#Surgical Instruments with Names | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckysleftbicep · 22 hours ago

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bent and bruised (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dark themes, winter soldier!bucky, dub-con/non-con themes, unprotected sex, creampie, ptsd, a whole, whole lot of angst

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi my loves! i am finally back with another series! it took me a whole day to get this up and i hope you guys will love it as much as i do! i am so excited to do up this series and i would love to hear your thoughts! i love ya guys and please stay safe out there! ❤️

series masterlist

The room hummed with stale tension and recycled air, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how long you’d been inside.

It was too clean, too sterile—like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of personality. No windows. Just steel, flickering monitors, and the faint tang of ozone bleeding from exposed wires somewhere in the walls.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that maddening, uneven way, stuttering against the matte black of the long conference table. Weapons were laid out in clinical precision—pistols, serrated knives, a few modified explosives lined up like surgical instruments.

The projection screen threw ghostly glows across their polished surfaces, and somewhere in the corner, a feed flickered with static before cutting back to drone footage of the mission site.

Unnerving silence settled between Valentina’s clipped sentences, the kind of silence that had weight behind it. Anticipation. Or maybe dread.

The compound was quieter than usual, Yelena wasn’t talking. Ava wasn’t pacing. Walker hadn’t cracked a joke in at least five minutes, which was practically a record. Even the air felt heavy, like it knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, half-shadowed, arms folded tight across his chest.

He looked relaxed. He wasn’t.

The leather of his jacket creaked faintly every time the fingers of his vibranium hand twitched—just enough to betray the restlessness he didn’t bother to show.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Didn’t need to. He could feel it—like static crawling beneath his skin. Whatever Val was leading up to, it wasn’t just about the mission.

It was something else. He never liked waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Infiltration’s scheduled for 0400,” Val said finally, breaking the silence with a sharp tap of her pointer against the digital display. A red dot blinked, pulsing like a heartbeat on the map.

“You’ll drop half a click from the perimeter, make entry through the north access shaft here. It’s still mostly underground—remnants of an old HYDRA stronghold, retrofitted for black market manufacturing. Radiation cloaking, signal dampeners, camo tech. Nothing simple about it, but manageable.”

The map shifted, highlighting the tunnel system in pale blue.

“You go in quiet, plant charges along the assembly line, tag the shipments, get out clean before the buyers show up.”

“And what exactly are they shipping?” Ava asked, her tone clipped. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, but not out of nerves—calculated.

Val lifted a brow, pleased by the question. With a click of her remote, the schematic changed. A plasma rifle rotated slowly in high-definition detail—sleek, brutal, and unmistakably advanced.

“Reverse-engineered Stark tech,” she said, voice razor-edged. “Plasma rifles, miniaturized arc pulse grenades, destabilizers. It’s genius work, honestly. Someone in there knows what they’re doing. These prototypes could down a jet with a single discharge. They’re selling to buyers who make AIM look like a fucking Etsy page.”

Yelena let out a low whistle. “And here I thought tuesdays were boring.”

John leaned back, tossing a small knife between his hands with lazy disinterest. “So we blow it to hell. Make it loud.”

Val shot him a pointed look, all warning and no warmth. “Clean,” she said again. “Surgical. No mess, no headlines. We’re not making a scene.”

That was when it happened.

Her mouth curled, just slightly. A new edge slipped into her voice.

“And,” Val continued, drawing the word out just enough to shift the air in the room, “you’ll be joined by a new agent.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena arched a brow and leaned forward on her elbows. “Oh god, Don’t tell me it’s Walker’s twin.”

Walker snorted. Didn’t even glance at her. Just flipped her off mid-spin of the blade.

Val chuckled. “No. She’s one of mine. Freelance up till now. Ex-mercenary. Former ghost. One of the best I’ve ever worked with, she's efficient, lethal, tactical as hell. I’d say she rivals even you, Barnes.”

The room tilted—just a little.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Barely a reaction. Just a subtle shift in the line of his shoulders. His jaw ticked. Nothing more. But his eyes locked on Val’s, a flicker of something unreadable burning deep beneath the surface.

“Okay, now I curious,” Alexei said, reaching for a protein bar from his jacket pocket like the team wasn’t just a fucking step from a horror movie.

Val didn’t say anything.

The screen changed. And time fractured.

Name: (Y/N) (L/N) Gender: F Born: 1941 Recruited: 1963 (HYDRA OPERATIVE) Status: Cryo Recovery — Completed Subjected to: Experimental Super Soldier Serum (1963, Switzerland, Geneva Facility) Current Role: Active Operative

Your file blinked across the screen in clean, bureaucratic lines. But it was the photo that struck like a bullet to the ribs.

You. Alive.

Not the way Bucky remembered you—not exactly. You looked older now, as you should’ve. But it wasn’t the years that aged you. It was something else. Something far worse. Your expression was empty—neutral, professional, cold.

But your eyes… Fuck. Your eyes.

They were still the same shape, glassy, still the same damn colour, still framed by lashes he remembered fluttering closed against his jaw, his throat, the cold table beneath you as you had locked your legs around him.

But they were different too.

Sharper now. Harder.

Like glass that had been shattered, then put back together without the intention of being whole. A reconstruction, a warning.

You’d seen the worst of humanity. He knew you had.

Because you’d seen him. You had seen the soldier.

Bucky’s throat dried, his pulse thudded loud in his ears. For a second, the rest of the room faded. No Val. No briefing. No mission.

Just your face, twenty feet tall on a screen that didn’t understand the weight of what it displayed.

His vibranium fingers clenched into a fist against his thigh.

Because before the blood, before the years, before everything—

He remembered you being shoved into his cell. He remembered what they made you for. Him.

Geneva, 1963

The restraints clicked loose with a mechanical hiss.

The sound echoed like a countdown, bouncing off the concrete walls of the cell—sterile and dim, soaked in shadow and the sharp tang of metal. The air in the room was cold, almost painfully so. It reeked of antiseptic, dried blood, rusted bolts, and fear.

It was always cold, always humming, always watching.

He sat motionless in the center of the room, body lit by the faint glow of overhead lights buried in steel mesh. His breathing was even. Controlled. Programmed. Like the rest of him.

There were voices still murmuring in the back of his mind—Russian syllables sharp and precise like scalpel cuts. Orders etched into the bone.

The Soldier didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Not until the door opened.

It wasn’t loud—just a low, hydraulic groan—but it might as well have been an earthquake. The room shifted with it. Tensed. And then you stumbled in.

Barefoot.

A paper-thin robe hung off your shoulders, barely tied, the cheap fabric fluttering like the wings of something dying. Your skin was pale beneath the harsh light. Translucent and cold.

You had been trembling—not dramatically, not childishly, but with a quiet, contained sort of fear. The kind that sat behind your eyes like a scream you weren’t allowed to voice.

Your breathing was shallow. Your arms wrapped tight around your middle like maybe you could still keep something for yourself. Dignity, perhaps. Sanity.

He could hear your heart skipping.

Thud. Thud. Skip. Thud.

The Soldier's head tilted slightly.

You didn’t speak. You weren’t supposed to. He of all people knew that.

Another set of footsteps followed behind you. Louder. Confident. Casual in that way only men who enjoyed this part could be.

Your handler stepped in, gloved hands tucked behind his back, expression amused—like this was just another thursday night for him. He smelled of aftershave and smoke and arrogance.

“She’s new Soldier,” he said, like he was introducing a piece of meat. “Fresh out of the chair. ты полюбишь ее (you'll love her)."

The Soldier’s eyes tracked him, no reaction. Just coiled stillness. The quiet before a storm—or before something breaks.

The man stepped behind you, took a fistful of your hair, tilted your head back with casual cruelty. His other hand held a gun. Not raised yet—just dangling. Just there.

He pressed the barrel to your chin.

“You were modified, my dear,” he said, voice slick, smiling like this was a joke between old friends. “Tailored just for him”

You blinked back a tear and Bucky remembered how you tried not to move, tried to not let the tears slip.

But he saw it, god, he always saw it.

“Our Soldier here,” the handler continued, “is very effective when he’s satisfied. But lately—” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “—he’s been a little… what do you say? wound up.”

He dragged the pistol slowly down the column of your throat.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine,” he whispered, then slapped your cheek—not hard, but just enough to make your teeth clack. Just enough to remind you that your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

It belonged to him.

Your lip trembled. You flinched. But you didn’t cry out.

The handler smirked, pleased with himself. Then he shoved you forward. Hard. You stumbled toward the metal table in the center of the room, hands catching on the edge. It was freezing beneath your fingertips.

“Strip,” he said.

You froze.

There was a pause—barely two seconds—before he raised the gun again, pressing the muzzle to your throat.

“Я сказал, черт возьми, разденься.” (i said fucking strip)

Your hands moved without your permission. Wooden. Shaking.

The knot on the robe came loose in one tug. The fabric slipped from your shoulders like it had been waiting to betray you. It crumpled around your feet.

The cold hit instantly. Like knives.

You stood there—naked, spine taut as a wire—while the handler looked you over like you were nothing. Just skin. Just parts. A means to an end.

Behind you, the Soldier stood.

The restraints had fallen from his wrists minutes ago. He hadn’t moved until now.

But he did now.

Silently. Predatory. Like a tiger stalking its prey—measured, patient, deadly in its grace. There was no urgency in the way he moved. No rush. Just inevitability.

Each step echoed, booted and deliberate, closing the space between you until the scent of steel and gun oil and winter settled over your skin like a second prison.

You turned, barely.

Your eyes met his—wide, glistening, pleading. A silent cry for mercy, for recognition, for something human. But what stared back at you wasn’t mercy.

His eyes were cerulean—stunning, almost unnaturally bright. A shade of blue that might have once held the sky, the sea. But now, they were stripped bare. Cold and hollow. Like frost on glass, beautiful only because of how dead they looked beneath the surface.

There was no spark behind them. No flicker of recognition. No trace of the man he’d once been almost twenty years ago before HYDRA wiped him clean.

As if the color remained only to mock you—brilliant, vivid, human—in a face that had long since forgotten how to be.

You made a sound. Soft. Fractured.

“I-I… please—”

The door behind you slammed shut.

The locks engaged. One by one. Click. Click. Click.

You were alone.

No—worse. You were with him.

The Soldier said nothing. Not a grunt, not a breath—just a slow, deliberate advance. Each step was measured, silent, lethal. Until his chest hovered a hair’s breadth from yours, the heat of him a violent contrast to the chill in the room.

Up close, you could see it—the constellation of scars across his chest, old and precise, carved into him like tally marks. Not injuries. Not history. Inventory.

His metal hand rose, unhurried, as if pre-programmed, the plates catching the light in glinting, surgical flashes. It wasn’t a caress—it was an assessment. He gripped your jaw with cold, steady fingers, tilting your face as if cataloguing you.

Not a woman. A directive.

Then, without a word, he shoved you back.

Your spine struck the edge of the table with a dull, metallic thud. The bite of cold steel sank into the soft flesh of your thighs, shocking enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

His hands were on you in the next breath—both of them now. Flesh and metal. One rough, the other unfeeling. They clamped around your hips, dragging you into place with bruising force.

His hand moved with the cold precision of routine—sliding down your waist, between your thighs, parting you like it was nothing more than protocol. A function, a command.

There was no softness in the touch, no pretence of seduction. Just the calloused drag of flesh and steel against trembling skin, searching for an opening, finding it.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t whisper.

He just pushed inside.

No warning, no mercy.

You gasped—loud, broken—your back arching sharply as the brutal stretch hit you all at once. He was thick, unforgiving, too deep in a single thrust that tore a cry from your throat before you could swallow it down.

It had hurt, not in the way pain was supposed to make you feel alive. In the way it emptied you. In the way it made your eyes burn.

The air left your lungs in a ragged choke as your hands scrambled along the table, trying to hold onto something, anything solid.

But there was nothing to brace against. Just cold steel and the shuddering rhythm of your body being rocked by a man who wasn’t a man anymore.

He groaned low, a sound scraped from the chest of something feral. Not passion. Not need. Just release. His hips snapped forward, brutal and mechanical, burying himself deeper with every thrust—hard, fast, relentless.

The table beneath you scraped against the concrete floor, metal screaming in protest, matching the ache building between your legs where he kept driving into you without care.

You clenched around him without meaning to—instinct, panic, maybe some misplaced hope that it would ease the burn.

It didn’t. If anything, it made him move faster, more ragged, like your body’s reaction was fuel. His pace stayed wild, uncalibrated. There was no rhythm, no escalation. Just motion, just violence, just function.

Your nails dug into his back. Deep. You clawed without thinking, dragging jagged lines down skin that didn’t bruise, didn’t bleed. You needed to feel something. Needed him to feel something. But he didn’t even flinch.

Still, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t speak, he didn’t stop.

He took you like he was built to, like this was your only purpose. His grip bruised your thighs. His hips slammed into yours over and over, until your sobs bled into the sound of flesh hitting flesh, too soft to echo, too raw to ignore.

Your body had given up on resisting—it simply endured. And the worst part was that he never lost control. Not once. Every movement was calculated. Efficient.

When he came, it was with a final, forceful thrust, burying himself as deep as you could take him, hips stuttering with brutal impact.

His breath flared hot against your neck—shallow, sharp—but he didn’t make a sound beyond that low, choked groan. His release filled you in waves, thick and unforgiving, and he stayed there, seated inside you, unmoving.

You expected him to pull out.

He didn’t. Instead, he just stayed.

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, your body aching in too many places to name. And then, something shifted.

He moved—barely.

The fingers of his metal hand rose, brushing your hair back from your damp, tear-streaked face. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t deliberate. It felt… automatic. Like some trace echo of the man he’d been, long before all of this, had flinched to the surface. A reflex. A ghost of care where none should have existed.

You didn’t think. You just leaned forward, lips trembling, and kissed him.

Soft. Desperate. Human.

It wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t about desire. It was survival. The kind of kiss you gave a weapon in the hopes it might remember it once had a heart.

He didn’t kiss you back. But he didn’t pull away, either.

Bucky jerked back to the present like he’d been shocked.

A breath caught in his throat, too late, too loud. His fists were clenched beneath the table—metal fingers biting into flesh, the cool of vibranium digging into his palm.

For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. Not really. Everything around him had gone flat. Colourless. The voices around the room blurred into a low, warbling hum, like sound underwater. Just static and noise. White walls and ghosts.

His jaw was locked so tight it ached. Sweat beaded along the nape of his neck, cold against the collar of his shirt. He could feel it rolling down his spine in thin, uncomfortable rivulets. His skin itched like memory.

No one had noticed. Not yet.

Val’s voice kept going, sharp and indifferent. She was pacing in front of the screen now, still debriefing. Her heels clicked against the floor, a rhythmic metronome against the pulse pounding in Bucky’s ears.

“She went off-grid for years,” Val was saying, her tone too casual, like she wasn’t talking about someone’s stolen life. “Cryo-freeze probably scrambled most of her memory—hell, we barely know what happened to her during that period. The files are a fucking jigsaw puzzle. But she’s clean. She’s loyal.”

Loyal.

He nearly laughed. Bit down on it so hard his tongue pressed into his molars.

She didn’t know. None of them knew.

Val tapped her remote again. The screen dimmed, your face fading into black. The mission map reappeared. But he could still see you—burned into the back of his eyes like an afterimage.

Every line of your face. That expression. The way your mouth had been pressed flat, neutral, like you hadn’t been torn from time. Like you weren’t a bleeding wound in his memory.

Val turned back toward the table.

“And she’ll be joining your team,” she said smoothly, “starting tonight.”

Silence.

Then her gaze found him—pinning, expectant.

“You okay, Barnes?”

He forced himself to move.

Just a blink. A breath. He straightened his spine with mechanical precision, muscles flexing against the weight in his chest. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. They stalled. Caught. Died somewhere in the back of his throat like smoke.

He swallowed it down.

“I…” he cleared his throat, low and quiet. “Yeah. No issue.”

No issue.

The lie settled bitter on his tongue. Metallic. Like blood.

There was every issue.

Because the girl he had once touched without mercy—the one who had gasped beneath him, shaking, cold, silenced by fear and force—was alive. Real. Breathing in the same air he was. Walking somewhere above their heads in this building.

And if the universe had any cruelty left in it—and it always did—you remembered.

God, maybe you remembered everything.

Maybe you remembered the cold metal table. The way he’d gripped your hips like you were something disposable. Maybe you remembered the weight of his body bearing down on yours with no tenderness, no humanity.

Maybe you remembered the sharp sting of the floor against your knees. The sound of your own breathing hitching against his shoulder. Your name reduced to nothing. Your voice swallowed by silence. The tears that had trailed down your cheeks when you thought no one was looking—except he had been. He always had been.

Maybe you remembered the way he hadn’t stopped.

The way he hadn’t spoken.

The way he hadn’t cared—because HYDRA had taken that part of him and burned it until only the weapon remained.

He’d fucked you like you were a tool to be used, like you were part of the mission. And when it was done, when his seed was leaking from between your thighs and your fingers had gone limp against his skin, he hadn’t pulled away.

He had just stared. Like he couldn’t understand what had just happened. Like part of him—some distant, buried part—could.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

But… there had been one night.

One fucking night.

Late, in the middle of another mission cycle. He wasn’t fully reset. Not yet triggered. Just… quiet. Breathing. Blinking. Human, for a few stolen hours.

And you had touched him—not because you were forced to, but because you chose to.

Your fingers slid into his hair like you were anchoring yourself to something real—something still breathing beneath all that silence.

The strands were damp with sweat, thick and soft between your fingers, and you clutched them not with control, but with need. Gentle, but trembling. A desperate touch dressed up as tenderness.

You pulled him closer. Not rough, not forced—just certain. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

His face hovered just above yours, his breath hot against your cheek, uneven now. Slower. Like for one stolen moment, the programming had fractured and something human was leaking through the cracks.

You tilted your head, lips barely brushing his ear—featherlight, sacred. Like a prayer.

And you whispered it.

Not Soldier. Not Asset. Not the name HYDRA had soldered into him like metal to bone.

You whispered, “James.”

Soft. Breaking. Yours.

Like you knew him. Like you remembered. Like some piece of the man still buried inside him might crawl toward the sound of it and stay.

He had cum that night too. But not because HYDRA told him to.

Because he wanted to.

Because you were soft, and you had kissed him, and for one second, the world had felt quiet. Real.

And fuck—

Some part of him wanted to believe that you remembered that.

That buried beneath all the violence, beneath all the tears and orders and years of cryo and blood, you remembered that there was one moment—just one—when he wasn’t a monster.

When you had invoked that one emotion he thought was long gone. Love.

Even if he didn’t know what the hell love was supposed to feel like anymore.

The meeting dissolved slowly.

Chairs scraped against the floor in discordant, screeching notes as the team stood. Screens powered down with mechanical hums, one by one, the mission data fading into darkness.

Someone cracked a joke—probably Alexei—but Bucky didn’t hear it. The sound passed through him like wind through a ruined building. His gaze lingered on the now-empty monitor, as if your photo might flicker back to life one last time.

But it didn’t.

You were gone again. Until you weren’t.

Val was already talking to Ava, pulling her aside, issuing last-minute adjustments. Walker yawned and stretched like they were heading to a sparring match instead of a black ops infiltration.

Yelena glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, something in her look almost—almost—curious. But she didn’t press. No one did.

He hadn’t moved.

He waited until the room cleared out.

Until the buzz of the briefing dulled into silence and the last bootsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Only then did he breathe.

It came out shaky. Shallow. Wrong.

His now vibranium hand flexed at his side, joints creaking softly in the cold air.

The adrenaline had faded, but the weight in his chest hadn’t. It was heavier now. Anchored deep. He rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand, dragging his fingers through his hair like maybe he could dig out the thoughts still looping in his mind.

But they stayed. They always did.

He finally stood.

The chair groaned beneath him, echoing in the empty room like a warning.

Bucky moved on autopilot, one boot in front of the other, out the door and into the corridor. The halls were narrow, dimly lit, the walls humming faintly with the energy of the facility.

Security cameras tracked his movement, but he didn’t care. He knew these halls well. Too well. They never changed—no matter the country, no matter the decade. Metal walls, low ceilings, air that smelled like oil and old wiring.

It reminded him of HYDRA. Everything did tonight.

He walked past the tech lab, the weapons vault, the intel room—every step tightening something behind his ribs. And then he reached the gear room.

Inside, it was quiet. Cold. The lockers were lined in rows, half-open, half-forgotten, each one a sealed little coffin of someone's war.

He opened the locker slowly. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside: his gear. Gloves. Boots. Custom tactical vest. The knives he preferred—weighted, balanced, perfect for close-quarters.

The gloves were folded carefully on the top shelf. Next to them was a file folder someone had left—probably more mission data. Or maybe your file again. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he sat down on the bench beside the locker, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed forward like he could hold himself together with posture alone.

And for a moment, just one moment, he allowed it to crack.

His eyes fell shut. His hands trembled. Not violently. Just enough that he had to lace his fingers together to keep them still.

You were alive.

After all these years. After all that pain. After cryo, after war, after HYDRA, after everything—they’d kept you frozen, tucked away in some forgotten chamber while the world moved on without you.

He wondered if it had hurt you to know what year it was. He wondered if it would hurt more to see him again.

Because what was he now?

Just a reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong. Of every scar on your body you hadn’t deserved. Of every night you’d cried into a concrete floor, trying to convince yourself that the Soldier wasn’t a real person. That he didn’t feel it. That he didn’t want it.

But he had.

He had wanted you. Not in the way HYDRA demanded. In the way that made his hands softer, just once. In the way that made him linger too long inside you, not because he was ordered to—but because he couldn’t bear to leave.

That was the part he never forgave himself for.

That flicker of love that bloomed in the middle of a crime scene.

It wasn’t pure. It wasn’t good. But it was his. It was the only real thing he’d felt in decades that he was tortured. And it was with you.

He opened his eyes. Swallowed hard.

Somewhere upstairs, you were being debriefed. Checked. Cleared. Suited up in your new uniform, maybe. Maybe Val was smiling that smug little smile of hers as she handed you your new orders.

Maybe you were asking about the team. Maybe you’d asked who was leading it.

And maybe, just maybe, Val had said his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

And maybe that name meant something to you.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe you’d look him in the eye tonight and feel nothing. Maybe you wouldn’t recognise him at all.

But Bucky had the feeling—deep, raw, gut-level—that when your eyes met his again, something would break. In you. In him. In both of you.

And whatever broke… it wouldn’t be fixable.

Not this time.

He stood. Slowly. Gathered his gear without ceremony. Buckled his knives to his thigh holster. Pulled on the gloves.

Every movement felt heavier than the last.

The next time he saw you, it would be face-to-face. On mission. Under pressure. With blood in the air and history in the room like a second skin.

He didn’t know what would happen. He just knew it had already started.

a/n: i am starting on chapter 2! and gosh, i am so excited already! i hope you love it and if you do, please drop a comment or a reblog, i am forever grateful for your support <3333

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nemo-writes · 1 month ago

Text

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter eleven

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: you're back on the day-shift , slowly but surely stitching normalcy back together. the hospital hums with quiet welcome, and even the rooftop feels like home again. but dusk brings more than cold air and habit. it brings the answer to every unspoken fear.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, obsessive behaviour, violence, non-consensual touching

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.6k

Your first dawn back in your own apartment slips through the cream curtains like a shy hello.

The hallway carries a faint lemon scent—Mr. Donnelly’s handiwork. While you were gone he swept the stairs, mopped the landing, and even fitted a raccoon-proof lid on your trash can, leaving a note: Still doing neighborhood rounds—call if the evil returns. The simple kindness steadies your pulse as you lock up and head for the hospital.

The east windows glow with weak November sun when you badge into Surgical at 06:42, one minute before the day crew hands things over. No applause, no sheet cake—just chlorhexidine in the air, fresh wax underfoot, the beep-tick of monitors, and the scratch of a marker on the whiteboard.

Exactly the scale of normal you prayed for.

Your shoes squeak once. Dr. Garcia doesn’t look up from the schedule until you’re in front of her; then she flicks her pen free of her teeth.

“Lap-chole at eight, bowel re-section at noon,” she says, pushing a chart your way. “If Dr. Miller steals my curved clamps, bite him.”

That’s Garcia’s version of a hug, sharp and warm all at once.

“Missed you too, Doc,” you say, flipping the chart open. Allergies, consent, nothing forgotten.

Down the hall, Dr. Miller leans from Pre-Op, mask hanging at his throat.

“Well, suture me to the deck and call me anchored,” he crows. “Senior nurse’s back; the sun must’ve signed a non-compete.”

Two residents groan. You roll your eyes, but his pun lands like sunshine.

At the desk Margot waits, tea in one hand, clipboard in the other. No fuss—just a gentle shove of the cup toward your fingers.

“Lead aprons are in Room 3,” she murmurs. “And nobody touches your clipboard but ghosts and God. Clear?”

“Crystal,” you answer. Hot black tea—no decaf, bless her ruthless heart.

Jules meets you in Sterile Core, trays lined up with jeweler precision.

“Count’s perfect,” she says, eyebrow high. “Try to keep it that way, Steel-Spine.”

You tap the instrument key and grin, the nickname feels more like armor than mockery. Fin slips out from behind a supply rack, cheeks flushed. He hands over a badge reel shaped like a tiny scalpel, 3-D printed in gun-metal gray.

“For luck,” he mutters.

You clip it beside your ID and squeeze his shoulder. “Looks like it belongs here.”

No time for sentiment—Pre-Op is already paging. You swing into the corridor, shoes squeaking once, shoulders settling into the rhythm of morning prep.

Hours later, between the gallbladder you just dropped off in recovery and the bowel case rolling up next, you snatch ninety seconds in the locker room. Your name plate never came down; someone taped a cartoon scalpel under it that says CUT THE DRAMA, NOT THE PATIENT. You tie your scrub cap tighter, close your eyes, and listen—carts rattling, suction sighing, ventilators counting breaths.

Life, loud and sure.

In OR 3 the lights blaze white as the patient arrives. Drape, prep, quick safety pause. Dr. Garcia stretches out her gloved hand; you land the instrument she wants before she speaks. Her eyes crinkle over the mask.

Time blurs: clicks of metal, the smell of cautery, the soft hiss of suction. Dr. Miller stays well clear of Dr. Garcia’s side. Fin calls the final count, Jules signs off with a flourish, and a wide-eyed resident whispers, “That was beautiful,” while you wheel the bed to recovery.

It’s 14:55 when the last chart closes and hot water finally scrubs the sting from your hands. You're ready for your lunch break.

In the lounge the fridge swings open—Margot added a padlock “for deterrence,” and past it, your lunch box sits untouched. In the group chat, Margot's message stands, Password still BENTO4LIFE. Fin remains unauthorized—hold the line.

You snap a photo of your rice, full black beans and chicken cutlet, and text: Day shift—still standing.

Jack’s reply pops up almost instantly: ❤️

Heat blooms in your ribs—ridiculous, giddy.

Phone pocketed, lunch done, you step into the hall just as afternoon rounds swell. No mystery texts, no shifting clipboards—only the pulse of daylight medicine and a wing that treats your return as routine. Your shoes squeak once—bright, confident—before you angle toward the next bay, steady, useful, home.

. . .

The ward shifts from afternoon buzz to evening exhale, that gentle slack in noise just before night crew takes the reins. You hand off your final patient note, re-dock your scanner, and accept a round of shoulder squeezes from Margot and Jules. Fin calls after you to guard the badge reel with your life; Dr. Garcia just points at tomorrow’s schedule and mouths, “On time.” You salute her with your thermos in lieu of a goodbye.

Inside the lift you can’t stop checking the lid—double tight on a brew of smoky oolong Jack once said tasted like autumn bonfires. Two paper sleeves of ginger cookies ride in your tote, still warm from the residents’ lounge microwave. The elevator climbs past six, seven, eight floors; your pulse climbs faster.

The stairwell to the roof smells of concrete dust and old rain. You take the steps two at a time—part nerves, part giddy anticipation—and push through the metal door, expecting the familiar silhouette leaning against the railing, that half-grin waiting just for you.

Wind flattens your scrub top to your spine as the door bangs shut behind you. At first glance the roof looks empty—until your eyes adjust. A single figure stands near the eastern rail, lean and wiry under a navy scrub jacket. A stethoscope is looped around his neck, badge clipped low on his pocket like any off-duty doctor catching air between cases. You don’t recognize the face—sharp jaw, unruly dark hair—but the uniformed familiarity tugs you a step forward instead of back. Maybe he’s new.

“Evening,” you call, curiosity edging out caution.

The man turns slowly. His smile is bright, almost boyish—until your gaze drops to his right hand. A scalpel glints there, pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger, blade catching the last streak of sunset like a sliver of cold fire.

Your pulse stops, slams, then races.

The thermos sweats against your palm; the paper sleeve of cookies crackles. He lifts the scalpel in an absent gesture, as if it were nothing more than a fountain pen, grin widening like you’ve shared a private joke.

Every instinct screams run, but your feet stay welded by a single stunned thought: Jack isn’t here, and this stranger, smiling so pleasantly, is holding a very real blade.

The stranger’s smile widens, teeth catching the weak rooftop light. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten our spot,” he says, voice light and breathy—like gossip shared over coffee instead of across forty feet of concrete. The scalpel twirls once between his fingers, sure and practiced. “But of course you wouldn’t. You love routines. I do, too.”

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. You note the details automatically: the slight tremor in his free hand, the way his badge dangles backward so you can’t read the name, how his sneakers squeak just a hair when he shifts his weight—steps that could close the gap in seconds.

“I’ve been so patient,” he continues, nodding as if grading himself. “Waiting through extra cameras, new door codes, night shifts. I thought the fridge lock was clever—Margot's idea, right?—but it made things tricky. Made me improvise.” His eyes flick to the thermos in your grip. “You brought tea anyway. Loyal. I like that.”

