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grotesquevi · 1 month ago

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‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎after she's injured she has nowhere to go but your place.

18+ mdni, men go away, thigh grinding, titty love, fingering, dirty talk, pet names, slight degradation/dumbification blink and miss it, ass play, spit, there are descriptions of a 'wound', but i'm no doctor sorry if you are. 2.5k

side note — if you recognize this it may be because my previous account @vicorices got deleted out of nowhere, i'm trying to get all my work back up again cause of tumblr's dumb ass, check out my masterlists to help me out fic hunting!

it’s not fair she’s so into you.

makes her weak cause she has to surrender to you in the end, no choices allowed cause sevika knows, deep down, it's not going to stop as much as she'd like it to. not when you're grinding on her leg like that, when you're coating her skin with arousal so deliberately, making her look down just to find out the wet splotch in your underwear getting bigger and bigger with each roll of your hips, the moans filling the air of your living room — she has no use but to let you get off from something so simple as riding her thigh, mainly ‘cause it's a personal need too.

"you're takin' good care of me, aren't you sweet girl?" now usually, she does a better work staying away from you, avoiding you as much as it's possible; but it gets difficult when she knocks on your door at three in the morning, bleeding out and capable of tossing her pride aside in no time, whatever cost it may bring. "lift up your shirt and let me see those pretty tits, i deserve to see more of my girl."

well fuck, when did it get so personal?

must be when you have told her not to come near your street several times, a non-spoken rule she respects until she has nowhere to go, opening the door so damn mad she thought you were going to kick her out for a second cause she can help but be a damn flirt around you, leaning into the wall even when she's bleeding — seeking for your attention.

it's always like that when she gets too attached to someone, as much as she tries to avoid it she ends ups carrying them too close to her heart: silco in the moment, crazy ass jinx, that damn kid who’s always following, she gives loyalty like dog, so it's suffocating. cause you don't kick her out like she secretly wishes to, but instead, you push her inside, helping her walk to your sofa as you kneel between her legs, bitching about not being a doctor, about not being able to help her as you look at the cut closely.

and sevika knows she shouldn't have come to see you cause you look so damn inviting it's annoying, alluring with those big eyes you give as you look up to her, the concentrated face as your fingers shake over her skin, helping her out like she asks you to, shivering under her words of encouragement when you're sewing her skin back together after five minutes of pure whining.

it’s safe to say it slowly consumes her, your breathing against her sore skin. does things for her, half delirious for the amount of times she's been trying to excuse herself by saying she's dizzy from blood loss, a fucking lie you can tell already — “stay there for a while” she asks when you finish, cupping your face in the palm of her flesh hand, thumb rubbing against your cheek, tracing the outline of your lips afterwards "there's not a single thing you do wrong huh? not even stitch me up on a lonely friday night."

“what are you doing?”

“you know damn well what i’m doing, bunny. i miss you," everything's so fast after that, her voice is husky as she speaks, playing with the strands of your hair, twirling it in her index finger, relishing the sensation of you close to her once again — "i miss you. fuck i miss you so much it's burning me alive."

it's an old habit, it's enough to make you crumble cause you're allowing her to make you sit on her leg, gasping as the cold metal of her mechanic arm holds you down while the other caress your side without a rush: she has nowhere to be but there, with you on her lap.

you'd like to be difficult now, play hard to get even, but it's so right in the moment, like you've been craving it for weeks you don’t dare to say a single word — "you're going to pull out your stitches like that" you mutter instead, voice raspy when she's moving your hair to the side, sucking on the skin of your neck until she's sure it will leave a mark behind, reminders of all being real. "sev-"

"i can handle pain, i don't care" sevika fully believes it, squeezing the skin of your waist. she missed having you like that — "don’t make up excuses, just tell me to stop. tell me if you want me to leave, cause i won’t do it on my own."

it’s tempting, yet you cannot say it as you stare at her, at her gray eyes, the new haircut and the blueish scar in her cheek: you want her there. "you’re injured, you’re not going anywhere like that."

“no,” she shakes her head in denial, not quite the answer she expected to hear — “tell me you want me to stay cause you want me to, not because of a wound. because you miss me too.”

greedy bitch. she’s enjoying every second of it, knowing damn well she got you under her skin already, that she can get out a response from you every time she puts a finger on your skin. “you know i miss you."

fuck her pride. fuck anything else but the taste of your lips, the sounds you make when you enjoy something too much muffled against sevika’s hungry cavity. it’s almost feverish as her tongue rolls inside your mouth, squeezing your cheeks as she stoles the air from your lungs, your heart racing by the seconds.

that’s how you got to that point at least, cause she's kissing you dumb for a moment and the next one she's holding your ass with a tight grip, pushing you against her just to make you remind her about her stitches, her recent wounded state, but in all honesty she's not really listening to any bitching, no; sevika's deeply lost in her senses, the sight of you getting messier with each one of her kisses, the scent of the bubble-gum induced taste in your mouth mixing up with her own saliva — the engulfed moans that somehow makes you look needier than you already are.

and you're not telling her to leave, not receiving any complain as her flesh hand tugs on the fabric of your shirt like a fair warning that you already know what it means, you're not being rational cause you miss her deeply, so much time needing her you cannot help but give in, even when you'd call yourself insane sooner or later.

"i miss you," it's like a poem sevika wishes to hear over and over again, how you, very much like her, are being thrown at a constant state of aching. "i miss you a lot, and it's not fair. keeping me around like this-"

your hand rest over the stitches you covered with gauze, and fuck, she must be damn tripping, cause you're straddling her lap, shirt riding over your stomach giving her the damn royal treatment and you have the decency of being careful with her, gentle.

no. she does not want to be in love, not ever again, but she's betrayed once again as her silent big heart is choking because she's seeing you again, falling apart like you used to, taking the privilege of something so private for herself, surrendering to an act of pure war and love cause that's what she came for in the first place, you.

"don't move. i can do it for us both," do you have any idea of how difficult it gets for her? with you speaking like that? "please. don't bleed out on my couch. need you alive tomorrow, don't move much."

"you're takin' good care of me, aren't you sweet girl?" — your hips began to move against her tight and it's like you want to show her how much you love grinding on her leg like a fucking puppy, how you missed the pleasure she can only bring, how you been missing her."lift up your shirt and let me see those pretty tits, i deserve to see more of my girl."

she lights the cigarette you were smoking cause she don't want to piss you off, enjoying the simple pleasures of life cause she loves it when you take control, giving you space to remove your shirt only to let her see you fully, the sweat going down your skin, the movements in your waist as you try to ride her better.

hell of a show.

and even as you try to muffle your moans, it's pretty impossible when your underwear sticks to your pussy cause of the stupid amount of arousal that now stains the fabric, the constant contact with her pants that being so sensitive makes you docile, compliant to any of her wishes, the hungry look she gives you comfortably seated, the weight of sevika's gaze traveling from your half lidded eyes down your chest until between your legs, a triumph half-smile on her lips as as the smell of your apple tobacco fills the air.

