taste than you seemed to carry yourself. He could’ve told you, if you asked, exactly the kind of man who’d finally clear your bar, and exactly why he had yet to show up.
It was almost nice, some nights, watching you try anyway. The ER was a place where everyone was kept tethered to the world by a thread, and everyone who worked in it long enough to develop some version of the same calluses. Jack had grown his years ago, and he wore them invisible, occasionally aching, and had come to terms with it being permanent.
Love, for Jack, had stopped being a real noun before you’d shown up, somewhere between things he used to want and things he’d decided weren’t for him anymore.
You still believed in it. You’d watched this place take everything soft out of grown men twice your seniority and somehow walked through the same fire hopeful, still convinced, against every scrap of evidence, that somewhere there was a person worth all that hoping.
For that reason, he had decided to not interrupt your endeavors, not until now, when he noticed you during hand-off before your night shift with him started, in front of Robby, of all people.
While Jack loved Robby like a brother, he had a documented, department-wide, actuarially reliable seven-week expiration date on every woman he charmed out of this building. He’d heard intra-departmental gossip about him. There was, Jack was fairly sure, a running joke about it that predated your residency by years.
He knew you definitely were not finding love in his best friend. But Jack felt the buzzing in his mind go quiet and mean watching how you with him.
You laughed at something and Jack lost, for one humiliating second, the thread of what he’d walked over to say. It happened sometimes, more than he’d admit to anyone. Ordinary noises out of you hit him somewhere in his chest before the better part of him flagged it as a problem, and he had to physically clear his throat before finding his footing again.
“ — Italian’s always good after pulling a double,” Robby was saying. “But I do love some microwave ramen, too, when I’m missing my med student days.”
“Oh, so your standards have been raised being chief?” you said, and Jack could hear the smile and wariness in it.
“For sure —”
Jack let out a huff, something resembling a laugh, as his feet planted him between the two of you. He was close enough that his shoulder nudged yours and you had to step back to keep your balance. He felt your weight land for a second against him with a satisfaction he had no, absolutely no business feeling for something so small. So childish.
He turned to Robby, spreading his hands wide, mock outrage. “My resident.”
Robby looked mildly amused, unbothered, so Jack added, before he could respond, “Go home before I report you to HR.”
“You’d do that to me?”
“In a heartbeat. Have some shame.” Jack kept his shoulder where it was still angled half in front of you, an old, unexamined instinct keeping the line drawn even though Robby had already backed off.
He tipped his head toward the doors, toward the gold light coming up in them, the day shift draining out around you both. “There’s a whole rich life waitin’ for you out there.”
Robby just smiled and pushed off the counter, giving you a small wave before he left.
Jack turned to you then, brows furrowed. “Seriously?”
You let out a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard?”
“Soundin’ a lot like a frat brother right now. Never have those words been said in an ER,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” you said, rushing the words out with something more honest in them. “For the record. I know what — he’s got a reputation.” You picked at the counter. “I was just talking to him. He’s funny.”
Jack had to recalibrate for a second. “You were talkin’ sweet to him.”
“I talk sweet to everyone.” You lifted a shoulder, completely unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”
He rolled his eyes at that. He reached over for your cup of coffee sitting between you — closer to his elbow than yours — and drank a sip, eyes going up to the ceiling at the sheer volume of syrup you’d decided you needed in your bloodstream today. “The hell?” he muttered, turning the cup slightly as if that would help. “Are you trying to embalm yourself?”
“Give it back.”
“In a minute.” He took a second sip, slower this time, and watched you over the rim of the cup. Then, he set it back a few degrees off how you’d had it, just to see your jaw tick.
You pulled the cup back in, thumbed it around until the lid faced you again, and drank from it without breaking your explanation. “I’m offended you think I’ll get wine and dined by the chief attending.” You tilted your head. “Give me some credit here. I won’t be his seven weeks.”
“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm. “Well, good. Don’t think he’ll clear your bar anyway.”
“See, you get it,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “At least someone around here does.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head slightly forward that even he hadn’t realized that he had shifted the distance just slightly. “Better than most.”
Your eyes widened slightly at that, and Jack took that as his cue to step back, clear his throat, as he jerked his chin toward the board.
“Alright, time to work. Stop the play,” he said, trying to get his voice the right level. “Go look at chest pain on three.”
“So bossy,” you said, but you were already turning around to go to three.
Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? For some reason, he had to remind himself that.
It was what he had to remind himself as his hands hovered your trembling ones as you tried to pump air into Mrs. Foley’s lungs, knowing she was already gone — had been for a while now, if he was honest — longer than it took you to admit. He knew it, he’d grown the grim ability to recognize when a body stopped being a patient and being someone you were performing compressions on for the family’s sake, for your own need to have done everything.
He’d let it run anyway, because you hadn’t accepted it yet, and he’d wanted to give you that extra minute to arrive at it on your own.
Mateo had come up to Jack’s side, snapping his gloves off, the sound of it overshadowed by your own heaving.
“She has to call it,” he murmured. “You want me to —”
“No.” Jack’s eyes, he felt, could not move away from your distress. “I’ve got her.”
Mateo looked at him for a moment longer than the moment warranted, and then he stepped back and let Jack be. You were still going, your compressions had gone harder, faster, less like genuine medicine and more like you were pleading with Mrs. Foley herself now. Sweat had gone to the hair at your temple. Your jaw was set in a clench Jack recognized all too well, and for a moment, Jack wished that he didn’t have to be so acutely tuned into watching what the job did to others, the same way it did to him.
He stepped in behind your shoulder, close, and brought his hand down over yours where they were locked on the old woman’s chest.
“Look at the clock,” he said quietly into your ear.
“One more round —”
“You’ve done plenty.” He pressed, gently, until your hands stilled under his, and felt your entire body resist it. “You know she was gone before we could’ve even done anything —”
“She’s been my patient for years —”
Jack knew then that while you may have been an excellent doctor, his senior resident that had bloomed under his mentorship but still could’ve gone without him and done just the same, it wasn’t a good feeling to wonder if the job would dim you the way it had him.
“I know.” He kept his hands over yours with enough pressure so as to not let you drive them down again. “That’s why it’s yours to call. But you’ve gotta call it, Doctor.”
Your breath hitched as you turned your neck to face him, and there was a pool brimming on your lashline that you kept at bay, nodding. Your hands under his stopped straining upward, and he felt the exact second you accepted it, for it moved through your shoulders and down your spine and left you a little smaller standing there, the fight trickling into the moment after, which Jack always thought was worse.
“Time of death,” you said, forcing your voice back into the procedural tone, “oh-three-forty-one.” You peeled your gloves off finger-by-finger.
His hand found the small of your back after taking the minute, leading you to the little family consult room with the boxed tissues and fake ficus with a couch that had absorbed more bad news since longer than you or he had worked there. He shut the door with the flat of his hand and let the floor’s noise cut to a hum through the drywall.
You stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed, holding yourself, and stayed silent.
Jack propped himself against the table, arms folded, as he breathed out a small sigh through his nose. He knew you weren’t a talker after the bad ones. Some residents came out of a loss with their mouths running, narrating it into something survivable, and some went quiet and small and had to be waited out, and you were the second kind. So he waited.
You broke it eventually, like he always knew you would have. “I’ve got a butterscotch she gave me seven months ago in my locker still,” you murmured, craning your neck so you were looking at the ceiling. You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand roughly.
“Think I’ve got one, too,” he murmured, wincing as he tried to shift his weight.