Rain from yesterday’s storm drips off the drainage gutters, each plink absurdly loud.

“I missed your mornings,” he says, stepping toward the river view but angling his torso so he keeps you in sight. “The way you double-check the crash carts, straighten the clipboard—beautiful rituals. They’re why I chose you.” He inhales like savoring perfume. “You keep the chaos tidy. It’s… comforting.”

Your pulse pummels your throat. You slide one foot back, inching toward the door handle behind you; it feels miles away. He notices and laughs softly.

“Don’t,” he says almost kindly. “If you leave now, we’ll just start over tomorrow. And you’ve worked so hard today.” The scalpel tilts, catching orange from the west.

You steady the thermos, grip tightening until metal bites.

The man sighs, almost wistful. “I watched you all day. The way you glided through that bowel case—poetry. They don’t appreciate it the way I do. They never see you.” His gaze drags over you, hungry and reverent all at once. “But I do.”

Your mind races: shout for help? Rooftop door is heavy; sound might not carry. Stall him. Keep distance.

“Who are you?” you manage, voice hoarse.

“I’m the one who’s been writing you.” He taps his chest with the scalpel hilt and as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Trash-can raccoons? That was me testing your attention to detail. The intern’s muffin? A cute bonus. Clipboard tilt—my little signature.” He shrugs, grin stretching. “I thought the note on the Tupperware would make you smile, but you panicked. You weren’t ready yet.”

Every hair on your arms lifts. You want to throw up. He studies your reaction like data.

“But you’re ready now,” he whispers. “Back on days, back where you shine. I wanted our first real conversation to be here, where you and the sky meet. A clean view. A beginning.”

He steps closer—five paces left between you. You retreat one pace, the door’s push-bar now a cold echo against your spine. Old rainwater from the vent dribbles down your collar. He notices, frowns with genuine concern.

“You’re cold. Let me—” He extends the hand holding the scalpel, blade down as if to offer help.

The gesture jolts you back to yourself. You lift the thermos, thumb hooking beneath the lid—scalding liquid, a ready weapon. Your other hand edges toward your phone, pulse pounding so loud you taste metal.

His eyes flick to the movement, then back to your face, hurt flickering like a twitch. “Please don’t ruin this,” he murmurs. “I planned everything.”

Your breaths saw in and out. Behind him the last smear of sun bleeds into river-black. Somewhere far below, an ambulance siren wails, climbing.

You draw a deeper lungful, fix your gaze on the scalpel glittering between you, and summon the steady voice that calmed countless patients.

“Okay but you need to put the blade down,” you say, tone low but clear. “We can talk, but that comes first.”

He hesitates—brief, uncertain—and in that sliver of pause you feel the phone vibrate once in your pocket: a message you don’t dare check. Another siren peaks. Somewhere, maybe, help is already moving.

The stranger straightens, expression slipping from eager to something colder. “I didn’t come here for rules,” he whispers.

The metal mug feels slick in your sweating grip. Every instinct tells you to bolt, yet your feet stay rooted by the knowledge that a single wrong motion might sharpen the scalpel’s arc toward you.

“Let me pour you a cup,” you say, surprised you still have a voice. It’s the one you use on trembling post-ops—low, steady, hypnotic. Steam coils upward as you loosen the lid; your hand barely trembles, though your heart slams so hard you taste copper.

He discards his frustrations like nothing, and steps closer into the burnt-orange wash of the security light. Up close the details jolt into clarity: wiry build under the scrub jacket, glasses fogged at the edges. A thin line of acne scars dots his jaw. His smile widens as he cradles the cup you offer, scalpel blade glinting just inches from your sleeve.

“That smell—oolong,” he breathes, as if inhaling you with the steam. “The morgue coffee is terrible. But this… This is how you start your mornings, isn’t it?”

Goose-flesh ripples up your arms. “I do like routines.”

“So do I,” he whispers. “I watched you relabel a gallbladder sample in July. So precise. Everyone else moved on, but you stayed, made sure the name matched the wristband. That’s when I knew.”

Your spine goes cold. Another cup poured buys seconds. You force your lips into something gentle as his closeness allows you to take a small peak at his badge. “You're from the frozen-section team?”

His eyes light up. “Yes! You remembered.”

But you don't. You don't know him, you don't remember anything. You must pretend like you do. Your literal survival depends on it. So, you nod, heartbeat thudding at your ears. The skyline wavers behind him, city lights doubled in the blur of your tears.

“Why the scalpel?” you ask, voice barely above wind.

He glances at it, almost sheepish. “Force of habit. A conductor needs a baton.”

My God.

You try again, hoping the tea has softened the edges of whatever violent delusion is clouding his senses. “Could you put it away? Tea first, then talk.”

A hesitation—then, worshipfully, he pockets it. Adrenaline floods your limbs.

You hand him a third cup. His fingers rhythmically tap the metal lid—one-two-three, one-two-three—like feeling out your pulse. In the glare you can see steam silvering the lenses of his glasses, moisture beading on his cheekbones.

Now!

You fling the cup on his hand. Boiling tea splashes across his face; the scream that rips out of him is half animal, half betrayed child. He claws at his eyes.

You drive your shoulder into his chest, bones jolting, but he pivots with unnerving speed. Your shove knocks him sideways only half a step; rubber soles squeak on wet concrete, and his free hand lashes out, fingers closing vise-tight around your upper arm.

“No—no—” Panic shreds the word as you twist for the door handle, but he yanks you back, slamming your spine against the metal. The latch rattles uselessly under your flailing grip.

Up close his face is a mask of cool fascination, not rage—eyes bright, tracking every tremor in your expression. Tea still steams off his cheek, reddening the skin, yet his voice stays almost gentle. It makes you sick.

“Easy,” he murmurs, tightening his hold until your fingers tingle. “We’ve come this far. Please, please don’t ruin it.”

You scream anyway—raw, desperate—but the rooftop swallows the sound, vast and indifferent. He clamps a hand over your mouth, breath steady against your ear. The scalpel is back and glints inches from your throat, a silent reminder that strength isn’t always measured in muscle.

Your pulse hammers so hard you taste blood. You kick, heel connecting with his shin; he grunts but doesn’t loosen his grip. “Shhh,” he soothes, chilling in its softness. “I know you’re frightened. First encounters are messy.”

Tears blur the skyline behind him—river lights smearing into streaks. You try to bite his palm; he shifts just enough to avoid teeth, fingers digging into your jaw. Controlled, practiced.

“Listen,” he whispers, almost tender. “All the safeguards, all the cameras, and still we’re here. That means something. You feel it, don’t you?”

Your lungs burn, screams muffled to whimpers. You shove at his chest—too lean to look strong, yet his grip is iron. The thermos tumbles from your hand, clanging into the darkness. Cookies scatter like brittle coins.

He leans closer—scalpel grazing your collar—voice dropping to a reverent hush. “I only needed you to stop running. Then we can begin.”

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #small age gap

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popcornpoppypop · 29 days ago

Text

Promises, Promises Part 1

Summary: Of course, Jack and Callie's baby would decide to make their grand entrance when an idiot tried to smoke in L&D and flood the whole floor.

Warnings: Medical inaccuracies, descriptions of labor and childbirth, blood, birth trauma, cursing

A/N: This will be a two part series because I need to get this one off my laptop and out of my head. I've been fiddling with it for months. It's a long one, so strap in!

“I can’t believe the L&D ward caught fire!” Dr. King shook her head. “they must have been so scared.”

“What idiot smokes in a hospital?” Santos scoffed.

“Dr. Robby does that mean we’ll be getting their patients?” Whittaker asked.

“No, they’re being transferred to the maternity center just down the road. Dispatch has been notified and are making sure all OB’s let their patients know. We may get in a couple of confused mothers. Nothing we can’t handle.” Robby nodded.

“Hey! Did you see the board?” Jack Abbot came barreling up to Robby at the nurses station.

“I never stop seeing it.” He sighed.

“What’s got your panties in a twist? I’m managing it just fine.” Dana scolded.

“N-no! Not that board! Ahmed has a betting board in his office. You’re all taking bets on the birth of my child?” He growled. Robby and Dana looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Relax, it’s just a little fun.” Dana patted his arm.

“Fun. You’re sick.” Jack crossed his arms.

“Never thought I’d see the day Jack Abbot was upset about a baby pool! You nervous, cowboy?” Dana smiled.

“I’d be an idiot if I weren’t.” His signature stone face never letting up. “I hear L&D is down for at least two weeks, so that doesn’t help.”

“Relax, it’s not like she’s having the baby today. The Maternity center is nice anyway!” Robby crossed his arms.

“I don’t know them! I don’t know what equipment they have! I know they don’t have a surgical suite. What if she needs an emergency c-section? No way are we going there.” Jack shook his head.

“You two will figure it out. Not like you have any other choice.” Dana smiled.

“If she calls saying she’s contracting, I’m blaming you.” Jack pointed at Robby and stormed off.

“I don’t think I have ever seen him this wound tight.” Robby chuckled.

“You boys all get like this with the first. My husband had a panic attack and passed out when I told him my water broke.” Dana sighed as she looked at her clipboard.

Jack was finishing up with a road rash case, enjoying the monotony of it, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Dr. King, take over.” He said, handing her the instruments and stepping out of the room. The name on his phone wasn’t one he was expecting.

“Liz, what’s wrong?” He answered.

“Nothing. I just hadn’t heard from Callie all day and I think she turned her phone off. I was just seeing if she’d checked in with you.”

“Oh. No. She hasn’t, can you go over and make sure-” Before he could finish his sentence in walked Callie from triage. “You know what she just walked in. I’ll call you back.” Jack hung up and ran over to her.

“And he threatened me with soft restraints and I said that wasn’t a threat that was kinky.” Callie laughed with Dr. McKay.

“Baby? What the hell?” Jack looked her over.

“Hey! I was just looking for you.” Callie smiled.

“Why are you telling my resident that story?” He glared down at her.

“Because it’s funny.” Callie shrugged.

“Callie was just tell me that she’s been having contractions for the past six hours.” McKay gave a tight smile.

“What!?” Jack looked at her aghast.

“I was fine on my own, I knew it would take a while. I didn’t want to bother you until necessary.”

“Honey, how many damn times do I have to tell you that you do not bother me.” He ran a hand down his face.

“Besides you were going to be annoying anyway.” Callie smiled, Jack couldn’t help but smile back.

“I told her about the fire.” McKay said.

“Talk about bad timing. Where are they sending everyone?” Callie asked.

“The maternity center up the road.”

“The one with no surgery? Absolutely not. No way.” Callie crossed her arms.

“My girl.” Jack chuckled.

“Why don’t we just get you into a room here, check you out until you two make your decision on where to go.” McKay offered.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. If I can’t go upstairs, it’ll be here then.” Callie stated.

“Oh, I’m not sure you want to labor and deliver in the pitt. It’s not the most relaxing place.” Mckay said.

“I’m only as relaxed as he is and he won’t be relaxed anywhere else.” Callie smiled up at Jack.

“Right, Room 3 is open, on the quieter side of the department. Let’s go there.” Mckay smiled.

Jack kept his hand firmly on the small of Callie’s back as they walked toward the room.

“This is your fault.” Jack pointed at Robby as they passed by.

“Well, look whose here! Callie you look radiant.” Robby chuckled.

“Robby, I don’t appreciate lies. Especially while I’m in a tremendous amount of pain.” Callie winked.

“I would never lie to you. They tell you about the fire?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Where are you thinking of going?”

“Nowhere. Here’s fine.” Callie stated as she entered the room.

“Whoa, what?” Robby grabbed Jack before he entered the room.

“She’s made her mind up. You spoke this into the universe, brother. Gear up, big guy, you’re playing catcher.” Jack smiled as he smacked Robby’s arm.

“Get as comfortable as you can, we’ll take good care of you. Not that Dr. Abbot would let anyone do differently.” McKay smiled and left.

“Honey, are you sure you want to do this here?” Jack sat in front of Callie.

“I don’t know the staff at other hospitals, I don’t know their standards. These are our people. They will make sure we’re okay. I know they’ll take care of the baby well and look after me and you. Why would I go anywhere else? For fancy bathtubs and aroma therapy? We are not those people, Jack.” Callie ran her hands through his hair.

“If you’re sure.” He smiled up at her. Callie nodded but was hit with a contraction causing her to scrunch up her face.

“They’re getting more intense.” She groaned. Jack took hold of her hand, rubbing her arm with other.

“Deep breath if you can.” He reminded her.

“Easier said then done.” Callie sighed.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Jack smiled. Callie took a deep breath as the contraction ebbed away.

“You have patients to tend to.” Callie noted.

“Nope. Patient. You. That’s it. Robby and his team can manage without me. I was heading home soon anyway.”

“Jack you haven’t slept, oh honey. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t plan to go into labor today. Besides, I’m fine.” Jack tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You should get some rest. Go to the on call room or something.”

“Oh, I’m not sleeping now. Hey, what happened to your phone? Liz said you turned it off?” Jack ran his hands up and down her thighs, something he did to ground himself.

“Oh. No. I dropped it by the TV. I couldn’t bend down to get it.” Callie sighed. Jack failed at stifling a laugh. “Don’t laugh!” She smacked him.

“Sorry, the imagery of you trying to get it was too funny.” Jack laughed.

“Well, good morning!” Dana came walking into the room.

“Dana! Is this that VIP treatment I hear so much about? I get a charge nurse to take care of me.”

“Only for you darling. You’re always my favorite patient, but you’re extra special when you’re giving me a new little niece or nephew.” She hugged Callie.

“Since when are you their aunt?” Jack looked confused.

“Since I deemed it so.” Dana gave a curt nod.

“Who else do we got anyway? Beside you’d rather have an experienced charge nurse as the secondary contact for them anyway.” Callie pointed.

“Yeah, good point.” Jack shrugged.

“How you doing, Sweetheart?” Dana asked rubbing Callie’s back.

“Oh about as good as anyone can be when a 9 pound fetus is trying to push it’s way out of their vagina.” Callie smiled.

“Oh good. Some women complain about this stuff you know.” Dana laughed.

“I never complain.”

“Bullshit.” Jack laughed.

“Why don’t you go get coffee and I’ll help you into your gown?” Dana shot Jack a look.

“Sure. You need anything?” Jack kissed Callie’s forehead.

“Juice, my hands are shaking.” She sighed. Jack looked down to see her hands were in fact shaking. It sent a shiver up his spine.

“You got it. Dana, can you get her full work up going? Protocol for new mothers, don’t fight it.” Jack pointed at Callie who raised her hands in defeat.

“Can do, Boss.” Dana smiled.

Jack walked into the break room, pouring the stale coffee into a paper cup and sipping on it, quickly grabbing a bottle of orange juice. He went to find Robby, he was going over a suture technique with one of the med students. Jack caught Robby’s eye and he came shuffling over.

“How’s she doing?” Robby smiled.

“Okay. Her hands are shaking.” Jack stated.

“That’s normal. Adrenaline is coursing through her veins, shakes happen.” Robby reminds him.

“No. It’s not adrenaline. I can feel it. Something is off. She thinks it’s blood sugar, bringing her juice.” Jack shook the orange juice bottle in his hand.

“Maybe she’s right and maybe you’re instincts are off because you’re so damn nervous.” Robby said.

“Dana is pulling blood under the guise of a ‘new mothers’ protocol. She didn’t question it. She sees it too.”

“Let’s not get worked up until we see what we got going on. Okay?” Robby put his hands on Jack’s shoulders.

“I’m only going to say this once because I won’t be able to get the words out again. You save her if it comes down to it. You save Callie. We’ll survive if we lose the baby, it’ll hurt and be awful but we’ll figure it out. I won’t survive if I lose her. I can’t.” Jack shook his head.

“It’s not coming to that. I won’t let it.” Robby assured him.

“Yeah…” Jack cleared his throat.

Dana came round the corner, handing the blood off to one of her nurses to head to lab stat. She gave Jack a tight smile.

“You think something’s off too?” Robby asked scratching the back of his neck, his nervous tick.

“I don’t know. My spidey senses are tingling a bit. She looks okay, pressure is perfectly normal. Her hands shaking could just be low blood sugar. She’s not acting herself.” Dana shrugged.

“She’s in labor, who acts normally in labor?” Robby sighed.

“No, I know. But she’s distant in a way freaks me out a little.” Dana said.

“Let’s not get our nerves up until we have more information. We’ll keep a close on her vitals and do repeat labs in an hour. Get her drinking the juice, if her sugar is too low, we’ll get hooked up to an IV.” Robby stated.

“I want to know the second those labs are back.” Jack said to Dana as he left.

“Robby, you know I’m not into superstitious stuff, but something in my gut is saying this isn’t going to go well.” Dana whispered.

“If I trust anyone’s gut it’s yours. One step at a time. Labs, then we’ll go from there. Keep her calm, that’s the main thing.” Robby nodded.

“I know you prefer cranberry juice but all I got was orange.” Jack came into the room and handed Callie the juice.

“I can stomach it I think.” Callie sipped the juice.

“Is there something you’re aren’t telling me?” Jack took her hand, rubbing up and down her forearm.

“What? Like what?” Callie looked confused.

“Something you feel that you aren’t saying. You just seem off, I want to help.” Jack said.

“No, I don’t know. This is all new to me Jack. I don’t know what’s normal really. I’m tired, I’ve been tired all day. Hell! I’ve been tired for the past six months!” Callie chuckled.

“Okay. I just…I want this to go as smoothly for you as possible.”

“Are you worried?” Callie looked at him concerned.

“I always worry about you. Have since the day we met.” He smiled as he stood up and kissed her. Callie leaned her forehead against his as she started to groan through a contraction.

“Dr. Abbot they want to ask- Oh I’m so sorry!” Dr. Javadi jump and scrambled out of the room.

“Oh that poor girl!” Callie laughed through her pain.

“She’s supposed to knock for a reason.” Jack grumbled. He held Callie close as the contraction ended.

“Go put that girl’s mind at ease. She’s out there sweating.” Callie laughed.

“Let her.” Jack said.

“Be nice. They need to learn so they can be as good as you one day.” Callie cupped his face.

“In their dreams.” Jack scoffed as he got up and left the room.

“I am so sorry Dr. Abbot, I did not mean to interrupt such an intimate moment. It won’t happen again.” Javadi rambled.

“You’re lucky my girlfriend is a saint of a woman. What did you need?” Jack sighed.

“Um, Dr. Robby wanted to ask what her last appointment was like. The baby’s position, any concerns for pre-eclampsia, things like that.” Javadi said, her nervous energy was putting Jack off.

“You stay with her. Scream if she needs me.” Jack pointed at Javadi.

“oh, okay.” She cautiously entered the room.

“Oh I don’t bite like him. Stuck you on babysitting duty? You can say no.” Callie smiled.

“I absolutely could not.” Javadi gave a nervous laugh.

Jack came marching up to Dana’s desk, Robby was leaning across it. They were going over the patient flow and getting people out or upstairs.

“So, we are not putting med students on this. I didn’t think I had to say that, especially to you.” Jack growled.

“Take a beat Jack.” Dana warned.

“I’m not putting med students on this. I needed more information and Javadi is more than capable of gathering that while I juggle an entire ER of patients.” Robby snapped.

“Her chart is in the system. Normal, healthy pregnancy. No complications outside of the six weeks of morning sickness. Had an ultrasound and exam less than a week ago, baby was head down, in a good potion. No hypertension noted, no risk of eclampsia noted.” Jack recited as if he had memorized her whole chart.

“Okay. Good. She tell you anything new?”

“She’s been tired, but she’s always tired.” Jack shrugged.

“Dr. Robby, labs are back on Callie.” Perlah handed the tablet to him.

“what’s it look like?” Jack said, trying to peer over his shoulder.

“She’s got low blood sugar. Her platelet count is low and she’s slightly anemic. She’s always had anemia issues. Let’s test her clotting factors, I need to know if she’ll be able to clot when things get going.” Robby told Dana.

“I’ll get it going. You want to do a quick ultrasound, make sure there isn’t a bleed somewhere we don’t know about?” Dana asked as she typed up the orders.

“Yes. I’ll do it myself, just pull it into the room for me.” Robby nodded.

“If she can’t clot, she’ll bleed out either way.” Jack whispered to himself, but everyone heard it.

“Hey. We’re going to keep her safe.” Robby reassured.

“Dr. Abbot!” Javadi called from the end of the hall. Jack went sprinting, Robby and Dana close behind.

“What!? What happened!?” Jack barked as he slid into the room to find Callie trying to climb out of the bed.

“I’m sorry, she just was insisting on getting out of bed and I told her she shouldn’t, but she called me a really rude name and I just thought you should handle it.” Javadi said as she looked at all three of the clearly annoyed people.

“Ok, when I say scream if she needs me, I meant if something was medically wrong. Go.” Jack grumbled. Dana laughed as Javadi ran out of the room.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Jack helped Callie to her feet.

“This bed is killing my back, I don’t want to lay down. I didn’t realize it was a fucking crime to stand up.” Callie griped.

“What did you call her?” Dana smiled.

“an imbecilic child that looks like a deer in the head lights who needs to grow a pair of balls.” Callie sighed, throwing her arms around Jack’s neck and resting her head on his shoulder. She felt the vibrations of his laughter through his chest.

“Okay. Med students are not allowed in this room, I can’t have HR on my ass too.” Robby chuckled.

“Callie, your anemic. That’s why you’re tired.” Jack told her.

“Oh. That sucks.” She sighed.

“We need more blood to run a clotting test. We’re concerned you’re not going to be able to clot, which is bad when you’re about to lose a good amount of blood already.” Robby told her.

“I’m already low on blood and you’re taking more. Genius.” Callie sighed.

“Just a little more, Hun.” Dana said.

“We’re also going to do an ultrasound to make sure you’re not bleeding somewhere you shouldn’t be. Have your waters broke?” Robby asked. Callie shook her head into Jack’s shoulder.

“No.” He let them know.

“Okay. Do you want to sit so we can get this over with or do you want a minute?” Dana asked.

“Um…I need a minute. Fuck!” She groaned as a contraction hit her like a freight train. Jack rubbed hard circles on her back and swayed with her as she moaned through the contraction.

“Dana, come get me when the ultrasound is ready.” Robby whispered as he left the room.

“Here,” Dana came behind Callie and held her hips, putting hard counter pressure on them.

“Oh that’s good.” Callie sighed. Jack mouthed a thank you to Dana who just gave a nod.

“You let me know when you’re ready, Sweetheart.” Dana said, her tone soft and low. Callie sighed as she sat back on the bed. “Let’s get this over with. Should I be worried?” Callie asked as Dana started pulling blood.

“Do I look worried?” Jack asked.

“You never look worried; that isn’t a good barometer.” Callie playfully slapped his cheek.

“She’s got you there.” Dana laughed. “Honey, we’ve got you. We’re not letting anything happen to either of you. Tomorrow you’re going home with your beautiful baby and you’ll get to make Jack stay up all night while you sleep.” Dana laughed.

“Alright. See? This is why we’re here and not at Presby or that fucking maternity center.” Callie smiled.

“Hi, Mrs. Abbot. It’s good to see you again!” Dr. Mel King came in with an ultrasound followed by Robby.

“Not Mrs. Abbot Mel. You can just call me Callie.”

“Right, Sorry. Force of habit. How are you feeling?” Mel asked, wringing her gloved hands.

“Fine. Guilty for making you all deal with his anxious, grouchy behavior.” Callie laughed.

“Oh, it’s common for first-time fathers to be anxious, especially if they work in the medical field, as they’ve seen how things can go wrong.” Mel said.

“Dr. King, how about we focus on the ultrasound.” Robby sighed. Callie stifled a giggle as she smacked Jack’s arm as he growled.

“I thought I said no students.”

“She’s not a med student, she’s a resident. You don’t get to kick people out of MY room.” Callie said. “Go ahead Dr. King.”

“I was going to take the lead on the ultrasound, Callie.” Robby stated.

“Oh you’ve had a million years of practice. Give it to her. She can do it. I’ve seen her work.” Callie nodded.

“I’m going to go bald and it’s your fault.” Jack whispered in her ear.

“Okay, Dr. King she’s all yours. I’ll just be observing.” Robby got up from the stool.

“Yay! I love doing ultrasounds, babies are the best!” Mel smiled as she started putting the gel on Callie’s belly. She moved the wand around her skin, pushing in deeper in some spots.

“Tell me what we are looking for, Dr. King.” Robby stated.

“Any abnormal bleeding, especially within the uterus and around it. If there is we could be dealing with placental abruption.” She stated.

“But we aren’t seeing any.” Robby said as Jack stood up to look at the screen.

“As of right now, there are no abnormalities and baby is in good position.” Mel smiled as she wiped the gel from Callie’s belly.

“Thank you, Dr. King.” Callie smiled.

“If it’s alright with you, when it’s time for delivery I’d like to assist.

“No” “Yes” Jack and Callie said at the same time.

“Let me just see real quick, is your vagina and every intimate part of you about to be on display as you are in an indescribable amount of pain?” Callie questioned Jack.

“No, it’s not.” Jack sighed.

“Okay, so I think I get to say who gets to be in the room when that’s happening. And I’m already not thrilled that Robby is going to be in the hot seat, but here we are. I like Dr. King. Dr. King is a good doctor, and she’s kind and has a nice smile. If she wants the opportunity to learn and be a part of this, then I will make that decision.” Callie scolded. Jack sat back, crossing his arms. Robby and Dana had to hide their faces so he wouldn’t see them laughing.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to cause a fight.”

“We aren’t fighting.” Jack and Callie said at the same time.

“I’d love to have you in here for the delivery. Thank you, Dr. King.” Callie smiled.

“Thank you, Mrs- Callie!” Dr. King smiled as she ran off.

“You two are school children.” Jack barked.

“It’s just so satisfying to see someone put you in your place in the same way you do it to everyone else.” Dana laughed.

“Don’t you have an ER full of patients to tend to?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll be back in a bit. Drink your juice.” Robby ordered as he and Dana left.

“I can’t believe you want those two to be godparents.” Jack shook his head.

“Jack…” Callie groaned as a contraction took her breath away. Jack jumped up and grabbed her hand, rubbing her back.

“Breathe, in through the nose out through the mouth. You got this.” Jack said kissing her forehead.

Robby was typing on his computer, focused on his patients when Gloria came into view.

“Dr. Robinavitch, a word?”

“What can I do for you Gloria? I have a full house needing care, which you are impeding.” He scoffed.

“When were you going to inform us that Abbot was not coming in tonight?” Gloria asked.

“As soon as I remembered. I was a little preoccupied with making sure his family was safe and healthy. She’s doing fine, by the way.” Robby sneered.

“We need to know as soon as possible in order to properly staff-”

“When have we ever been properly staffed?”

“Why have you been taking extra time with Abbot and his fiancée?”

“She’s anemic and has low platelets. We’re running her clotting factors right now. He’s worried, I am making sure my patient is taken care of and her partner isn’t losing his mind making her job harder.” Robby snapped.

“did you say fiancé?” Perlah leaned over.

“He has her down as his fiancé in his paperwork. I don’t know if he’s even actually done it but I can’t prove otherwise without potentially spoiling something. I haven’t confirmed.” Gloria rolled her eyes.

“Gloria, can we get back to work and stop gossiping and griping about insignificant details.” Robby sighed. Gloria huffed and stomped off.

“Do not spread that please,” Robby warned Perlah.

“Hey, the clotting come back yet?” Jack came up to the desk, coffee cup in hand.

“Not yet.” Robby said taking his glasses off and rubbing his face.

“Are you two engaged?”Perlah asked.

“What? No. Who said that?” Jack looked confused.

“Gloria.” Perlah shrugged.

“I put her down so that if anything happens we have legal rights to know medical information in emergencies and can make decisions. She doesn’t want to get married.” Jack sipped his coffee.

“How’s she doing?” Dana asked as she sat down.

“She’s sleeping. I couldn’t stand the quiet, so I have Princess parked at the desk across from her room.”

“Since when have I ever let you park my nurses?” Dana squinted her eyes.

“Since you’d have done the same thing.” Jack tilted his head. Dana threw a pen at him.

“Mohan, why is your laceration still here?” Robby asked as he saw Samira walk by.

“Getting them out now. Hey, I heard Callie is here?” She stopped by Abbot.

“She is, she’s sleeping don’t you dare wake her up.” He warned.

“No, of course not! You must so excited!” She smiled.

“I’m excited for this to be over and we can go home.” He said. Samira rolled her eyes and left.

“Oh, clotting is back.” Robby sat up, putting his glasses on. “okay, it’s not bad, higher than I would like but I’ve seen worse on delivering mothers that had no complications.” Robby said.

“I still don’t like it.” Jack said.

“She’s doing okay Jack. You should get some rest too.” Robby said.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Dr. Abbot! Robby!” Princess yelled. The two men took off down the hall, Dana shouting orders to Perlah to take over as she followed.

“Her water broke, it’s bloody.” Princess informed them as they entered the room. Callie was standing, leaning over the edge of the bed, panting through a contraction, tears rolling down her face. A puddle was at her feet, an unmistakable red.

“Princess call up and get an OR ready, see if any OBs stuck around if not anyone who can do a c-section.” Robby ordered.

“Jack!” Callie called out. Jack snapped from his frozen state and was next to her, putting pressure on her hips.

“I’m here, baby. I got you.” He told her.

“Callie, there's a lot of blood in your amniotic fluid, which means you’re placenta has separated from the uterus. We are going to have to take you to get surgery.” Robby told her as he snapped on gloves.

“It’s going to be okay.” Jack whispered into her ear.