"you're dripping in my pants baby, can't wait f'me to take them off?" she asks, and her fingers create this line as they touch from your neck to your mount, stopping over your breasts, kneading them in her whole hand — "can't be this wet just for riding me bunny, i haven't even touched you yet. do you miss me that much ma'? miss being my pretty whore?"

she knows where to touch, where to kiss as if she forgot about the damn pain in her sore muscles, like the entire world narrows down to you. the cigarette consumes on the ashtray as she leans to suck on your already hard nipples, tongue roaming from one to another, tugging and biting at her will before you make her breathing hitch on her throat — "stay with me tonight."

it's a bad idea, but your hand guides hers down to your cunt and it's physically impossible for sevika to say no to you, deny your wishes cause she's so down to give you whatever you need, an invitation that makes her chest full of pride as she makes your underwear to the side, quickly coating them with clear gush as they slide between your soaked folds.

"vika-" whatever you might say dies in your tongue, gets lost in the air as two fingers come up to your swollen clit, sensitive already against her touches that do not go past the necessary, a back and forth motion that pushes you tantalizingly close to the edge — "baby."

"want to you feel you through my pants," your hole is clenching around nothing, forcing you to move as her mechanic hand shoves you against her leg. "be good and cum all over your pretty underwear."

your body shakes involuntarily, cause it only takes her muscular thigh, dirty words and her fingers on your clit to make you act up all desperate, a loud moan escaping your lips when finally reach your much desired peak, watching in awe how you disintegrate for a moment and everything seems to become meaningless.

"i cannot touch you with these on," sevika mutters seconds after, not close to having enough as she pulls on the string of your soaked underwear, unusable now as she makes you stand between her legs before she's all over you, struggling to keep the hands to herself as she hugs you, gripping the curve of your ass to pull you against her, face resting right over your waist as your hand caress the black strands of her recently trimmed hair.

you’ve heard it before, the advice you tend to ignore: she’s no good for you, she's no good for you as she makes you turn around, coaxing you with praises only to have you bend right over the waist, when she makes your underwear fall to the ground and you're leaning to bare yourself to her eyes only.

and it makes sevika salivate, needy at it's worst when she can notice your wet folds, the way you're dripping down, creamy white right in your untouched hole, messy and asking for more. your clit’s already puffy, pushing her to just touch, make you beg for more so she's weak, weak as keeps you there, showing your ass like it was all her's to take, warm and pliant as she plunges two fingers inside your needy cunt, slowly making room for her thick digits until she’s stretching you open.

your legs shake as sevika's fingers sink inside, and she's so eager to see, the zaunite finds herself moving to have a better view of the traces of your already wet cunt sticking to her hand, of your pussy already twitching, sucking her back in.

"look at this" the woman trails off, drunk on the sight of you spread in front of her eyes, the bliss when you're looking at her from over your shoulder with a cheeky smile that will stick on her memory — "makin' space for me s'good bunny, can you hear that? the sounds of your cunt taking me perfectly?"

there's no time for answering cause sevika's taking, too high on you, on the reactions of your body as she spreads you open, kissing on your ass cheeks before her face's there and her tongue is pushing against your pucker hole, gathering a good amount of saliva to spit on it.

"mmf-please," you loudly whine "m'gonna cum-"

sevika wants the moment to linger, make you cum over and over again but she cannot stop when she's seeing the transparent color of her saliva mix up with your arousal as her fingers fucked you at a much faster pace now. her nose darts against your skin, and she has to help you stand when she's licking your rear so eagerly, circling the ring, teasing you with focused licks, pushing dangerously against your tight hole.

and the sight of it is nasty, blush creeps upon your neck as her mechanic arm grabs your hand to place it in your back, the slam of her own fingers almost irritating her as they make you move forward with each thrust, far from her mouth.

sevika’s oblivious for a second. it's not her fault either way, cause you cum right in her fingers, panting out your ex-girlfriend's name as your body goes limp and she has to take you right in her arms cause you cannot seem to hold your own weight.

it’s imposible to think about the stitches, and more importantly — about the fact that she cannot stay by any means. no when you're always better off without her in the picture.

could it get any better in her safe heaven?

#⋮ ⌗ ┆ grotesquevi ᵎᵎ ✮#riva's remaster ⋆.˚#arcane smut #arcane x reader #arcane au #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika #arcane sevika #sevika fic #sevika x y/n #sevika smut #arcane sevika x reader #arcane sevika smut #sevika arcane x reader #sevika arcane smut

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shaiyasstuff · 3 months ago

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pit-a-pat | zayne

synopsis : He was never really yours. Not when she existed.

content : ANGST, zayne x non-mc!reader, some cannon some non-cannon, doctor zayne (a dash of sylus x reader)

It started beautifully.

Not with fireworks or declarations, but with something quieter—something softer.

You met Zayne on a Tuesday. The skies were overcast, and the campus café was packed with students trying to squeeze in one last coffee before the end-of-term chaos. You had just picked up your order, arms full of books and notes and a half-finished thought buzzing in your mind, when you turned too quickly and collided with someone.

The impact jolted through you. Your books scattered, your pen rolled under a chair, and your coffee splashed onto your sleeve. You let out a soft curse under your breath, flustered, apologizing before you even looked up.

Then a hand reached down, brushing against yours.

“I’m sorry,” came a low voice.

You looked up.

And that was the first time you saw him.

Zayne.

Tall, composed, sharp around the edges but inexplicably gentle in the way he moved. His eyes—hazel green, clear and steady—met yours like they already knew you. Like they had always known you.

He picked up your pen, handed it to you.

“I owe you a coffee,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

You smiled. Gave him your number.

The rest unfolded the way falling does—slow, weightless, inevitable.

There were no grand gestures. No overly rehearsed first dates. You didn’t even realize you were falling in love with him until you already had. He was simply there, steady and quiet and comforting in a way the world rarely is.

He never raised his voice. Never made you feel like you had to be more or less than exactly who you were. He wasn’t perfect—he kept things to himself, and his silences could stretch into days—but you loved him all the same. You told yourself it was enough. That love was never about loudness, but about staying.

And Zayne stayed.

For eight years.

You stood beside him through every sleepless night of his internship, through every heartbreak he brought home from the hospital. You held his hand when he was promoted, when he won awards, when the weight of lives saved and lost pressed too heavily against his shoulders.

You built a quiet life together. Shared takeout containers and cold pillows. Lazy Sunday mornings and long nights where your laptop glowed across the room as he dozed off beside you in his scrubs.

You became a writer, the kind with notebooks full of fictional heartbreaks, never quite knowing you were walking toward your own.

And you thought—foolishly, recklessly—that he was your ending.

That one day, you would wear white, and he would wait for you at the altar, hands trembling, heart full.

But some love stories are not meant to be lived. Only written.

—•

You stood outside his office now.

Your hand clutched his notebook, the one he left behind this morning in his rush to get to the hospital. His keys jangled faintly against your palm. You had texted, but he hadn’t responded. It wasn’t unusual. He got busy.

You told yourself that.

But the dread sitting in your chest was new.

The door to his office was slightly ajar. You stepped closer without thinking, intending only to knock—just knock, hand the things over, and leave.

But then, you heard his voice.

Low. Familiar. But not like you’d ever heard it before.

“I did this all… for you.”

Your body went still.

Inside, Zayne was standing with a girl you didn’t recognize—not at first. She was smaller than you, delicate. Her eyes were wide and wet. Zayne’s hand hovered just beside her cheek, and his other gripped her forearm like she was something slipping from his grasp.

“I planned this. To be your physician. To work here. Just so I could see you.”

The world tilted.

A cold, sharp pressure settled in your chest, and your fingers loosened. The keys dropped first, hitting the floor with a sound that sliced through the silence. His notebook followed, landing with a dull thud on the waiting chair beside the door.