It had been building up for the past few hours, a hot ring of wrong down below the knee where the socket had gone slick and furnace-warm because it was past hour fourteen, when he’d sweated the fit and never changed the liner because there’d been no window that wasn’t already accounted for. He shifted his weight off it, trying again, and reached down to thumb the release, breaking the seal.
He let out a short, punched out sigh as he pulled himself down onto the chair behind him, one hand balancing himself on the table. “Sorry,” he gruffed out, jaw clenching.
Your eyes flickered down to the prosthetic limb he was balancing against the pole of the table and you were already moving before he could finish apologizing. You never asked if he needed a hand. You’d learned sometime during your second year that asking him gave him a chance to say no, and you’d quit handing him that chance sometime during your second year, so now you just came. You went down on one knee at the pole of the table.
“Don’t say sorry,” you mumbled, eyes not meeting him.
His jaw stayed tight and he didn’t fight it, fight you. That was a formality and you both knew it, a thing he did with his shoulders and not his hands, but he watched the top of your head and thought — like he always did, each time, and never said out loud — there was no one else on god’s green earth he’d let do this in the way you did. Not the prosthetist, who did it clinically. Not the VA, who did it tired. You did it each time like it was nothing and everything at once, as though this something not worth remarking on.
He very badly wanted to thank you, despite how small he always felt when you did this. He wanted to tell you that you were, without question, better at this than anyone who was paid to do it.
Your fingers found the socket and went for the liner because you knew the fit went bad and the sweat before it went bad anywhere a person could see, knew he’d have to run it slick and furnace-hot than spend the fourteen minutes off the floor. You rolled it back with the flat of your thumb, easing the trapped heat out of it, and he felt the pressure of the ring of raw below his knee and had to clench his jaw to not let the relief show on his face. You spared him anyway by keeping your eyes down where they’d been.
“You’ll strip your skin doing this,” you said conversationally, the roughness still present in your voice from the code. “You know that. You keep running it past twelve and one of these nights it’s cellulitis and I’m admitting you.”
“If only I could be so lucky.”
He ducked his head slightly, a part of him wanting to catch the reaction, and he saw how one corner of your lip was barely turned up.
You thumbed a line of red where the socket’s edge had bitten in, checking it, and your touch went careful around there. “This is new. The edge is catching higher than it was.”
“Went to a new liner last month,” he said, voice low. “Not broke in yet.”
“Then you break it on your days off. Not on a fourteen hour.” You finally looked up at him, shaking your head with this flat, fond expression he’d come to realize was your favorite way to look at him. “You’d write me up for less.”
“I’d write you up for a lot less,” he agreed, thinking back on the time you’d fought him tooth-and-nail over staying through a migraine, refusing, point-blank, to hand off a soft rule-out chest pain at eleven when the migraine had started very visibly began creeping up on you.
He’d caught you before you’d said a word about it because you’d begun squinting at the numbers and pressed the heel of your hand against one eye for a moment too long between patients, thinking nobody was watching. He was, he realized, always watching you in some way.
“Go home,” he’d said quietly, catching you by the elbow outside the curtain. “That’s not a request.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got a migraine.”
“I’ve got a job.” Your jaw had clenched, stubbornly, and Jack had thought that even if he’d put all his strength into it, he wouldn’t have been able to unclench it for you. “I’m not handing off a chest pain because my head hurts. This guy has waited long enough for a bed. I’m not the priority here.”
He’d wanted to tell you that you were, actually, that you were exactly the priority, and watching you white-knuckle forms with your pupils blown different sizes from pain scared him more than any board full of critical pains ever had. But he’d just pulled down the light two notches, told the nurses to shadow eleven’s discharge, and put a bottle of water and two Tylenol on your desk without a word. And thank god, you’d taken the Tylenol and finished the shift standing up because sitting made the room tilt worse, and only taken on non-critical cases. You’d refused until the end that you should’ve gone home three hours earlier.
Now, you huffed something that was nearly a laugh, your first real once since the code, and went back to setting. And Jack sat there with his arms crossed in the dark with your hands on the worst-guarded part of him and the door shut against the whole floor, and thought about how he believed nobody deserved you. People were vile and sucked and cut in line and let doors swing shut behind them, and you handed out three dates to men who wrote sonnets in your voicemail and couldn’t clear a bar you’d never once lowered for anyone. He’d thought, more nights than he liked to admit, that these people had no idea what they were auditioning for.
His eyes snagged on you because there was nothing else in this small room worth looking at. There was still salt dried in your lashline from the code. You were a wreck and you were fixing his leg anyway, still half-shaking from a woman you couldn’t save, and it hadn’t occurred to you to stop and put yourself back together first. It never did. Jack had seen the care run out of you before you ever decided to spend it.
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Foley,” he said.
You shook your head, face still angled down, thumb pausing mid-motion. “I’ll be okay,” you murmured, lifting up one shoulder. “I just hate that she couldn’t get here sooner.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he said plainly. “Family said she’s been feeling off for two days now.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked, betraying the flatness you were trying to present. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
You lifted your head for a moment, then, looking at him with a sad smile he knew you were painting on to get him to stop talking.
He nodded stiffly, tipping his chin down. “Alright. Finish my leg and we’ll run this floor together.”
Up in radiology a few nights later, Jack had gone himself to sort out a reading that had been sitting long and he’d cornered a tech and got what he needed and was already halfway out the door, jacket sleeves still rolled from the last set of compressions, when he saw the guy standing off by the light boxes.
Younger. A resident, he supposed, in scrubs a size too crisp for someone who’d actually been on the shift long enough to earn wrinkles in them. He’d been watching Jack the whole time — Jack could feel it, the itch of being observed — shifting his weight heel to toe against the linoleum floor.
“Somethin’ on my face?” Jack said flatly because he really did have to get back to the floor.
“You’re — sorry, you’re Dr. Abbot, right?”
“Last I checked.”
The guy’s hand came out of his jacket’s pocket, and there was a piece of folded paper in it. Jack looked at it like it was a spider, hoping — no, praying — it had something to do with work.
“Could you give this to her?” the guy asked, and Jack’s hope died, as he stepped closer. “The senior resident on your shift. She’ll — she’ll know who it’s from.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack murmured, brows pulling in together. “You ever heard of texting, kid?”
“I did,” he said, and Jack could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She stopped answering, so I figured, maybe on paper, she’d actually —”
“Take the hint,” Jack grumbled, snatching the paper out of his hand. Then, as he turned to the door, he said, “You know I work in the ER?” When the guy only nodded quickly, he added, “You know she works in the ER?”
“I — yeah. Obviously.”
“Then you know she doesn’t need this.” He held up the paper between him and the guy. “She’s got enough on her plate without some guy too chicken to call her handing me a note like I’m her mailman.”
The guy opened his mouth, nose scrunching at Jack’s words, but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” Jack was already walking, note tucked in his pocket, done with the conversation. “Try calling next time. Or don’t.”
The guy looked at least a little sheepish, a little ashamed, and Jack thought good, he should feel ashamed. He wasn’t sure what the protocol in dating was now — he’d been just a little rusty and out of the stretch for a stretch of years he preferred not to count in single digits — but he was fairly certain that whatever the rules had curdled up to, this could not possibly be inside them.
He rode the elevator down with the note in his pockets, and he could feel the small stiff square of another man’s hope pressing over the outside of his thigh.
He found you at your desk, hands running restlessly through your hair as you spoke into the microphone, charting. The words were coming out of you bluntly, mechanic and after saying the same variation a thousand times over. There was a pen behind your ear you’d forgotten about and the residue of a lab value gone blue across the back of your hand where you’d scrawled it hours ago and never washed off.