“I’m going to do a quick exam and make sure baby isn’t too far into the birth canal.” Robby said.

“Jack, I’m scared now.” Callie whined.

“Have I ever let anything happen to you?” He forced her to make eye contact. She shook her head. “I won’t let anything happen to you now. You’re going to be fine. Baby is going to be fine.” He kissed her temple as he looked down at Robby, whose face was emotionless.

“Dr. Robby?” Princess called, the phone still to her ear. “They don’t have any ORs and no one will do the surgery.” Robby pulled his gloves off and grabbed the phone and went to the hall where he could be heard shouting.

“You’re doing great, Sweetheart.” Dana said as she cleaned up the floor and Callie’s legs.

“Oh fuck!” Callie groaned as the contraction grew stronger. Jack rubbed circles on her back and whispered encouragement in her ear. His hands were shaking now.

“Okay, Callie, we’re going to do things a little differently now. Normally we would send you up and get you a c-section so we could control the blood loss. We don’t have an OR or surgeon available. They’re calling in some one but I don’t know when they’ll get here.” Robby explained.

“Jesus Christ, Robby!” Jack yelled.

“I know. What I’m going to do is get you hooked up to some medication to help you clot as well as some blood.”

“Can’t an ambulance take us somewhere with surgery?” Callie whined, another contraction rolling over her.

“It’s took risky. I can’t control how you deliver and the blood loss in an ambulance. It would take too long and expose you and the baby to infection.” Robby said.

“I don’t know…” Callie sobbed.

“Callie,” Robby stood in front of her, taking her hands in his. “I am not going to let anything happen to you or your baby. I swear. I’m going to take care of you, I just need you to trust me.” He told her.

“Okay, I trust you.” Callie shook her head. Robby nodded and stood up.

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x oc #jack abbot x reader #dana evans #dr. robby #dr. mckay #tw blood #tw childbirth #tw birth #tw birth trauma #tw traumatic birth

347 notes · View notes

xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 3 months ago

Note

Sending Zayne frisky pictures during work hours

Meeting him that night in a suggestive attire

Teasing him till he breaks

= no walking for atleast a day

And, I, thank you

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

— 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 the day with monastic precision—06:00 for procedures, 09:30 for lab analysis, 13:00 for final reports. The same sequence, adhered to without deviation, like liturgy. It gave shape to the silence. It excused his isolation. There was comfort in that—though he would never call it comfort aloud. It was discipline. Sterile gloves. Bloodied instruments scoured of memory. Silence. Always, silence.

And yet—

The message arrived precisely when the world was still.

He had just closed a file. His left hand lay quiet at the desk’s edge; a pen balanced between two fingers with surgical stillness. Then—vibration. A small sound, almost apologetic. Not urgent.

Her name.

That was all. A notification. A message. Nothing unusual. It might’ve been a follow-up question. A misplaced decimal. A joke. She had a way of doing that—disarming him, sliding into his thoughts with a kind of blithe intimacy, as if she had always belonged there.

He picked up the phone.

And at once, his breath faltered.

The image was not explicit. No, that was precisely the horror of it. Had it been vulgar, obscene—something he could discard with the sterile detachment of a surgeon—he would’ve felt nothing. But this? This was intentional. It was artful. A composition.

Her robe, half-fallen. Black lace visible beneath. Fingers at the knot. Lips parted. No face, not fully—but the mouth was enough. The expression there unmoored him more than any nudity could have.

He locked the phone. Too fast. As if caught. But there was no one. Only the hum of fluorescents and the sudden, suffocating thickness of air.

For a moment, he stood there—utterly still.

The pen had fallen. He hadn’t noticed. It lay near his foot like a desecrated instrument—dropped in a surgical theater, now unclean, now unworthy.

He peeled off his gloves and turned to the sink.

He did not need to wash his hands.

But he did.

Habit, he told himself. Reflex. Precision.

Lies.

The water ran for sixty-four seconds. He counted each one. Numbers steadied him, sometimes. The cold helped more. It shocked the system, drove the blood inward. His hands moved methodically—palms, backs, between the fingers, under the nails, up to the wrists—until the skin grew tight and flushed and borderline raw.

Still, she remained.

Not the image—he had closed the phone. But something in her lingered. Not in the eyes, but behind them. Not on the screen, but beneath his skin. She had entered him like a fever: slow, elegant, unannounced.

That robe. That fabric. That implication. That invitation.

A performance, yes. It had to be. Calculated.

And yet it felt—punitive.

As if he were being punished for something he had not yet admitted wanting.

He returned to his desk, sat, and stared at nothing.

Time passed. Minutes, maybe more. The edges of the room grew porous.

He imagined her wherever she was—still warm from taking the photograph. Did she check to see when he’d opened it? Did she wait? Did she wonder if he would reply? Did she hope?

He unlocked the phone.

Once. Just once, to confirm. To verify that he hadn’t hallucinated the severity of it.

It was worse.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He did not touch himself.

But he was drowning in her.

It wasn’t lust—not merely. No, lust would have been easier. Familiar. Physiological. But this… this was sacrament spoiled. A reverence that strangled, holy and profane. The kind that ruins men—not with sin, but with devotion.

Zayne did not believe in possession. Not in the romantic sense. People were not things. Emotions were not facts. Love was a biochemical distortion. Lust, a reflexive betrayal of reason. He had built his mind like a fortress atop these principles—brick by brick, evidence by evidence. Rationality. Discipline. Observable data.

And yet—

The thought of another man seeing her like this—her robe falling open line scripture undone, her mouth slack with suggestion—sickened him. Not out of jealousy. No. That would imply entitlement. He knew she wasn’t his.

But it would be… wasteful.

A desecration.

A crime against something he did not yet have language for.

She was—

No.

He could not name what she was to him.

He feared what it would mean if he could.

He stood abruptly. The chair shrieked against the tile. The sound was too loud, too human. He paced. Once. Twice. The door loomed, a threshold he could not justify crossing. Where would he go? Where could he possibly leave her behind?

She was inside him now.

And burning.

Another message arrived.

He did not move.

The screen glowed in the periphery, a silent commandment. He knew what it was. Knew it would not save him. Still, the light held a gravity—like confession. Like damnation.

He could ignore it. Pretend. Resume the script of the man he was before.

Instead, he tapped the screen.

And exhaled through clenched teeth.

She was standing now. Or half-standing—angled toward a mirror. The robe was gone. In its place, red lace clung to her hips like capillaries, veins blooming over skin. Her back arched just so, her head tilted. And on her shoulder—something blurred. A smear. Lipstick. Or a bite.

He gripped the counter’s edge until his knuckles paled.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t even want.

It was reverence—terrible and holy. The kind of reverence that destroys. The kind that drips from Psalms and The Book of Job. The kind that made desert prophets wail beneath the stars and tear their garments in the face of God.

She had become an altar. And he—her heretic.

The thought struck him not with awe, but with shame.

Because he had known. He had always known. From the moment she first crossed the sterile threshold of his lab—unannounced, unafraid—something had shifted in him. Something tectonic. She was not simply beautiful. She was consecrated—and he had let her linger too long in the corridors of his restraint.

Now her image had become scripture.

And he was no longer a scientist, but a man unraveling at the feet of his own hypocrisy.

His fingers hovered above the keys.

A message bloomed in his mind:

My office. 8PM.

Simple. Clinical. Commanding.

But it rang like blasphemy in the stillness. To write it would be to cross a line—one he had drawn in blood and vowed never to breach. Not out of cowardice, but devotion. The kind of twisted, reverent denial that made monks tremble in their cells. The kind that gnawed holes into the soul.

No.

He could not write it.

To speak desire was to own it. To own it was to name it.

And once named, it would not be contained.

So instead—

He turned the phone over, face-down, as if shunning an idol.

He stood, methodically. Walked to the sink.

And washed his hands. Again.

Not for cleanliness.

Not even for control.

But because the ritual was the only thing left of him that still obeyed.

He loathed the warmth in his palms.

The water had long since cooled, yet still he scrubbed them together beneath the faucet, as if friction might cauterize the part of him that had responded—eagerly, hungrily, stupidly—to the sight of her. It wasn’t shame, not exactly. It was something darker. A recognition of sickness, as though desire itself were contamination and he’d breached his own sterile protocol.

He shut off the water, but lingered. Staring. As if the faucet might offer judgment. Or absolution.

Then the towel. Too rough. Too violent. He dried his hands with the force of a man punishing himself, and the fabric tore slightly at the edge. His grip again. Excessive. Undisciplined. He discarded it into the bin and returned to his desk, each step clipped with the weight of self-reproach.

The phone remained face-down. The screen black. Like an eye deliberately shut against sin.

He wouldn’t check it again.

He wouldn’t.

A knock broke the silence.

Zayne didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The door opened, uninvited—as it always did when Elias was involved.

“Still here?” Elias stepped inside, balancing two files in one hand, a tablet in the other. His tone was light, unaware. “Not even a coffee break. Do you ever stop?”

Zayne said nothing. Not out of cruelty—though it might have seemed that way—but because speaking required breath. And breath might summon scent. And scent might bring her back. He was convinced her perfume still haunted the air, like a spirit refusing exorcism.

“Right,” Elias muttered, unbothered. “I’ll make it quick.”

He crossed the room and laid the files on the desk. Zayne didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the phone—face-down, inert, yet radiating like an unholy relic.

It wasn’t a device anymore. It was a presence.

Not mechanical.

Not digital.

Something worse.

Organic.

Pulsing with implication.

“So,” Elias tried again, undeterred. “You doing anything tonight?”

A dozen answers flared in Zayne’s mind. All of them inappropriate. All of them true.

I’m planning to self-destruct. I’m planning to dissolve twenty years of control in the wake of a photograph. I’m planning to abandon the man I was for the promise of something I shouldn’t even want.

Instead, he rasped, “No.”

Even that single syllable felt like betrayal—spoken past a throat tight with disuse.

Elias looked at him more closely. “You okay?”

Zayne looked up.

Mistake.

Because at that precise moment, the phone vibrated again.

A brief pause. Short. Surgical. Inescapable.

He didn’t need to turn it over.

He knew.

“Another emergency?” Elias asked, half-laughing.

Zayne’s voice barely made it out. “No.”

“Well,” Elias exhaled, missing the weight entirely, “some of us are heading out later. You should come. You’ve looked like death all week.”

Zayne inhaled. Slow. Controlled. “I prefer solitude.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

And then Elias was gone.

The door closed behind him, swinging like the last breath of something dying.

He did not move.

He let the silence settle again—let it congeal around him like a second skin, one that no longer fit. His hands remained still, his spine locked, but inside, everything was spiraling. Decay disguised as discipline. Reverence masquerading as restraint.

Then, slowly—inevitably—he reached for the phone.

Face-up now.

The light struck him like judgment.

He opened it.

And what stared back was not cruelty.

It was not vulgarity.

It was revelation.

She was lying down this time. Somewhere soft. Somewhere unseen. Her hair unbound—he’d never seen it like that before—and it spilled across the frame like silk undone. Light caressed her in places no light had the right to touch. Her thighs. Her stomach. Her breasts—bare now, the lace pushed aside, forgotten.

Her fingers rested between her legs.

Not crude.

Not obscene.

Intentional.

It was art. In its way. But it was also more.

A confession.

A provocation.

A dare and a liturgy all at once.

Something twisted in his chest.

Not a flutter. Not arousal. No—something deeper. A contraction. As if guilt had a physical shape and it had begun to devour him from within.

There was no longer space for denial.

This was not an accident.

Not a flirtation.

Not innocence.

It was orchestration.

She wanted him undone.

And what horrified him most—what sank teeth into the hollow of his stomach and turned slowly, like a ritual blade—was that a part of him wanted her to succeed.

He closed the image.

Then opened it again.

Longer, this time.

He told himself it was analysis. Confirmation. A study of composition.

He lied.

He knew better.

He could hear his own voice—cold, clinical, merciless—echoing in the recesses of his mind:

This is beneath you. You are not ruled by this.

But the image remained. And with it came memories he had not consciously summoned—like blood seeping through a gauze dressing long believed secure.

The pitch of her voice when she said his name—always softer than it should have been. The peculiar weight of her gaze when it lingered too long on his hands. And the smallest thing—the one that undid him the most—was that she always remembered. Every word. Every insignificant thing he’d ever said to her.

No one did that.

Not with him.

Zayne stood.

His entire body felt wrong.

The blood in his veins moved too fast.

His spine was too rigid, his breath too shallow—as if he had been occupying this form without permission and it had finally begun to reject him.

He paced. Not for relief. Not for order.

He didn’t count the steps this time.

There was nothing left to measure.

The lab behind the glass wall glowed with quiet sterility—unchanged, untouched—but it might as well have been another planet. He was no longer part of that world. That man. That silence.

He had crossed a threshold. A sacred line now blurred by heat.

He’d exiled himself the moment he opened the second message.

He could message her now.

He could summon her—

with a line, a time, a place.

He could lock the door behind her, speak in absolutes, claim her as if desire were proof enough.

He could pretend this descent was deliberate.

But he didn’t.

Because doing it would make it real.

Would transform the ache into action, the want into history.

And if it became real, then there would be no undoing.

No unseeing.

No forgetting.

No return to the cold safety of indifference.

Zayne—rational, clinical Zayne—had always relied on the possibility of erasure.

So instead, he sat.

And let the image devour him in silence.

Not as indulgence.

Not as pleasure.

But as punishment.

He stood. Then sat again. Then rose—

as though his own body had grown foreign, ungovernable.

As though stillness itself had turned against him.

The chair groaned in protest. He ignored it.

Paced the narrow span of the office like a prisoner retracing the same four steps—except this cell had no bars, only thoughts. No guards, only the self. And he, the most merciless warden of all.

Once.

Twice.

His fingers grazed the edge of a bookshelf, paused briefly at a drawer handle, then moved on. He was not touching objects—he was testing the world, searching for weight. But everything felt distant. Unmoored. Functionless.

Even the room seemed altered now.

As though someone had shifted it in his absence.

Not visibly—no. But fundamentally.

As if the space itself had turned on him in some slight, cruel way he couldn’t name.

He crossed to the window.

Of course there was no view. Just the sterile corridor beyond the reinforced glass-fluorescent lighting, shadows that moved like ghosts of routine. Reflections. Echoes. His own outline, faint and pale, stared back at him with too much knowing in the eyes.

His mouth was set in that same neutral line he wore before patients, before colleagues—impassive, unreadable. But his eyes….

He turned away.

He could not bear the sight of himself.

He opened a file on the desk. Reflexive. A patient’s chart—nothing urgent. He scanned the text, sought solace in numbers, margins, diagnosis. He had annotated it earlier that day. His own handwriting blinked back at him, unfamiliar.

But the figures lost their shape. The characters bled.

She returned—not in the data, but behind it. Beneath it. Her form slid between the lines, her legs replaced vital signs, the slope of her neck inserted itself into white space. Even the ink seemed to carry the impression of her skin.

He shut the folder. Too fast. Too violently.

The paper crinkled under the force of it.

He exhaled—slowly, deliberately—like a man attempting to bleed poison from his lungs.

It’s just arousal, said the rational voice in him.

The physician. The empiricist.

But it wasn’t.

It was longing, and it had metastasized. Not into want, but into need.

Not for her body—at least, not only—but for her presence. Her attention. Her voice when it dipped in pitch. Her gaze when it lingered too long.

Absurd.

Undignified.

Unacceptable.

And yet, undeniable.

He no longer craved her skin. He craved her awareness—the way she remembered things he said that even he had forgotten. The way she looked at him as if he were still human, not just useful.

It was not attraction. It was not obsession.

It was the beginning of a disease.

He sat again.

Not from fatigue—he was far past the luxury of tiredness—but because there was nowhere left to stand that didn’t feel exposed. The room no longer accepted him. It watched him now, complicit and unkind.

His hands moved to his tie. Without thinking. The knot loosened slowly, reluctantly, as if its unraveling might relieve the pressure beneath his sternum. The air hit his throat sharp, medicinal—too cold.

He glanced at the clock.

No—not the clock.

The phone.

It hadn’t buzzed again. Not once.

That should have brought relief.

Instead, it felt like absence—raw and echoing.

Like a presence withdrawn.

A silence that accused.

Had she grown bored of the game?

Had she sent that last image, and then—simply moved on? Gone back to her life? Her evening? Her mirror?

Was someone else seeing her like that now?

The thought struck him like a blunt instrument—no blood, just bruising.

A slow, spreading sickness in the chest.

He nearly stood again.

Instead, he forced himself down, fingers digging into the armrest like anchors.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

He stared at the device.

Daring it to light up.

Dreading what would happen if it did.

Time no longer moved in sequence. It expanded. Warped.

He could not tell whether minutes or hours had passed.

It might still be afternoon.

It might be near midnight.

The light in the office was always the same—artificial, unfeeling.

So was the air.

So was the silence.

So was he—

or had been, until today.

He let his head fall back against the chair.

The ceiling stared down—blank, uncaring, the color of anesthesia. He could have been anywhere. In a morgue. In a chapel. Inside a dream.

The moment stretched.

Not a pause, but a void.

Then, unbidden, he remembered Elias. The offer. The bar.

Zayne rarely drank. Two, maybe three times a year. Alcohol dulled his thinking, made his mind heavy. Sluggish. But tonight—

Tonight he already felt impaired.

Hollowed. Humming with something he didn’t know how to hold.

And there was logic—cold, brutal logic—in sedating a wound before it turned septic.

The thought arrived like a prescription:

Leave the building.

Say yes.

Sit in a room full of noise and let other people’s voices drown out the one in your head.

He wouldn’t have to speak.

Only listen.

Only forget.

ANd if he drank—just enough—maybe he would sleep.

And maybe—if sleep took pity—

he wouldn’t dream of her.

He leaned forward.

Elbows on knees.

Eyes locked on the phone.

It didn’t ring.

It didn’t buzz.

It didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The stillness returned—but it no longer soothed.

It had calcified into something hostile. A vacuum that amplified the smallest things: the tick of his own pulse in his throat, the electrical hum threading through the walls, the dryness crawling across his tongue like dust.

And beneath it all—her.

Not the image.

Not anymore.

She had transcended the screen.

What she had sent him was not a photograph. It was a threshold.

And he had crossed it—

unwilling,

uninvited,

but entirely unable to look away.

He imagined her fingers parting the lace—

but not for a camera.

For him.

No performance. No angle curated for effect.

Just her. Unedited. At ease in her ruinous power.

The kind of intimacy that didn’t demand witness, only presence. A gesture not made to provoke, but because it felt good to do so. As if she were bored with subtlety now—done with the elegance of implication.

He saw her look at him through lowered lashes, amusement curled at the corner of her mouth. A soft laugh—not unkind—when his hands hovered, reverent, just short of contact.

Not posed.

Not choreographed—

just lazy, instinctual, indulgent.

He would touch her—

God, he would—but not in desperation.

In detail.

His hands would move like confession, slow and deliberate.

He would begin at her wrist, press his mouth there first—as if to repent.

Then upward.

Each inch of her arm a gospel to be read in flesh.

His fingers would find the fragile architecture of her hips, splay there with measured reverence. No grabbing. No claiming.

Only worship.

His thumb would brush that place where skin turned—

softest,

warmest.

The point of surrender. The place where breathing changed.

He would ask her—quietly, without accusation—

if she knew what she had done to him.

And when she smiled, he would kiss her like punishment.

Not violently.

Not cruelly.

But with a kind of relentless devotion—

the kind that pressed too long, too deep,

Until even pleasure began to ache.

Until reverence became unbearable.

He wanted her trembling.

Not from fear, but from restraint.

From the exquisite pain of being denied what she already ached to receive.

He wanted to make her wait.

Make her feel the weight of what she’d done.

Not because he was cruel.

But because she had undone him first.

ANd fairness had to mean something.

His mind betrayed him further.

He saw her mouth open against his neck, felt the pause—the sacred, breathless space before sound escaped her throat.

Her body tensed beneath his—not in resistance, but in surrender.

A tightening that begged for release.

That told him she trusted him enough to break.

And in the moment before he gave in—

before he pushed into her with all the ruin she had earned—

he would say something he hadn’t said aloud in years.

Not an endearment.

Not a promise.

Just her name.

Only her name.

His hands curled around the armrests.

He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping until the fabric groaned beneath his fingers—tense, strained, as though the chair itself were trying to resist him.

He wanted to bury himself in her.

To forget who he had been before she touched him—without touching him at all.

He wanted to erase the space between their bodies until there was nothing left to deny.

His eyes burned.

And then—without warning—he stood.

Violently. Absolutely.

Both palms slammed down on the desk, a thunderclap in the quiet.

The sound ricocheted off the walls, louder than any alarm.

His breath was ragged.

His posture undone.

His tie hung half-loosened at his chest like a mark of defeat.

He couldn’t stay here.

He needed to move.

To leave the room, the building, himself.

He reached for his coat. The fabric felt foreign—cold, stiff.

He dragged it over his shoulders with frantic urgency, the sleeves bunching, resisting. He yanked them straight, uncaring. Next came the scarf—creased, tangled, irrelevant.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing fit right.

Nothing softened the pressure building beneath his ribs.

He just needed barriers.

Cloth. Movement.

Distance.

Anything to armor himself against this heat that wasn’t physical.

He crossed the room in long, agitated strides, shoulders hunched like a man pursued.

His reflection caught him in the window—

briefly.

Enough.

Pale. Hollow-eyed.

Mouth clenching against something unspeakable.

He looked away.

The door opened with a shove, hard enough to echo.

The hallway outside was too bright—obscenely bright. The kind of light that revealed things best left bruised.

He walked anyway.

The elevator waited at the end of the corridor.

It’s light glowed steady above the closed door—silent, expectant.

It looked like a mouth. A mechanical throat ready to swallow.

Maybe that was what he wanted.

To disappear into motion.

To be pressed between strangers, noise, anything.

To be drowned in the anonymity of other bodies.

To forget the shape of her skin and the sound he imagined she would make when—

No.

He pressed the call button harder than necessary.

The panel lit. The gears behind the wall groaned to life.

And Zayne stood there—

breathing like a man who’d just escaped a burning room.

The elevator didn’t come.

He stood motionless beneath its steady, indifferent light, jaw clenched, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. He didn’t press the button again—what would be the point? Even that motion felt laughable now. As if action could atone for thought. As if descending one floor might deliver him from himself.

The air was wrong. Too clean. Too still.

Every breath scraped against the back of his throat, as though filtered through gauze. The corridor hummed faintly with electricity—but beneath it, something else vibrated. Something internal.

A low, gnawing heat.

He felt it beneath his collar. In the hollows of his palms.

Between his legs, where logic had lost jurisdiction.

He hadn’t looked at the phone again. He didn’t have to.

The image was fused to memory now—a neurological brand.

Her bare body reclined, so deliberately unaware of mercy.

He hissed between his teeth—sharp, involuntary.

Then turned.

Slammed a palm against the wall.

Leaned into it, hard enough to jar his shoulder.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

He tried to count his breath, tried to impose rhythm, control—but it wasn’t breath anymore.

It was need.

It was humiliation.

It was rage masquerading as restraint.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, a breathless sneer. “You’ve dissected neural tissue under pressure, and this is what ruins you?”

The words came like vomit.

Bitter, involuntary.

They sickened him.

His forehead pressed against the cold plaster.

He could feel his pulse in his temple—erratic, defiant.

As if his own body had tried of obedience and now moved on its own terms.

The world narrowed into raw sensation:

the dampness gathering at the nape of his neck,

the sting coiled behind his eyes,

the bite of clenched teeth barely holding back—

what?

A cry? A confession? A fall?

He wanted to rip her from his mind.

Not because he hated her.

Because he didn’t.

He wanted her in ways that had no language.

No anatomy.

No cure.

There was no clinical explanation for this kind of ache.

No scan that could chart it.

No sedative strong enough to blunt it.

And the thought—

God, the knowledge—

that she wanted him too?

It didn’t thrill him.

It hollowed him.

He swallowed the sound rising in his throat. It hovered between a groan and a prayer.

She had sent herself to him in pieces—image by image, suggestion by suggestion—until her presence no longer lived in photographs, but inside him.

She was no longer a thought.

She was a condition.

A fever.

A state of being.

He didn’t know where she ended and he began anymore.

He shut his eyes.

Then—

a sound behind him.

Soft. Measured. Clicking.

He froze.

No.

No. No, not now. Not like this—

The sound came again.

Deliberate. Rhythmic.

Heels.

Each step unhurried.

Not mechanical, not rushed.

Intimate.

The air thickened. Grew heavy, as if sound itself displaced the oxygen.

He didn’t turn.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

The steps drew closer.

One.

Then another.

Measured like a ritual.

Unhurried as a heartbeat beneath silk.

His body locked.

Every muscle drawn tight, every breath withheld like it might break him.

Spine rigid, hands still planted against the wall.

Was he hallucinating?

Had his mind—already scorched, already unraveling—finally abandoned logic?

No.

He turned.

And the world ended, gently.

She walked toward him with the kind of composure that made madness seem holy.

A trench coat belted at the waist. Loose.

The fabric moved with her—fluid, sinless, damning.

From the slit at its side, her leg emerged, then disappeared again.

A rhythm that mocked modesty.

her skin glowed under the corridor’s sterile light.

Her expression—

unreadable.

His hands fell to his sides.

The floor tilted beneath him—

or maybe it was just his blood abandoning reason.

The air thinned. Gravity stuttered.

He couldn’t look away.

Not from the way her hips moved—graceful, damning.

Not from the place where the coat parted with every step, revealing flash after flash of skin like a secret told in stutters.

Not from her eyes—

that unbearable alchemy of innocence and audacity.

As if she had always known.

That he would come undone the moment he saw her.

That she had planned for it.

Her hips swayed.

The coat parted.

Her eyes held him there.

His knees almost gave.

Not in some romantic, tragic metaphor.

In truth.

His body faltered under the weight of her—

not her form, but her knowing.

The way she moved with intention. The way she looked at him like he was already hers.

Like she could take him apart without ever touching him.

He kept himself upright through force alone—

jaw locked, breath dragged through nose like discipline could save him.

Like a man seconds from collapse.

A sound escaped him.

Raw.

Involuntary.

Low in his throat—closer to a groan than a word.

Almost a prayer.

Almost a moan.

He didn’t even care.

He didn’t know what he was anymore.

Not a doctor.

Not a scientist.

Not the man who once measured everything in proof and principle.

Just a man—

bare, wordless, trembling—

reduced to one silent, devastating plea:

Touch me.

Let me touch you.

Just once.

Let me worship what I was never allowed to want.

But he said nothing.

Because nothing he could offer—no word, no gesture—

would be equal to this.

So he stood.

Trembling.

Waiting.

As she moved—unhurried, unstoppable—

toward the point of no return.

She drew nearer.

He wanted to speak. Truly, he did.

A protest. A warning. A plea.

Anything to wedge between this moment and its consequence.

But the words—so many, urgent and inexact—clotted in his throat like stones.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

Only air.

Thin. Unsatisfying.

His hand moved.

Just a tremor at first. A small, shameful spasm near the wrist.

But it betrayed him more than any cry could have.

A man in control didn’t shake.

A man in control didn’t falter.

Her gaze caught it instantly.

Of course it did.

She stopped just in front of him.

Close.

But not touching.

No—never that. She didn’t need to.

Proximity was its own form of possession.

She looked up at him—unapologetic, unhurried.

Her eyes held no urgency. No shame.

There wasn’t even cruelty in her expression.

It was almost passive.

Almost.

But at the corner of her mouth, something shifted—

a shadow of amusement, subtle as breath.

Not mocking.

Not cold.

Something gentler.

More maddening.

She was enjoying this.

Not sadistically. Not with malice.

But with the patience of someone who understood exactly how men broke—and had chosen, gently, not to intervene.

She watched him come undone like one watches a fever run its course—not willing it, but allowing it.

Knowing it would break something.

But not caring what.

Zayne swallowed. Loudly.

It felt like dragging gravel through his throat.

His fingers twitched again. Both hands this time.

He wanted—

God, what did he want?

To drag her against him?

To fall to his knees?

To beg her to leave before he did something he could never take back?

His heart pounded—not fast, but hard.

Each beat landed like a drum struck by purpose.

War drums. Warning signs.

His vision blurred—not from heat or emotion, but from the sheer overload of sensation.

And still—

she said nothing.

That silence—hers—was unbearable.

Because it was full of knowledge.

She knew.

She knew what she’d done to him.

And worse—she knew he wouldn’t stop her.

The scent of her—warmth, skin, faint perfume—reached him like an affliction.

Subtle. Precise. Unrelenting.

It slipped into his lungs and made a home.

His throat worked. He tried again.

“I—”

But it died there.

What could he say?

I can’t.

You shouldn’t.

Please.

Useless.

His shoulders stiffened in shame.

But his eyes—traitorous, starving—remained locked on the small space between the lapels of her coat.

Just there.

A breath of skin.

The soft valley he knew, from memory now, led to lace and ruin.

The faintest smile deepened on her lips.

She hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

Not even a shift of weight.

And yet—

the entire hallway felt tilted toward her.

As if gravity itself had been rewritten.

That was when he understood.

With the brutal clarity of a man falling:

This wasn’t a whim.

Not a game.

Not even a test.

It was mercy.

In her language.

A quiet offering.

A chance to surrender before he shattered.

And still—

he did not move.

Not because he lacked the will, but because he had already offered it.

He simply stood there.

Trembling.

Held captive in the silence she had made sacred.

Waiting for her to decide whether he was worth the fall.

She tilted her head.

Barely.

But it broke the stillness like a whisper in a cathedral.

And then she spoke.

“Did you get my messages?”

The words were soft. Almost playful.

But tucked between syllables was something far more dangerous—a blade wrapped in velvet.

He flinched.