Both of them turned.

She looked at you with startled recognition.

Zayne’s eyes locked onto yours. And in that instant, everything changed.

You knew.

You remembered her now. He had mentioned her once. His childhood friend. The one with the heart condition. A passing story over dinner, shared like a memory too old to matter.

You hadn’t thought anything of it then.

But you understood now.

She wasn’t a memory.

She was the reason.

The reason he became a doctor. The reason he worked here.

The reason for his choices, his ambition, his silence.

The reason he stayed up at night, staring at the ceiling.

The reason he chose a life of saving people—so he wouldn’t lose her.

You wanted to ask him if it was all a lie. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

And he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t come after you.

He just stood there. Watching.

And that hurt more than anything else.

You turned and walked away.

Not out of pride. Not out of anger.

But because staying would’ve shattered you in ways you weren’t sure you could recover from.

You made it to the elevator before the tears came. Quiet ones, slipping down your cheeks like they had every right to be there. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t try to breathe through the ache.

You let them fall.

Eight years.

Eight years of loving someone who had always belonged to someone else.

You had been writing your love story in ink.

But he had written his in pencil. And now, he had erased you.

You don’t go home right away.

You wander the streets with no destination, the city blurring past you like watercolor in the rain. Cars pass. People pass. The world keeps moving, unaware that yours has come undone.

By the time you return to your apartment, it’s dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You sit on the edge of the bed where he’s slept beside you for years, staring at the familiar shapes in the shadows—his worn coat slung over the chair, the framed photo on the nightstand, the mug with his initials you always forget to put away.

And then the door clicks.

You don’t move.

You hear the soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off. The hesitant steps down the hallway.

Then his voice.

“Hey.”

Quiet. Careful. Like the word might break.

You still don’t move.

A beat. Two. Then he speaks again. “I didn’t expect you to be there.”

You almost laugh. Didn’t expect—

You turn slowly to face him. The expression on your face is not angry. It’s worse.

It’s tired.

Empty.

“What was I supposed to see, Zayne?” you ask. Your voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s raw. “Because all I saw was a man in love with someone else.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t even flinch.

He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze he always has, like he’s weighing truths against silence. Like he’s trying to choose the least painful version of honesty.

“She was sick,” he says quietly. “You knew that.”

“That’s not the part that hurts.” Your words are sharp, but they don’t rise in volume. “The part that hurts is you built your whole life around her—and I didn’t know. I loved you for eight years. And I didn’t know.”

Zayne’s eyes darken, but he says nothing.

You continue, barely able to keep your voice steady. “Every step you took, every choice you made—becoming a doctor, working at Akso Hospital… You said you wanted to help people. You made me believe that was who you were.”

“I am that,” he says quickly.

“But that’s not why you did it.” Your voice cracks on the last word. “You did it for her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You almost laugh again, but it turns into something hollow.

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo, staring at him like you’re trying to memorize the face of someone you no longer recognize. “Zayne, I built my life around you. I was ready to marry you. I was planning forever with someone who—”

You choke. You try to breathe.

“—with someone who’s heart was never really mine.”

His shoulders stiffen. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” you say. “You loved her. You still love her. I was just… convenient.”

“That’s not true,” he says sharply. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice. “You weren’t convenient. You were—”

“What, Zayne? What was I?” you whisper. “A distraction? A substitute? Someone you convinced yourself you could be happy with because she wasn’t here?”

He looks away. That’s all the answer you need.

You don’t cry. Not this time. There’s nothing left in you to fall apart.

Instead, you stand.

“I would’ve understood if you had just told me,” you say quietly. “I would’ve left. I would’ve let you go. But you didn’t. You let me believe I was your person. And now, I don’t even know what was real.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move past him. He doesn’t call your name.

He just stands there, in the center of the hallway, with guilt written all over his face.

And you realize, for all his brilliance, for all the lives he’s saved.

Zayne never had the courage to save yours from this.

—•

You don’t even know why you agreed to be here.

Maybe part of you wanted closure. Maybe the angrier part of you wanted to look her in the eye and find something—anything—to blame.

Or maybe, in the raw aftermath of it all, you just wanted to understand what could possibly be so powerful that it unraveled eight years of your life like thread from a seam.

The hospital courtyard is quiet when you arrive. The air is cold, overcast with a brittle kind of stillness. You sit down on the far end of the stone bench, your hands curled inside your coat sleeves. The silence hums in your ears.

You almost leave.

But then you hear footsteps—soft, hesitant.

She stops in front of you. The girl.

The reason.

She looks like something out of a different life—slight, pale, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and her face is gentle in a way that feels unfair.

You wish she had sharpness to her. Arrogance.

Something you could hate on sight.

But she doesn’t.

She looks… kind.

And somehow, that hurts more.

“Hi,” she says, tentative.

You don’t answer. You just watch her, expression unreadable, trying to see what he must’ve seen.

She glances down, wringing her hands. “Thanks for coming.”

You almost say don’t thank me. Almost. But the words stay behind your teeth.

She sits, carefully keeping distance between you.

A long silence stretches out.

“I know this is strange,” she begins, “and I don’t want to make anything worse. I just thought… maybe you deserved to hear it from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Did you know about me?”

She hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly. That answer burns.

“So you knew,” you murmur, your voice tighter than you want it to be, “and you still let it happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” she says softly. “I didn’t come looking for him. I didn’t expect to see him again. And when I did, I didn’t know how to undo it.”

Undo it. As if this is something she can unspool. As if your heart was a thread to pull clean.

You turn to her then, finally meeting her gaze. “I tried to hate you.”

She flinches, but you continue.

“I wanted to. I really, really did. I told myself you were selfish. That you ruined everything. That he wouldn’t have drifted if you hadn’t been there.”

Your eyes sting. But the tears stay where they are.

“I needed to hate you. Because hating him… it’s harder. And hating myself—well, that’s already happening.”

She looks at you with something close to sorrow. Not pity. Not guilt. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“I never meant to take anything from you,” she says. “But I think… I always had him. Even when I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. That’s the part that kills you.

“It wasn’t fair,” you whisper. “I loved him for eight years. I gave him everything. And he—he was building a life around you the entire time.”

The girl’s lips tremble. “I don’t think he knew how to let go of me. Not fully. I don’t even think he knew he hadn’t.”

You close your eyes. The wind picks up, threading cold fingers through your coat.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice hollow. “I thought we were preparing for a wedding. Turns out, I was standing in the way of a reunion.”

Silence falls again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

She blinks quickly, her throat working around words she can’t say. “I’m sorry.”

You believe her. That’s the worst part.

You wanted her to be cruel, or callous, or indifferent. You wanted her to be easy to hate.

But she’s just a girl with a fragile heart, loved too deeply by someone who was never entirely yours to begin with.

You rise slowly. Your legs feel heavy, as if grief has settled in your joints.

“I hope he saves you,” you murmur. “I hope it’s worth everything he lost.”

You don’t wait for her to respond.

You leave. And this time, you don’t cry.

But something in you quietly, irrevocably, closes.

—•

He shows up three days later.

You don’t know how he finds the nerve.

You’ve ignored his calls. His texts. The pathetic, half-sincere “Can we talk?” messages that began the night after the garden. He should’ve known better. He should’ve stayed gone.

But here he is.