He stood there for a second before you noticed him, and thought — not for the first time and with the same low irritation he always felt about it — that he had no earthly business being the man this got routed to.
Jack leaned down so his head hovered beside yours, scanning your work on the screen, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, head tilted to read your screen at an angle that had nothing to do with actually needing to see it.
“The man wants an espresso martini?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he read over your notes, right by your ear.
You jumped just slightly and swivelled on your stool to face him, then back at the screen. “Shit — Jack. Announce yourself.” You scanned the words on your notes, shaking your head and already backspacing. “No, that was me talking to myself. Stupid mic picked it up.”
“Long as it’s just the one,” he drawled, staying there in your space a little longer, watching the side of your face instead of the screen now. “Those things sneak up on you.”
“Speaking from experience?” You turned on your stool to face him fully, chin tilting up to meet his eyes, something playful and a little challenging in it.
“I’ve got a couple decades on you. Everything’s snuck up on me.”
You held his gaze a little longer, then looked away first, tongue coming out over your lips for a second. He took a small satisfaction in not being the one who blinked first.
He blew out a breath through his nose, remembering, with reluctance now, what he’d actually come here to do. “Speaking of sneaking up.” He pulled out the note from his pocket. “I got something to deliver to you —”
You furrowed your brows when he handed it to you. “Secret admirer?” you asked jokingly.
He barked out a short laugh. “Nothin’ secret about it. You ignoring some radiology fellow?”
You grimaced, opening the note and scanning over the words quickly. He could’ve left, but stayed instead and watched you read it. The frown only pulled deeper, and he saw your eye twitch once as you scanned the words.
Against his better judgement, he murmured, “That bad?”
“Uh — no, it’s okay.” You shrugged stiffly.
“Huh,” he breathed out, studying you outright now. “Wonder what you’re doin’ to these guys to get them so wound up.”
You chuckled, mostly to yourself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His chest tightened at that. It was unfair how you could make anything to him sound like something he’d been waiting to hear. He swallowed. “Suppose I would.”
“That an offer, Dr. Abbot?”
“Might be,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.
You laughed — surprised, the tension in your shoulders breaking slightly — and shook your head, folding the note back up. “You’re ridiculous. Well, thank you for getting it to me. I’m sorry he bothered you with this —” You swivelled, placing the note on your desk before picking up your phone. “That’s really weird.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jack said, and left it there, because you’d already turned and had your phone in one hand and the microphone in the other. The small furrow was back between your brows, and he’d learned there was a point past which pushing you got him a brighter, smaller version of whatever you were covering.
He drifted toward the far end of the station where Mateo was crouched at the crash cart running his palm along the drawers, checking seals, restocking and checking the fact of it on slower nights like this.
“She okay?” Mateo asked, snapping the drawer, seemingly having caught the interaction.
“Oh, you know.” Jack leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms crossing. “The belle of our ball. Can’t clock in without collecting a proposal.”
Mateo huffed. “She loves love.”
“That she does.” Jack watched you across the station, the phone lit against your ear now. “Don’t know why she keeps doing that to herself, though.”
“She’s an optimist.” Mateo clicked a seal into place, then moved down the cart. “Thinks someone’s gonna turn out different.”
Jack hummed, then, because the question had been sitting low and unlovely for a couple hours, he asked, “You two give it a run ever?”
Mateo turned his neck to look up at Jack. “Me and —” He jutted his thumb behind him to vaguely gesture at you. “Her?”
“Mhm.” Jack kept his eyes on you. “You’re close.”
“Nah.” Mateo went back to the cart, shaking his head as he chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’d pass a single one of her tests. Besides, I got my eye on someone.”
“Apparently I don’t make the list either, I guess,” Jack murmured.
Mateo laughed through his nose, eyeing Jack with something new now. “You want to?”
Jack caught it, reaching his palm and smacking it against Mateo’s curls with no force. “No. Now, do your job.”
“I am —” He laughed through the words, eyes scanning over Jack’s stiffened posture now. “It’s good you don’t, then. Couldn’t handle her anyway.”
“Sure, I could,” Jack said immediately.
Mateo’s head turned again, lips curving upwards at Jack’s words, and he felt momentarily blindsided by his own mouth, entirely too honest for something that had started as a joke.
“Sure, you could,” Mateo teased, drawing out the words.
“Shut it.” Jack grabbed a box of gloves off the cart and set it down two shelves lower than it needed to go, purely to do something with his hands that didn’t involve reaching for Mateo’s collar. “Wasn’t a real question.”
Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.
Most of the time, Jack was fine with watching your love life play out in 3D. More often than not, he knew they’d never work out. You were just too good for anyone who came sniffing, and there was a grim comfort in that, in knowing the fellows and the nurses would wash through and out and leave you exactly where he found you, three feet down the counter from him, close enough to keep.
Tonight the comfort wasn’t coming. Mateo’s accidental interrogation had rubbed Jack wrongly, somewhere he had yet to fully locate yet, and was sitting in his chest like a splinter he kept forgetting was there until he turned the corner over the night, saw you, and noticed it was there. He should’ve let it stay as nothing, but his brain had apparently decided three hours later was the correct time to relitigate the whole exchange, turning it over at odd intervals between patients like a tongue worrying a chipped tooth.
It was the bad sort of slow in the ER, the sort that let his brain fill up with things he’d have no time for on a real night. Ellis had wandered over to your desk with two energy drinks and placed her arms loosely beside your computer.
Jack was distantly aware he had misplaced labs to hand back to you because they’d gotten lost in the system, and he told himself that was the whole reason his body had started moving in your direction.
“I got a rundown from Marge,” Ellis said, dropping into an empty stool beside you. “Apparently he wrote it out of the OR.”
“You’re joking,” you muttered. “I don’t understand it.”
Jack stood there with the labs in his hand, close enough to hear it.
“I’m still wondering if I should respond,” you were saying, half into your hands. “Is this romantic? This one’s never happened before.”
Ellis laughed slightly with you, and the two of you had built one of those small pockets that slow nights sometimes allowed, thirty seconds of being people instead of clinicians.
Jack set the labs down at the edge of your keyboard harder than he meant to, the papers slapping flat against the desk, and both of you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. Fuck — had he? It sure felt like he was operating off of whatever chemical cocktail his brain had whipped up for nights like this, some ugly little compound of jealousy and exhaustion. He was fairly sure if you pulled his labs right now they’d look like a man in the middle of a bad reaction to something not yet figured out in the scientific world.
“Labs on eight got lost.” His palm stayed on the sheet for a few seconds too long, some instinct telling him to keep his hand on something solid before the rest of him did something stupid. “You’ll want to recheck the trop.”
His eyes cut, against every ounce of better judgement he had left, to the note still folded in your hand, the same one he’d carried down like it was radioactive, the same note that had clearly done something for you that four years of Jack standing next to you clearly hadn’t. An unreasonable, low feeling creeped up behind his ribs at the sight of it, hot and out of proportion to a piece of folded-fucking-paper.
Ellis’s smile went uncertain as he felt her gaze snag on him.
You blinked up at him, and whatever had been sitting easy in your face a second ago curdled itself away, the corners of your mouth retreating. He knew this same retreat, had watched you recalibrate your muscles, swiftly, built to be unreadable against anyone who hadn’t spent four years learning your face.
His stomach dropped and heat climbed up the back of his neck, jaw tightening on its own. He hated that his body had learned to answer you the way it answered a motor alarm. He hated more that some raw, cornered part in him — still smarting about Mateo’s offhand comment and sore from that folded note — felt it wasn’t soothed.