As if struck.

The elevator behind him chimed.

Sterile.

Emotionless.

Perfectly timed.

Perfectly cruel.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t move.

His breath hitched—

then held.

She hadn’t stepped closer.

She didn’t have to.

The silence between the crackled now—alive.

Charged

Like something pulled too tight.

He looked down.

Her leg—bare where the coat parted.

Light grazing along the line of her thigh, revealing everything and nothing.

No tights.

No stockings.

No pretense.

She had arrived like a secret.

Not offered—meant to be discovered.

His eyes climbed slowly.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t rush.

Each second felt like an offering, a moment suspended in something larger than choice.

And it undid him more than anything that had come before.

The muscle in his jaw twitched.

His fingers curled faintly, as if remembering what it felt like to hold nothing.

Then—without a word—she reached for the belt at her coat.

And pulled.

Just enough.

The fabric loosened. Shifted.

What lay beneath wasn’t vulgar.

Wasn’t loud.

It was intentional.

Burgundy lace.

Bare skin.

Soft shadows that invited and condemned in equal measure.

She didn’t reveal everything.

She didn’t need to.

He saw only what she allowed—and yet, in his mind, he traced the rest with the precision of a man who had studied her in dreams.

And something inside him—

snapped.

Not in rage.

Not in lust.

In relief.

His body moved before though could stop it.

No hesitation.

No stutter.

Only gravity, finally obeyed.

He stepped forward—not staggering, not rushed, but with the finality of a man who knew there would be no turning back.

One arm curled around her shoulders.

The other pressed firmly at the small of her back—anchoring her. Anchoring himself.

And then—

his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was starvation—

the mouth of a man who had survived restraint, only to discover that discipline had always been a slow kind of death.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning, heat after frost, absolution after sin.

She tasted like the only way out—

from the silence,

from the waiting,

from the nightmare he’d never woken from.

She yielded without surprise.

As though this had always been the ending.

As though his restraint had only ever been a curtain waiting to be drawn.

Her hand rose to his chest—fingers curling into the fabric of his coat—but he didn’t let her linger.

He turned.

Guided her back.

The elevator doors had already begun to close.

He caught them with one hand—forceful, unnecessary—and pulled them open like a man reclaiming something he’d been punished for wanting.

They stepped inside.

The light overhead flickered once, as if even the system knew this moment wasn’t meant to be observed.

The second the doors sealed, he lost what little remained of his restraint.

His hands seized her waist—possessive, not gentle—and he turned sharply, pressing her into the cold steel of the elevator wall.

Not thoughtfully. Not carefully.

With suppressed violence.

Not to harm.

To hold.

To tether himself to something solid before he fractured into vapor.

Her gasp bloomed against his cheek as her back hit metal.

He drank it in like a man starved of grace.

His hands moved—frantic, reverent.

He palmed her ribs, her stomach, the delicate underside of her breast through the lace.

The fabric was thin.

Too thin.

He hated it.

Wanted it gone.

But more than that—

He wanted to feel her through it.

To make her shiver beneath the barrier.

To know he could make her arch—not with skin, not with friction—but just from fingertips and will.

She leaned into him—arms sliding around neck, fingers threading into his hair with a trembling kind of care.

She tugged once.

He nearly lost his fitting.

His mouth found hers again—

but this time, it wasn’t a kiss.

It was a confession.

He kissed her like a man begging for mercy he knew wouldn’t come.

Tongue tangled with hers, breath caught between teeth, groans swallowed into heat.

There was no rhythm. No choreography.

Only want—

ugly and unfiltered.

He broke away—breathing hard, hoarse, wrecked.

Her eyes were already heavy-lidded.

Cheeks flushed.

Chest rising beneath the open coat like she’d been running for miles.

Zayne lowered his mouth to her throat—and bit.

Not cruel.

Not deep.

But sharp enough to leave something behind.

A mark.

A warning.

A memory.

Something she’d feel later and think of him.

His right hand slid down her thigh—fingers wrapping, firm, reverent.

He lifted. She let him.

Her leg curled around his hip, bare skin brushing the rough fabric of his slacks.

He was already hard.

Already aching.

And the pressure of her—right there, so close, so ready—

made his head spin.

Her head fell back—a soft thud against the elevator wall, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.

He stared at it—pale, perfect, impossibly delicate.

And then kissed it—not with hunger, but with the kind of urgency reserved for last rites.

Not lust.

Not control.

Devotion.

Her coat slipped open—fully, finally.

And there she was.

Not in parts.

Not in suggestion.

Not in memory.

But whole.

No lens. No barrier.

Just her.

His breath caught.

All words abandoned him.

He said nothing.

Couldn’t.

He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling the warm scent of her skin like it could steady the tremors in his hands.

It didn’t.

Nothing calmed.

Nothing could.

Her fingers slipped beneath his coat—dragged lightly down the back of his neck.

Nails grazing skin.

He shuddered.

It didn’t feel like seduction.

It felt like being claimed.

He kissed her again.

And again.

Each one rougher.

Each one slower.

Each one worse than the last.

They weren’t about pleasure anymore.

They were about surrender.

Each kiss another nail in the coffin of the man he had once pretended to be.

Her lips were swollen now.

Her thighs tightened around him—bare, trembling, unbearably warm.

He could feel her—not just body, but permission.

Every part of him wanted to tear the space between them into nothing. To sink into her until he forgot what it was to be alone.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He held her tighter.

Not to take.

To remember.

This moment.

This body.

This surrender.

Because after this—

after her—

he would never go back.

His mouth hovered near her ear, breath unsteady—words clawing their way up his throat before he could tame them.

“You wore this for me,” he rasped, voice raw—gravel dragged through reverence. “This little thing under your coat… do I’d see it and lose my fucking mind?”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her fingers clutched the lapels of his coat like a lifeline.

Knuckles white.

Chest rising too fast against his.

He laughed—low, bitter.

Not mocking.

Punished.

“You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?” His lips brushed her jaw. “You wanted to know what I’d look like when I finally stopped pretending.”

She whimpered—soft, breathless—and it undid something low and deep in his spine.

“You like being watched?” he murmured, lips dragging down the column of her throat. “Standing in front of that mirror… touching yourself…”

His mouth brushed her skin.

“Knowing I’d see it. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to forget.”

He pulled back—just long enough to spin her beneath his grip.

She gasped as her body turned, coat slipping from her shoulders like a veil in slow motion.

Her spine met his chest.

Her palms struck the elevator wall—a muffled slap of flesh against steel.

Bracing herself.

He pressed into her from behind—chest to her back, hips grinding slow and deliberate between her thighs. Cruel in rhythm. Worshipful in intent.

Her breath caught.

She tilted her head to the side—automatically. Wordlessly.

Exposing her throat like it belonged to him.

He nuzzled once—then bit. Not hard.

But deep enough to hear her moan.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he whispered, voice thick with grit and fire. “One look at you and I knew.”

His hand dragged slowly down her side, fingertips skating over ribs, waist, hip.

“You wore that lace, stood in front of that mirror, sent me that picture—just to end up here.”

His fingers dipped, teasing the curve of her thigh.

“To be bent over. Held like this. While I ruin you.”

He nudged her legs apart with his knee—deliberate. Decisive.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

His breath ghosted across her ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Keep them open.”

His hand slid upward—slow, unmerciful—along the inside of her thigh.

The skin there burned.

Velvet and heat and want.

She gasped when he reached her center—slick, soaked, shameless.

Zayne groaned—

deep and guttural.

The sound vibrated against her spine.

“Fuck—so wet,” he whispered against her shoulder. “You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”

She nodded—barely.

He watched the motion of her cheek against the wall, her lip caught between her teeth.

“I should make you say it,” he muttered, his fingers teasing slow, punishing circles just shy of where she needed him. “Make you admit how much you need me.”

She arched—pushing back against him, hips desperate, thighs trembling.

He smiled against her skin.

Slow. Dark. Inevitable.

“No patience,” he murmured. “Good. I don’t have any left either.”

And then—

he slid one finger inside her.

Deep. Slow.

Deliberate.

until he was buried.

She cried out—muffled, desperate, beautiful.

His breath faltered.

A curse broke beneath it.

Her warmth—it was obscene. Unholy. Alive.

She clenched around his finger like she already knew how to hold him when he fucked her.

He curled his finger—once.

She shuddered so violently he had to catch her—one arm braced across her stomach, anchoring her to him.

His mouth pressed to her neck.

“You feel like sin,” he groaned. “And I don’t give a fuck if it damns me.”

She was melting.

Bent forward, hands braced against the wall, body trembling with every slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers.

Zayne couldn’t look away.

Everytime he pushed inside her, her hips jolted. Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched.

And fuck—the heat of her, the way she tightened around him like she knew he belonged there—it made his cock twitch so violently he nearly gasped.

He pressed his chest harder into her back, mouth at her ear.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me feel all of you.”

Her answer was a broken maon—

half-swallowed.

Pleading.

He slid his hand higher, fingers curling again—deeper this time.

Her knees buckled.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispered, his voice shredded at the edges. “So wet for me. So fucking tight.”

She whimpered when he twisted his wrist—just right—pressing against the spot that made her body jerk forward like he’d struck a chord.

His other hand moved to her breast, cupping it roughly. Thumb dragging across the peak until it responded—until it peaked against the lace.

She cried out—sharp, breathless, shattering.

He groaned, deep in his chest.

A sound that trembled out of him like pressure escaping a crack in stone.

His cock throbbed—hot, slick, restrained.

He was soaked—leaking for her, so hard he could feel every beat of his pulse in the shaft.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growled into her hair. “I’ve been hard since you sent that first fucking picture.”

His breath hitched. “There hasn’t been a second since that I could think straight. Could barely see straight.”

She arched.

Her legs trembled.

“You close?” he asked,

voice a rasp,

teeth grazing her shoulder.

“Yeah? You’re gonna come just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

She nodded—desperate, trying to grind back against his hand, chasing the edge he held just out of reach.

He smirked—dark, reverent, ruined.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured. “Taking it so well. Fucking dripping for me.”

He pinched her nipple—a tug, just enough.

She nearly collapsed.

“I’m gonna eat this pussy after,” he whispered, the words so low they barely existed.

“When you’re shaking…when you’re overstimmed—face down, ass up—I’m gonna spread you open with my tongue and keep going until you’re crying.”

Her whole body locked.

He pushed deeper, twisting his fingers just right—once.

She wailed.

The sound split from her chest—

cut off and strangled at the throat.

“Not yet,” he hissed, his breath shaking against her skin.

“You don’t come yet. You wait.”

She moaned—high, needy, broken.

But she obeyed.

He leaned into her fully, panting against her neck, his cock throbbing—painful now, slick inside his soaked boxers.

He was losing it.

Every inch of him flushed and trembling, the pressure unbearable. His own arousal smeared hot against the inside of his slacks.

He was going to snap.

He knew it.

If she clenched around him again, he’d come untouched.

But he didn’t stop.

Not yet.

because he needed her to break first.

She was breaking apart.

Every muscle in her back tensed beneath his chest, her breath reduced to shattering whimpers.

He felt her thighs twitch around his hand—desperate. Aching. Lost.

Her cunt clenched around his fingers, tight, greedy, rhythmic—each pulse a plea.

Zayne could barely stand.

He was seconds from coming—without friction. Without mercy. Just from the sound of her falling apart on his hand.

Still, he didn’t let her come.

Not yet.

Not until she earned it.

“You gonna fall apart for me, baby?” he rasped into her hair, his voice nothing but heat and grit. “Gonna soak my fucking hand?”

She whimpered, nodded—

hips rocking helplessly back into his hand.

“You want it so bad, don’t you?” His fingers curled deep and slow.

She cried out—louder this time.

“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s how deep I’m gonna fuck you. I’m not gonna stop. You’ll be shaking, crying, begging me to slow down—and I won’t. Not until I feel you come all over my cock—just like this.”

She gasped, legs threatening to give.

His palm never stopped—fingers stroking through the slick obscene heat of her, pressure building perfectly.

“You gonna cream for me, sweetheart?” he groaned, voice breaking against her ear. “Right here in the elevator, huh?”

His hand flexed.

His breath stuttered.

“You want to be my filthy little mess?”

She nodded—frantic, wild, one hand lifting from the wall to claw at his wrist.

Begging, wordless.

Zayne closed his eyes.

Her body was vibrating with the force of her need.

He kissed her neck—once.

A vow sealed in skin.

Then he whispered it,

low and final,

the only benediction she needed.

“Come for me.”

The words were still on his tongue when it happened.

PING.

The sound sliced through the moment like a scalpel.

He froze.

So did she.

The elevator doors began to open behind them—

bright light, footsteps, motion, reality.

Her body clenched—tighter than before—but still held,

suspended on the edge.

Zayne didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The world had just walked in on his damnation.

And she—

trembling, soaked, panting—

was still waiting for his permission.

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internetdaddy98 · 3 months ago

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The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 18

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Content Warning: medical procedures; mutual pining; jealousy: angst

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You hadn’t slept in.

The plan was to sleep in—an ambitious, luxurious kind of rest that normal people took on their days off. But you’d been up since just past five, watching the light creep in through your living room window with a mug of half-warm tea in your hands and your knees tucked to your chest.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Your favorite playlist was playing low through your phone speaker—jazz instrumentals that usually helped your brain slow down after a hard shift. Today, it just made the silence feel louder.

You’d been thinking about that conversation between Robby and Dana all morning, replaying the moment you’d overheard it outside the lounge room. The words weren't even meant for you, but they had landed like a punch to the gut anyway.

You tried to shrug it off. Tried to reason with yourself. He had a right to keep his boundaries. A right to protect his heart. But something about the way he’d said it—so final, like it wasn’t even worth the risk—cut deeper than you expected.

Maybe you were foolish for even hoping.

You looked down at your phone. No messages.

Robby usually texts on your days off. But now, the absence of his name on your screen felt... heavier than it should have.

You padded barefoot to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared blankly at the contents—half a takeout container, a lemon, and almond milk. You grabbed the milk, poured it into a bowl of cereal, and took it back to the couch, curling into the corner.

You hadn’t realized how much you’d let him in. Slowly, over time. Through fast scans and trauma huddles. Through caffeine jokes and quiet debriefs after difficult cases. You’d started to believe that the way he looked at you—focused, soft around the edges—meant something more.

Maybe it still did.

But if he was already pulling away before anything began… what was left to protect?

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Robby leaned against the nurses’ station, flipping through labs with his brow furrowed.

It had been an unusually light morning in the ER, but he was agitated in a way he couldn’t quite pin down. Not because of patient load, or the lingering smell of antiseptic, or even the two residents arguing over a splint technique. No—his nerves were keyed up for a different reason.

You weren’t here.

You were off today, and it shouldn’t have mattered. You got days off. Life went on. But something about the shift without your presence felt… hollow. A beat missing in the rhythm of the department.

He told himself he just missed your clinical precision. Your ability to take charge without ego. Your dark sense of humor.

But it was more than that.

He found himself glancing toward your usual chair at the station, then away, annoyed with himself. His hand lingered too long at the locker room door this morning, half expecting to find you inside when he knew you weren’t scheduled to come in. When Dana had handed him coffee earlier, he’d mumbled a distracted thank-you and kept his eyes on the floor.

You’d been quieter lately. Less quick with the comebacks. Still professional, still sharp—but something had shifted.

He wasn’t sure if it had happened during the surgical nightmare last week or the night Whittaker kept following you around like a lost puppy. He’d noticed it then—how you hadn’t even realized the med student was practically glowing every time you complimented him.

You never noticed when people were looking at you like that.

But Robby noticed.

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, forcing himself to focus. He was halfway through a consult note when Dana dropped into the seat beside him with a folder in her lap.

“She’s off today,” Dana said casually.

He didn’t look up. “I know.”

Dana leaned in. “She seemed a little... off the other day.”

He finally glanced up. “Did she say something?”

“Nope. But you did.”

Robby paused. “What are you talking about?”

Dana arched her brow. “Your ‘it’s not worth screwing up the dynamic’ line.”

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s true.”

“Sure,” Dana said, nonchalant. “Just funny timing, that’s all.”

Robby didn’t respond.

“Look, Robby,” Dana said, gentler this time, “you’ve got walls. I get it. So does she. But don’t act like this thing between you two doesn’t exist just because it’s inconvenient.”

Robby stood, tablet in hand. “She’s my student.”

“She’s also the woman you love.”

He walked off before he could say something he’d regret.

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You took a walk through the park, letting the sun hit your skin, trying to melt the tightness in your chest.

You passed joggers and moms with strollers, dogs tugging on leashes. The world felt bright and functional while you felt like a half-charged phone—operational, but drained.

Your mind wandered, uninvited, to Robby again.

You wondered what he was doing. If he was thinking about you. If he regretted saying what he said.

“No matter how much tension there is, it’s not worth screwing up the dynamic”

It echoed too loud in your head.

You sat on a bench near the duck pond, phone in your lap. Still no messages.

Maybe this was the boundary. The line you weren’t supposed to cross. Maybe this was the quiet space between almost and never.

You should have known better.

You always did.

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By the time the last trauma had been transferred upstairs, Robby found himself staring blankly at the flickering vending machine down the hall.

He wasn’t hungry.

His locker sat open behind him, jacket slung over the bench. His hands still smelled faintly like antiseptic, the smell that always clung even after three washes. Usually, it grounded him. But tonight, it made him feel… off-balance.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over his recent messages.

Still nothing from you.

Not that you owed him anything. You were probably enjoying your day off — coffee with friends, laundry, a quiet book, something normal and soft and far from the blood and adrenaline of this place.

But the silence gnawed at him.

You usually texted, even on days off. Something small — a meme that had to be explained, a patient story too absurd not to share.

But today? Radio silence.

Maybe he was imagining it. Projecting. Making something out of nothing.

Except it didn’t feel like nothing.

He scrolled up to your last conversation. Three days ago. You’d sent him a blurry photo of a coffee cup with the caption:

“Guess which genius poured salt into the sugar canister again.”

He’d replied with a laughing emoji and something snarky about intern hazing. That was it.

He hesitated… then typed out a message.

“Hey. Just checking in. Everything okay?”

His thumb hovered over send.

He deleted it.

It felt stupid. Too vulnerable. Too obvious.

Instead, he set the phone down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scrubbing a hand through his hair. The echo of Dana’s words followed him again like a ghost.

“Don’t act like this thing between you two doesn’t exist just because it’s inconvenient.”

But it wasn’t about convenience. Not really.

He’d dated coworkers before. He had dated Collins a long time ago and it had ended as soon as it started.

And then you had shown up — bright-eyed, fast-thinking, unapologetically direct — and somewhere in between intubating patients and trading jabs over charting software, you’d slipped right under his skin.

He hadn’t meant to let you in.

But he had.

And now he’d pushed you away before anything could even begin. Just a few words, spoken to Dana — spoken like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

But you did.

That’s what scared him the most.

He picked up the phone again, more frustrated with himself than anything else. This time, he opened your contact card and just stared at your name.

He could text you. He could ask how you were. Blame the silence on something harmless. Say he was worried. Say he missed you.

But what if you didn’t respond?

Worse—what if you did, but differently than before? More distant. More careful.

He’d know then. That something between you had shifted. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to feel that confirmation settle in his bones.

He closed the messaging app without typing anything and leaned back, exhaling through his nose. The worst part wasn’t that he’d messed it up.

It was the fear that you’d already started letting go.

#michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #noah wyle

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mushgloomz · 3 months ago

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Say 'Ahh'.

dentist!dave york x patient!reader (gender neutral)

• an: READ THE TAGS BEFORE PROCEEDING. I have included tags for anything and everything I can think of, but please be aware that this is a non-consensual, abuse of power piece of writing between FICTIONAL characters (Dave York x Reader). From the bottom of my heart, if you read this without heeding the warnings and tags, your discomfort is not my responsibility, nor are your triggers. @/firefly-graphics for the perfect dividers!

• tags: 18+ MDNI. Non-con. DDDNE (Dead Dove Do Not Eat). Needles, injections, IV use, dentistry, slapping, oral (m!receiving), face fucking, gagging, use of medications (lidocaine and twilight sedation/benzos), dark!character, abuse of power, one (1) use of 'sweetheart', language, spit, fear of dentists.

• wc: approx 2.9k

Dave loved his job. It made his family happy, paid well, gave back to the community in a meaningful way (unlike those pathetic annual fun-runs held by the town council). He wore his title with pride - David York, D.D.S.

Deft fingers lightly adjusted the small silver pin on the breast pocket of his jacket. Tooth shaped, naturally. He flashed a quick grin at his reflection in the sun visor mirror of his car; pristine rows of dazzling white teeth that did more for business than any marketing scheme.

Of all the noble intent one may have for entering the line of dentistry, so many failed to acknowledge the real allure; the very reason why Dave had committed so many years to the mastery of his skills.

Control.

Statistics would try to tell you that around half of the population had a fear of visiting the dentist. Dave knew better though. He saw it all - the anxious twiddle of thumbs in the waiting room, the minute beads of perspiration gathering across a person's hairline, the tick of a jaw as he called out a name with a charming smile.

No one enjoyed coming to see him at work, and he relished in it. With his returning patients, the fear lingered; the innate worry remaining ever-present even after being subject to his charm. Perhaps it was the vulnerability? The relegation of autonomy?

That’s what did it for Dave, at least. As he strolled through the doors of his practice, he gave a brief wave to the receptionist before turning his gaze to survey the patients dotted around on pleather chairs.

A bald man, sweating profusely, a hand at his jaw and brows furrowed. A woman wrestling a squirming toddler that she couldn’t seem to settle. Another man, a few years younger than himself; a mouth full of metal that no doubt chewed away at his cheeks, adding to the unsightly swelling of his lower face.

And then there was you.

Arms crossed over your chest, a leg bouncing up and down repeatedly. A single finger between your lips as you gnawed away at the skin of your nail bed. The epitome of apprehension; radiating trepidation. Something about the way you refused to meet his gaze, as if looking him in the eyes would make it all real, made Dave’s mouth water.

Walking out of the clinic’s lounge and into his operatory, Dave got to work. Suit jacket shrugged off and hung swiftly after; computer booted up and medical records printed. His routine never deviated - he moved with clinical precision, gathering equipment and PPE as if it were second nature.

The room itself was as white as the teeth he worked on, apart from the black leather furnishings - his own personal touch; he never could stand the flimsy plastic shit he’d been forced to endure during dental school. There was an aseptic quality to the very air of the clinic.

The next hour passed quickly enough as Dave worked on mouth after mouth, taking special care to ensure each patient saw the reflection of their own anxiety in the cold surgical steel instruments he wielded before their faces. He couldn't help himself - the more worked up they became, the more he enjoyed the task at hand.

Whilst finishing up some notes, a knock at the door echoed over the linoleum. Timid. Barely there.

"Come in."

The shuffle of footsteps reached his ears; back still turned to the door as he pulled up the next patient's records. New to the practice - new to the neighbourhood too it would seem, based on their previous clinic's location. The hinge of his chair creaked as he turned and there you were.

You were so quiet, so placid. And those lips, the bottom one quivering ever so slightly - fuck, he was going to get a semi just looking you over. Instead, Dave put on his signature grin, head tilting to one side as he stood, gesturing to the dental chair in the centre of the room.

"Please, take a seat; no need to be shy."

There was a hesitation to your movements, each step cautious as you slowly sidled your way over to the chair. He could feel the energy in the room building; thrumming the exact way he knew your heart would be against your ribcage. No doubt that the tension could be sliced clean in half with a single flourish of his dental bur.

As you rested your head against the sterile black leather, Dave clicked his tongue at you; a quiet, condescending sound predicating the words he spoke next.

"Think you can manage a few words to tell me why you're here today?"

The grin on his face remained as he leant over you, adjusting the chair until you were near enough horizontal. He preferred this angle with all of his patients; liked to watch the rapid rise and fall of their chests whilst he worked. In that regard, you were a real treat. "J-Just an annual check-up and clean", you'd murmured, stumbling over your words in the most delicious display of fear.

Dave plucked a pair of black latex gloves from a container set to one side, sliding each on with a squeak and a snap. He didn't fail to notice the way you'd flinched as the elastic pinged against his wrist - exquisite.

"Great - let's get started then, shall we?"

It was a formality more than a genuine question - he knew that from here on out, he held the power. Your pupils were so dilated that when Dave leant over you, he could see the reflection of his rolled shirt sleeves in the deep black pools.

"Open wide for me... that's it."

The plush pink expanse of your tongue glistened under the bright bulbs overheard, quivering as he moved the oral mirror toward the rows of pearly whites cocooning it. It wasn't much use - the hot, heavy breaths you seemed unable to control fogged up the tool. Fuck, if this wasn't the most inviting mouth he had ever peered into.

Removing the mirror and setting it to one side, a patronising smile breaching his features, Dave spoke softly.

"I make you nervous, don't I?"

He already knew the answer - of course he made you nervous. He just needed to hear it. Needed to diminish any sense of fight you might have left in you; to properly scare you into submission. Speaking it aloud made it real. "Y-Yes, I'm sorry, I-", you began to stammer out, but he cut you off mid-flow with a tut.

"Listen - have you ever heard of something called twilight sedation?"

The pitiful look of confusion that spread across your face - God, you got better and better with each passing minute.

"It's just a little injection, chills you out. Works nice and fast, and a lot of the time, people don't even remember their session with me afterwards."

He could practically hear the cogs whirring in your head. Mulling over such an appetising offer - the opportunity to relax and maybe, just maybe, forget the entire encounter. "I-Is that something I can h-have?", you all but squeaked. Music to his fucking ears.

"I think it would be for the best - I'll go get the IV and we'll get started, yeah?"

Ironically, Dave could feel his own heart rate begin to pick up as he discarded his gloves and headed out into the corridor toward the store room. The tension in the room was palpable when he returned, meticulously setting up the IV.

"Just a sharp scratch now, and... perfect."

It was moments like these that made the job all the more appealing.

Memories of watching nature documentaries with his daughters - the sadness in their eyes when they realised that whichever unsuspecting small creature was being observed by a much larger, hungrier animal. The slow pan of the camera as the predator moves in; the false sense of security snatched away in a flash of canines or claws.

That's the way the world works, my loves, he'd murmur as he consoled them, this is why it's so important to stay in control.

When your eyes became a little hazy, Dave knew he had you right where he wanted you. Not unconscious - he wasn't sick in the head. Just woozy, the benzo in your system lulling you into a comfortable heaviness. He wasn't going to hurt you, and you wouldn't remember any of this even if he did.

"How are you feeling?"

Flat. Cold. You blinked up at him slowly, contented. Such pretty eyes, even when they weren't overwhelmed with panic. He smiled, using a gloved thumb to coax your lips apart, leaning over to take another look; he was at work after all. Not even plaque marked your teeth - you were a dentist's wet dream.

Turning his back to you, he wheeled over a tray of equipment, speaking softly as he went. You were so placated after all, it seemed only right to make this a little easier for you.

"You've got a few issues cropping up, ones that I'd like to nip in the bud before they become major. I'm going to give you a few small injections along your gums to numb you up - don't want you getting all panicky again, do we?"

Your head tipped left to right ever so lethargically; a hum of agreement rumbling from your throat.

"Perfect. You're doing wonderfully. Now, say 'ahh' for me."

And you did, so obediently. Lidocaine syringe in hand, Dave got to work. Your little winces and hisses slowly disappeared as the numbing agent took affect - a shame really; the sound made his cock twitch in his slacks. A dozen pricks later and a steady stream of saliva was making its way out of the corner of your mouth.

Syringe deposited back on the stainless steel tray, he picked up the nozzle for the saliva ejector and set it into the hollow of your cheek. The machine was loud as it quickly dealt with the pooling spit at the back of your throat. Perfect. He'd need something to fill the silence.

He indulged himself, just for a moment - pressing a flat palm against his crotch and rubbing a few times whilst his back was turned once more. He needn’t have bothered - your sniveling display of fear was ample aphrodisiac for him; erection now straining against the material confines of his boxers.

The way your eyes widened as he turned around was the final nail in the coffin; adept fingers tugging at the leather belt at his hips. The sedative being drip-fed into your veins worked remarkably well - your fingers scrambling for purchase against the leather armrests of the chair, arms too heavy to lift. A warbled sound of protest rose from your chest and reached his ears as it bounced across the linoleum.

"Shh, you're in very capable hands. Just relax - I won't be long."

He cupped the back of your head with a tenderness so alien considering the circumstances, tilting it until your cheek was flush to the leather beneath it. Another murmur of sound as he pushed his boxers down; cock springing free. He couldn't help but think about how much smaller your mouth looked now that the leaking head of his length was there to directly compare.

Your attempt at closing your mouth was feeble; endearing. You couldn't even close your lips around the suction device still hanging between them - it didn't stop you from trying though. A quick flick of his wrist and your cheek came into contact with the powdered latex glove covering his left hand.

"See how that didn't hurt?"

One hand cradled the base of your skull, the other slowly pumping his cock as he shifted on his feet.

"Going to need you to open up for me now. Nice and wide."

As he spoke, he smeared the bead of pre-cum at his tip across those soft lips of yours. He could feel the way your neck flexed under his hand as you tried your best to writhe away; watched the tears prick instinctively in the corners of your eyes.

There wasn't much you could do to resist as he slowly sunk the weeping head of his cock past your lips, muffling the shrill whine of dismay that you let out. Honestly, he couldn't have made this easier for you - all you had to do was lay there and stay still after all. A rumble of satisfaction left Dave's mouth as he pushed further into your own.

You whimpered, eyes wide and glossy as he fed you inch after inch, the sound reverberating against him and doing little more than spurring him on. Your mouth was fucking divine - hot, slick and oh so soft. The gurgle of the saliva ejector, still flush to your inner cheek, blended with the grunts that Dave couldn't stifle.