You hear the knock this time. You sit still for a moment, your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket you’ve barely left for days, breath caught between dread and fury.

He knocks again. Harder this time.

You stand. Not because you want to see him—because you need to. To put a face to the damage.

When you open the door, it’s like nothing has changed. He’s still Zayne. Rain-damp, serious, heartbreakingly familiar in that coat you once buried your face into when the world felt too loud.

But he’s not yours anymore.

Not really.

“What do you want?” you ask. No softness. No welcome.

His jaw tenses. “To talk.”

Your laugh is sharp and joyless. “Of course. Now you talk.”

“I know I should’ve—”

“Spare me the guilt,” you snap. “I’m not in the mood to hear you pretend this wasn’t calculated.”

He flinches. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh no?” You take a step forward. “You became a doctor for her, Zayne. You took a job at her hospital. You became her physician. How long were you going to keep lying to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me!” you shout. “That’s the same thing!”

Your voice echoes through the hallway. You don’t care who hears. You want it to hurt.

He looks at you, lips parted like he wants to defend himself—but nothing comes out.

“I asked you once,” you continue, quieter now but no less cutting, “why you wanted to be a doctor. You told me it was to save lives. You looked me in the eye and lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” he says again, harsher now. “That’s still true. Saving her doesn’t make that less real.”

“It makes everything less real,” you spit. “Eight years, Zayne. I gave you everything. I built a future around someone who was still living in his past.”

“She almost died,” he snaps. “Do you understand that? She was twelve. I thought I lost her. I made a promise—”

“To her,” you interrupt. “You made a promise to her, and you made a life with me. You don’t get to have both.”

He falls silent.

His hands are clenched at his sides. His mouth is tight. You can tell he wants to argue, but he won’t. Because he knows you’re right.

“She was never gone,” you whisper. “Not from your heart. Not from your plans. And you… you let me believe I was enough. That I was your beginning and your end. But I was just—” your voice cracks, “I was just a pause in the story you’d always meant to return to.”

He shakes his head, voice strained. “That’s not what you were.”

“Then what was I, Zayne?”

He looks at you like he’s searching for the right words. The truth. But it’s too late for carefully packaged honesty.

You take a breath. It’s cold in your lungs. “You don’t get to grieve this. Not now. Not when you’re the one who ended it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You laugh again. This time, it sounds like it might break you. “But you did.”

You walk back inside and return a minute later with the box—his books, his charger, the old hoodie you used to sleep in. You shove it into his arms.

He doesn’t take it right away. “Please—don’t let this be how it ends.”

You stare at him, empty. Tired. “Zayne, it ended the moment you chose silence.”

He lowers his head. Grips the box like it’s the only thing holding him together.

And when he finally turns to leave, you don’t stop him.

This time, you don’t look back.

And this time—he does cry.

He doesn’t go home.

Not right away.

He drives. Somewhere. Anywhere. The roads blur beneath the city lights, each turn as pointless as the last. He forgets where he’s meant to be.

He doesn’t cry at first.

That doesn’t happen until later—when he pulls over on the side of an empty street, kills the engine, and sits in the silence he spent years wrapping around his truth.

And then it hits him.

Not like a punch. No, it’s slower than that.

It’s the steady, suffocating realization that you’re gone.

Really gone.

Not just upset. Not waiting for him to make it right.

Gone, because you loved him too deeply to stay where you were never really seen.

He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales a broken sound that might be a sob. Might be a prayer. Might just be everything finally coming undone.

How did he get here?

He thinks back to when you met. Your laugh—unexpected, soft. The way you always saw right through his silences, but never pushed too hard. How you held his hand during exams, during sleepless nights, during the moments he thought he might collapse under the weight of what he couldn’t say.

And now?

Now you won’t even look at him.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’d clung so tightly to a ghost of the past, he never noticed he was strangling the only real thing he had left.

The worst part? He meant it. Every word he said to the other girl. The promise. The devotion. He did want to save her. He did want to protect her.

But he never asked himself why.

Maybe he thought saving her would fix something in him. That if he kept his promise, if he held on tightly enough, he’d redeem himself for that helpless, broken boy who once stood in an ER, covered in blood that didn’t belong to him.

But he never meant to love both.

Not like this.

He stares out the windshield, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. It reminds him of you. Of the way you never cried in front of him—not even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

And that night in the hallway—your voice shaking but never pleading. Your eyes full of betrayal, not begging. That was love, too. The kind that breaks itself before it breaks you.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, as if that will erase the weight in his chest.

But it stays.

God, it stays.

And for the first time since med school, since the long nights that almost drowned him, Zayne doesn’t know what to do.

Not with himself.

Not with this regret.

He was always good at silence. At burying what he didn’t want to face.

But this time, silence cost him the only person who ever stayed.

The hospital doesn’t feel the same.

It should.

Same corridors. Same sterile smell. Same rustle of nurses’ shoes against polished floors. He walks these halls every day—he knows the pattern of the tiles, the rhythm of the fluorescent lights above. He’s built a life inside this place.

But now?

It feels hollow. Too bright in some places. Too quiet in others.

He stands outside Operating Room B with a chart in his hand, staring at words he isn’t reading. His mind drifts. Again.

“Doctor Zayne?”

He blinks. A nurse is looking at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“You’re needed in Cardiology.”

Right. Cardiology. Her department.

He nods, mutters something close to thanks, and moves.

He still performs the surgeries. Still signs the charts. Still nods when interns look at him like he holds the world in his hands.

But something is gone.

And it’s not skill. It’s not precision.

Its presence.

He’s no longer in his life. He’s moving through it. Performing. Like muscle memory.

The girl—his childhood friend—she’s recovering. Stable. And she smiles when she sees him, small and grateful and warm.

But it doesn’t make him feel anything.

Not now.

Not since he saw the look on your face—the woman he promised a future to. The one who gave him all of herself without knowing he was never giving you all of him.

He remembers your hands, trembling when you pushed the box into his arms. The edge in your voice when you asked, “Then what was I, Zayne?”

He didn’t have an answer then.

He still doesn’t.

Because how do you explain to someone that they were your peace, your softness, your home—and you lost them because you couldn’t let go of a promise made by a boy who hadn’t learned how to speak his grief out loud?

Zayne finds himself in the stairwell, long after his shift ends. He doesn’t even remember walking here.

He sits on the steps. Folds forward. Buries his face in his hands.

He doesn’t cry. He already did that. He’s past crying now.

What he feels now is worse.

Emptiness.

The kind that seeps into everything.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your name. Stares at the last message you sent.

“Can you grab oat milk on the way home?”

He didn’t even answer it.

He thinks about texting. Something. Anything.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know I was choosing wrong until you were gone.”

But he doesn’t.

Because what could he say now that wouldn’t sound like too little, too late?

And because maybe—deep down—he knows you deserve someone who doesn’t have to lose you to realize you were everything.

—•

You were sitting at your usual corner table in a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist—one of those quiet places where time didn’t feel so heavy. You weren’t writing. Not that day. You just sat there, fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, watching the world through a pane of glass slick with water.

Existing in the small, still spaces between grief and recovery.

You had been doing that a lot lately. Watching.

It was raining. Of course it was.

It had been seven months since Zayne. Since the silence. Since the hallway.

You hadn’t dated anyone. You couldn’t.

Not when your heart still ached in places you hadn’t named.

That’s where you met Sylus.