You blinked up at him, and the laugh faded off your face, and you said, easily, warm, “Yeah — course. I’ll get right on that.”
He shrugged up one shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned, already walking away. “Whenever there’s a gap on your social calendar, I guess.”
He heard the small silence that opened behind him, and he could practically imagine you and Ellis looking at each other. Then, he heard you push back from the desk, the stool wheels catching, and your footsteps coming after him like he’d known they would, because you were the last person to let something like that go.
“Hey.” You fell into step beside him, voice pitched low, still giving him more benefit than the doubt had earned in the last ten seconds. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” He tilted his neck up slightly to do a quick scan of the board, some stubborn muscle in his neck refusing to let him meet your eyes. “Got a department to run.”
“And you’ve been running it great. You just became weird right now.” He could feel you working it over beside him, shifting on your feet as you toed the line between resident and the hard-won territory neither of you had ever named. “Jack.”
“You want to laugh about your shitty dates, that’s your business,” he said instead of letting it go, sounding too far from the man who’d had his hands hovering over yours an hour ago, watching you put in a chest tube, telling you that you’d done well. “Do it a little quieter. This is an ER, not a lunch table.”
His words stopped you for half a step. Jack kept walking, an ugly, cowardly momentum carrying him three more steps before you caught back up.
He heard you recalibrate your voice in real time when you said, “I was charting on a slow shift,” carefully. “You’ve made worse jokes when it’s even more busy. What’s this about?”
“It’s about you treating this place like it’s your dating pool and not your place of work.” The words came out much uglier than he meant, and he didn’t have it in him to call them back. “It’s not professional. It reflects on the department. Reflects on me. Somebody’s gotta say it, and apparently that’s me, since you clearly enjoy it too much to stop.”
You stopped walking altogether this time. He turned to face your stillness whole, then, and found your eyes narrowed at him, looking like you’d been hit from a direction you hadn’t been completely guarding against.
He let out a breath, fingers going up to his forehead to wipe at sweat that wasn’t there. “I’m just saying what —”
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice going level and courteous, as you nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re my attending, it reflects on you. I’ll keep my personal life out of work.”
“That’s not —” he tried, but you were already turning away, shoulders squared and chin level, professional armor snapping into place just like he’d told you to. It should have made him feel better to watch you take it so cleanly, to not make a big deal out of it. All it made him feel was like something had been surgically removed from him.
“Stop —” he tried again, to your back now, and the sentence died somewhere between his teeth and the air. That was okay. There was no end to the sentence that didn’t sound worse than the beginning anyway.
He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand still half-raised toward you, fingers curling back into his palm when he realized you weren’t there to reach. Jack felt, distantly, uselessly, like the only thing standing still in the entire building.
“Great going,” he heard Lena say, trailing past him, a tray tucked against her hip, not even breaking stride. “You got rid of the one entertainment we’ve got around here.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he caught up with her in three steps, jaw working around words that wanted to spill out defensively and came out simply tired. “It’s not entertainment if she keeps getting hurt,” he grumbled. “She’s not a show. Stop treating her like one.”
“Didn’t look like she was the one getting hurt tonight,” she said, rounding a corner and leaving him standing there.
Jack let out a low groan, running a palm down the lower half of his face, and dropped his hand only when he’d scrubbed enough friction into his jaw to feel it sting a little, which was at least a sensation he’d chosen, at least tonight. He stood there a second longer, staring at nothing in particular. His hands found his hips on reflex.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, and dragged both hands back through his hair, gripping once at the roots before letting go.
He rolled his neck, felt it pop unsatisfyingly, and pushed off the wall he hadn’t even realized he was leaning against. His leg fucking ached, the burn starting behind his knee. He ignored it like he always did and started walking anyway, jaw still held tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could physically hold himself together with the seams of his own black scrubs.
It was by the lockers after hand-off that Jack saw you next. Both of you had conveniently managed to work over-time; he because there was nothing to get home to, and you — he’d heard through the grapevine — because one of your patient’s little sister was coming in toward close, and you simply wanted to talk with her instead of handing the situation off to one of the day residents.
Usually, nobody had asked you to stay when you did. Most times, there was no version of staying that showed up in your favor; he and Shen were gone, so there was no attending grading you on it; no hours that counted. It was just for a kid who was going to get bad news from a face she’d seen before, so you cost yourself hours of sleep you most definitely needed to be the soft spot for a stranger’s little sister, and hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, and he knew you would’ve been embarrassed if he brought it up.
He found you using the little mirror inside your locker to apply some kind of pink-tubed gloss with one hand while the other ran its fingers through your hair. Jack pursed his lips, eyeing you from the doorway, because he was pretty sure you’d done something different to it in the last ten minutes.
“Look nice,” he tried, biting the bullet and walking toward his own locker. “Goin’ somewhere?”
You caught his eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. “Just breakfast,” you said, and there was none of the earlier lilt in it, the warmth that you’d always aimed at him gone functional. You capped the gloss with more force than it needed and dropped it into your bag.
Jack stood there a second too long with his hand over his own locker without opening it. He’d expected — and he knew he was more optimistic than usual for doing so — your easy back-and-forth, his slip-up from earlier forgotten. He wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet or you not looking at him properly, hairbrush working through your hair in short strokes.
He’d saved around thirty lives tonight, and that was what he was good at. He was not good, and had never claimed to be good, at the aftermath of hurting a person he’d have put his own body between a stretcher and wall for, without meaning to, over something that had never been about the radiology fellow at all.
He opted out of opening his locker and chose instead to lean his bicep against the locker, eyeing you in front of him. “Mad at me?” he murmured.
You let out a short breath, shaking your head, and he tracked all your micro-expressions through the mirror. “On the clock?”
“Well, we’ve both been off it for a while now,” he said, watching the shape of your mouth in the mirror, waiting for it to give something away. It didn’t. “But no. Asking as your —” He stopped himself, because ‘friend’ seemed not to be the honest word though it was the first one that popped up. “Off the clock. Whatever I am to you right now.”
You set the hairbrush down on the little shelf with more care than the moment needed. “It’s okay, Jack,” you said, shaking your head.
“Don’t think it is. Try again.”
You watched him for a second in the mirror, then you turned.
“It’s just embarrassing,” you said, and the words came out smaller than anything he’d heard out of you in years. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I respect you and I hate that you’d think for one second I don’t take this place seriously.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just barely, and you pressed your lips together. “So, yeah. It’s embarrassing to have my attending confirming I’m exactly what people think I am.”
He was shaking his head before you could even finish the sentence. “Nobody thinks —”
“You do,” you said, voice rising slightly. “So, off the clock, I’m embarrassed, and tonight, I’m going to be your resident. Because I agree with you. It’s been unprofessional of me to keep dating within the hospital —” You threw your arms up halfway by your side, and you let out a short laugh that came out dry and wrong. “And I hate that you’ve probably been thinking it for four years.”
“I haven’t,” he said too fast. God, he’d come here to make tonight better for you, not to make you re-evaluate all your years working with him. “Sure, I thought it was none of my business how you spend your good nights off. Didn’t stop me from thinking they didn’t deserve ‘em.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that now ‘cause you feel bad.”
“Wish it were that simple,” he said, and chose to leave it unelaborated because it wasn’t that simple and he had no intention of explaining exactly why. “Half the time, you know it’s not gonna work out. You’re breaking my heart by making me watch you break yours.”