"Breathe through your nose, sweetheart. Or don't - fuck - makes no difference to me."

He started to set a rhythm with his hips, hand still held firmly on the back of your head. When you gagged as he dipped into the back of your throat - Christ, it was all he could do to not spill his load there and then. The way the muscles of your neck contracted, trying in vain to keep him out as he continued to rock back and forth, clenching around him over and over.

Pulling all the way out for just a moment, you gasped and spluttered before he sank all the way back in with a groan. Your knuckles were taut against the armrests as he ensured your tonsils became well acquainted with the head of his cock. Each thrust against your tongue was dizzying, and he could feel himself quickly being won over by pleasure.

"Perfect fucking mouth, not much longer."

His words came out as a lusty hiss, hips beginning to stutter, barely retreating from the sanctuary of your throat. Why would he? If he wasn't meant to cum as far down it as possible, then why did it hug his dick so perfectly?

Using his free hand, he pulled the nozzle of the suction device from your mouth, flipping the switch and turning the machine off. No longer concealed by the thrum and whir of the ejector, the slick squelch of your mouth and the choked gurgles you let out echoed around the room. That was his undoing.

Pulling your head snug to his lower stomach, Dave buried himself as deep as possible before spilling down your throat with a shuddery groan. Your tear-stained eyes barely even blinked as he coated the inside of your mouth with his cum; completely zoned out and staring straight ahead.

As the aftershocks of his high ebbed away, he slowly pulled out of your mouth - not without admiring the pearly string of saliva connecting your tongue and his softening cock first. You coughed, your swollen lips glistening as you gulped in air. Dave couldn't help the giddy smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Clinical professionalism resumed as he tucked his now flaccid dick back into his boxers, re-dressing without so much as a hair out of place.

"Let's get this IV detached - that's it, nice and easy."

The rosy hue from his cheeks dissipated as he worked. His heart rate settled as he changed his gloves once again. Work mode resumed with practiced ease for Dave. He slowly readjusted the dental chair, bringing your head up cautiously as if he hadn't just bruised the roof of your mouth with the vigor of his thrusts.

The glaze over your eyes from the sedative slowly but surely faded; the numbing effect of the lidocaine weakening - the way you stretched out your jaw, brow furrowed as you attempted to piece together the cause behind the ache that crept in, was a dead giveaway.

"How are you feeling?"

His tone was calm, collected. It had to be - he had to gauge how much you'd retained without arousing suspicion. "A little bit... woozy. What... what happened again?" - your slurred words elicited a wide smile on Dave's face.

"Had to do a little bit of scaling on some of your incisors. You did very well though, should be proud of yourself."

Ah, that delightful expression of misplaced pride on your face would be a highlight for the day; the perfect contrast to how utterly pathetic you had looked just moments prior. After a few minutes of reeling off the usual spiel, Dave gestured to the door with the same signature grin he had greeted you with. "Thank you - I've always struggled at the dentist; I'll have to recommend you to my friend, they're a real wuss as well", you chuckled.

Oh. You were just the gift that kept on giving, it seemed.

"Send them my way, by all means. Anyway, I'll see you in six months time - remember to floss!"

tag list (requested tags and people that showed interest when i posted my moodboards lol): @lilac-boo @joelmillerisapunk @letsgobarbs @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ohhoneypascal @clawdee @lectersimp

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hellishjoel · 1 year ago

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on call

7.5k / pairing: cardiothoracic surgeon!javier peña x resident surgeon f!reader

main masterlist | notifications blog

summary: Javier Peña - a shark of a surgeon - is the head of Cardiothoracic Surgery and you're on his service for the week. After letting you take lead on a risky surgery, you crave what else he can teach you. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), doctors performing surgery but no gore, medical talk (open heart surgery performed, mention of aneurysms and paralysis), both Javi and reader are surgeons, implied but unspecified age gap (Javier is an attending surgeon, reader is a resident surgeon), sex in an on call room (rooms in the hospital where the staff can catch some zzz's), swearing, size kink, praise & degradation kink with accompanied dirty talk, competency kink, (un)affectionate pet names, fingering, oral cleanup (f!receiving), oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie reader is described having hair and wears surgical scrubs, but otherwise (I believe) no physical description, no use of y/n A/N: FYI the only knowledge about hospitals or doctors I know is from Grey's Anatomy, so expect some drama and inaccuracies! beta’d by the lovely @thetriumphantpanda! spanish assistance by the talented @undercoverpena! banner made by me!

Any doctor will tell you that smoking cigarettes has a well-documented history of negative health risks.

Smoking can significantly increase the risk of various health problems, including cardiovascular diseases, lung cancer, respiratory issues, and, most importantly, to a surgeon, how delicate your tissue is. It shreds during stitching, falls apart in between gloved fingers, and increases the risk of infection.

So why does Javier Peña, the Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery, smoke?

Probably because he thinks he’s God. Galavanting through the surgical wing in his dark navy scrubs. The attending flirts with every nurse who passes his eyeline, sweet-talks his residents, and charms each patient he consults.

Beneath all that, he was a ruthless shark of a surgeon. Driven to the point of recklessness. Stealing surgeries out from under fellow doctors, commandeering ORs, and always proving to be the smartest in the room. He knew when to bark and, more importantly, when to bite.

Javier Peña was a piece of goddamn work.

The operating room is the only time he’s silent. Espresso eyes narrowed on the surgical field, fingers succinct and persuasive like he’s giving the most delicate organ in the world a compelling speech: to live, to keep beating, to pump blood until it simply cannot.

He’s impressive, really.

Standing on the opposite side of the patient on the table, watching him work, you nearly forget how handsome he is behind his mask. If you weren’t such a great resident, you’d be more impressed by his looks than his hands.

But his hands… they were brilliant.

Peña was steady. Every movement is filled with confidence; they don’t stutter or flinch. He operates with wonderful dexterity, switching between both hands, neither more dominant than the other. Instrumental and graceful, like a maestro conducting a large orchestra.

This was his stage, the surgical instruments were his props and everyone in his OR was simply an extra. He was a star; everyone knew it. But no one knew it more than you, his third-year surgical resident on his cardio service for the week.

His years of training bleed through his expertise, and shine in a way that makes you remember why you signed up for so many years of medical school, dropped top dollar on an education to get you here, and then granted residency at one of the finest hospitals in the country.

You were good. Peña was great.

As his resident, you must prove nothing but useful. He’s not a natural teacher, the way his brain drives allows no one in his passenger seat. But you’re keen on declaring on cardio, and you’ve been the resident by his side for most of this year. He doesn’t need your help. He can do this all by himself, so all you can do is prove yourself useful.

You must anticipate his needs and next move, watching him progress from step one to final completion.

But this surgery was unexpected. Unplanned. Most heart surgeries end up being accidental, arising from complications during a routine surgery. The patient on the table before you was scheduled for a general procedure but began presenting with heart issues during the operation.

Peña performs an aortic arch replacement. He starts with a #10 blade, making an incision along the sternum to access the aortic arch.

“Retract all this tissue,” he mutters.

It takes you by surprise because his OR is radio silent. He talks in his head, not to you, ever.

“Me?”

“Are you really asking me that?” His tone twitches with irritation, but you do as he asks before he can disregard and bury your anticipation. It allows for more exposure, and he’s back to work. He cannulates the patient for CPB, working through the right atrium and then the aorta.

“Proper placement?”

You nod before you remember he’s still staring down at the patient’s heart. “Yes.”

Doctor Javier Peña is the commander of his OR. Which makes you all the more confused as to why he decides to put you in the driver’s seat. Or rather, the hot seat.

“Okay, we’re going to arrest the heart using cardioplegia purposely. What’s next?”

Your mouth is going dry; it takes you a moment to find your words. You should know the answer, even without having prepared. He just makes you nervous. “We need to use myocardial protection techniques to minimize… ischemic damage?”

His eyes snap up, glaring, cold as ice. “Are you asking me? Or are you telling me?”

You force down the lump in your throat and take in a shaky breath. “Telling?”

He cocks his eyebrow in annoyance.

“Telling.” You say more confidently, nodding before he sighs. He wanes his options in his head before his eyes start to soften. He must feel at slight ease talking to a resident who isn’t a fucking moron.

“Okay. You’ll deliver the cardioplegia solution and monitor its function.”

You let out a breath of relief, perhaps too big of one, because Peña smirks and tuts at your shift in breath.

“You’re not a complete waste of space in this surgical program after all. Congrats.”

After willing yourself to bite your tongue, you watch him proceed with the arch repair. He returns to silence as he carefully dissects the aorta, amber eyes admiring each of the strong branches like that of a great oak tree.

“Name them.”

Eyes meeting his over the operating table, Peña waits. He’s testing you, pushing you towards greatness or failure. He wants to see where you fall—if you’re worthy to be in his OR, opposite of him, learning under his greatness, or if you’re a waste of his time and talent.

“You’re a third-year resident, I knew this by my second,” he grinds, “all the books I’ve seen you read in the cafeteria should have told you this. Name them.”

He watches you, it wasn’t just in your head - the magnetic stare you can feel from across the room that makes the hair on your arms stick up. He watches, he knows you’re capable. “Not gonna get by just on looks here, Doctor.”

Dragging your eyes away from his intense stare, you loosen your jaw and line your fingers over each strong branch, starting at the trunk of the tree. “The left subclavian artery, left common carotid artery, the innominate artery-”

Peña raises his gloved hand, seeing the gentle smear of blood along his fingertips and palm. “Stop.”

Your eyes squint heatedly, feeling your chest tighten. “I can finish, I know them-”

“Stop, damn it,” he barks louder, his eyes shifting away from yours and across the room. He wasn’t listening to you; he was listening to the heart. Doctor Peña tilts his head to the monitor, watching the heart shift its beats. “Doctor, identify the pathology.”

You shift on your feet, the nerves throughout your arms leave you feeling shaky. Something was wrong. “The aortic arch, it shows…” Closing your eyes helps you focus, ignoring the crowd in the overhead gallery, forgetting the patient on the table just for a moment, and only listening to the beat on the monitor.

“Pretty girl, not so smart,” he taunts with a shake of his head, the beeping on the monitor pitching louder and echoing hauntingly through your ears. You wished this room would swallow you whole, but that would be you admitting to cowardice.

Peña takes a deep breath and looks between you and the monitor, “Alright, come on, open your eyes,” he instructs, guiding your hand off the retractor and along the heart’s wall. “What do you see?”

The commanding tone in his voice brings you out of your head and back to the patient. The room wavers and it goes silent. You don’t hear the erratic beeping of the machines, you don’t see the movement in the gallery. Doctor Peña is in front of you, calm and focused. Because he trusts that you know what’s wrong.

The aortic wall bulged out of its normal shape. It looked weak, stretched out, thin, and nearly translucent. You see the saccular protrusion, lips parting at the discovery.

“He’s—was there an aneurysm? He had an aneurysm?” you ask with more panic in your voice than you had hoped. It must have been during the patient’s original procedure earlier in the day before you and Doctor Peña even scrubbed in. “We can’t do a repair or a replacement of the arch. We have to stop everything--”

“So what are we gonna do, Doctor?” He probes, piercing dark eyes on you. Suddenly, your height shrinks, and you feel only a few inches tall under his gaze. He’s so much older and wiser, and all you can do is panic. “What, you can't figure this out yourself? Four years of medical school, internship, and residency, don't fucking disappoint me now. Tell me how we fix it.”

Our brains hold endless files of knowledge. A doctor is not only supposed to keep files on how to perform a procedure but also what to do if one is horribly failing. But your brain only knows panic because until you become a brilliant surgeon, all you know is fear.

“Should we page neuro? A-A neuro consult, his blood flow isn’t reaching his spine. He might be paralyzed.”

Peña scoffs and shakes his head, “Hoping someone else comes to save you and fix your problems? What if I wasn’t standing here? You’re on your own, kid.” he spews, focusing his headlight back over the heart. “We don’t call neuro, the patient can’t wait that long. Come on,” he whittles away your confidence, fire in his eyes. “Come on!”

You can’t seem to control your anger, feeling it ween down to something brittle and broken. You snap. “Doctor Peña, respectfully shut the hell up. We’re gonna fix the aneurysm sac.”

“How?” He’s quick on the whip, and it feels like your lungs might give out. “Come on, smart girl, tell me how.”

“You’re-You’re gonna use the sac to bring blood back to the spinal cord. He’s only paralyzed because the aorta isn’t able to send blood to his spine. You replace the aorta with a Dacron graft and rebuild the aneurysm into a second aorta.” It’s spoken with half confidence, but your eyes are fiercely stubborn.

“Its only job is to send blood to the spine,” he mutters in agreement, hands already at work.

“Like the freeway being blocked by traffic, you take a side road. Or, in this case, you’re building the side road.”

He momentarily pauses his hands, pretty brown eyes searching yours. He stares you down longer than anticipated, and suddenly, the air feels charged. Heat tingles up your spine, and you find yourself challenging his stare.

You deserve to be in this OR. You’re good, but Peña is great. And you will be great once you learn more from him. Him and his stupid fucking- brilliant hands.

“I’m not building the side road; we are,” he corrects, and he asks the scrub nurses to give him the supplies for constructing the graph.

Finally, his cheeks perk up, and a small smirk hides under his mask. “Suction, Doctor. Prep some 6-0 of prolene. We’re gonna need it.” Peña spends the next few hours teaching you how to reroute the aneurysm and restore blood flow, allowing you to reconstruct and place the graph.

You and Peña are a well-oiled machine. He lets you take the lead under his supervision. It’s impossible not to scream inside your head about this moment. You feel like you’re floating, no longer panicking. Your fingers weave with an indescribable amount of delicacy. It feels like braiding hair, the way your fingers know where to move, the muscle movements natural despite never having done this procedure before.

What a fucking high. And you’ve always been such an adrenaline junkie.

Once word got out around the hospital that Peña was doing this incredible and unexpected surgery, the gallery was all standing and fighting for room to glance out the over-viewing window. And you were there, across from him the entire time. Every surgeon in your class is sitting in the gallery, damn jealous of you.

Peña watches you close up the patient and says nothing; you were perfection.

You huff loudly upon completion, watching as Peña wipes his forearm across the sweat on his forehead. You despise him in this moment. Thankfulness fights your need for social justice. He can’t talk to you like that, belittle you, squish whatever confidence you had left. But you’re exhausted now and don’t feel like snapping in front of half the hospital.

“We won’t know if he has full function until he’s awake. Page neuro and tell them they have a post-consult waiting for them.” His voice drips with exhaustion, rolling out his shoulders as he speaks, and you can’t help but watch as the broad muscles move under his shirt, tan skin now visible after the medical gown has been removed.

Trailing behind him out of the OR, you strip your surgical gloves, gown, and mask in the trash as you try to calm your adrenaline. It never stopped beating; your heart, the strong and beautiful organ that it was, never stopped pounding. You can hear it in your ears, in your pulse, even thudding excitedly against your neck.

It beat for your ambition, it beat for Doctor Peña. He’d never see you as his equal. Hell, he’d never see anyone as his equal. But today, he taught you. And you can’t think why. He has barely done his duty all year despite working at a teaching hospital where the residents are nearly quizzed on the minute by their attendings.

Peña didn’t think anyone was worth his time, but he saw something in you today. Despite being thankful, you can’t help the anger you feel bubbling up as he smirks at you from down the hall.

“What the hell, Peña?”

Oh shit.

The head of neurosurgery stomps down the hall in his navy blue scrubs, graying hair tucked under a scrub cap decorated by EEG waveforms. His eyes are narrowed on Peña, pointed finger at the ready.

“Who the hell do you think you are? Your patient goes into paralysis and you don’t think to page me?”

Peña merely shrugs and sets his hands on his hips. “I did think to page you. And decided not to.”

The head of neurosurgery scoffs in disbelief, raising his voice to a shout. “You’re too fucking- cocky for your own good! I could have done an assessment, they could gotten spinal cord ischemia- and a third-year resident of all people performing that surgery? What the hell were you thinking?!”

Fuck. Now you were brought into this, and standing at the end of the hallway couldn’t be farther away. Peña was as solid as stone, heat didn’t faze him. “She had it under control. She was perfect.”

Perfect.

Neuro seems to smirk lightly, brain doctors who love to play mind games. “You two screwin’ around in the on-call rooms, too? Is that why you let her in on that surgery a fifth year couldn’t even perform? You pull that shit again, and I’ll-”

“You’ll what?”

Peña steps closer, narrowing his eyes on the short little man whose bark was louder than his bite.

Neuro stutters for a moment, his posture shrinking. You can’t help but smirk, almost a little lightheaded at the way he steps in to protect your credibility. Peña was a dangerous surgeon to stick around with. His arrogance, next to his skills in the OR, could be taught by accident.

Neuro grabs onto a slipping rope and sniffs as he glances around at the onlookers in the hallway. “Don’t think I won’t tell the Chief about what happened today. You and her are on thin ice.”

Peña smirks and pats his shoulder in a futile manner, pulling loose his scrub cap and running a hand through his jet-black tresses. “She had it under control. I wouldn’t have let her do anything she couldn’t handle. And if you talk about her like that again, I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth out.”

Peña’s already walking away, back to the angry little man.

Your stomach bubbles with something unfamiliar, slipping behind the elbow of the wall and taking a shaky breath. You can’t feel anything besides the buzzing in your brain and the tremble in your hands.

Doctor Javier Peña was defending your fucking honor.

In Javier’s eyes, any surgeon can walk into an operating room and follow the procedure's already-written steps. They can rehearse, practice, and prep all they want. But the beauty of surgery was that it was both a science and an art.

The heart was such an intricate, unpredictable thing. Healthy one minute, broken the next.

Javier loves to read, but only for the plot twist endings—the ones you don’t see coming—which add richness to the story and make you fall deeper into the mystery.

That’s why he loves the heart because it isn’t easy. It’s a challenge. He also loves that hearts make him feel special because not everyone can handle operating on a heart. That’s why people choose easier specialties. Cardio was hardcore. Javier was hardcore.

Despite how difficult a cardio surgery can be, the surgeon must be gentle. Going too fast leads to mistakes.

As if driving on black ice, you can’t twist your wheel too fast, or you’ll spin out and crash. He was like that during his internship, even into his residency, but he carried raw talent that no one else could compare to. He was the star of his class, a surgeon who felt like he was more than a doctor, more than a God. A preacher to the soulless, a guide to the lost. He was his patient’s light at the end of the tunnel. He saved their fucking lives.

In his eyes, heart surgeons needed to be sharks. He never met a shark who wasn’t fierce and damn near evil. It’s critical to success; to be a shark in the water, eager to see crimson.

You were no shark—not yet. But your drive, dedication to the art, and willingness to work with him set you apart. He knows he’s not easy. But he’s never liked easy anyway.

Javier slowly slumps down onto the edge of an on-call bed, smacking the light switch so damn hard that he thought he broke it. The room sinks into darkness, a velvet blanket of blue from the slight night sky slipping past the blinds.

He was exhausted after today, the hours of his day stolen by back-to-back surgeries. His back ached, and his knees were screaming at him. But the comfort of a bed wasn’t all that he craved.

You were brilliant, purring like a kitten whenever Javier stroked your ego. A younger colleague impressed him for the first time in months.

God, you were young. What—ten years his junior? More?

His face fell into his hands, heat flushing into his stomach at the thought of you.

When he’s in surgery, the heart is all he can think about. But your eyes were on him for hours, watching him, learning from him—God, the things he could teach you.

Suddenly, the door clicks open, and light floods the room, causing Javi to drop his head and squint.

“We need to speak, Doctor Peña,” your silken voice evokes a sense of long-lost courage.

You’re the last person who should be in his on-call room.

He groans and stands, eyes cast on your hand still nervously caught on the door handle. “Not now.”

“Yes, now,” your voice wavers as you click the lock and cross your arms. His eyes drag over your body, hugged by the comfort of your soft blue scrubs. He can tell it’s taking everything in your body to control your temper, as he is still technically your boss. “You can’t just belittle me in front of the entire OR. No more calling me princess, no more calling me pretty. I’m a lot more than those pathetic superficial names, and you know it.”

Javier runs his fingers down his nose, mutters something incoherent, and plants his hands on his hips before curtly jerking his head expectantly. “I said not now.”

“You push me, you push me around, you push me in the OR, you just don’t stop-”

He snaps.

“I push you to be great!” His brown eyes nearly turn obsidian as he locks you in his gaze. “You’ll be a better doctor when I’m done with you. You should be thanking me.”

You scoff indignantly and throw up your hands in frustration. You’re so fucking cute when you’re upset. “Thanking you?”

“Yeah. Thanking me. My ass is on the burner because I let you perform that surgery.”

“The one not even fifth-year residents could perform?”

Peña pauses, his jaw shifting from left to right as he glances at the room's corner. “You heard all that, huh?”

There’s a lull, one that signifies you both know that he stepped in to defend his choices in the OR; specifically defending you. He watches as you slowly nod, pulling your hand off the doorknob and crossing your arms over your chest.

“You didn’t have to do that. Now it looks like you favor me. I’m gonna get chewed out by the other surgeons, not to mention my entire class is going to think I’m sleeping with you.”

Pena shrugs and purses his lips. “Let ‘em.”

He watches as your lips part, taken aback by his words. After a few doe-eyed blinks from you, the room falls out of focus, and it doesn’t feel like he’s standing in the hospital anymore.

Javi imagines you in places he shouldn’t. At his place, in his apartment. On the couch. In his bed. He thinks about how different you’d look in the light of day, your body curved by jeans or even a sundress if the weather allowed. He’d be privy to the freckles on your back and shoulders, the dips of your hips, the slope of your body he wants to memorize with his eyes closed.

But fantasizing wasn’t enough.

“Let ‘em,” he mutters, low, and enclosing the space between your bodies. “If they already think that, let ‘em. Fuck ‘em.”

Your face visibly softens, and your head naturally leaning into his hand that rests on your cheek.

“I want you to teach me,” you whisper to him. And it’s so fucking soft, so sweet dripping from your lips, almost whining with need.

He slowly nods as the room falls silent, Javi’s opposite hand coming to your hip, flushing your body against his.

“Okay, cariño, I’ll teach you.”

“Teach me,” you plead again, your chest heaving with anticipation. His eyes fall to the way your breasts protrude with each breath you take in your scrubs. The emotion that stirs in the room is enough to start a full-blown hurricane.

Javi’s hands fall to the hem of your top, and you raise your arms swiftly, so pliant to his touches. But that’s your job, to anticipate his needs.

The sight of your skin alone is enough to make his shoulders tighten, seeing you all pretty and exposed. A knot begins to grow in his stomach. But no, you weren’t done yet.

“Please, Doctor Peña,”

No, don’t fucking beg.

“I want you to use your hands and teach me.” Insistently, your fingers dip into your scrub bottoms, his eyes catching the pretty black band of your panties before the material is pooled on the floor.

You stand there with soft eyes, wide and expecting. The longer he stands here, not touching you, it damn near looks like he’s hurting your feelings. But he’s not stupid enough to leave you abandoned.

“Fuck,” he grunts, closing the distance in a matter of a second, his hands on your hips as he yanks your body into his firm front.

The kiss is tangled and heated, desperate and needy, so different compared to the subtle dance you both played before. But now it’s so obvious the pure need that consumes you both.

Your small fists clutch his broad shoulders, and you moan into his mouth purely at the muscle built into his toned body. He licks into your mouth, and all he can think is how fucking sweet you taste. And how your pussy probably tastes just as sweet.

Your fingers blindly reach for the light switch, flicking them off and sinking you into midnight once again.

Javi tuts and shakes his head, breaking the kiss as he glares down at you. “You wanna see my hands work, cielo? Then you gotta watch.” He mutters as he flicks the switch back on, guiding you into the lower bunk of the on-call beds.

He likes the way your hand slips from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers gentle at first before clutching at the hair on his nape.

Javi lets out an unexpected moan into your mouth as his body slots perfectly between your legs. His rough and calloused hands explore the smooth skin of your outer thighs. He squeezes and cradles the flesh with the perfect balance of strength and delicacy, the coarse hairs of his mustache scratching your skin as he presses kisses over your exposed breasts.

He craves every breath that you take because of him, because of his actions. Your reactions are honest and instinctual, watching as you bite down on your lip because God forbid anyone saw you sneak into his room.

Javi’s fingers are just as you expect, expertise as he unclips your bra with ease. He snatches away the black material, your nipples sensitive to the cool air as they peak under his eyeline.

“Christ,” he mutters, his hot mouth on them in an instant. His tongue circles them meticulously before he suckles, lifting his head and watching as your breast is tugged into his mouth. A whine slips past your lips and he feels your legs tug tighter around his waist. It’s enough to get him hard, the way you won’t let him go, because this feels way too fucking good to stop.

“Doctor Peña-”

“Javi,” he mutters upon letting your nipple go with a pop, moving to the other and showing it just as much affection, letting his teeth gently nip at the sensitive peak. “So fuckin’ pretty, princesa,” he mutters before sucking on a spot just above your breast, a place to mark his territory.

You gasp at the feeling of his hot mouth on your skin, goosebumps flooding to his touches. You glance down through barely-open eyes as the skin changes color, from red to a soft purple as he draws blood to the surface. His teeth marks are still there even after he leaves, a smirk on his face as he slips lower to between your legs.

“Javi, please,” you muster up, trying to regather air in your lungs.

He shifts to his knees, one arm straight and hand planted beside your head as he hovers over you, the other finally slipping between your legs. Your lips part as he slowly swipes two up your center, seeing what makes you tick.

His smirk widens as your eyes roll to the back of your head, biting down on the plush of your lower lip again to conceal a moan that surely would have slipped. He spreads you, letting his thumb pads delicately circle your clit experimentally. “So fucking wet for me.”

Just as a moan emits, his hand is clamped over your mouth.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he degrades, your eyes wide as the circles continue achingly. “Into my hand, baby girl, don’t want anyone else to hear you. Just me.”

Your thighs begin to tremble as his thumb experiments on you, and you realize he’s learning. Everything is about learning for him. He learns and studies the heart, now he’s studying what makes you fucking soaked for him.

The slow circles are enough to get you going, but as he continues to pick up the pace, he realizes you need more more more.

His thumb moves faster and surfs the edges, it makes you twitch under him. His smirk widens as two of his fingers glide up and down your wet center, your hips nudging upward with neediness.

“Wanna hear you,” he mutters, but you’re so scared to let out a peep. In this fog, you can’t even remember if you locked the door, and now your heart is pounding against your chest, the beautiful muscle that it is.

“Come on,” he says goadingly, pushing two fingers into your entrance. Your eyes blow wide as you let out a soft sigh into his palm, followed by a wimpy whine. “Give it to me,” he mutters as his fingers start to move through your tight heat. He’s trying to find it, working himself deeper and deeper, curling them just right and finally-

His hand clamps harder down on your mouth as you let out a loud cry, eyes shutting hard as your body writhes against him. You leak out against his fingers, hearing them squish with your arousal as he smirks. “That’s fuckin’ right, feels so good to let it out, doesn’t it? You can gimme more,” he encourages, and you don’t think you fucking can.

But he works against you so feverishly, the combination of his thumb on your clit and fingers fucking your entrance, once the seal was broken, it was hard to contain it.

“Fuck!” You cry out as he scissors you open, separating his fingers and forcing your entrance to work itself wider for him. The noises are obscene, soaking his fingers as he continues to plunge so deeply into you. Your hand shakily reaches up to the bicep bulging beside your head, nails sinking into his tan flesh.

His movements have your thighs beginning to shake as he searches, still learning, looking for that one spot that has you breathless. Then it fucking sucks the air from your lungs.

You gasp against his hand and clutch his wrist desperately, feeling him massage the sweet, spongy part inside of you that has sparks going off at the base of your spine. Your eyes begin to water at the overwhelmingness of it all, him and his stupid fucking perfect hands.

“Javi,” you pant against his mouth, because something indescribable is building. Your back arches against his body. He doesn’t even need to look at what he’s doing, he’s so distracted in watching you unfold.

Finally, it’s all too much, and he’s got you in the palm of his hand. You can’t help but bite into his palm as you sob against his hand, his fingers so perfect inside of you, leading you to the crescendo of your orgasm. The build leaves you lightheaded, your thighs twitching against his hips as he purrs your name.

“Just wanna little taste,” he mutters as he finally slips his hand from your mouth, still feeling the burn of your pretty bite. His chest lands on the mattress, and you sit up a bit to allow him space.

Javi’s arms wrap around your legs, hands now on your inner thighs as he helps spread you open. You whimper, still so sensitive that you nearly twitch away as he moves in. “Aww, come here, sweet girl. Know you taste so good, don’t you?”

You weakly nod and sink back into the mattress, your eyes falling closed as he slowly sponges kisses to your warm inner thighs. Your hole still puckers for the loss of his fingers, a groan leaving his throat at the sight. He teasingly flicks his tongue against your twitching clit, and it’s enough to make your entire body seize.

“So fucking sensitive,” he mutters adoringly, spreading your labia and letting his tongue flush against the juices that soak his tongue. He audibly grunts against you and works slowly to clean you up. His eyes meet yours, and he reads your wrecked face instantly.

You let out a hesitant moan, your fingers tiredly weaving into his dark locks and nails gently scratching along his scalp. His mustache tickles your clit and you try to breath through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He was right, his hands were fucking perfect. Look at the way he learned your body, what it was chasing after, how it could be healed with his touch. You only with to give him the same.

You sit up off your elbows, and he looks up at you with your arousal sitting silkily across his mustache. You cup his jaw, and he sits up with you, your mouth landing on his. You taste yourself, and it almost makes you shy, knowing Doctor Peña has tasted you. More importantly, made you cum with nothing more than his fingers.