He walked in, his footsteps confident as he strides up to the counter.

You didn’t look up at first. Just heard the low hum of the door chime, the soft sound of boots on wet tile. Then came the voice.

“I’ll take whatever’s strongest and not completely terrible.”

It made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

White silver hair that stood out against the interior of the coffee shop.

Sharp-featured. Tall. Dressed in black with a half-dried coat slung over one arm and stormy red eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He looked… misfit.

Like someone who had gotten lost on his way to something louder.

He caught you staring.

Smirked.

“Judging me already?” he said as he passed your table.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You looked like you came in here by accident.”

“I did.” He set his cup on the table across from yours without asking. “Lucky me.”

You stared at him. He stared right back. There was no hesitation in him.

No over-eagerness. No rehearsed charm. Just a strange kind of confidence, like he didn’t care whether you invited him in or not.

And yet… somehow, he was easy to talk to.

That first conversation was short. Nothing special. He told you he was in the city for work. Said he hated the rain. You said you didn’t mind it.

He teased you for that. Called you a poet. You didn’t correct him.

Before he left, he asked for your name. Then he gave you his. Sylus.

He didn’t ask for your number. He didn’t flirt. He just said, “Maybe I’ll see you here again.”

And you did.

The next week. And the week after that.

Same table. Same rain.

He never asked about your past, and you never asked about his.

He talked to you like you were new. Like you weren’t made of broken pieces.

And you liked that.

You liked that he didn’t try to fix you. That he didn’t reach for your scars or ask what happened.

He just saw you. All of you.

Eventually, you started writing again.

He’d sit across from you, reading some obscure book or sketching something in a notebook he never let you see.

“You ever gonna tell me what that is?” you asked one afternoon.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “when you’re done hiding behind yours.”

You laughed. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel strange.

He didn’t slip into your life the way Zayne did.

No, Sylus walked in with loud footsteps and called attention to all the parts of you that still needed to be held.

And when he finally kissed you—months later, after too many late nights and half-finished conversations—he didn’t whisper promises.

He only said, “You don’t have to be ready. Just let me stay.”

And you did.

Now, you’re curled up on the couch in one of Sylus’s old sweaters, legs folded beneath you, a half-read book resting in your lap.

You’ve read the same paragraph three times. The words blur and smear.

Not because you’re tired—though you are—but because your thoughts won’t sit still.

He notices.

He always does.

Sylus steps out from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. You hadn’t asked for tea. You never really need to. He knows the nights when you can’t quite find your center.

He sits beside you, close but never crowding, and offers the cup without a word.

You take it, fingers brushing his. His touch is warm. Steady.

You don’t speak right away.

He doesn’t push.

That’s the thing about Sylus. He doesn’t try to draw the pain out of you. He just makes space for it. Holds it. Waits until you’re ready.

After a long moment, you say quietly, “It’s almost been two years.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since him?”

You nod.

Sylus leans back against the couch, stretching an arm along the top. Not possessive. Just there. Like a safety net.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really. I just… thought I’d be past the memory by now.”

He hums softly. “Memories don’t care about time. They’re like bruises under the skin. You forget they’re there until something presses too hard.”

You glance at him, lips tugging into a faint, worn smile. “Is that your poetic way of saying it’s okay to feel like this?”

He smirks. “It’s my poetic way of saying I’m not going anywhere.”

Your smile softens. Fades into something real.

He’s never tried to replace what came before. Never asked you to forget it. He simply stayed.

When you turned away.

When you flinched at first touch.

When you said not yet.

When you said I’m not whole.

Sylus looked you in the eye and said, You don’t have to be.

And you believed him.

Now, you lean your head against his shoulder, tea still warm between your hands. He lets you rest there in silence.

No questions. No expectations.

Just the quiet knowing that this—whatever it is—is something different.

Something earned.

And when his hand finds yours and doesn’t let go, you feel it again.

That peace you thought you’d never know after Zayne.

The kind of love that doesn’t arrive like a storm.

But like a home.

—•

Two years later, you see him again.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t prepared for it.

It’s a charity gala, the kind Sylus rarely agrees to attend, but he’s here tonight for you.

One hand on your back, the other wrapped loosely around a glass of champagne he hasn’t touched. He looks just like he always does, sharp suit, sharp tongue, a man made of storm and steel, and yet—when he looks at you, it softens him.

Always.

You never thought you’d get to feel this way again.

Safe.

Loved.

Chosen.

You’re speaking to someone—maybe a publisher, maybe a donor—you don’t really remember.

And then you feel it.

That cold flicker down your spine.

That familiar stillness before the silence breaks.

You turn.

And there he is.

Zayne.

Two years older. A little more tired. A little less certain.

He’s standing just across the room, alone in a sea of people.

He looks like he doesn’t quite belong here, like he’s watching a world he no longer fits into.

And then his eyes find you.

You don’t look away.

You let him see it—all of it.

The soft smile on your lips. The ring on your finger. The way Sylus leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple without even realizing he’s doing it.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. Not really. But you feel the ripple.

Because this time, you are not the one breaking.

You are not the one watching love walk away.

You’re standing still.

And someone is holding on.

You excuse yourself quietly from the conversation, fingers brushing Sylus’s wrist as you turn to whisper something.

He catches the look in your eyes. He knows. Of course he knows.

But he says nothing. Just stays close. Just keeps his hand resting at the small of your back like he’s reminding you—you’re not alone.

When you approach, Zayne doesn’t speak right away.

He just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the life you’ve built without him. The one he didn’t stay long enough to deserve.

“You look…” he begins, but falters. His voice is rougher now. Thinner.

“Happy?” you offer gently.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You glance back at Sylus, who’s watching from a respectful distance, sharp-eyed and protective as ever. He always gives you space when you need it. But never too far.

“I didn’t know you were back in the city,” Zayne says.

You nod. “We moved here last spring.”

“We?”

“My husband and I.”

He flinches—just barely. But you see it.

You don’t gloat. You don’t need to.

There’s a grace in moving on that silence can never rewrite.

“He’s good to you?” Zayne asks.

You smile. “He sees me.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Sharp. True.

Zayne swallows hard. “I’m glad.”

You nod. And this time, it’s real. “So am I.”

You don’t stay long. Just long enough for him to see that you survived him. That you bloomed after the break. That someone else saw what he couldn’t hold.

You return to Sylus without looking back.

He slides his arm around your waist and leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am now.”

And as the music rises and the crowd begins to move again, you rest your hand over your husband’s and let yourself forget the boy who couldn’t choose you.

Because you’ve already chosen the man who never had to be asked.

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flowersforbucky · 10 months ago

Text

delirium

bucky barnes x reader (sex pollen trope)

word count: 4.1k

summary: stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you.

warnings/tags: sex pollen, dub con, unprotected sex, oral, masturbation, angst, descriptions of physical pain, language, friends to lovers, avenger!reader, no use of y/n, reader is afab, 18+ only

flashbacks are in italics

Sometime in the near future, there would be a case study conducted on how long a human being could burn from the inside without dying.

They would refer to you as exhibit a.

Doctors and scientists would lay your cold corpse on a colder table and use a scalpel to cut you from your thorax to your belly button. They would scribble notes about how your lungs had turned to ash and your esophagus to molten lava.

They wouldn't say it, but they would think it's a shame, because your driver's license states that you were an organ donor.