You blinked, and he watched the fight loosen out of you by inches. “It’s just a free breakfast, Jack. Nothing to get your heart broken over.”
Jack let out a huff through his nose, mouth opening to say what, he didn’t know. “Is that all? ‘Cause I can get you free breakfast for the rest of your life.”
You laughed, disbelieving, through your nose, some of the night’s weight finally cracking off of you. “You’ve got a weird way of apologizing.”
“Just to my favorite resident.” He pointed his index finger at you, lazy, and pushed himself off the lockers. His shoulder blades left a faint dust-print on the metal where he’d been leaning. He thumbed in the combination without looking at the dial — muscle memory, years of the same locker — and the door swung open with a rusted squeak. He pulled out his bag. “So?”
“So what?”
“You ditch the fellow.” He slung the bag up over his shoulder, close enough now that he caught the tail-end of the perfume you’d lightly spritzed over yourself. “I buy.”
You looked at him for a second too long, lips pushing to one side, as though you were gauging whether this was a bit or not, another line he’d tossed and wanted to let die on its own. He stood there, jaw set and features relaxing to show you he did mean it, more than he wanted to admit, if he was being honest with himself.
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m not?” He nodded once at your locker, your bag sitting on the shelf. “Grab your stuff. We’re going.”
“Fine,” you said finally, reaching over and zipping your backpack all the way before throwing it over one shoulder. “Can you drive? I’ve been taking the subway.”
“Why?” he asked drily. “You’ve got a car.”
Jack realized, as he watched you slide in across from him and folding both hands around the coffee before it was all the way poured, that he’d never once been on a date where the woman had no idea it was one.
It wasn’t lost on him what that made him, a man old enough to know better, letting a thing be one thing on his side of the table and another thing entirely on yours, saying nothing to square the difference. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he was going to feed you.
You ordered a short stack, eggs, hash brown, decaf on loop. She wrote it down, definitely having heard worse from better.
“Thanks for the treat, Jack,” you said when Dina left, bringing the rim of your cup to your lips. “Don’t think I could’ve done another breakfast to let him down gently.”
“We have to make some changes to your lifestyle,” Jack replied, voice rough, as he eyed you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmured. “We?”
“Well, I did have to deliver a note to you today. In all my life working here, that’s never happened.”
You laughed around the rim of your cup. “In my defense, I don’t think anyone’s wrote me a note out of an OR either. That’s a first for both of us.”
“Glad we share the experience.”
Dina came by with a pot and topped you off without being asked, and placed the food in front of you. Jack watched you reach for the salt before your fork had even touched the eggs, shaking it twice over the plate.
“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke by forty.”
“You’re gonna give me a stroke right now if you comment on my food.” But you set the shaker down after the third shake, which he noticed and had to bite back a smile.
Dina dropped his plate in front of him — bacon, eggs, no pancakes — and you were reaching for it with a piece of your fork before she’d even finished setting his fork down. He gave you a faux-frown, picking up his fork and, without looking, spreading a piece of your hashbrown off the opposite plate in trade. He wasn’t sure when the two of you had started stealing bites and sips off of each other’s stuff, only that it’d started somewhere and calcified into something neither of you mentioned.
“Rude,” you said, mouth already full.
“Learned it from you,” he muttered, nudging his plate an inch closer to your side of the table, which you took full advantage of.
Dina’s radio crackled through something twangy and close-to-familiar behind the counter, competing with the clatter of a skillet somewhere in the back, the whole place smelling like batter and grease soaked into decades of countertop, syrup that had dried a hundred small amber rings nobody had ever fully scrubbed off.
“I’ve never been here before.” You absentmindedly cut the hashbrown in half as your eyes raked over the place. “This a regular spot for you?”
“Since before you joined,” he said easily, but his brows furrowed as he realized he’d been coming here alone for years. He was in the same booth when he could get it, ordered the same order, and it struck to him only now, watching you eat your hashbrowns, how much smaller and less lonely a booth felt with you taking up the other half of it. “Used to be the only quiet I got on some weeks.”
You hummed. “And now?”
“Guess the quiet’s pretty negotiable.” He shrugged. “I can go without it.”
You smiled down at your plate, something easy working at the corner of your mouth. A thread of syrup had gathered at the seam of your lips — you hadn’t noticed, too busy considering his answer — and before he’d cleared the impulse with the rest of himself, his thumb was already moving, catching it at the corner quickly, no different than when he swiped under your lashline for salt after a bad night.
You stayed still, having gotten used to his hands somewhere during your residency.
“You’re a mess,” he said, wiping his thumb off on the paper napkin folded under his elbow.
“You’ve got coffee on your scrub top,” you said, eyes flicking down to his chest. His brows furrowed and he looked down, and you were right. “Pot, kettle.”
He’d been about to say something else, he could’ve sworn it, but had lost every word of it watching you smile so unguarded, free enough to let him look at you. He had to reach for his coffee just to have something to do with his hands.
When the check came, folded in its little plastic tray, you both reached for it at once. Your hand landed flat over his knuckles. Neither of you moved it for a second, for his hand stayed exactly where it was, broad and unmoving under yours, and something unspoken passed through the two inches of fornica between your faces as he raised a brow at you. He slid the tray out from under you slowly.
“Said I’m buying,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
The drive back had been quieter than the one there had been. It was nearing ten in the morning, and he knew both of you had stayed up longer than intended, especially for two people who had to clock back in in a shorter amount of time than he deemed plausible to reset completely.
He’d cracked the window down an inch, and the air coming through carried the smell of wet pavement and the sound of a garbage truck grinding its gears three streets over. Your neighborhood, he was learning, woke up slow; there was a paperboy on a bike, a guy in scrubs different from yours locking up his own car after a shift that wasn’t at the PTMC, and Jack drove through it with two fingers loose over the wheel. Neither of you had bothered with the radio.
You’d gone somewhere billowy around your third cup of decaf, all the sharp edges of the night replaced with something looser and sleepier, and you gave him directions in a voice gone thick from exhaustion as you were likely starting to feel it behind your eyes.
He pulled his car along the curb and let it idle, one shoe braced against the floorboard, watching the numbers of your building.
“Gonna sleep?” he asked.
“Gonna try.” You were already working the bag strap over your shoulder, hair falling loose out of the knot you’d put it up in at some point at the diner, strands of it catching the early light. “I’ve got no idea how you do this then take SWAT calls.”
“You’d be able to do it, too, if I put you on the field.”
You mumbled something, letting your head drop against the window for a second, before picking itself back up. “Stop threatening me, Jack.”
He watched you fight your eyelids, his mouth pulling up at the corners at the sight. “C’mon. Get inside before I gotta carry you up.”
You snorted, half-hearted. “You can’t. You’d throw your hip out.”
“Try me.” He was already rounding the hood before you’d gathered your bearings, boots loud on the quiet street, and you let out another laugh and let him get there first, too tired to argue about who gets to open what.
He walked you up the cracked path, palm settling at the small of your back, and you leaned back into it, half your weight given over without you noticing it.
At the door, you fumbled with your keys out from under a granola wrapper and a capless pen, missed the lock twice, and gave up trying on the third. You turned to face him instead with your back against the frame and your bag slowly sliding off one shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said, words coming out loose and filtered by the exhaustion even as you tried to meet his eyes head-on. “For the — everything. The explanation. And the breakfast.”
Jack felt his lips curve up, fingers flexing at his sides. “Anytime.”
“And for driving me there — thank you. And for the drive back.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna go inside?” he said, voice going quieter as he looked down at the ground, at how the toes of your shoes were almost touching. “Or keep thanking me until you fall asleep standing up?”