The opportunity to touch his body is one you didn’t realize you craved, small palms moving down his front. On instinct, he parts from your kiss and pulls his scrub top off. And God, you were right with every assumption.

You knew he worked out, all cardio Gods adhere to the rule of working out to keep the heart muscle strong, but this was a different kind of strong. He was a Greek marble statue, all arms and toned chest and a waist you could easily tangle your legs around.

“Jesus,” you breathe out.

Javi smirks confidently, his large hands cupping your face once more and tangling his tongue with yours. You swallow the lump in your throat and move your hand to his upper thigh, coasting your hand along until you feel his shaft protruding against his scrubs.

“Take ‘em off,” you whisper.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” He asks confidently, forcing a grunt out of your mouth as you tug against the hem.

“Telling. Now off with them.” You command.

He tuts as he stands from the mattress. “That’s my girl,” he mutters proudly, circling his thumbs along the waist of his scrubs before pushing them down, briefs included, stepping out of the material that pooled around his feet.

You slowly raise an eyebrow, your lips parting at his size. No wonder he was so cocky. You sit at the edge of the on-call bed and he steps forward knowingly.

“S’okay, pretty girl. Just wanna make you feel good.”

You stubbornly shake your head and take his hands, guiding him closer as your doe-eyes meet his melting brown ones.

“I can do it.” Wrapping a hand slowly around his length, your other hand rests on his thigh to allow some security.

He takes in a slow breath, his eyes growing heavy as you spit along his length.

“Fuck,” he mutters as his large hand gently comes to rest on the back of your head, fingers intertwining in your hair as he begins to clutch them possessively.

It felt so good to be the one in charge, to be his guidance. He wants you so badly, your hot mouth wrapped around him, begging for his own release just as you were.

You sponge kisses along his length, watching him almost in a taunting way, because you know he’s going to fall apart before you. Flatting your tongue and sticking it out, he grunts at the sight. Leaning forward, you take him in your mouth. Your tongue circles his beady tip and you get to enjoy the taste of his pre-cum on your tastebuds.

He’s salty and musky, hours after a long surgery and it tastes divine. All man. All Javier Peña.

Javi’s breaths are getting faster as you begin to bob your head, taking him inch by inch until you felt comfortable enough to really go for it.

“Such a fucking- overachiever,” he grins, your nose brushing against the coarse hair along his base as your eyes clench closed, choking around him but not letting off. “Holy fuck,” he moans. Your nails sink into his thigh and he hisses, your one and only reminder for him to stay quiet. He pulls off with a pop, leaving you pouting as you stroke over his impressive length. He twitches in your hand and he’s so heavy in your palm.

“Don’t want anyone to hear us, Peña,” you remind as you break to give kisses along his thigh where your nails created crescent moon shapes.

“Got me so close, baby. Don’t wanna cum yet, though.”

You pout but ultimately leave him with one last kiss to his shaft.

Javi can’t seem to get enough of your kisses, tracing his tongue along your bottom lip as he moves you back onto the mattress once more. Your fingers glide down his body, feeling the ripples of his muscles that you hope stays engrained in your mind forever.

Even if it’s just a one-time thing, you wouldn’t mind storing the way he makes you unfold so effortlessly, caring to learn your body and its cravings.

“Please, Javi,” you whimper against his mouth, feeling the warmth of his body slipping between yours once again, and it feels like a home. “Need you.”

He nods breathlessly against you, propping up the pillow behind your head. You’re not sure why it gives you butterflies, taking care of you more than just sexually. But he pats the pillow a few times nonetheless and centers it to the back of your head, not stopping until you’re smiling up at him.

Your hand cradles his jawline, thumb gliding across his chin before his mouth is back on yours. His lips part as your gasp enters his mouth, feeling his hand guide his tip from your clit to your leaking entrance.

“Wet all over again,” he mutters against your mouth, but acting surprised is pointless.

“Uh huh,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before letting him envelop you fully.

Javier listens to you, reads your body language. He feels you grow tense as his tip nudges at your entrance, feeling your legs tighten hesitantly around his waist.

Your hands are soft on his back, moving along the carved muscles and following their runs like wild rivers. Perhaps it is a way you calm your nerves, touching his warm skin relaxes your walls. He’s able to push onward.

“Jesus- Javi,” you whimper, letting him sink his length fully into you until he bottoms out in one thrust that leaves him groaning. The pillow he’s laid down for you is held by his fist, the veins down his arms bulging against your head.

“Fuck, that’s it,” his chest rumbles, Javi starting to find a rhythm as he guides his length in and out of you.

The first couple of strokes are dragging, aching. It’s hard to breathe and your nose brushes against his neck.

Javier is so lost in the feeling of you, your tight little cunt squeezing repeatedly around his cock. The hand not holding him up runs up the side of your body, first on the outside of your thigh, then moving upwards to squeeze your ass in his large palm. You moan into his ear, and he does it again, both of you smirking against the kiss. Then he’s on your hip, following the pretty curve before he wraps his arm on the underside of your body, cradling your shoulder.

It’s like a seatbelt clicking in, gasping as you feel him lock you into place. Your eyes widen as you look up at him, Javi coming to rest his forehead against yours as he begins to snap his hips.

With the change in pace, the energy becomes charged with something less delicate. It’s like you were witnessing Javier’s two-sided personality, trying to learn and teach, and now, the arrogant, cocky shark.

The drag, once painful, now feels heavenly, the ache becoming a sedative that has you cooing for more. He’s more relentless now, hips snapping into yours that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your jaw points to the ceiling, and he sees the opportunity for his lips to latch onto your neck.

At the height of sensitivity, you feel everything. The sweat trickling down your temple, his teeth carving marks on your neck, your breasts pressed against his toned front; he’s all encapsulating.

You whine as you squeeze around his cock, his hand on your shoulder pressing harder into your skin. He keeps you there, pounding into you, the coarse dark hair grinding against your clit so perfectly. Your core tightens, and you feel your second orgasm begin at its crest. He must be close, too, because he’s driving into you with ferocity.

“Javi,” you cry against his neck, your nose brushing against his tousled hair, “I-I can’t.”

Javier shakes his head and moves the hand on your shoulder down between your bodies, finding your quivering clit and adding pressure to the small ministrations he starts on. His lips move to your ear, placing a kiss against the outer shell.

“You can,” he demands in a stern tone, his hot pants fanning against your face as his aquiline nose nudges your cheekbone, “you can give me another one, cariño.”

He wants to see your star explode. See you dissolve before him into a million tiny sparks, fizzling into the night sky so he can take your beauty in fully, from inner soul to outer exterior. You were slipping into the void before him like a firework bursting.

“Fuck, I can,” you pant, your head dropping back onto the pillow as heat slips down your spine and your vision goes dark.

You squeeze his cock repeatedly as your orgasm surges through you, back arching off the mattress and your legs tightening around his slim waist. He can feel your pulsing clit against the pad of his thumb, feeling you gush around his dick as his balls slapping against your core grow slick with your arousal.

From below, your vision is hazy, and he looks so fucking handsome. The surgical mask doesn’t do him justice.

“You can come inside me,” you whisper as you lean in and nibble his earlobe, hearing him grunt at your comment.

“Christ,” he mutters, “you have no idea what you do to me.” Javi gently tugs on your lower lip before he distracts himself with your kisses. His snapping hips begin to lose their rhythm, becoming more sloppy and erratic.

He was chasing the feeling, distracted by how perfect you were for him today.

The vein along his temple bulges as his desperate espresso eyes meet yours. All he needs to see is that little smirk of yours, and it sends him over the edge.

His jaw drops, and a silent moan wants to slip out desperately, but somehow, he’s able to conceal it with low grunts of something that resembles your name.

You begin to feel his warmth spread through your core, making your insides fuzzy. He trembles; you both do. It feels like he comes for forever, but frankly, you don’t want it to stop.

This feeling sits still inside you, humbles you, and centers you with the universe. Your life is hectic, and for one hour today, you’re not running around from one room to the next or getting chewed out by the senior doctors. This was the perfect stress relief; Javier Peña was a damn good break.

His strong body collapses over yours, and any residual strength he has left is being held by a tiny string that keeps you from being crushed.

He lays on his side, shoulder blades pressed against the cold cinderblock wall. He buries his hand in his face, and you wonder if he regrets what he’s done.

Did he?

“Thanks,” you whisper, reaching blindly for scrubs and accidentally tossing on his scrub pants in your orgasmic haze.

“For what? And those are mine. You can have them in a few years when you’re an attending.” He hums, smirking as he pulls the sheets up to cover his lower half.

You scoff and pull off the pants, switching out for your own after you clasp your bra behind your back.

“For the lessons.”

He watches you change, slipping your shoes back on and fixing your hair in the mirror. You try to ignore the feeling of his come slipping out of you, your legs as wobbly as a newborn calf.

“Yeah? What did you learn?” He cocks an eyebrow and blindly reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, propping open the window a few inches.

Your eyes scan over him slowly as you tighten the tie on your scrub bottoms, a slow smirk gradually growing on your lips.

“I know why you smoke.”

Ignoring his intrigued face, you flip off the lights and leave his on-call room in a midnight blue film. The heavy door inches open, light shedding through and inching into the darkness. It clicks closed behind you just as your pager goes off, seeing that there is a message coming through for your newly reconstructed aortic arch patient.

“Shit,” you mutter.

The door swooshes open behind you, and Peña reappears dressed in his navy scrubs, surging past you. His shoulder knocks yours on the way out, and you can’t help but scoff.

“Let’s go. Pick up the pace,” His voice is raspy and tired, but you keep his stride as you work your way towards the intensive care unit.

Doctor Peña glances back over his shoulder, his smirk mirroring your own.

Even a shark has its vices. Perhaps after tonight, you’re Javi’s.

main masterlist | notifications blog if you enjoyed the read, commets and reblogs are super appreciated!

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gf2bellamy · 6 months ago

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captured — bellamy blake

pairing: bellamy blake x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: bellamy rescuing you from mount weather content warnings: being kidnapped by mount weather, danger of bone marrow transplant but nothing happens, multiple mentions of a syringe

The cold, clinical corridors of Mount Weather stretched endlessly, their sterile silence broken only by the distant hum of machinery and muffled cries from other prisoners. The fluorescent lights above flickered erratically, casting distorted shadows that seemed to writhe along the walls like specters.

Every breath was heavy with the stench of antiseptic and fear, a nauseating combination that clung to the air. Somewhere in the labyrinth of hallways, you were trapped—another victim of Mount Weather's cruel experiments.

Inside a dark room, you lay strapped to a metal table, your wrists and ankles bound tightly with unforgiving restraints. The surgical light above burned brightly, its glare blinding and relentless. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you strained against the bonds, the cool metal biting into your skin.

The doctor beside you moved with precision, his gloved hands organizing an array of instruments on a tray. You could hear his voice, low and clinical, discussing the procedure with an assistant as if you weren’t even there. The sound of their conversation sent shivers of dread down your spine.

Your breath hitched as the doctor leaned over you, syringe in hand, the liquid inside glinting ominously in the harsh light. Panic surged through you. Tears pricked your eyes as you squirmed against the restraints, but they didn’t give.

Somewhere beyond the thick walls, Bellamy Blake moved with quiet urgency.

Clad in tactical gear and armed with nothing but his gun and determination, he navigated the corridors.

So far, he’d freed several captives, each one more injured and terrified than the last. But it wasn’t enough—not until he found you.

Back in the room, the doctor moved you with the syringe. Your eyes widened, and a strangled cry escaped your lips as you turned your head away, tears streaming down your cheeks. The assistant held your arm steady as the needle hovered closer.

The door suddenly crashed open with a deafening bang, the force sending the assistant stumbling back.

“Step away from her!” Bellamy’s voice thundered, cutting through the tension like a blade. His rifle was raised, his finger steady on the trigger, and his eyes blazed with anger.

The doctor froze mid-action, his face paling. For a moment, silence hung in the air, thick and crackling with tension.

Bellamy’s gaze darted to you, strapped down and trembling. Something inside him snapped at the sight—your tear-streaked face, the fear in your eyes, the way your body shook against the cold, sterile table.

He didn’t hesitate.

With two quick strides, Bellamy closed the distance, his boot kicking the tray of instruments to the floor with a loud clatter. The assistant bolted for the corner, hands raised in surrender. Bellamy turned his focus back to you, his hands working frantically to undo the restraints.

“Bellamy,” you gasped, your voice breaking on his name. Relief washed over you like a tidal wave, and for a moment, the terror receded.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice softer now but still laced with urgency. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

His hands trembled slightly as he worked the last restraint loose. The moment your wrist was free, you surged up, throwing your arms around him in a desperate embrace. His gun clattered to the ground as he wrapped his arms tightly around you, one hand cradling the back of your head.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair, his voice a soothing balm against the storm of your emotions. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

You clung to him like a lifeline, your fingers fisting the fabric of his jacket as you buried your face against his chest. His heartbeat, strong and steady beneath your ear, grounded you.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I thought they were going to—”

“They didn’t,” Bellamy interrupted firmly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was intense, full of a mixture of relief and guilt. “I’m not letting anything happen to you. Not now, not ever.”

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking into your chest.

“Can you walk?” he asked gently, his hands still braced on your shoulders.

Your legs felt like jelly as you swung them off the table, but with Bellamy’s steadying arm around your waist, you managed to stand.

“Yeah,” you said shakily, leaning into him for support.

“Good,” he replied, his tone firm but reassuring. “Stay close to me.”

With one arm wrapped protectively around you, Bellamy led you out of the room. The oppressive halls of Mount Weather seemed less daunting with him by your side.

#bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake #bellamy blake fic #bellamy blake fanfiction #bellamy blake oneshot #belllamy blake fluff

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headlinxr · 6 months ago

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( 瘋狂的 ) HEADLOCK, P. SUNGHOON ، ݃ •

𓏲 ┈─ ៵ʾpassion is a positive obsession. obsession is a negative passion. . ㌐

̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ 𓆸 TO THE OTHER SIDE ⸝⸝ you are sung-hoon's muse ˖ ៹

𓈒 𓄹 ⊹ , 夫妻 photographer!sung-hoon x fem!reader × ִֶ

𓆤 ; 廣告 IN THE NIGHT, I SPILL THE LIGHT ຳ reader is jake's girlfriend, jake is a little red flag, reader wants to be a model 𓏲

٬ ៶ ૂ 通告 , This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ༉‧₊˚

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

The camera doesn't lie. Or at least, that's what Sung-hoon has believed for years, a truth he has carried with him in every step of his life. Through his lens, the world unfolds before him with absolute clarity, a universe reduced to lights and shadows, to shapes and textures, to a moment frozen in time that, according to him, reflects the immutable truth of existence. As a renowned photographer, Sung-hoon has achieved what few can: He has mastered his art with such skill that his images not only capture reality but also penetrate the very essence of his subjects, stripping their souls bare with almost surgical precision.

Each click of his camera is a sigh, a heartbeat, an attempt to capture the elusive. For him, photography is much more than a technical act; it is an unceasing quest for something deeper than a simple pose or a well-composed scene. In each photograph, Sung-hoon seeks to unravel the hidden essence of what he sees: that spark of vulnerability, that fragile beauty that lies behind everyday masks. The faces he photographs are not mere portraits, but windows to the truth, as if each image could decipher untold stories, repressed emotions, silenced fears. In his mastery of the interplay between light and shadow, he has found his most authentic voice, a visual language that allows him, with each shot, to transcend the limitations of the physical and touch the intangible.

He is a master in creating atmospheres, an alchemist of light who transforms the ordinary into something sublime. He knows that light, as elusive as life itself, has the power to reveal and conceal, to create depth in the superficial, and to give shape to what seems inert. For him, each shadow is a promise, and each flash of light, a revelation. In his hands, the camera becomes an almost divine instrument, capable of immortalizing moments that, in their transience, seem eternal. And yet, behind this unparalleled skill, there is a reality that Sung-hoon has refused for so long that he has come to forget it. His camera, which has been his most faithful companion, has also been his jailer.

Because while his art has elevated him to the pinnacle of recognition, it has condemned him to a solitary existence. The dedication he has put into his work, unwavering and absolute, has cost him much more than his time. He has sacrificed a personal life, a life he could never integrate with his vocation. He never had a partner who understood him, nor friends who shared his universe, nor family members who dared to call his attention outside of the studio. Love, friendship, human connections, seemed to him minor distractions in the face of the greatness of his photographic mission. In his mind, there was no room for anything other than visual perfection, the constant search for that transcendent image that could touch the very essence of life.

But while his world was being built through the lens, a subtle and silent darkness began to take shape within him. Each photo he took was a window to the outside, but at the same time, it closed the doors of his soul even more. The camera granted him the power to see and capture everything happening around him, but it denied him the ability to see what was happening in his own heart. In that space where shadows intertwine with light, where the ephemeral becomes eternal, Sung-hoon got lost. He became a distant observer, trapped in an endless cycle of images, but with no real contact with the life that existed beyond his lens. The loneliness he dragged along, hidden within the folds of his success, grew deeper, more overwhelming, until one day, he could no longer escape it.

As Sung-hoon's recognition grew, so did the shadow that loomed over his life. Fame, like a brilliant reflection, mirrored an image of success that the world applauded, but he felt increasingly disconnected, more alien to that applause, as if everything were part of a movie that was not his own. The galleries, the exhibitions, the critics' laudatory comments, the flashes capturing his moments of glory: none of it managed to penetrate the ice armor he had forged over the years. The camera, his tool of revelation, had made him an expert in the truth of others, but not in his own truth. And, despite being a creator of worlds, within himself lay a deep, unfathomable void that even the most powerful images could not fill.

In the stillness of his studio, surrounded by thousands of stories frozen on photographic paper, Sung-hoon found himself in a strange space, filled with foreign memories but empty of his own. The walls, adorned with his best works, offered him a vision of the world he had captured with meticulousness, but the images did not speak to him. Those faces, those gazes frozen in a second that seemed eternal, watched him with a fixity that overwhelmed him, as if judging him in their silence. The gestures he had halted in his journey through life now appeared to him as ghosts of a past he himself had lost. Each photograph was a masterpiece, yes, but also a cruel reminder that he had been a spectator in the lives of others, without truly participating in his own. The distance between him and his art had become an insurmountable abyss.

The studio lighting, which he had so expertly mastered when capturing the essence of others, now seemed distant and cold to him. The shadows he had used to build atmospheres in his photos now enveloped him like a mantle of darkness in his own life. His soul, which he had learned to sculpt in each image, slipped through his fingers like water, like a film unrolling before him, but which he could never touch. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when the last light of the day began to fade, he found himself in front of his photographs, in a silence that devoured him. A feeling of incompleteness overwhelmed him, as if his constant search in the eyes of others had been a way to evade his own face. Why, despite the fame, did he feel that something within him was slowly crumbling? The answer was not in the lens of his camera, but in the absence of a real connection with himself.

It was a typical work afternoon, without any preambles or announcements, when something inside him changed. While reviewing the photographs that would soon be part of his new exhibition, one in particular caught his attention. It was you, a young woman, with your gaze lost on the horizon, as if your thoughts floated beyond your body. In your expression, so laden with melancholy, Sung-hoon saw something he had never perceived before: His own reflection. The sorrow in your eyes, the fragility emanating from your face, the sadness seeping through your gestures, everything seemed so familiar. It was as if he himself, in his bewilderment and emptiness, had become you, trapped in a moment he couldn't let go of.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

Sung-hoon was forced to confront the question he had been avoiding for so long: How many times, while observing others, had he seen his own emptiness reflected in their eyes? How many times had he searched in the gestures of his subjects for the humanity he had lost, as if he could find something of himself in the faces of others? Each photograph, he thought, had been a search to find what he had not been able to find in his own life. He had spent years chasing a truth that only existed in the shadows of his lens, without realizing that, in the process, he had stopped seeing the light within himself.

That night, when the studio lights went out and darkness began to fill the corners of the room, Sung-hoon found himself in front of the mirror. The reflection he saw there was not that of the renowned photographer, the man admired for his skill, for his unique vision. It was the face of a weary man, marked by years of sacrifices, of renunciations, of living in the world of images without ever daring to live in his own flesh. The dimness of the room was reflected in his eyes, filled with shadows, unfulfilled desires, lost affections. And as he looked at himself, he saw the traces of loneliness that he could no longer hide, the marks of a being who had been running for too long, without really knowing where to.

It was at that precise moment when something broke inside him. As if a window in your soul had opened, finally letting in the fresh and renewing air of introspection. The camera, which had been his refuge, his lifeline, his prison, ceased to be the only means of expression in his life. And for the first time in years, Sung-hoon began to wonder if it was possible to live outside the lens, if he could find a new way to connect with the world, to stop being a spectator and become a participant. Would he be able to find a life that was his own, without the mediation of the camera?

The search for truth in others had brought him there, to that breaking point. But now, something was beginning to take shape in his mind. Maybe the story he really needed to capture wasn't that of others, nor the image of a distant subject, but his own. The camera would no longer be his only way of seeing; perhaps the time had come to learn to look, for the first time, without filters.

Despite the internal storm that was tearing him apart, Sung-hoon found himself being pulled by an almost mechanical impulse towards the meeting he had with Jake. The appointment was marked in his agenda like a beacon guiding him towards a destiny he could not evade, a point in time that, no matter how much his soul screamed in resistance, he had to fulfill. In his mind, chaos reigned, a whirlwind of doubts and unease that rose like black clouds above him, so dense that he could barely see the light that once propelled him. Despite the years of success and recognition he had harvested in his career, an unfathomable void devoured his being. That void, which neither fame nor applause could fill, was his constant companion, his inseparable shadow. But still, he got up that morning, with a heaviness that crushed his shoulders, and headed to the café where he would meet Jake, his long-time companion, a man whose relationship with life was so different from his that he seemed from another world.

Jake had always been his counterpoint, his antithesis, and at the same time, his reflection. While Sung-hoon got lost in the dark depth of photography, searching for the soul of his subjects, Jake glided over the surface of life, finding beauty in simplicity and human connections with an ease that Sung-hoon had never experienced. Jake was a man who saw life in bright colors, with a cheerful disposition that contrasted with the photographer's somber and analytical gaze. For him, each encounter, each face was a story told without the need for capture, while Sung-hoon looked through the camera, searching for shadows and reflections, the invisible that could only be observed through the lens. But despite their differences, Jake was his companion, and that meeting was a bond that still maintained the appearance of normalcy in a world that was slipping through his fingers.

Upon arriving at the café, the feeling of unreality enveloped him strongly. The bustle of conversations, the sound of coffee being poured into cups, and the aroma that filled the air seemed like distant echoes to him, as if he were looking at the world from the distance of a photograph, frozen and distant. Each object in the place, each face that crossed his path, seemed like a lifeless painting, a static image that had nothing to offer him beyond its fleeting existence. Only the constant buzzing in his mind kept him anchored to that reality, but everything felt like a dream he hadn't chosen himself.

When Jake greeted him, his face lit up with that broad and contagious smile that had always been so bewildering to him. Sung-hoon looked at him, recognizing in him the unyielding energy that he so often wished to possess but never could. Next to Jake, there was a figure that seemed familiar, but he still couldn't put a name to it. A young woman, whose presence seemed to fill the space with a natural light that had nothing to do with the shadows Sung-hoon had grown accustomed to. It's you, your smile was so open and generous that it contrasted with the coldness surrounding Sung-hoon, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy room. Despite your apparent tranquility, your energy was so vibrant that it seemed to fill the air around you, flooding the room with a vitality that Sung-hoon felt was foreign.

—I'd like you to meet (Y/N)— said Jake, with a spark in his eyes that Sung-hoon couldn't ignore. —She's my new model and, well, also someone I've been dating lately.—

Sung-hoon nodded mechanically, unable to find words beyond polite formality. His mind, on the other hand, was already beginning to process the image of you. Something felt unsettling to him, as if your presence challenged the stillness he had sought in the photograph. When you extended your hand to him, your gesture was warm and filled with that energy that Sung-hoon had never understood, as natural and genuine as the air he breathed. Despite his attempts to maintain emotional distance, Sung-hoon, inside, was as tense as a wire, with his jaw clenched and his fingers closing around his hand with a rigidity he couldn't disguise. It was as if he were touching something that didn't belong to him, something he couldn't possess.

—(Y/N), it's a pleasure to meet you— he said, with his usual cold and calculated tone, but despite his control, a small crack opened in his voice, a slight tremor that betrayed the internal storm shaking his chest.

You looked at him with a smile that, although warm, never wavered. Your posture was relaxed, completely oblivious to the conflict raging within him. It was a sight that seemed out of place in Sung-hoon's world. In the photograph he had captured the day before, you had been a shadow of yourself, a figure breathing sadness, deep melancholy, as if the world had stopped offering something worthy of your gaze. He had captured that essence, that gaze lost on the horizon, that fragility that so attracted him, seeking in you what he himself felt was missing: A naked truth, almost painful, that could only be understood through a lens. But now, in front of him, stood a completely different woman. The melancholy he had imagined was replaced by a vibrant light, an energy that seemed so foreign to the image he had created in his mind. It was not the sad figure he had seen in his camera, but a beacon of joy, a warm glow that illuminated everything around him.

Sung-hoon, for a moment, was paralyzed, as if time had stopped. The figure of the young woman in front of him was not the same one he had captured. The reflection he had found in his camera, the sadness and depth he thought he understood, crumbled before his eyes. Reality was imposing itself with a force that bewildered him. This woman was not a shadow, not an emptiness; you were the very antithesis of what he had sought. Something twisted inside him, a mix of frustration and fascination, as if the image he had created, the one he had conceived through his lens, was being torn from his being.

Was that the same woman he had portrayed? Was it possible for a captured image to be so radically different from reality? Confusion overwhelmed him, frustration began to take shape, mingling with a strange feeling of jealousy, as if your life were a slap in the face to the truth he had tried to find in his work.

While the conversation continued between Jake and you, Sung-hoon remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, who now seemed an impossible enigma to decipher. Every word you spoke, every move you made, confirmed something he feared: The image he had built of you no longer existed, and he was unable to comprehend the real woman standing before him. The photograph, which had always been his refuge and his way of understanding the world, now betrayed him, crumbling in his hands.

With each breath, a small dark spark began to burn within his being. It was no longer about admiration, no longer just fascination. It was something deeper, something that awakened in him an even greater sense of emptiness. There was something he couldn't reach, something he had touched in his chamber but that now seemed to slip through his fingers, like the light he had tried so hard to seize.

And as his heart beat with growing anxiety, he realized something terrifying: Perhaps photography hadn't given him what he thought it had. Maybe what he needed to capture wasn't in the world he saw through the lens, but in the darkness that hid within him.

From that day on, something in Sung-hoon began to crumble like an old film that, exposed to light, starts to tear and disintegrate. His initial fascination with you, a light curiosity, an admiration fueled by the desire to capture your ephemeral beauty, slowly transformed into an excessive obsession. The lens of his camera, that object he had used for years to spy on the human soul, now took on a different weight, a dark power that seemed to dictate the rules of the relationship. He no longer saw you as a fleeting muse, but as an immaculate canvas, a virgin territory that had to be conquered over and over again. Each click of the shutter was not just a reminder of his technical prowess, but a twisted validation of his need to possess the image of you, to freeze it in a perpetual instant, to impose his will upon you. Each shot was a subtle, almost imperceptible affirmation that what he captured through his camera was his. In his mind, distorted by obsession, each shot reinforced the idea that his love, his devotion to you, was reciprocated, that his control over the image meant control over your being.

The first time Sung-hoon photographed you without your consent, it wasn't an accident; it was a chance disguised as an opportunity. You were sitting on the edge of a window, motionless, looking out at the garden as if the outside world were an extension of your thoughts. The soft afternoon light slipped through the curtains, illuminating your face with an almost celestial clarity. In that moment, Sung-hoon raised the camera instinctively, almost as if the gesture were an extension of his own being. There was no time to think about it, no space for reflection. It was a visceral impulse, a need to capture the image before it faded, as if your beauty were a flash of light that only he could capture, preserve, and, in his mind, possess. The sound of the shutter, so familiar, vibrated in his chest with an indescribable satisfaction, a shiver that ran down his spine. In that single second, something inside him broke even more. The image he was creating was not simply that of a beautiful woman, nor just another of his artistic photographs. It was an attempt to possess you, to trap you, to hold you in a space that he controlled. Through the lens, you became a static object, a being that, for him, no longer existed in the unpredictable flow of time, but in a capsule of light and shadow that only he could decode.

The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of reality, began to transform into a channel to something much darker, a means to impose his will, to create his own distorted version of the truth. Thus, he began to photograph you compulsively, without rest. The sessions were no longer scheduled or agreed upon; they were driven by an uncontrollable impulse fueled by the need to see you in your purest, most fragmented, most his form. Sung-hoon was not just a photographer; he saw himself as a sculptor in the darkness, molding reality, shaping your figure with the precision of his lens, seeking perfection in every angle, in every light. He asked you to stay for an "improvised session," suggested poses with an apparent delicacy that disguised itself as professionalism, but in every gesture, every instruction, there was an insatiable need for control. The power of the camera, the ability to capture a moment in time, became a game of manipulation, a dance in which he was not only the director but the absolute creator.

Each image created was another step towards the achievement of his ideal, an ideal that distorted both your figure and reality itself. There was something perverse in the way he looked at you, a fascination that went beyond mere aesthetic pursuit. It was no longer just about capturing the beauty he had found in his other subjects; in you, he sought something more, something that belonged to him, a beauty he could hold in his power. And, like a painter who wants to capture the soul of his muse in every stroke, Sung-hoon aspired for that beauty to be his, only his, until it merged with his own vision. The camera was no longer just a medium; it had become an instrument of control, an artifact that, in his hands, could strip the woman of your humanity, transforming you into a frozen and manipulated image.