A harsh gust of wind snaps you out of the twisted fantasy and back to your reality - standing barefoot on the rickety front porch steps of a small cabin in Sitka, Alaska. You've only been outside for a few minutes but the snow is pouring down at a brutal pace, already covering the tops of your exposed feet.

The razor sharp chill of the ground below you and the air that surrounds you are the only things tethering you to what little remains of your sanity.

You never thought that you would be so thankful for your feet to be going numb, but after feeling like every fiber of your being is getting melted with a hot branding iron for - what? Ten? Twelve hours now? You had to resist the temptation to submerge your entire body in the multiple feet of snow that had accumulated since nightfall.

You hear the front door of the cabin creak open from behind you. You don't have to turn around to know that he's standing in the doorway with the same look of pleading desperation that he's been giving you since the two of you had realized what was happening.

“You need to come back inside,” he says delicately. His voice is muffled by the roar of the snowstorm, but right now with heightened senses, you hear him just fine. “You're going to get hypothermia.”

You don't respond. The mere sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth together so hard that you're surprised the tiny bones don't shatter.

He keeps to the doorway, scared that if he takes one step closer, you'll flee into the miles of thick woods that surrounds you in only a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He murmurs your name in a tone that begs you to come in from the below freezing temperatures.

“What time is it now?” You barely recognize your own voice - low and strained, it sounds like you haven't had anything to drink in days.

You clear your throat, though you doubt it'll make any difference.

“Just after four o'clock.”

Eleven hours into this hell, then. Best case scenario, another half a day of this. Worst case scenario, close to two.

Either way, you knew that these symptoms had yet to hit their peak. This would undoubtedly get worse before it gets better.

You stare out into the endless thicket of snow covered hemlocks and spruces. The illumination from the full moon makes the white powder on the branches glisten in the darkness.

Daylight was still hours away, and with it, hope for some means of communication with the rest of your team back in New York. The snowstorm had brought a widespread power outage across the city. Cell phone signal was nonexistent right now.

“Go on back to your room,” you tell him. “I'll come back inside in just a moment.” You continue to watch the blizzard before you, knowing that he's still just a few feet away from you. “I promise,” you add, hoping that he’ll believe you and return to the bedroom you'd been forcing him to keep to.

The drug coursing through your veins had amplified every one of your five senses. Even with him behind the closed door of the bedroom, you could still smell faint traces of the earthy musk of his deodorant and something warm that is uniquely him.

You wouldn't chance coming back into the house until his scent has dissipated from the entrance - not unless you want to feel as though all air is being stripped from your lungs.

Even simply standing here, with him behind you and the wind blowing his scent in the opposite direction, is nearly intolerable.

You hear footsteps retreat into the house, growing quieter and quieter as he makes his way back down the hallway, until you finally hear the click of his bedroom door. You exhale a breath that you weren't aware you had been holding in.

You have no doubt that he'll try to drag you back inside by the ankles if he has to, so you make good on your promise and return to the sweltering interior of the six hundred square foot log cabin.

A sharp, stabbing pain radiates from the center of your body at that thought - the exact kind of thoughts you were actively trying to avoid having. Thoughts of his hands digging into your thighs, his wet mouth on your throat, his bare chest pressed against yours as he fucks you into the likely thirty-something year old couch - those thoughts. Dangerous territory thoughts - the kind you didn't trust yourself not to act on if dwelled upon for too long.

Apparently, the thought of him putting his hands around your ankles and dragging you kicking and screaming falls into that category.

You settle onto the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest in an effort to alleviate the ache in your lower belly. You notice that Bucky has crammed more wood into the fireplace, which currently serves as the main source of light for the cabin, save for a few candles that have been placed sporadically throughout the small space.

Sweat begins to bead across your skin within seconds of sitting down in front of the fire. You know that Bucky is just trying to keep the temperature of the house from dropping below zero while also providing enough light to see during the middle of the night while you are in too much discomfort to sleep, but you feel like you are locked in a sauna after running five miles.

You think back to all of the times that you've given Sam shit for taking ice baths after his workouts. Now nothing sounds better than an ice bath.

Almost nothing, anyway. The only thing that could possibly feel even better is laying down behind a closed door less than twenty feet away.

And he'd offered - begged, actually, to take this pain away from you.

“Please,” he whispers, kneeling on the ground next to the couch, where you sit hunched over in pain. He's so close to you and it's fucking suffocating. He places his hand on your knee and you have to dig your nails into the suede upholstery to keep from whimpering. He notices the reaction and retracts his touch.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says louder, the pet name finally getting you to meet his gaze for the first time since you dropped the glass jar of the firetruck red powder in the former HYDRA warehouse two hours ago.

Big mistake. Looking at him is a big fucking mistake. From the way his blue eyes bore into yours with sincere concern to the way that his plump, pink lips are slightly chapped from the cold weather -

“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head into your hands. “I can't ask that of you. I can't make you do that. I would never forgive my–”

“You wouldn't be asking or making me do anything,” he tries to reason with you. There's sincerity in his voice but you're too delirius to hear the truth of his words. “I'm offering. Because I care about you. Because I don't want to see you in any kind of pain if there's anything I can do about it. Because I think you'd do the same for me if the situation were–”

“Bucky,” you cut him off in a strained gasp. “Your voice is making this so much worse right now.”

“Then let me help you. Let me make you feel good.”

His words alone are enough to have you clenching your thighs around nothing but the thick material of your sweatpants. You can feel your cotton panties becoming more drenched with each word he speaks.

“Not like this.” You're on the verge of tears - from pain, from anger at the entire situation, from how goddamn badly you need to feel him inside you. “It can't happen like this. I never wanted it to happen like this.”

His features soften, a look of understanding spreading across his face.

“When we fuck, I want it to be because we want to fuck,” you say as you jump up from your position on the couch, desperately needing to distance yourself from him before you do something you can't take back. “I don't want it to be because we feel like neither of us have a choice in the matter.”

“But we do have a choice,” he murmurs from where he's still kneeling on the floor next to the couch. “And I'd choose to go back to that HYDRA facility and infect myself with this shit, too, if it means you'd feel a little less guilty about saying yes.”

Your answer to that was, of course, a big, giant absolutely fucking not. The snow started pouring down shortly after, making his irrational proclamation an impossibility, anyway.

Almost half a day later, here you are. Surrounded by miles and miles of snow and ice in a town with no power or semi-functioning cell phone towers, just trying to endure the fire coursing through your veins until the effects of the HYDRA made drug have worked through your system.

You're coming up on the twelve hour mark now, and there's no denying that you're desperate for relief in one way or another.

Worth a fucking shot, you think.

You prop your feet up on the glass coffee table in front where you sit on the couch, spreading your thighs apart by a few inches.

You hesitate for a moment, listening for any kind of indication that Bucky's no longer in the confines of the cabin’s singular bedroom.

Dead silent, except for the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace.

You snake your hand down the front of your pants, past the waistband of your underwear and to your center that's been aching for hours now.

You stroke your fingers up and down your folds, stopping at the apex of your core to massage your clit in circular motions.

Your head rolls back on the couch at the sensation, immediately feeling the slightest sense of relief. You dig your teeth into your lower lip to keep from moaning - hard enough to draw blood, the taste of iron flooding your mouth.

You slip two fingers past your entrance, not requiring any foreplay to plunge them to the hilt. It feels good - the way you're working yourself with rapid scissoring motions. Really fucking good, actually. Better than fingering yourself has ever felt.