You cocked your head to the side, your lips moving upwards into a fuller smile. His own mouth curved as he shifted on his feet slightly, closing the barely-there inch between his shoes and yours.
“Jack?”
He hummed, and you went up slightly onto your toes before he’d finished deciding what to do with you. Or maybe he’d moved in first, or maybe there was no real order to it at all. His mouth found yours somewhere in that uncertainty, slowly despite it, because he’d already worked out every version of this moment and this one had simply appeared in front of him.
His hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb settling into the soft hollow just beneath your ears. Your skin was warm despite the cold snap in the air, much softer than he’d let himself imagine, and he felt the exact second your breath caught against his mouth, a small stutter that made his fingers curve around your jaw, index resting against your cheekbone.
He kept it slow, it was the only thing he had any real control over right now, the pace of it instead of the fact of it. He used what little he had left, dragging his mouth against yours, like he could somehow make up for four years of nothing by refusing to rush the first thirty seconds of something. His other hand found your waist, and his palm felt how your back curved into him, the hitch of your ribs on an inhale, and he pressed you back the last inch against the doorframe more to ground himself.
Your fist found the front of his canvas jacket, dragging him in the last stubborn space he’d been too careful to close himself, and a sound came out of his chest that embarrassed him a little. He felt you smile against his mouth, and his entire body felt warm at having been caught enjoying this entirely as much as he was.
He tilted his head so his forehead pressed against yours and pulled his mouth away. His lips jutted out slightly, feeling suddenly empty and unwilling to put the full distance back between the two of you.
Your eyes were still shut, and you were breathing unevenly. “Thank you,” you murmured.
He huffed a short laugh, and in it, realized how breathless he, too, was.
You tipped your chin back up, already chasing him.
Jack felt the want knot up inside him, greedy and unreasonably leaning back in to meet you halfway before the rest of him had caught up and made him stop. He made a small sound in his throat and pinched his eyes shut, letting you get right up to the edge of it, breath already tangling with his, wanting so badly to just let it happen, before his finger came up between you, pressed light against your bottom lip to stop you a hair short. It was more for his own sake than the words he remembered you telling someone years ago ringing in his head.
“Ah-ah.” His voice came out rough with want, entirely at odds with his actions. “Your rule. Only one kiss after the first date. I’m trying —” he exhaled hard, almost dramatically, “— trying real hard here to make it to the second.”
“Huh?” Your eyes peeled open. “This was a date?”
“Best one you’ve had I’m guessing, with the way you’re breaking your rules.” His finger stayed right where it was, and he watched your eyes struggle to focus, still glassy from the kiss. He could feel the warm huff of breath breaking unsteady against his fingertip, could feel your mouth soft and parted underneath it, waiting on him.
You pressed a peck against his finger instead, your mouth barely dragging against his skin as a shy smile formed behind it that he felt more than saw. “Maybe.”
“Well, good.” He smiled, despite himself, and pushed himself off your forehead, opting instead to press his lips there. “Get some sleep,” he murmured against your hairline, lips lingering a little longer there. “Might be able to get a full seven hours.”
“Will you?”
“Doubt it.” He pulled back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone — his touch feather-light, tracking the exact curve of it, memorizing the route — before he made himself drop his hand entirely, fingers curling loosely at his sides because suddenly he had no idea what to do with them without you under them. “Kinda got a lot on my mind now.”
“Yeah?” You bit back a smile, still not quite steady on your feet. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”
“Not a chance.” He bent a fraction and hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag where it’d slid down to your elbow, dragging it slowly back up to your shoulders, knuckles grazing your arms the whole way. “You’ll find out. Eventually.”
He forced himself to step off the mat — one step back, then the second, putting real distance between you now — forcing ease into his expression that he definitely wasn’t feeling. He stopped a few feet away from you anyway, unable to fully commit to walking away, watching you stunned and still in your doorway, mouth a little kiss-soft. He felt so completely helpless and pleased at the sight. “Text me when you’re up and I’ll get to planning date two.”
You raised a hand into a wave, fingers curling in the air.
“Bye, Jack,” you said, and his name came out of your mouth softer than you probably meant it to, smooth and cushy the way it never sounded on shift.
He lifted his chin up at you once and made himself turn, finally, finding the path back to his car. He made it to the curb before he looked back again, and you were still standing there, one hand braced on the door, watching him go with an expression he was sure he was going to think of the entire drive home.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 135k┊ongoing┊updates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
⤷ CHAPTER INDEX:
⚕one.┊two.┊three.┊four.┊five.┊six.┊seven.┊eight.┊nine.┊ten.┊eleven. ┊twelve.┊thirteen.┊fourteen.┊ fifteen. ┊ sixteen.┊seventeen.┊eighteen┊ nineteen ┊twenty ┊twenty one ┊twenty two
⤷ BLURBS INDEX:
⚕ long shift
⚕ halloween
⚕ the q-word
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow @s-writing-s-fics to get notified when i post a new chapter <33
I was wondering if you would maybe do a dadbf rabbot fic with reader deciding to sneak and buy a toy and use it while Jack and Robby are gone for the day and how they’d react?
well yes!
rabbot x female reader, cw: fauxcest, spanking, overstim, dadbf!robby, dadbf!jack, robby is dad and jack is daddy, 3.3k words
you had bought the toy from a prepaid 150 dollar visa gift card that jack had given you for fun. he’d noticed how your eyes lit up when robby or him let you swipe their card at a register, and he thought it was sweet. of course, you had access to his and robby’s cards. it was on your apple pay. but they saw the bill for those. you knew that. in fact, robby had told you multiple times, “don’t even think of buying anything you don’t want us to see, kid. we both have the app on our phone. and we check it. often.”
but jack was out with the swat team for the next couple hours. and robby has his own 12 hour shift today. which left you with the perfect, three hour window to get in your car. you don’t have a job, of course. you tried once, because you wanted to have work experience, but robby shut that down immediately. said your only job was to get good grades in university and be their good girl. jack had just given a shrug and said “sorry, sweetheart. i agree with dad here.” you’d had sense enough not to pout or whine.
they did allow you your car, though, which jack pushed for, much to robby's reluctance. you could still remember the way robby said "she's just a kid, man. she'll wreck it and get hurt. or she'll wreck it, be completely fine, and then cry for a week." but jack pushed, "come on, brother. she already goes to online school. we're always working. don't want her to be cooped up inside all day. 's bad for her health. she could go to the bookstore or something. make some friends."
now, you find yourself at the cash register at spencer’s, shakily handing a pink vibrator to a cashier with dyed purple hair, your face hot. you swipe your visa gift card against the register. the cashier bags your vibrator and you hurry out of the store, behaving like you’ve just committed a crime against humanity. “have a nice day?” the cashier calls out. you don’t answer. you check the garage app. no one’s come in or out since you’ve left. good. good. this will be fine.
once at home, you hurry up the stairs and head straight to your room. then, realizing you don’t have anything to open the box with, you go to jack’s room and take out his swiss army knife. you grapple with the edge of it for a second, your fake nail not allowing it to open easily. the blade nicks you as it emerges. you don’t care. you slice the box open and press on the power button until it starts buzzing.
you close your door and briefly wish you had a lock. but dad and daddy made it very clear that that wasn’t happening. so a simple closed door will have to do. you remove your leggings, then sit down on your pink duvet and stare at the clit sucker for a moment. you check the time. 2 pm. jack shouldn’t be home till at least 4, robby till 8. you open your phone, set it to do not disturb, and close it. jack and robby never text at work anyway. well, they do, but it’s more reminding you to eat and with jack a few sappy messages about how much he loves you, but they don’t expect instant responses. you should be fine. you prop your ipad up in front of you, then open it to the private video album jack and robby update every night. all your sex tapes. some with just daddy. some with just dad. some with both, one at each end of you, splitting you open completely.