The sessions dragged on indefinitely, and you, although initially immersed in the fascination of art, began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. At first, you thought that Sung-hoon was simply an eccentric, a man trapped in his art, like those cursed geniuses of history who saw the world through a unique, distorted lens. You tried to convince yourself that your concerns were an overreaction, that you weren't seeing things clearly. But as the days went by, something inside you began to resist, as if a small alarm in your subconscious was going off. Every glance Sung-hoon directed at you, every moment he spent in front of the camera, made you feel as if his presence was constantly being analyzed, dissected, reduced to a series of visual formulas that he controlled at will. It was no longer just about capturing his image, but about taking possession of you. Each gesture, each instruction, felt like another strategy to strip you of your identity, to make it fit into the image he had created of you.

After one of those long sessions, you met with Jake to talk about what you had been feeling, even though the words seemed inadequate to describe the discomfort that was overwhelming you. You feared that by expressing myself, your feelings might seem excessive, melodramatic. However, something inside you told you that you couldn't ignore it any longer.

—Jake— you began, your voice wavering, —I'm not sure how to explain it, but... Sung-hoon is being weird with me. He is constantly taking pictures of me, but it's not just for work. Sometimes I feel like he isn't seeing the person I am, but rather an image he has created in his mind. It makes me feel… Uncomfortable. As if he were watching me to decipher something I can't control.—

Jake looked at you thoughtfully, but in his expression, there was something that suggested indifference. In his world, your image in Sung-hoon's camera was not just a portrait; it was an open door to fame. The name of Sung-hoon, so well-known, could be the key that launched your career. What better way to rise in the artistic world than to be under his lens?

—Come on, darling— he said with a confident smile. —Sung-hoon is eccentric, I know, but he's not doing anything wrong. You have to see this as an opportunity. Not everyone is lucky enough to be photographed by him. This could be just what you need to take the next step in your career.—

Despite Jake's reassuring words, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The discomfort you had started to feel with Sung-hoon persisted, growing with each session. Every time he looked at you through the lens, his eyes seemed not only to capture your image but to scrutinize, to penetrate deep within. In his mind, the photographs were not just images, they were not simply captures of a moment. They were symbols of his control, his power, his one-sided and uncontrollable love. In Sung-hoon's universe, each photograph was a declaration: I possess you, I have understood you, I have made you mine.

Meanwhile, Sung-hoon continued his obsessive collection of images. Each click of the shutter was another step towards the creation of a distorted version of you, a version that only he knew and that no one else could understand. In his mind, the photographs wove together like threads forming an invisible web, a space he controlled, where his impossible and unrequited love could live, eternal, beyond the truth.

As Sung-hoon's obsession deepened, his once contained and meticulous nature began to crumble slowly, like an hourglass whose grain of sand never ceased to fall. The darkness that surrounded him grew denser, like a thick fog that took over the room, the air, the space he occupied. Your perfection, so incandescent and ephemeral in its image, was no longer just your face, nor the curve of your body under the soft light of the sunset. No, you yourself had become the very essence of his vision, the focus to which Sung-hoon had dedicated every millimeter of his art. For him, you were no longer a woman; you were a symbol, a canvas yet to be painted, a mystery yet to be solved, and the camera, that extension of his being, was his only passport to that distorted world he had begun to build around you.

The photographer, trapped in his own twisted conception of love and beauty, no longer just captured the light that fell upon you like a brush caressing the canvas. He had become a sculptor of shadows, an architect of moments, a man trying to redraw reality to match the chaos that inhabited his mind. And while his lens rested upon you, his gaze went far beyond the visible, beyond the external appearance that so fascinated others. His eye, always trained to capture the raw and natural beauty of life, now dedicated itself to observing every crack in your soul, every fragment of vulnerability you tried to hide. His vision, once purely artistic, had become an act of possession.

Sung-hoon was not just a mere observer; he infiltrated, like a painter delving into the history of his muse before putting a single stroke on the canvas. He began to explore your intimacy with the same precision with which he composed a perfect shot. In every word you let slip unintentionally, in every sigh that was just for him, the photographer saw an opportunity to discover something new, something deeper. He knew you more than you could imagine. The cracks you had tried to cover with an impeccable facade were now his field of study. He knew of your fears, your dark memories, the scars you carried in your soul, those stories that, had it not been for Sung-hoon's meticulous patience, would have remained as secrets buried in time. He was not simply an observer, but a collector of broken memories, a gatherer of the fragments of your being that you had never shown to anyone.

In his daily interactions, his deep knowledge of your personal life slipped into the conversation with the subtlety of a sharp knife. In a casual comment, Sung-hoon inserted fragments of his private life, as if they were simple, unimportant observations. —I remember that time you mentioned your father, as if you were still seeking his approval— he said quietly one day, while adjusting the lights in the studio. —And that little corner in your apartment, where you keep the old letters... You always keep it closed, why is that?— Each word, each insinuation was like a fishing line cast into the wind, trapping you in an invisible net of your own past, a net that, although as fine as a thread, tightened over time until you could no longer move without being aware of Sung-hoon's constant watchfulness.

For him, it was not enough to capture the light that surrounded you; he had to seize your soul. With each shot, with each scene he asked to repeat, Sung-hoon was searching for something deeper: A distorted truth that only he could see, a facet of you that existed only in his mind. The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of others, transformed into his chain of control, a tool of power that connected him to you, an invisible bond that kept you close, that kept you in his line of sight. And although you began to feel the pressure, the threat of the invisible, you couldn't escape. At first thinking that it was all part of Sung-hoon's eccentricity, his dedication to perfection. But soon, the truth became evident: you weren't being photographed; you were being observed, studied, dismantled piece by piece.

Sung-hoon never resorted to brute force or open threats. He was much more skilled than that. His control was not in strong words or confrontation; his power lay in subtlety, in silent gestures, in the whispers that accompanied each shot, in the way he manipulated the perception of reality through the lens of his camera. He didn't need to say it openly: He knew you were beginning to understand the extent of his influence. Each suggestion, each gesture of support, was imbued with a tacit expectation, the expectation that you would follow him, that you would continue playing your role in the image he had created. He offered you opportunities, but those opportunities were nothing more than carefully woven traps, designed to make you more dependent on him, to draw you even closer to the distorted picture of yourself.

And, like a photographer who discovers an imperfection in a seemingly perfect image, Sung-hoon begins to notice the cracks in your facade. Your smile, which had once been natural and carefree, was beginning to seem forced. Your responses, once so full of life, were now shorter, more evasive. The sparkle in your eyes, which I had captured so many times, was now subtly fading. For Sung-hoon, each of these moments was a revelation. He was not only seeing the woman you pretended to be, but he was also seeing the woman he had begun to shape in his mind, a creation that had no escape. The pressure, invisible but palpable, was his signature. In the tremor of an unspoken word, in the imperceptible shift in posture, Sung-hoon found what he had been searching for: Beauty in fragility, art in oppression, control in broken perfection.

Meanwhile, you began to feel trapped in your own image, a distorted reflection that Sung-hoon had created around you. He, the god of shadows and light, saw the truth behind the masks, and you could no longer hide what he wished to see. The worst part is that, in his mind, you were already part of his creation, a muse that only existed through him. In the web he had woven, you found yourself trapped, not knowing if the exit was an illusion or if the only way to escape was to become someone else, someone completely different from the image he had shaped. But, as always happened in photography, there was no turning back: The exposure had been made, and what remained was a fixed, unchangeable image that only he could understand.

As the days slid by slowly, like a movie advancing in slow motion under the relentless direction of fate, you began to perceive how the walls of your own world, once open and full of possibilities, were closing in, trapping you with a subtle but devastating force. It was as if you were trapped in a photograph that never stopped being taken, each moment immortalized, each gesture meticulously framed. Every word Sung-hoon uttered, every glance he cast, were no longer mere interactions; they were fragments of a story he had written without your permission, a tale in which you were trapped, like a porcelain figure in the lens of a photographer obsessed with capturing your essence, with no voice or vote over your own portrait. It was a story that had ceased to belong to you, a narrative from which you had become an unwilling spectator, watching yourself from a distance that stripped you of your humanity.

In his mind, the perception of time and reality began to blur like the light dissolving on the horizon, tinting everything around him with increasingly dense shadows. Before, your world had been clear, like a well-exposed photograph; but now everything seemed to be revealed through a dark filter, as if the image were taken with a defective lens that distorted colors and shapes. The man who had been, until then, your mentor and companion, began to reveal himself as a dark, twisted, and distant figure, whose influence had infiltrated her life with the subtlety of a rising tide. Sung-hoon, with his gaze fixed like that of a predator, had managed to weave his control over you in such a subtle and meticulous manner that, at times, you wondered if you had ever been free. Freedom, once a natural right, now seemed to You an illusion fading among the folds of a photograph that had been taken without her consent.

Sung-hoon had transformed every corner of your life into a stage where only he dictated the rules. In his mind, every scene had to be directed by him, and you were nothing more than the actress chosen to play a role you didn't know. At first, you had believed that his obsession with you was the passionate fervor of an artist who seeks, like a painter lost in the meticulous details of his muse, to capture every nuance of your essence. But soon you realized that the camera, that extension of the human eye in which he trusted blindly, had become a watchful eye, an unrelenting lens that not only captured your image but also disfigured you, twisted you, and reduced you to a distorted shadow. The light, that sublime element which once revealed beauty, had ceased to be your ally. Now, each ray of light seemed like a threat, a deadly trap in which you found yourself ensnared, trapped within the frame of a reality he had created for you.

Sung-hoon's camera was not simply a tool for creating art; it had evolved into a weapon of control. Each click, each capture, was an assertion of his dominance, a manifestation of his power over your life and identity. In his eyes, you were not a complete woman, but a canvas on which he could paint without your consent, a blank page that had to be molded according to his will. And the most devastating thing of all was that, at first, You had believed he saw you as you truly were, that his work as a photographer had allowed him to delve into the very essence of your being. But, over time, the truth began to slowly unveil itself, like an old layer of paint peeling away, revealing the cracks in the facade he had built. Sung-hoon didn't see you. He didn't understand you. I had reduced you to an image, a figure projected onto the wall, a puppet whose only mission was to fit into the distorted vision of your world.

However, something within you began to awaken. It was a small spark, almost imperceptible, like a glimmer in the darkness, but it grew with each passing day under Sung-hoon's control. The feeling of being trapped became increasingly unbearable, as if his room were an invisible prison, a glass cell that only reflected your own image, as if You were looking at yourself through a mirror that only returned your despair. Every time he looked at you, every word, every seemingly innocent gesture of affection, transformed into a symbol of his manipulation. The casual comments about his past, the insinuations about his darkest secrets, no longer seemed like simple observations; they became sharp knives buried in your skin, constantly reminding you that he knew your vulnerabilities, that he could destroy you if he wanted to.

Each day that passed under his dominion, you felt your freedom fading more and more, like a photograph that, as it develops, begins to dissolve in the water, losing its definition, its life, its color. The pressure that was once subtle had transformed into an unstoppable force, a rising tide that pushed you towards the unknown, towards the disintegration of your own identity. The camera, which had been your refuge, your art, your way of seeing the world, had now become your jailer. And Sung-hoon, the man you had admired, had transformed into the architect of your destiny, a god who shaped reality at his whim, playing with light and shadow like a puppeteer who manipulates humans to his will.

Like a lighthouse in the midst of the storm, the possibility of escape began to become clearer, though still vague. You knew you couldn't keep living trapped in the shadows that Sung-hoon had cast over you. The struggle to regain your freedom turned into a frantic race against time, a desperate sprint to prevent him from completely destroying the public image you had so carefully cultivated. You began to search for clues, to scrutinize the details, to look for the cracks in the perfect facade of your life that Sung-hoon had built. You were like a detective in your own life, unraveling the web of lies he had woven around you, with every word, every action of his turned into a clue about his hidden intentions.

As your thoughts organized themselves, You began to notice details that had previously gone unnoticed. The photo shoots, which once seemed like an artistic ritual, now revealed their true nature: A carefully designed strategy to keep you close, to continue controlling your image and, therefore, your life. The compliments I once considered sincere, the insinuations that seemed like flattery, the intense looks from Sung-hoon, were no longer mere displays of admiration. They had become tools of manipulation, like the light a photographer uses to highlight only the elements they want, the viewer to see, darkening everything else. The truth, like a film that has been exposed to the sun for too long, began to reveal itself with blinding clarity.

Sung-hoon, however, was not a man who could be disarmed so easily. In his mind, each interaction with you was another shot, another take that brought him closer to his ultimate goal: to possess you completely, to break you until only the perfect image he had forged in his mind remained. He knew you were starting to notice his control, but, like a photographer playing with light and shadow, he remained in the shadows, hidden, manipulating every piece of the puzzle without your seeing it. His power lay in the ability to make you feel vulnerable, to introduce thoughts into your mind that would leave You trapped in your own confusion, like a poison silently seeping into the current of your consciousness.

Time, that elusive abstraction that had always slipped through his fingers like fine sand, began to take on the texture of an impenetrable wall. The days, which once stretched like an endless chain of empty moments, now intertwined in a spiral of shadows that faded and dissolved into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Each attempt to flee, each fleeting glance towards an exit that became increasingly unattainable, evaporated with the swiftness with which shadows succumb to light, leaving behind only the sensation of emptiness. In the course of your silent resistance, you came to understand, with painful and dizzying clarity, that escaping from Sung-hoon was not a tangible option, not a viable alternative. Like photographic film that, when exposed to light for too long, develops prematurely, the fate of your actions was already marked, predestined. And as this truth settled in his chest like an unbearable weight, hopelessness began to wrap around his soul, as heavy and dense as the camera hanging from his neck, like an extension of his own being, relentless, like the presence of a specter.

The air, once light and breathable, became thick, like the tension-filled atmosphere inside a dark room, where harsh and cold lights create a palpable sense of claustrophobia. The flow of life, that incessant and turbulent river, seemed to have halted its course, gently moving you towards an abyss from which you could not escape. You no longer fought against the current. The tide of your destiny enveloped you, absorbing you with an almost hypnotic force, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were part of a carefully composed picture. Your resistance dissolved, like an image fading in the developer, when the chemical envelops you and erases the edges of what was once defined. The contours of his will blurred, softening, fading, until the unquenchable impulse for release that had burned in his chest extinguished, fading like the last light of day when the sun sinks below the horizon, leaving only the cold darkness that follows.

Sung-hoon, the man who had been your mentor, your companion, your torturer, and your savior, had taken on the form of a dark, almost mythical figure, a silhouette in which light and shadow merged into an incomplete portrait. Throughout your time together, you had believed you knew him, that you understood each of the intentions hidden behind his icy gaze, like the reflection on the calm surface of water disturbed by a stone falling without warning. But now, in the midst of the silence that surrounded you, you realized that you had been nothing more than a piece in a work that you could not fully comprehend. You were part of a photograph revealing itself before you, an image constructed by a photographer whose vision had transformed you into something even you didn't recognize. And yet, instead of rejecting that truth, something strange began to well up in your chest, like a subtle whisper, a spark of light filtering through a crack in the darkness. It wasn't love, at least not in its purest form, but it was something that resembled it, something more enigmatic and complex. It was a fatalistic acceptance, a kind of silent submission that was beginning to reshape your perception of Sung-hoon.

You had feared it before, that light emanating from his chamber, which you had believed revealed the truth behind the masks. That same light, which now trapped you like an invisible spider's web, kept your soul captive. The intensity of his gaze, that tireless observation that never seemed to leave you, had become the core of your anxiety, a focal point of unease that consumed you. But, as time passed and the concept of escape faded as quickly as shadows succumb to the first ray of sunlight, you began to see something different, something new. Like a photographer examining an image on their screen and realizing that what once seemed blurry is, in fact, a photograph with a disturbing and unique beauty, you began to perceive the complexity of Sung-hoon. The darkness that once terrified you now contained nuances you could not ignore. Each of his gestures, each word he uttered, each glance, contained a profound truth about his being, something that transcended mere manipulation. It was like a lens that distorts the world, but at the same time, captures a raw beauty, a beauty that was undeniable, though incomplete.

Sung-hoon, in his obsession with perfection, was not simply a man with selfish desires for control. His need to capture the essence of the world, of humanity itself, through his camera, was something more visceral, more profound. The photographer was not just an observer of the world; he molded it, took it in his hands like a sculptor shaping clay. And you, caught in that web he had woven around you, began to see, even to admire, that skill, that tireless drive to dominate nature through art. Sung-hoon's vision was not a desire for manipulation, but a primitive impulse, a need to freeze the essence of the moment into a pure image, albeit devoid of all compassion. Somehow, you felt a deep admiration for him, for his ability to distill the chaos of reality into something simpler, more comprehensible. Light and shadow, those two opposites, were no longer enemies in his world. Now they were your allies, and you found yourself trapped in a scene where you were not only the subject but also the spectator of your own existence.

Sung-hoon was not just a man. He was the architect of his world, the demiurge who wove reality around him, undoing and redoing the threads of fate with the same skill with which he adjusted the frame of a photograph. Somehow, you understood that his own complicity in that process had given him the power to transform you. Like an old photograph that, over time, fades and changes, your resistance to him began to crumble like a negative dissolving in water. You no longer saw him as a jailer, a monster who kept you trapped. Instead, you saw him as the creator of a world in which, despite yourself, you felt special, unique. Sung-hoon's control was no longer oppressive; instead, it became a reflection of his own essence, a control woven with almost artistic patience and precision.

That feeling was an amalgamation of fear, fascination, respect, and acceptance. You disliked him, yes, but at the same time, there was something about him that attracted you, something impossible to ignore, something that overflowed the surface of his being. The shadows that once surrounded you now illuminated the truth of your existence, and what once seemed like a prison, a space of despair, now became a refuge where your soul, marked and distorted by Sung-hoon's lens, found itself. The light and the darkness, the contrasts and the shadows, began to weave into a single thread, creating a new reality, a new identity.

Each shot from Sung-hoon's camera not only kept you under his control. It offered you a strange form of comfort. In each image he captured, you saw not only a distorted version of yourself but also a more authentic, more complete one. The light and shadow, which once disturbed you, now took on a new dimension, one in which you found acceptance, transformation. Somehow, you had learned to embrace the image that Sung-hoon had created of you, an imperfect, broken portrait, but essentially true. A portrait that, like humanity itself, reflected fragility, internal struggle, and the inevitable beauty of the struggle itself.

Sung-hoon hadn't destroyed your identity. He had transformed it. And, slowly, as you began to understand the depth of that transformation, you realized that you were no longer a victim of his control, but a work in progress, an image still taking shape under the relentless lens of a man whose art had learned to reveal the deepest essence of your being. Without being able to help it, your feelings towards him became a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, a spiral in which love and fear, submission and admiration intertwined, trapped in a portrait whose exposure was not yet complete. And, like a photograph that is yet to be fully developed, you found yourself trapped in the endless process of its own revelation.

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scoutofmymind · 1 month ago

Text

With Me — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: SFW, angst, pining, unrequited love, guilt, mentions of death, five years in the future in this one, a lowkey cliffhanger ending again, I’m an asshole

Wc: 7,681

Notes: five years later and at times continents apart, you’ve finally come to realize that some currents are impossible to resist — no matter how far you’ve travelled to escape them.

When was the last time you did something simply for the joy of it?

This is a sequel to Without Me

Five years carve themselves differently into different things.

Into the barn's weathered planks, they've etched deeper grooves, splitting paint and warping wood.

Into the fields beyond, they've cycled twenty harvests that blur together like a kaleidoscope.

Into your hands, they've written their own history — small calluses from surgical instruments instead of hay bales, faint chemical burns from disinfectants replacing the mud stains of your youth.

You time your visits home with the care of someone defusing a bomb.

Three days when the Mangiones are in Milan.

A weekend while Luigi attends a business conference in Chicago.

Christmas morning but never Christmas Eve, Easter dinner but never the egg hunt that follows.

Your mother stopped asking why around year three, just confirms your arrival with "They'll be gone by then" or "He's in New York until Tuesday," a subtle acknowledgment of the careful romp you've arranged around his absence.

The farmhouse you once called home’s kitchen smells the same — cinnamon and coffee grounds, the lingering ghost of last night's dinner, all undercut by the sweet decay of fruit ripening too fast in the bowl by the window. Still, your mother isn’t used to the two pairs of hands not around anymore to raid the kitchen after a day in the sun.

She moves around you, pulling down plates that haven't changed since childhood, her hands marked by new spots but following the same patterns they always have.

Time is both frozen and racing here.

You think back to all the times the elders told you to appreciate your youth whilst you have it — you’re not dead, nor have you gotten old, but life feels a little heavier than it ever did.

"Your old room's all made up," she slides eggs onto a plate, the yolks perfect half-moons of sunrise yellow. "Though I swear those sheets are going to disintegrate soon. You should take some of your things this visit, we're not a storage unit." There's no bite to her words, just the same gentle nudging she's been attempting for years — trying to make you confront the boxes of memories you've left to gather dust in her attic.

You nod, knowing you'll leave without opening a single one.

It’s true that wounds scab over if you're careful enough, developing a protection that holds as long as you don't pick at the edges.

And you’ve become an expert at not picking.

Five years ago, you left with a suitcase of practical things — clothes, books, the silver pendant your grandmother left you — and abandoned the artifacts that might have hurt too much to carry; the shoebox of river stones collected each summer, photographs chronicling two lives so intertwined they seemed impossible to separate, evidence of a friendship that had grown into something you couldn't name without destroying it.

Your life now spans three continents, filled with colleagues who know nothing of sunrise swims or teenage promises whispered under star-scattered skies. You've crafted yourself into someone defined by action rather than attachment — the veterinarian who stays just long enough to heal before moving on, whose apartment holds furniture selected for function rather than memory.

You tell yourself it's freedom.

Most days, you almost believe it.

But the guilt comes in waves — during transatlantic flights when there's nothing to do but think, or in the moments before sleep. You replay that last night by the water, his hands cradling your face, the desperation in his voice as he offered you everything while you offered only a goodbye.

Sometimes you draft text messages you never send, explanations that sound hollow even in your own mind.

I needed to find myself.

I was scared of disappearing into us.

I didn't know how to love you without losing me.

What you never say, even to yourself, is that you miss him with an ache that hasn't dulled with distance or time — a phantom limb pain for something vital you chose to amputate.

"Did you hear about Marco?" your father asks, settling at the table with a grunt, his knees creaking like the porch steps. "Cancer's spread. Doctors gave him six months, but Sofia says he's fading faster."

You nod, focusing intently on buttering toast that doesn't need such concentration. You've heard, of course — gleaned from conversations with your mother that never directly mention Luigi, though his absence in these updates sits like a ghost at the table.

You wonder who's running the company now, if the pressure has etched new lines around his eyes, if he still laughs with his whole body the way he did before you left.

"That poor boy been handling everything," your mother adds, as if reading your thoughts. "The business, the medical decisions. Sofia's not coping well." She pauses, watching you with eyes that see too much. "Lu asks about you, you know. When he calls to check if your father needs help with the south field."

The knife stills against bread gone suddenly tasteless in your mouth. "He shouldn't," you manage, the words scraping your throat raw.

"And yet he does," your father’s weathered hand covers yours briefly before returning to his coffee mug. "Some things don't change just because we wish they would."

Today's miscalculation feels like fate's sick joke.

Your father's birthday celebration was supposed to be safe — Sofia had mentioned to your mother her plans of taking Marco to specialists in Boston, a last-ditch consultation for treatments that weren't working. You'd verified twice, casual questions that weren't casual at all: "Will it just be us?" "And a less subtle “The Mangiones around?" Your mother's responses had been reassuring — at least that’s how you’d felt in the moment.

“Just family this time," and "Sofia's with Marco at that hospital."

What she failed to mention was that Luigi had flown back alone.

You realize this as headlights sweep across the kitchen window, illuminating family photographs, a contrast to where you've been carefully cropped out of your mother's social media posts — another protection measure in your elaborate system of avoidance.

The car engine cuts, and the silence that follows feels longer than the five years you've spent running.

Your mother gives you a look that hovers between apology and guilt. "He brings us wine every year now,” she looks toward the hallway leading to the door. "Some Italian red your father loves. I didn't have the heart to tell him not to come."

Your hands grip the edge of the countertop, knuckles white against butcher block worn smooth by generations of anxious grips just like yours. There's nowhere to run now — no flight to catch, no work emergency to fabricate.

Just the sound of footsteps on the porch steps, the familiar rhythm of someone who knows exactly which boards creak and how to distribute his weight to minimize the sound.

And then the knock comes — three gentle taps, the same signal from childhood that meant come out and play, I've found something amazing — and your separate life collapses like a house of cards.

For a breath-stealing moment, your body forgets how to move. Muscles locked in the ancient instinct of prey caught in open terrain, and your mother glances between you and the door again, a silent question in her raised eyebrows.

When you remain frozen, she sighs and moves toward the entrance, her footsteps deliberate as if giving you time to flee. But where would you go? The bathroom window is too small, the back door leads to a yard with no cover, and dignity — what little remains — prevents you from hiding under the kitchen table like a child.

The door opens, and your mother's voice carries that special warmth she's always reserved for Luigi — the tone that once made you wonder if she secretly wished he was her child instead. "There he is! Right on time as always."

Right on time?

Suddenly, you realize you’ve been set up.

And so has Luigi.

Their shadows stretch across the entryway floor, elongated by the porch light behind them. You can see the wine bottle passing between their silhouettes, hear the soft murmur of his response though the words themselves are lost beneath the thunder of your pulse in your ears.

"She's in the kitchen," your mother tells him, louder now, unmistakably meant for you to hear — a final warning before the inevitable.

And then he's there, standing in the doorway between worlds — yours and his — a presence so familiar yet altered that your mind struggles to reconcile memory with reality.

He's filled out, his shoulders carrying a tension they never did before, hair longer than you've ever seen it, but cut in a way that seems so New York City. The playfulness that once animated his features has been replaced by something more contained, more deliberate.

He wears the responsibility like one of his tailored Brunello Cucinelli dinner suits, both perfectly fitted and slightly constraining.

And for a moment, neither of you speaks.

What could possibly follow five years of silence?

What greeting spans a canyon of that width?

"Hey, stranger," his voice is deeper than you remember, the casual words belied by the way he keeps his distance, like approaching a wild animal that might bolt at just the sound of his voice. The phrase — your phrase, the one you always used when he returned from summer trips to Italy — feels like a key unlocking a door you've kept bolted shut, afraid of what lives behind it.

"Luigi,” you manage, your own voice sounding foreign in your ears. Not quite steady, not quite yours.

His eyes move over you, cataloging changes with the precision of someone checking a beloved book for damage after lending it out too long, and you feel suddenly conscious of everything — the faint scar along your forearm from a leopard cub with more fear than sense, the way you hold yourself now, a little straighter, a little more guarded than the girl he knew.

"You look-“ he starts, then stops, recalibrates. "It's been a while."

The understatement of it breaks something in the air between you, and you find yourself exhaling a laugh that's not quite humor but not quite pain, either. "Five years, three months, two weeks." The precision of your count betrays your nonchalance, and you see the recognition flash across his face — you've been keeping track.

He looks down at the phone in his hand, staring at the date for a moment before finding your gaze again.

"And four days," he adds quietly, confirming what you both already know; neither of you have forgotten a single moment of the separation you've enforced.

Your father saves you from whatever might come next, bustling in from the living room with forced cheer that doesn't match the knowing look he exchanges with your mother. "There's the wine man!” Your father’s smile is infectious, but even so, you can tell Luigi’s is forced. “Sofia still in Boston?"

Luigi's attention shifts, that professional mask sliding back into place. A boy forced to be a man far too soon. "Yes, she's — the doctors there are trying something new." He doesn't elaborate, but the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth says everything you need to know. "She said to wish you happy birthday, though. She's sorry she couldn't be here."

"How is he?" Your father asks, the question gentle but direct, a farmer's practicality cutting through polite fiction.

"Not good." Luigi's answer is equally unvarnished. "Maybe weeks now, not months like we thought originally."

Your chest tightens, unexpected sympathy washing through you. Marco, with his booming laugh and endless supply of stories of his childhood in post war Palermo, who taught you both to drive in his vintage Alfa Romeo despite Sofia's horror, who called you piccola leonessa — little lioness — for standing up to him when no one else would.

You hadn't allowed yourself to imagine him diminished, hadn't wanted to picture Luigi facing that loss alone.

"I should check on dinner," your mother announces to no one in particular, a transparent excuse to leave that your father immediately supports.

"I'll help," he adds, though he's never voluntarily assisted with meal preparation in forty years of marriage; it was never for lack of trying.

Cooking just had never been his strong suit.

Their retreat leaves a vacuum of sound, filled only by the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway, counting seconds that stretch like taffy. Luigi shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pockets in a gesture so achingly familiar it makes your throat close. "I can go," he offers, misreading your silence as discomfort. "I didn't know you'd be here. Your Ma just said-“

"No," you interrupt, surprising yourself with the speed of your response. "No, it's your tradition too. The wine." You gesture vaguely toward the bottle now sitting on the counter, trying to ignore how domestic this feels, how easily you could slip back into old patterns if you allowed yourself. "How's the company?"

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Demanding. Expanding. The same." He leans against the doorframe, maintaining the careful distance between you. "I heard you were in Kenya. Then Malaysia. They keep me updated, though I think your Ma edits the dangerous parts."

Of course she does. Of course he asks.

While you've been deliberately avoiding any information about him, he's been collecting fragments of your life like precious artifacts.