But only a mere minute into the ministrations, you fear that it won't be enough to satiate you in the way that the drug requires.

Still, you try. You yank your t-shirt above your tits, bringing your free hand to paw at your breast as you continue working your pussy with your fingers, the heel of your palm putting pressure against your clit.

“That's not going to work, you know.”

You yank your hand out of your pants, snapping your head to the side to see him leaning against the frame of the small hallway. You had been so immersed in attempting to find some amount of relief that you hadn't heard him exit the bedroom. He's looking at you with sympathy and concern, not judgment - you don't think you'd be able to find it within yourself to feel embarrassed even if he were. Not in your current state of discomfort.

“How do you know that?” Frustration is evident in your voice. You look away from him, back to the fire in front of you as you pull your shirt back down. The floor creaks as he steps out of the hallway and makes his way over to the opposite end of the small couch. He sits a foot away from you, close enough so that his scent and warmth invades your senses, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core.

“Because I've been through what you're going through right now.”

Your eyes break away from the ember that you've been staring at, your gaze snapping to him. You don't know why this comes as a surprise to you. It shouldn't, not with every other form of torment that HYDRA had inflicted upon him for over half a century.

“Why didn't you tell me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was embarrassed,” he answers with a small half-shrug, breaking your stare. “I didn't.. handle it as well as you are,” he continues, shame in his voice and cheeks rosy. “You’re doing everything you can to fight something that you didn't ask for. That's more than I can say for myself.”

“You were brainwashed, Bucky,” you remind him delicately. It's a risky move that makes your skin burn and belly clench, but you scoot closer to him on the couch - your outermost thigh brushing against his knee. If the two of you weren't both wearing sweatpants, the minimal touch might even aid in bringing you some relief. Instead, you’re left feeling desperate for more of him.

But you push the feeling down, wanting to do what little you can to comfort him - wanting him to know that you don't think poorly of him for what was forced onto him, and what is now being forced onto you, too.

“I would never judge you for anything they made you do,” you assure him.

“I know you wouldn't,” he murmurs, turning to face you again. His blue eyes glow in the low lighting of the fire. The closeness between the two of you is dizzying, and electrifying, and -

“And I want you to know that I would never judge you for giving into this torture,” he adds.

You snort a laugh. “I'm starting to think you want me to give into this.” You mean for the statement to sound light-hearted, but a sharp pang in your gut makes you wince in pain and your voice goes shrill. You clutch your lower belly, hunching over at the pain.

He leans in closer, putting one hand on your lower back and one on your thigh. You whimper at the pressure of his fingers against your spine and inner thigh. Even through your clothes, the contact feels like heaven compared to hell you've been enduring for the last twelve hours.

You lean into his touch - you don't even think about it, you just do it. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your forehead nuzzling the warm skin of his throat.

You take a deep inhale, attempting to steady your breathing, and you realize quickly that is a mistake - his scent is so euphoric, it feels like inhaling flames.

“Would it make it easier for you if I said that I do want you to give in?” His voice is low, his breath fanning across your face from his position above you.

��Fuck, Bucky, you can't say that to me right now,” you whine. You fist your hands into the fabric of his t-shirt, your eyes squint shut.

“Look at me,” he commands. You force your eyes open, pulling your head back enough to look up at him through your eyelashes.

“I want it to be your choice.” He brings a hand up to cup your jawline. His thumb skims the outline of your bottom lip. “But I would be lying if I said that I'm not relieved that I'm the one here with you, or that I wouldn't enjoy every second of helping you feel better.”

He brings his hands to yours, pulling them away from where they still clutch his shirt. You release your grip, allowing him to hold you by your wrists. He pulls your right hand up to his face, stopping just under his nose. Your brows furrow in confusion, until it dawns on you what it is he's doing.

He inhales deeply, then lowers your hand to his parted mouth. He slips the tips of your index and middle fingers past his lips, and then swirls his tongue around the two digits.

The exact two that had been inside your pussy not even five minutes ago.

Right now, you think you could come from him sucking on your fingers and nothing else.

You don't even try to stop the groan that slips past your lips as you shove your fingers deeper into his mouth. He moans around them as he finishes cleaning them off, the sound sending vibrations up your arm and throughout your body.

You pull your fingers from between his lips and immediately crush your own lips to his in their place. You feel the drug surging through your veins, but this time it's less excruciating - it now feels like pure adrenaline bubbling under your skin, spurring you on.

He opens his mouth to you, your lips and tongue moving with his in synchronicity. It's hurried and messy, and maybe not as romantic as you had imagined it in your head before this night - but it's exactly what you need right now.

He maneuvers you so that you're laying down on the couch, and nestles himself between your thighs. You can feel the hard outline of his erection through the thin material of his sweatpants. He ruts against you, dragging the bulge across your clothed center as he yanks your t-shirt up and over your head. He tosses it somewhere behind the couch before attaching his mouth to one of your nipples and palming the other with the cool metal of his left hand.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling the full weight of his body down against you. You stick your hands up the back of his t-shirt, scratching your nails down the skin of his back.

“I need more,” you gasp out as he pinches your nipple between his teeth, rolling it in his lips. The clothing that separates the two of you feels like a prison. “I need to feel you.”

He pulls away, leaning back to perch on his knees between your legs. Your eyes roam down the chiseled planes of his chest until they land on the defined “V” shape that disappears into the waistband of his low-hanging pants.

He hooks his fingers into your sweatpants and underwear and tugging them both down past your ankles, then throwing them somewhere across the room with both of your long-forgotten shirts.

His eyes trail your body from your breasts to your thighs, his pupils dilating in the firelight. He splays his hands across the meat of your inner thighs, pinning your legs open wide for him. He lowers himself back down on the couch, belly down so his face hovers just above your pussy.

“Bucky, I swear if you don't put your mouth–”

He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle before his tongue slips between his lips. It darts to your hole, licking a soft strip up to your clit. You exhale a sharp hiss of pleasure, your hands shooting to lace your fingers through tendrils of his hair. You arch into his touch, meeting the thrusts of his tongue with thrusts of your hips. He eats like you're the best thing he's ever tasted - like he's wanted this for way longer than this drug has been in your system.

You're coming on his face in an embarrassing amount of time, really. Thanks to the influence of the pollen, you currently have the stamina and endurance of a teenager losing their virginity. Your thighs are clenched around either side of his head, writhing above him as you ride out your orgasm on his face.

The relief that you feel as you come down from your high feels like years of pent up frustration leaving your body all at once.

You don't quite feel entirely like yourself - there's still a dull ache in your core, and your skin’s still feverish - though that could be due to the fire that the two of you are just feet away from. But you're now able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Come here,” you whisper, your voice low and honeyed. He crawls over you, his chest brushing against yours as he centers himself above you. His skin shines with a thin layer of sweat that mingles with your own. You reach a hand between your two bodies, palming his erection through the sweatpants that he has yet to shed. You keep your eyes locked on his face, watching as his eyes roll back into his head and his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as you massage him through the fabric. Your other hand juts down to the waistband of his pants and you tug them downwards, far enough to help him shimmy them down to his knees.

His cock springs forward and he takes himself in his flesh hand, pumping his length several times before teasing your folds with his tip. He collects your slick along his length, lubricating himself before nudging his head just past your entrance.