you slip your hand, clasped firm around the vibrator, under your cotton panties. you tilt your head to see the screen and press play on a thirty minute long video. both your dads touching you. you remember this one. it was after a hard day for both of them, a mass casualty, jack had to go in early, just a mess. you were whining as robby fucked into you roughly. jack was behind you, with one hand on your mouth and another rubbing your clit.
the vibrator suctions your already swollen clit. you know there are rules about this. you don’t touch yourself without supervision. dad had said that you’d end up hurting yourself without knowing it. daddy agreed. the only toys in the house are locked in jack’s gun safe, kept there until whenever they decided to tease you during play.
your pussy is completely slick with fluid. your panties are damp. you realize with horror that you cannot operate a washing machine, and therefore will not be able to clean them without your dads knowing. that’s okay. it’s okay. robby often says that vaginal discharge is normal. that it’s healthy. that it’s healthy to be aroused, just as long as you don’t do anything about it without telling them. you’d just say you were really turned on during the day. easy peasy.
you raise the volume on your ipad in an attempt to drown out your own thoughts. you can do this. you can cum like a normal girl who doesn’t need her dads to watch her every second of the day. you are an adult, damn it. you can do this!
you push your hips down onto the toy as you feel your orgasm starting to build. you squeeze your eyes shut, whining out a mix of dad and daddy. “please, please, please, lemme have it. please. please. ‘m a good girl.” you cum in an intense wave. panting, immediately working for your second orgasm.
unfortunately for you, because your phone is on do not disturb, you do not hear the garage app chime with jack’s arrival. because your ipad is on so loud, you do not hear jack’s boots against the hardwood floor. you do, however, hear your door open, the vibrator still pressed uselessly against you. jack clicks his tongue and lets out a disappointed sigh “oh, honey bunny…”
you scramble up, desperate to make it go away. you toss the vibrator to the floor, as if throwing it will make it so this never happened, will make it so you never disobeyed or deceived.
“pick it up.”
jack’s voice has gone strict in a way you’ve almost exclusively seen from robby. jack doesn’t get strict. jack lets robby be the mean parent. jack gets to be the fun daddy. the one who says yes to ice cream and getting a car and letting you go outside.
your eyes well up with tears. “please don’t tell dad.” jack cocks a brow. “not worried about me? just dad? think i’ll let you get away with this bullshit?” before you can protest, jack is calling robby. 4 rings later, he picks up. jack puts him on speakerphone. “hey, brother. we got a problem on our hands.”
robby sighs. “like the house is burning down or misbehavior?” you’re sniffling on the bed now, looking down guiltily at your hands. “somehow, bunny over here got her hands on a vibrator. caught her getting off to one of our videos.” you can practically feel robby’s glare through the phone. “kid. that true? daddy walked in on you acting fucking desperate?” you don’t respond. jack smacks your ass. “answer him!” you squeak out. “yes! ‘m sorry.”
robby takes in a deep breath. he exhales. “alright, then. jack. i’m not supposed to be off for another five hours. i’ll come home earlier if i can. deal with her till then. just make sure she’s conscious and not too fucked out by the time i get back.”
jack laughs. “oh don’t worry, man. she’s not gonna be blissed out like that any time soon. see you later.”
you whine from your spot on the bed, hugging your stuffed bunny to your chest. “please don’t spank me… i said i’m sorry” jack laughs. “oh, baby. that’s dad’s job. daddy’s just gonna give you what you need. now drink some water. this is gonna be…” he smiles, as if this whole thing is some humorous incident “intense.”
jack takes the vibrator from the bed. clears his throat. puts his real knee against your comforter. “lay back.” you obey. “thought you could disobey us? fucking hell, look at ‘cha.”
you try to protest. “didn’t think it was disobeying…” jack barks out a laugh. “really, hon? didn’t think you were disobeying? christ, that’s what we’re going with? drove your pretty little ass to the store, picked it up, drove back, hid in your room, used it, and you didn’t think you were disobeying?”
you try to guilt trip him. “well, maybe if you were home to take care of me instead of working all the time….” a heavy palm cracks down on your face. “don’t you dare. you know me and dad work so you have everything you could possibly want. don’t be an ungrateful little girl. ‘s ugly on you. say sorry.”
“sorry!” you cry out. “so sorry, daddy” jack rubs his thumb over where he hit you. “good girl. just gotta correct your little notion about being allowed to disobey.”
he walks over to the ivory colored dresser and pulls out thick silk ropes. he turns on the vibrator. “spread your legs, honey bunny. there we go. attagirl.”
your legs are shaking as he ties the vibrator in between your thighs. “since you wanted to use it so much, we’re just gonna wait until the damn thing dies.” your eyes roll back and you grab his hand. “aw. poor girl. wanting daddy to make it feel better. shouldn’t have done all that then, should you have?” he pats your thigh.
your chest is heaving uncontrollably as he ties your hands above your head, connecting them to your headboard. “learned that knot way before you were born. back in the army. you remember your old man was in the army, right? that’ll hold.” you try to kick. “daddy please. love you so much. loveyouloveyouloveyou.” he pats your face. “love you too, kiddo. you know i do. but we’re your parents. gotta nip bad behavior in the bud, y’know? don’t want you doing anything dangerous because you got it in your pretty little head that you could just do whatever.”
he kisses your forehead, deceptively sweet. “now, i’m gonna take a shower. be good!” he gives you a faux stern look. “oh, you can handle it, i’m sure. such a big girl. went out and bought herself a sex toy.” the door clicks shut.
you struggle against the binds. it’s no use. you’re voice comes out garbled, thick with tears and exhaustion “daddy, come back!!” no please, you were spoiled that way by jack. dad insists on manners. “yes, please,” “no, thank you.” daddy doesn’t.
jack smiles from where he stands outside your door. good. it really pains him, having to do this to his kid. but, robby always says, kids need discipline.
you hear him walk away, the shower from his room turn on and start crying. you’re close again. you feel awful for disobeying. you want to hold your bunny. the cries get louder. he winces. this fucking hurts. but he reminds himself he needs to work on following through with consequences. that’s parenting.
you cum again fingers curling and uncurling. what you wouldn’t give for daddy to just stroke your hair right now. tell you you are doing so good. so, so good. the vibrator doesn’t let up. you try to escape, to rock, to pull, nothing stops it. you think you pass out, then wake up to another orgasm, scream, pass out again, over and over and over.
two hours later, the vibrator dies completely. the past 30 minutes were relatively low sensation. jack walks back in. he taps your cheek. “aw, pretty girl. you took that so well, didn’t you? stayed right where i left you.” he rubs his hand across your cheek. “so good. i think you deserve a reward.”
yes, god yes, you need a shower and pajamas and a cuddle. but jack doesn’t move to untie you. simply removes the vibrator from between your thighs, and, in its place, his face.
your voice is insanely hoarse as you shake your head. you can barely muster words. “no. please. please, no.” jack smiles and tilts his head. “but you always say that you just love when daddy gives you head. that i’m so much better than dad.” you try to shake your head again, but are cut off by jack’s tongue fucking into your cunt.” you try to grab at his curls, but are still tied. you cry, “wanna touch!” jack lifts his head and sucks in a breath, his face doing that stupid, infuriating expression. “sorry, hon. you’re not exactly in the position to be making demands.” his stubble rubs against your oversensitive, puffy pussy. you try to squirm away. he purposely drags his face down again. “what, you don’t like that? don’t like that? does it burn?”