"Just finished a rehabilitation project for elephants affected by poaching," you say, falling back on the professional details that feel safer than personal truths like I’m lonely there and I work so much I’ve had no time to make human friends, only the mammal kind. “Starting a new position next month with a conservation group in Borneo."

"Always moving," he observes, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You found what you were looking for?"

The question hangs between you, loaded with meaning that stretches far beyond your career trajectory.

Have you found yourself, separate from him?

Have you discovered who you are without the counterbalance he always provided?

Has the freedom been worth the cost?

"I found... parts," you admit, the closest to honesty you can manage with him standing there, looking both like a stranger and exactly like the boy who knew every single secret you ever had. "What about you? Did you-“ You can't quite bring yourself to ask if he's happy, if he's built a life that satisfies him, if there's someone else who knows him the way you once did.

"I found parts too," he echoes, understanding your unfinished question as he always did. "Some fit better than others."

The clock in the hall chimes seven, and Luigi straightens, seeming to remember himself. "I should let you have your family dinner. I just came to drop off the wine.”

And just like that, he's gone, moving toward his car with the fluid grace that always made him seem like he belonged to some other world — one with fewer sharp edges and hard landings than yours.

Your mother waits in the kitchen doorway once she hears the front door close, "He never stopped checking on us, you know," she says as you pass her, avoiding eye contact. "After every storm, during your father's surgery last year. Even helped reroof the chicken coop in January — thirty-degree weather and he's up there hammering like he was born to do it."

The guilt twists sharper in your chest. "Mom, please-“

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad, honey." Her hand catches yours, squeezing gently. "Just thought you should know what kind of man he's become while you were finding yourself.” There’s another silence, her voice quieter when she finally says, “He needs you more than ever.”

Sleep eludes you that night, your childhood bedroom both comfort and cage.

Through the window, you can just make out the distant lights of the Mangione estate — fewer than there used to be, concentrated now in what you know is the west wing where Marco's medical equipment has transformed a sunroom into a temporary hospital suite.

You wonder if Luigi is awake, too.

Morning arrives in layers of gold and rose, dawn mist clinging to the fields like reluctant ghosts.

You dress quietly, slipping from the house while your parents still sleep, drawn by some magnetic pull toward the water that featured in so many of your dreams during those nights in Kenya, in Malaysia, in sterile, lonesome apartments across the world.

The path feels both foreign and achingly familiar beneath your feet — wider in some places, narrower in others, the subtle changes of five years' growth and erosion. Dew-heavy grass soaks your sneakers as you follow the trail through wildflowers nodding drowsily in the early breeze.

The reservoir appears suddenly as you crest the final rise — a mirror of silver-blue stretched beneath the awakening sky, foggy mist rising from its surface in delicate tendrils.

The sight stops you mid-stride, a physical ache blooming beneath your ribs.

How many mornings did you watch this same phenomenon with Luigi beside you, his voice quiet in the dawn as he explained the science behind it, your shoulder pressed against his as the rising sun painted you both in gold?

You make your way down to the shore, to the flat rock that has served as your sitting place since childhood.

It's still there, unchanged except for new patches of lichen decorating its edges like natural embroidery.

You settle on its cool surface, drawing your knees to your chest, allowing yourself to really be present in this place that shaped so much of who you are as the water laps gently against the stone shore, its rhythm unchanging despite seasons and years.

Dragonflies skim the surface near the reeds, their iridescent wings catching light in blue-green flashes.

A heron stands motionless in the shallows, its reflection perfect in the still water — patient, watchful, belonging in a way you once did.

You lose track of time, lulled by the gentle sounds of morning gradually asserting itself over night's quiet, and as the sun climbs higher, warming the rock beneath you, and you close your eyes, face tilted toward its heat.

For the first time in longer than you can remember, the constant hum of anxiety that's become your companion fades to background noise; here, you are neither the accomplished veterinarian with international credentials, nor the farm girl desperate to escape her roots.

You are simply yourself, existing in a moment that asks nothing of you but presence.

But the deliberate scuff of shoe against stone breaks the spell.

You don't need to turn to know who stands there; your body recognizes his presence before your mind can catch up, an awareness embedded too deeply to be erased by time or distance.

You open your eyes but don't turn, watching his reflection appear in the water beside yours — distorted slightly by the gentle ripples, but unmistakably Luigi. He stands a few feet away, hands in the pockets of jeans that look expensive but well-worn, his posture hesitant in a way that the boy you knew never was.

"I didn't expect to see you here," the slight uptick at the end makes it almost a question.

Now you do turn, shielding your eyes against the strengthening sunlight that silhouettes him against the sky with your hand. "Liar," you reply, the word lacking any heat. "You hoped I'd be here just as much as I hoped you wouldn't be."

The honesty startles a laugh from him — just a breath of sound, but genuine. "Still calling me on my bullshit." He shifts his weight, uncertainty written in the tight line of his shoulders. "Mind if I join you?"

Simple words that carry the weight of all the space you've deliberately placed between you for five years.

You could say yes, maintain the careful distance that's become your habit.

Or you could make room on the rock that's always been big enough for two.

"Since when do you ask permission?" You shift slightly to the left, the invitation clear even as you wrap the words in the familiar barbs of your old banter.

Luigi hesitates for a moment longer before crossing the remaining distance, settling beside you with a careful space between your bodies that never used to exist. His presence brings with it the same scent from last night — expensive cologne layered over familiar soap — and something else you can't quite name.

Hospital antiseptic, maybe, or just the peculiar scent of prolonged worry.

"You're up early," you observe, keeping your gaze on the water. Speaking is easier when you're not looking at him directly, when you can pretend this is just another morning from before you left.

"Haven't really been sleeping much," he admits, picking up a small stone and turning it over in his fingers — a nervous habit you'd forgotten until this moment. "Papa gets confused at night, thinks he's back in Palermo, starts speaking only Italian." There's a weariness in his voice that makes him sound much older than his twenty-five years. "The nurses call when they can't calm him down."

The simple honesty of it catches you off guard — no pretense, no careful social masks, just the raw truth of what he's facing. "I'm sorry about Marco," you say, and mean it. "He was always so kind to me."

Luigi's smile is crooked, tinged with sadness. "He asks about you, you know. On his good days. Wants to know if the leonessa is still roaring at the world."

The nickname — born after you'd stood up to him during a heated debate about local agriculture when you were sixteen — brings an unexpected lump to your throat. "And what do you tell him?"

"That you're saving exotic animals across the world. Living the adventure we used to talk about." His voice drops slightly. "He's proud of you."

The words shouldn't hurt — they're generous, kind, even — but they land like bullet holes against your chest. How can he be proud when you left without looking back, when you've spent five years deliberately avoiding every connection to this place?

"I'm not sure I deserve that," you admit, the pitiful confession slipping out before you can catch it.

Luigi is quiet for a long moment, his gaze following the path of a kingfisher as it dives into the water and emerges with a small fish clutched in its beak. "Maybe not," he says finally, the honesty both startling and refreshing after last night's careful dance of politeness. "But pride isn't always about deserving. Sometimes it's just about loving someone enough to celebrate their happiness, even when it comes at your expense."

The words hang between you, too honest to ignore, but too painful to acknowledge directly.

You stare at the water, watching ripples spread from the kingfisher's dive, circles expanding outward just like the consequences of choices made five years ago.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," you say finally, the words inadequate but necessary. "I just needed-“

"Space. Freedom. A life that wasn't defined by this place." Luigi finishes for you, no bitterness in his tone, just tired acceptance. "I know. I always knew that about you. You always told me as much." He turns the stone over in his hand one more time before skipping it across the water's surface — one, two, three, four bounces before it disappears beneath the surface. "What I never understood was why it had to be all or nothing. Why there wasn't room for both of us."

You watch another stone skip across the water, five bounces this time.

"I was afraid," you admit finally, the words barely audible above the gentle lapping of water against shore. "Afraid that if I let you come with me, I'd never know if I could stand on my own. Afraid that one day you'd resent giving up everything here for me. Afraid that-“ You stop, the final fear too raw to voice.

Afraid that you'd realize I wasn't enough, that you'd leave anyway, and I wouldn't survive it.

Luigi's shoulder brushes against yours as he shifts, "Fear is a shitty compass," he says quietly. "Keeps you running from things."

"Says the man who never left home.”

"I didn't stay because I was afraid to leave." His voice takes on an edge you've never heard before. "I stayed because someone had to. Because Mama fell apart when the diagnosis came, because the business employs forty-three families who depend on it, and because Papa asked me to." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "Not all of us have the luxury of just walking away."

The words land like a slap, all the more painful for their truth. You have walked away — not just from him but from every responsibility, every connection that might have anchored you when your dreams proved more complicated than expected.

"That's not fair to you, Lu.”

"No, it's not." His smile is sad but not unkind. "Life rarely is."

Another silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable but heavy with all the words still unspoken, and the sun climbs higher, burning away the last wisps of morning mist from the water's surface.

A little family of ducks paddle along the far shore, ducklings following their mother in perfect formation.

"He's dying," Luigi says suddenly, the words stark in the morning quiet. "Maybe weeks. Probably days. The cancer's in his brain now, that's why he gets confused." His voice remains steady, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the tight line of his jaw. "I wasn't ready to be the man of the family yet. Not like this."

Without thinking, you reach for his hand — the first time you've initiated contact in five years. His skin is warmer than you remember, his fingers thinner, but they close around yours with the same instinctive certainty they always did, like two pieces designed to fit together.

"No one ever is.”

Luigi looks down at your joined hands, "Why did you come back now? After all this time?"

The question is deceptively simple but layered with meaning. The easy answer — your father's birthday, a planned visit — feels like a deflection too cowardly to offer. The truth is more complicated, harder to shape into words when you've spent so long avoiding examining it too closely.

"I think maybe I needed to see if this place still fit," you say finally, your eyes on the water rather than his face. "If I still fit here.” Your thumb grazes his knuckle, “I come usually for only a couple days, this time I just-“ you shrug, “Had a feeling I’d need to stay longer, I guess.”

"And do you?" His voice is carefully neutral, but his thumb traces small circles against your skin — an unconscious gesture of comfort or connection that he might not even realize he's doing, returning the same gesture as you. “Fit?”

You look around at the reservoir, at the fields beyond, at the distant silhouette of the barn where you both learned to climb, to kiss (maybe once or twice), to dream. Then at the man beside you, familiar and strange all at once, carrying burdens you can only begin to imagine.

"I don't know yet," you answer honestly. "But it feels possible. In a way it didn't before."

Luigi nods, accepting this partial truth without pushing for more as his gaze drifts back to the water, to the gentle ripples that distort your reflections into wavering approximations of yourselves. "Our spot is still here," he smiles. "Some things don't change, even when the people do."

It’s not quite reconciliation, not quite forgiveness, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.

You sit in shared silence as the morning deepens around you, two people finding their way back to familiar ground, uncertain what will grow there but willing, at least, to see.

The reservoir glitters in the strengthening light — impossibly clear, every stone and fallen branch visible beneath the surface just as you remember. In summer heat, this crystalline clarity was always your sanctuary, the secret paradise only the two of you knew about, hidden from tourists and transients.

Luigi releases your hand and stands suddenly, his movement decisive in a way that catches you off guard.

For a moment, you think he's leaving, that this reconnection has reached its limit; Instead, he stares out at the water, something shifting in his expression — the weight of responsibility and grief giving way to something lighter, finally more familiar.

"You know what your problem always was?" he asks, turning to look down at you, a spark igniting in eyes that had seemed so tired just moments before.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," you reply, wary of this sudden change but unable to resist the pull of old patterns.

"You think too much." He kicks off his shoes with practiced ease, then reaches for the buttons of his shirt. "Always did."

Your pulse quickens as his fingers work downward, exposing the lean planes of a chest both familiar and new — slightly broader than you remember, more defined, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" His smile gleams — the first genuine one you've seen since your return, a glimpse of the boy who once convinced you to skip school to drive to the coast in his father's borrowed convertible. He drops his shirt onto the rock beside you, hands moving to his belt buckle, "I'm going swimming."

"Luigi, it's barely seventy degrees — the water's freezing," you protest, even as something long dormant stirs inside you, a recognition of this ritual played out hundreds of times through childhood and adolescence and beyond.

He laughs, stepping out of his jeans to reveal black boxer briefs that cling to powerful thighs. "Since when did that ever stop us?" His eyes hold a challenge as he backs toward the water's edge. "Or have you really forgotten how to play this time?"

The words — so similar to ones from long ago, from the last summer before everything changed — hit their mark. You've built a life of careful control, of prompted responses, of calculated risks assessed through the lens of professional detachment.

When was the last time you did something simply for the joy of it?

Before you can answer, he turns and dives — a clean arc that barely disturbs the surface before his body disappears beneath it. The water welcomes him like an old friend, his form visible through the blue as he glides beneath the surface with the same effortless grace he's always had.

He resurfaces with a triumphant gasp, dark curls slicked back, water streaming down his face. "Holy shit, it's colder than I remembered!" His laugh echoes across the reservoir, bouncing back from the rocks on the far shore. "Always worth it."

He floats onto his back, face turned toward the sky, the morning sun gilding the water droplets on his skin. "Come in," he calls, not looking at you, somehow knowing the direct challenge would make you retreat. "Unless Kenya made you soft."

The taunt is gentle, playful in a way that tugs at memories you've kept carefully boxed away. How many summer mornings did you spend like this? Racing to the reservoir at dawn, competing to see who could stay underwater longest, floating on your backs while discussing constellations and college applications and all the places you'd someday go?

"Malaysia," you correct, standing despite yourself. "Most recently, anyway."

"Malaysia, Kenya, Timbuktu — doesn't really matter." He flips over, treading water as he watches you, droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "Water's the same everywhere. Either you're brave enough to jump in, or you're not."

The double meaning isn't lost on you.

This isn't just about swimming — never was, with the two of you. Water was always your shared language, this place your confessional, your playground, your private world away from expectation and obligation.

"I didn't bring a suit," you stall, though your fingers have already reached for the hem of your sweater.

Luigi's smile widens, a touch of the old mischief lighting his eyes. "When has that ever stopped you? Besides-“ his gaze sweeps over you, “it's seriously nothing I haven't seen before."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you find yourself pulling the sweater over your head anyway, some long-dormant part of you responding to this familiar challenge. The practical cotton bra you're wearing is a far cry from the colorful bikinis of your teens, but Luigi's appreciative glance makes you feel seventeen again, fearless and seen in a way no one else has ever managed.

You step out of your shorts, hesitating for just a moment before diving in — a clean, practiced dive that contradicts the years since you last swam here. The cold is a shock, stealing your breath as you plunge beneath the surface, but your body remembers this, muscles responding automatically to the embrace of water that tastes like childhood and possibility and home.

You surface with a gasp, pushing wet hair from your face to find Luigi closer than expected, his smile softer now. "See? Some things you don't forget."

Water droplets cling to his eyelashes, to the slight stubble along his jaw that wasn't there five years ago. This close, you can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension he carries in his shoulders even now. But his smile — that's the same, the crooked lift at the left corner that always made your heart stutter in your chest.

"Some things," you agree, treading water, conscious of the narrowing space between you.

Luigi dips lower, only his eyes and nose above the surface like a crocodile watching its prey, and he suddenly disappears, a swirl of bubbles the only evidence of his descent. You have just enough time to take a breath before hands grasp your ankles, pulling you under in a move he's been perfecting since you were twelve.

You kick free easily — you've always been the stronger swimmer — and chase him through the clear water, both of you visible to each other in the underwater clarity that makes the reservoir so magical.

For a few precious moments, you're not adults weighted by choices and consequences, not strangers rebuilt from the fragments of who you once were to each other. You're just two bodies moving through blue, chasing and evading in a dance as old as your friendship.

When you both surface, you're laughing — really laughing, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.

"There she is," Luigi says softly, treading water just an arm's length away. "I was beginning to think she was gone for good."

"Who?" you ask, though something in you already knows.

"The girl I’ve always known. Didn’t forget how to play.” His voice drops lower, intimate despite the open air around you. "The one who wasn't afraid to jump."

The words should feel like an accusation, but instead they land like recognition — like being seen for the first time in years by the only person who ever really could. You float in silence for a moment, letting the water hold you, conscious of how your bodies have drawn closer without either of you seeming to move.

"I didn't forget," you admit finally. "I just packed it away. Like everything else I left behind."

Luigi's hand finds yours beneath the surface, fingers intertwining with the same perfect fit they always had. "Not everything fits in boxes," he says, his eyes never leaving yours as water laps gently around your shoulders. "Some things just wait."

The distance between you shrinks further, your bodies drifting together as naturally as the current pulling toward the reservoir's center. His free hand rises to brush wet strands of hair from your face, the touch so familiar that your eyes close briefly against the surge of feeling it evokes.

"I've missed you," he whispers, the words barely audible above the gentle splash of water against shore. "Not just having you here, but seeing you. The real you.”

When you open your eyes, he's close enough that you can see the flecks of amber in his brown irises, count each individual eyelash jeweled with water droplets. His body radiates heat despite the cool water, a beacon calling you home after years adrift.

"I've missed me too," you confess, the truth of it surprising even you. "I've missed us."

His smile then is everything — recognition and forgiveness and possibility all tangled together in the crooked lift of his lips. His hand slides to cup your cheek, water cool against your skin where it drips from his fingers.

There's no hesitation when your bodies finally meet, drawn together by currents stronger than time or distance or walls. His arms encircle your waist, your legs tangling together as you both tread water, keeping each other afloat as you always did.

His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the small space between your mouths.

"Well,” his nose nudges yours, “welcome home.”

You’re not sure if he means your spot, the farm, or the circle of his arms.

Perhaps they're all the same thing — all the pieces of belonging you've been searching for across continents and careers. Here in the blue that witnessed your first secrets, your first promises, the puzzle of who you are slots back together — not erasing the person you've become in the years away, but completing her, filling the spaces you could never quite reach no matter how far you traveled.

When his lips finally meet yours, it feels inevitable — like gravity, like sunrise, like coming home to a place you never should have left.

The kiss tastes of water and morning sunshine and five years of longing distilled into a single point of contact. His body against yours is both familiar and new — the same shoulders your hands have memorized, but leaner now; the same chest, but bearing new scars and stories your fingers itch to learn.

You float together in the clear blue that's always been your sanctuary, your bodies finding their remembered rhythm, closer than you've been to anyone in the five years since you left. The water cradles you both, witness to this reunion as it's been witness to all the moments that shaped your shared history — every laugh, every race, every whispered dream, every touch that built the foundation of something you tried to leave behind but never truly could.

In the water, with Luigi's arms around you and the sun warming your upturned faces, you finally understand what you've been running from all these years — not him, not this place.

But the terrifying perfection of belonging somewhere so completely that losing it would unmake you.

The fear that loving like this — totally, without reservation — meant there would be nothing left if it ended.

"Stop thinking so much," Luigi murmurs against your lips, reading you as easily as he always has. "Just be here. With me.”

For once, you listen.

Tomorrow will bring complications — his dying father, your job in Borneo, five years of separate lives that can't simply be erased. But here, now, in the water that's always been your truest home, you surrender to the current pulling you back to where you've always belonged.

#woooweeee #not the original heartbreak I said was coming from this originally hahaha #this was fun to write #I so appreciate the love on the original #it means so much to me!!!#sequels are scary and can fall flat af #I think that’s why I waited so long to do one lol #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione x yn

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Do you have anything on writing the effects of Lobotomy?

Writing Notes: Lobotomy

Lobotomy - a surgical procedure historically employed to treat severe psychiatric conditions.

It is an incision into various nerve tracts in the frontal lobe of the brain.

Also called leukotomy, which is the surgical operation of interrupting the pathways of white nerve fibers within the brain.

Lobotomy was the name given to a prefrontal leukotomy in which the nerve fibers connecting the frontal lobe with other parts of the brain were cut.

Prefrontal (lobe) – the area of the brain at the very front of each cerebral hemisphere. This area is concerned with emotion, memory, learning, and social behaviour.

Lobotomy was primarily initiated by early 20th-century physicians who believed that disrupted neural connections in the brain were responsible for emotional and cognitive disturbances.

The original surgical procedure was called prefrontal (or frontal) lobotomy.

Introduced in 1936 by Portuguese neurologist Antonio Egas Moniz (1874–1955).

Connections between the frontal lobe and other brain structures—notably the thalamus—were severed by manipulating a narrow blade known as a leukotome inserted into brain tissue through several small holes drilled in the skull.

A second procedure, called transorbital lobotomy, was devised in 1945. It involved:

the manipulation of a pointed instrument resembling an ice pick

driven with a mallet through the thin bony wall of the eye socket and into the prefrontal brain.

Both procedures were widely used to relieve the symptoms of severe mental disorder (including depression and schizophrenia) until the advent of antipsychotic drugs in the 1950s.

These operations did, on occasion, result in improved function for some patients, but others either died as a consequence of the surgery or suffered major personality changes, becoming apathetic and prone to inappropriate social behavior; some also developed a seizure disorder.

Such procedures have since been replaced by more sophisticated, stereotactic forms of neurosurgery that are less invasive and whose effects are more certain and less damaging.

SOME CONTRIBUTORS

Gottlieb Burckhardt, in 1890, is credited as being one of the first surgeons to perform a psychosurgery procedure on mental patients to address symptoms such as agitation and hallucinations.

Others, such as Ludvig Puusepp, in 1910, began to operate more specifically on the frontal lobes of the brain to help a group of patients suffering from manic-depression psychosis. The results of the surgeries were mixed, and Puusepp, like Burckhardt, concluded that the dangerous procedure was not worth the risks to patients.

Years later, in 1935, Portuguese physician and neurologist António Egas Moniz, working with surgeon Pedro Almeida Lima, revived the psychosurgery debate by performing a prefrontal leukotomy*.

In 1949, Egas Moniz became the first physician from Portugal to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine for his work on the development of the lobotomy.

Prefrontal Leukotomy*. This type of lobotomy involved:

drilling holes on each side of the top of the head, near the frontal areas, and then

inserting a leukotome, a needle that contains a small circular wire that can be deployed.

Once the leukotome was in position, the wire was released and

the instrument was twisted to cut the white matter of the brain, which contains primarily nerve connections from the frontal lobes to other areas of the brain.

EGAS MONIZ

Egas Moniz himself did not employ the term “lobotomy,” which was first used in 1936 by his American disciple Walter Jackson Freeman and became the standard designation for the operation in the United States.

The term that Egas Moniz coined for the operation was “leucotomy,” from the Greek word for white (because the nerve fibers are white matter, as opposed to gray matter, which contains nerve cell bodies); accordingly, the surgical instrument he employed was called the “leucotome.”

This instrument, the design of which was refined and modified by Egas Moniz and others, contained a retractable wire loop.

After the leucotome had been inserted into the brain, this wire loop was extended and the instrument was rotated. In the first leucotomy, one such rotation (or “core,” as Egas Moniz termed it) was made on each side of the brain; in subsequent operations, as many as 6 cores were made on each side of the brain.

Other physicians around the world also tested and refined the procedure developed by Moniz. Their different techniques were grouped under the heading “psychosurgery,” which Moniz had coined as an umbrella term for leucotomy, frontal lobotomy, transorbital lobotomy, and new variations on the same theme. Despite earlier experiences with brain surgery for mental disorders, Moniz was seen as the inventor.

THE FIRST LOBOTOMY. Long crippled by gout, Egas Moniz himself did not perform the operations; rather, he directed his younger colleague, the neurosurgeon Pedro Almeida Lima.

Initially, Egas Moniz used injections of alcohol to destroy nerve fibers in the frontal lobes. The first operation took place on November 12, 1935.

The patient was a 63-year-old woman with a long history of mental illness.

Two holes were drilled in the top of her skull and injections were made on both sides of the brain in the prefrontal area.

In the following weeks, Egas Moniz and Almeida Lima repeated this procedure with 6 more patients, steadily increasing the amount of alcohol injected.

With his 8th psychosurgical patient, however, Egas Moniz adopted a new method, cutting (or, at first, crushing) the nerve fibers.

This surgery, performed on December 27, 1935, may be called the first lobotomy.

INCREASE IN LOBOTOMY PROCEDURES. In the immediate postwar years, there was a dramatic increase in the number of lobotomies performed worldwide.

in the United States, lobotomies increased from approximately 500 per year in 1946 to 5000 in 1949.

When Egas Moniz received the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1949 for the development of the prefrontal lobotomy (he shared the award with Walter Rudolf Hess, a Swiss researcher recognized for his discovery of the function of the middle brain), the credibility of psychosurgery was further enhanced.

THE DECLINE. Within only a few years, however, by the mid-1950s, the number of lobotomies performed annually began to decline steeply. There were 2 reasons for this sudden turnabout:

Tranquilizing drugs such as Thorazine had been developed, and their widespread use was sufficient by itself to restrict lobotomy to exceptional cases; and

Serious concerns about the validity of lobotomy were being expressed in the medical community.

Some physicians had been opposed to lobotomy from the beginning.

But as more long-term studies of lobotomized patients became available, it became evident that proponents of lobotomy, like Egas Moniz before them, had not been objective in assessing the consequences of such surgery.

Although the operation as performed by Freeman and his colleagues became something quite different from Egas Moniz’s early attempts, lobotomy always involved radical injury to the frontal lobes.

Lobotomized patients frequently:

lost their abilities to plan ahead,

to think abstractly, and

to perform other vital functions.

In many cases, particularly in the treatment of patients suffering from schizophrenia, lobotomy was not only excessively costly in psychic terms but also generally ineffective.

In the 1960s and 1970s, growing public awareness of ties between the government and science and a new appreciation of the threat of various kinds of mind control led to the placement of further limitations on the use of psychosurgery, including some legislative restrictions.

Psychosurgery is still practiced in the United States on a small scale, with greater precision than ever before, thanks to technological advances and significant improvements in knowledge concerning the brain’s circuitry.

Despite such advances, resistance to psychosurgery remains high, both within the medical profession and among the general public.

SIDE EFFECTS ON PERSONALITY

Negative effects on personality were observed as early as the end of the 1930s.

In 1948, Swedish professor of forensic psychiatry Gösta Rylander, reported a mother as saying: “She is my daughter but yet a different person. She is with me in body but her soul is in some way lost.”

Hoffman (1949) writes: “these patients are not only no longer distressed by their mental conflicts but also seem to have little capacity for any emotional experiences – pleasurable or otherwise. They are described by the nurses and the doctors, over and over, as:

dull, apathetic, listless,

without drive or initiative,

flat, lethargic, placid and unconcerned,

childlike, docile, needing pushing,

passive, lacking in spontaneity,

without aim or purpose,

preoccupied and dependent.”

MOVEMENT AWAY from Prefrontal Leukotomy.

One year after Egas Moniz and Lima’s initial prefrontal leukotomy, American physician Walter Jackson Freeman II and surgeon James Watts began to modify the medical procedures. Freeman & Watts did away with the leukotome and started to:

drill holes on each side of the head, near the temples.

A blunt spatula was then inserted and

waved toward the top and back and toward the bottom of the head, effectively severing the neural connections between the frontal lobes and the thalamus.

This procedure came to be known as the Freeman-Watts standard lobotomy.

This procedure was believed to be more precise in its ability to selectively destroy connections between the frontal cortex and the thalamus and to produce better clinical results.

However, Freeman still did not like the fact it was a time-consuming surgery that involved drilling into the cranium and required an operating room.

In 1946, Freeman began to popularize a new version of the lobotomy called the transorbital procedure. Although this procedure had its beginnings in Italy in the late 1930s, Freeman altered the way that brain tissue would be destroyed. Freeman’s procedure involved:

taking a sharp metal instrument (he first used an ice pick; later specialized tools known as orbitoclasts would be developed) and placing it under the patient’s eyelid.

A mallet would then be used to tap the instrument until it broke through the thin bone behind the eye socket.

The instrument was then inserted a couple of inches into the head and moved back and forth.

Freeman perfected this procedure to the point that he could train another physician to complete it in ten minutes, without the use of a surgical room.

This simple transorbital procedure made it possible for lobotomies to be performed on a far larger number of patients.

Although Freeman himself performed about 3500 lobotomies during his career, it is believed that tens of thousands of lobotomies were performed worldwide.

One of the most famous cases has been that of Rosemary Kennedy who received a lobotomy (performed by Freeman and Watts) to control her "mood swings" and subsequently became incapacitated.

TREATMENT EFFECTIVENESS

Of Egas Moniz’s first 20 patients, 14 were reported to have recovered or to have substantially improved.

The remaining 6 were believed to have shown some improvement in that they had had more severe symptoms (hallucinations and delusions) before the surgery.

Egas Moniz was criticized, however, because he followed his patients for only a few days after the surgery. One follow-up study that was conducted 12 years later revealed that the results were not as positive as initially reported.

Freeman reported that patients, with the exception of those who were suffering from chronic schizophrenia and a limited number of other types of psychosis, generally benefited from the procedure.

Follow-up studies have found that it is difficult to determine who will benefit from a lobotomy and what kinds of detrimental effects the procedure will have on emotions and cognition.

Also, proselytizers of the procedure overstated the positive outcomes.

Despite some initial reports of patient improvement following lobotomies, subsequent evaluations revealed mixed results, and many patients experienced significant adverse effects on their emotions and cognition.

The operation was widespread during the 1940s and 1950s, but it became apparent that it could lead to serious personality changes.

By the mid-1950s, the advent of effective antipsychotic medications, such as chlorpromazine (Thorazine), began to transform the lives of residential psychiatric patients to the point that lobotomies became seldom used.

TODAY, lobotomy is considered a controversial and largely outdated practice, reflective of an era when options for managing severe mental illness were limited.

Lobotomies are no longer performed; however, psychosurgery, the surgical removal of specific regions of the brain, is occasionally used to treat patients whose symptoms have resisted all other treatments.

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