you sob out. “please. daddy. ‘s too much.” he drags his nose between your folds. “this hurts me more than it hurts you, bunny.” you black out.
when you come to, jack is finally untying you. he hauls you across his lap, sitting on the edge of the bed. “oh, sweetheart. you’re okay. did so well for daddy. come, let’s get food in you before dad comes home. and he is pissed.” your head goes to his shoulder, shaking uncontrollably. “no. nonononono! tell him ‘ve already been punished.” he runs his hand down your back. “you know how dad is. he’ll probably spank you. make you write some lines. but he won’t fuck you. daddy’ll make sure of it. you’ve had enough of that for the night, haven’t you?” you nod weakly. jack picks you up, and you blearily realize he put back on his prosthetic after his shower. you rub your face against his. endear yourself to him, and he just might save you.
jack sets you down on the couch and takes a photo of your tear streaked face. your skin must be angry and red. you try to cover it. he sends it to robby
attachment: 1 image
look who’s been punished
when jack brings the egg back, he ruffles your hair. “eat up, bunny. gotta get you refueled.” you collapse into his lap. “please, don’t let him punish me too bad.” jack gives you a stern look. “i’m not going to interfere with whatever consequence he gives you,” your face dims, and he quickly strokes your hair again “but i will stop him if he’s being unfair, okay? you’re not gonna pass out. daddy promises.”
the moment robby walks through the door, you bury your face in jack’s chest, your hand moves over his stomach, attempting to soothe yourself. “you’re okay, sweetheart. it’ll be fine. you’ll be all done and tucked into bed in two hours tops.” no matter what, your dads don’t let anything go past bedtime. no matter the punishment, you are always washed, brushed, kissed, and tucked in by ten pm.
robby doesn’t speak when he comes in. he gets into the shower. washes himself. changes into a pajama set. he comes back downstairs fifteen minutes later.
“i told you we made a mistake getting her that damn car, jack.”
jack rolls his eyes, stroking your back still. “i stand by the car. but we should take her keys for a week.” you whine. ‘spposed to be on my side.” jack kisses your hair. “baby, i am. i didn’t say shit about taking it away permanently, did i?”
robby rolls his eyes and pulls at the back of your tank top. “on your feet, kid.” you try to keep a grip on jack. robby glares at him. “a little help, man?” jack gently removes your hand from his shirt, kissing it. “less than 2 hours to bed, angel. daddy believes in you. my brave girl.” you sob. robby spins you around, grabbing your face. “haven’t even fucking done anything yet. relax.” you shake your head, your face covered in fresh tears now. “gonna spank me” he nods “yeah, i will.” you wail “gonna make me write lines!” he nods again. “yeah, kid, i will. you made some pretty awful choices today.”
your face crumples, and jack grimaces “ease up, brother. she knows she fucked up.” robby pushes you so that you’re bent over. “we’re gonna do thirty smacks with the belt. you don’t need to count tonight.” a small mercy, but a mercy all the same. jack working his magic. robby pulls down your panties, pinching your clit. “this little thing just controls you, doesn’t it? takes all the sense out of your goddamn head.”
you try to breathe over the couch. robby picks up a thick, leather belt. he turns to jack. “wanna grab yourself a beer? you’ve done a lot today.” jack shakes his head. “i’m good, man. we’ll have one after she goes to bed. i wanna be sober to put her to sleep.”
the taller man shrugs. “suit yourself.” he brings down the belt on your bottom. you scream. jack rubs your hand. “doing so well, baby. beyond proud of you.” robby scoffs, bringing it down again, “you always coddle her.” jack grins. “she’s a little girl, dude. our kid. she needs some coddling. and she just loves her daddy.” you sob out “love you both equally!” robby raises a brow, and your daddy laughs. “look at her, being so awfully sweet.” again the belt comes down. you clutch at the leather. jack does his best robby impression, looks down as if looking over glasses, points a finger at you. “this couch is expensive. don’t go tearing it up like a kitten.” robby brings the belt down harder. “i do not sound like that.” jack smiles. “whatever you say, brother.”
robby gives you the smallest amount of praise at the twentieth smack, if you could even call it that. “well, look who can follow directions.” it’s punctuated by another. you beg, “please just get the last few over with.” robby tilts his head. “oh, you think you can decide how your punishment goes? that’s how we do things in this house?” you try to shake your head, to explain that you didn’t mean it that way. it is no use.
the last ten are excruciatingly slow. “you disobeyed us,” smack “you broke an explicitly set rule,” smack “a rule we set for your own safety,” smack “you definitely emotionally blackmailed daddy, i can feel it,” smack “you acted as if you knew better than your parents,” smack “you behaved as if your parents don’t take good enough care of you,” smack. finally, he takes mercy on you. he does not comment on the fact that he stopped four smacks short. you collapse against the couch, sobbing uncontrollably, blinded by tears. “you understand what you did?” you nod. again, mercifully, he does not make you repeat it.
jack comes up behind you. “oh, there we go. our good girl again. so sweet. you’ll never misbehave again. daddy knows. dad got a little mean there, didn’t he.” he’s peppering your head in kisses, reaching in front to rub your tummy. “oh, i know, you poor girl. let’s get you cleaned up. sleep in daddy’s bed tonight, c’mon.” robby sucks air in through his teeth. “well… not yet.” jack glares at him. “you cannot possibly be serious.” the older man sighs. “rules are rules, jack. i said she’d be writing lines. she’s gonna be writing lines for thirty minutes.”
“dude. look at her. she can barely breathe. she can barely see. how in the ever loving fuck is she writing lines.”
“i’m not grading on handwriting. she’ll be okay.” robby goes to the basement, emerging with the dreaded stool. scratchy, with a bathmat attached to it. you buckle again. jack brings a cool cloth to your face. “it’s okay, baby, stay with me. you’ve been so brave. so good. you can write a few silly little lines. show dad what a good girl you are.” you tremble. robby picks you up anyway. jack sighs. “michael.” “no, jack, she’ll be okay.”
when robby sits you on the stool, you nearly collapse onto the bar counter. he pulls you back up, steadying you. “don’t be difficult, kid. listen to your old man. you’re going to write ‘i will not touch myself without either dad or daddy approving it.’” he takes a legal pad and writes out a sample sentence. “you’re going to write this as many times as you possibly can, until the timer runs out.”
jack puts a hand at the back of your neck. he lowers his head, whispers in your ear. “you got this. and you know, dad’s gonna feel so guilty after, i can tell. he’ll probably want to cuddle you all night too. won’t that be fun?” you whimper. the timer starts.
your entire body feels like it’s made of rocks. you are pushed on by jack’s constant and robby’s sporadic praise. robby whispers “knew you could do it” and your heart soars.
the timer goes off. you were only able to write ten sentences. robby doesn’t comment on it. you collapse like a house of cards. he catches you, picks you up, and brings you to the couch.
“that’s my girl. knew you could do so much better. you’re not gonna lie again, are you?” your head lolls against his neck, eyes already drooping. he pinches your thigh. “i asked you a question.” you’re immediately shocked back into yourself.
“n—no, dad”
jack tilts your face up, kissing your lips. “that’s our perfect little girl. best daughter we could ask for, right, robby?”
robby sighs again, but this time it is thick with affection. “yeah,” he smiles, “best daughter ever.”