You're more than ready for him - hours of desperation in addition to already having come on his face leaves you needing no further preparation before he's filling you up with his impressive length and girth. There's a slight burn at the sheer fullness of it, but there's also a wave of relief that your body has been craving for hours.

He pulls out halfway, then rocks back into you. He starts slow - trying to hold back for his own sake or for yours, you're unsure. Gradually, he increases his speed, hitting your cervix at that sweet angle that not everyone knows how to work. You lean forward, raising your head enough to capture his lips in yours once more.

You taste yourself on him - a dichotomy of sweet and salty mixed with something entirely unique. He brings his flesh hand in between your bodies, lowering his fingers to your clit where he begins rubbing pressured circles. You moan his name into his mouth and he responds by biting your lip between his teeth, his movements becoming messier.

“You gonna come on my cock?” he asks in a low growl when he feels your pussy clenching around him. “Gonna fill you up and make you feel all better.”

His words send you tumbling over the edge for the second time - that telltale warm coil in your belly bursting at the same time that he begins spilling his warmth into you.

He collapses, pinning you between his body and the couch beneath you. Starting at your shoulder, he peppers kisses along your collarbones and up your neck until he’s finally eye-level with you.

“We can do that again,” he says in a breathy voice, still inside you. “If you need to, that is. Or if you just want you.” There's a mischievous grin spread across his face and a twinkle in his eyes. It's the most carefree you've seen him since the two of you left New York to come here for this mission. You put your hands on his chest, jokingly attempting to shove him away from you.

“Oh, I don't think I need to,” you jab at him. “I'm feeling pretty great now, but thank you for your services.” He laughs, pulling out of you and sitting back against the couch. He pulls you up with him, wrapping his flesh arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. “But I think I might want to again. You know, now that I'm no longer in excruciating pain.” He hums in agreement, stroking his flesh fingers across the side of your stomach.

“I'm glad you were the one here with me too, Bucky."

thank you for reading! i know sooo many people have done this trope, especially for bucky, but it's truly one of my all time favorites and i just needed to get this out of my system so i hope you all enjoyed

comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!

other works by me: oil & water • down bad • acquainted •

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes one-shot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction

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nightplvmes · 1 month ago

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talking to his baby (extended ver)

zayne one shot (love and deepspace) – request | from this headcanon ⋆｡° | pairing : doctor!zayne x pregnant!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 1.3k (1,315) ⋆｡° | fluff, protective and soft zayne, mention of cardiac surgery ⋆｡° | autor note : so... someone asked me for this version of the headcanon so i decided to do it because almost all the headcanons are short versions of other things i want to write :3 i've been writing too many things!! (even fanfics, that's why i'm so active) so i hope to catch up with the requests soon likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

you didn't know how much time had passed, but you definitely knew it had been enough to make the book you were reading seem less interesting, and you began to close your eyes but the book remaining open on your chest so you wouldn't lose the page.

since Zayne found out you were pregnant, he'd been the most caring person of all. at first, you thought it was because he was a doctor, but maybe it was mostly because he was a first-time dad. one of the things you'd noticed most was how he tried to talk to the baby after showing you some tests confirming she could already hear from the womb.

you'd woken up one night because you could hear Zayne murmuring. you could still remember it as if it had been last week... because it had been last week.

you stirred, opening your eyes, and a yawn escaped your lips. it took you a few seconds to return to reality and realize what had interrupted your sleep: your husband. your husband murmuring at three in the morning.

"Zayne?" you murmured, confused, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him. he was leaning against your baby bump, but he stopped completely when you woke up. "what are you doing?"

"talking to the baby," he answered without hesitation, settling back down next to you. "did I wake you up? I'm sorry," he murmured, wrapping his arms around you. you felt him pull you closer to him, to the point where there was no space between you two. you wanted to say something else, but you were too tired, so you just let your head fall back onto the pillow.

the confusion inside you began to be replaced by sleepiness again, and another yawn escaped your lips. your eyes began to feel heavy, and you knew you were going to fall asleep again at any moment. "Zayne, at this point you're going to run out of things to talk to. you don't have to talk to her all the time; I'm sure she knows your voice."

he sighed, kissing your bare shoulder. he knew you were right, but he had been working too hard lately, so in every chance he always talked to the baby. he was afraid she wouldn't recognize his voice.

just as you had predicted the week before: Zayne had run out of things to talk about. he'd been silent for almost ten minutes, trying to remember something he hadn't talked about. you were almost sure he'd told her everything about his life, except for his college years.

"I already talked about that time when you and I..." you interrupted.

"you already told her everything we did when we were kids." you sighed, settling back down on the couch. Zayne was sitting on the floor so your baby bump was almost at his face level. you smiled when you felt his lips brush against your skin. you hadn't said it, and you were a little embarrassed to admit that you loved it when he placed kisses on your bump.

you settled back down more comfortably on the couch, now your head was slightly resting on the couch, and your eyes were closed again. you were exhausted; making a tiny human from scratch was exhausting, it was definitely something you didn't expect from pregnancy. "you know... you don't have to talk to her all the time," you mumbled when you noticed Zayne's thoughtful face after slightly opening your eyes to see his expression and it almost made you giggle but you still tried to pretend to be sleepy.

Zayne looked at you with those eyes that you knew perfectly well meant: he wanted to talk to his baby and he was not going to give up. you sighed, returning your gaze to the book in your hands accepting that you weren't going to fall asleep anytime soon. and seconds later, something finally came to his head and he spoke again. "I remember a surgery that lasted over seven hours. the patient's heart muscle was severely damaged from a previous surgery and—" he stopped when he heard a gasp from you, setting off his alarm bells. Zayne looked at you with his eyes wide open, completely still waiting for you to say something, the book had slipped from your hands and quickly one of your hands went to your belly. "what happened?"

"she's kicking." your eyes widened in surprise. it wasn't the first time you'd felt her kicks, but it wasn't something she did often. Zayne looked at you in surprise and placed his hand right next to yours. "keep talking." Zayne nodded and went back to talking about the surgery... then you felt the little kicks again making you gasp with excitement again. "it can't be... do you think she'll also be a surgeon?"

Zayne smiled, and he didn't know if that made him feel a mixture of excitement and pride or some concern for his poor daughter. "probably." Zayne nodded before settling back into his story about that surgery.

Zayne settled back down, his hands surrounding your bump, and you watched as he leaned in to continue talking. he didn't want to admit that he was excited, nor did he want to admit that his baby—who had been completely calm the whole time—had kicked after hearing one of his medical stories. "it was a very long surgery. the patient previously had spinal surgery, they had to put in some plates, but something went wrong." he paused for a few seconds. you too remained motionless, waiting for some kind of response. another kick from the baby, but nothing came. you looked at Zayne with some concern, thinking it had only been a one-time thing, but he spoke again. "one of the screws ended up in her heart, damaging the cardiac muscle."

then you felt one of the little kicks again, making you smile. "I think she'll definitely be a cardiac surgeon," you sighed, feigning frustration. "another doctor in the family?"

Zayne smiled proudly. he had that small smirk that anyone else would simply look like he was pressing his lips together but not to you. he slid next to you on the couch, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. you felt your back against his chest, and seconds later, his breath hit your cheek. "maybe it was just a coincidence," he murmured, kissing your cheek.

"of course not. she's always so calm that if we didn't go to doctor's appointments, I'd be sure something had happened to her," you admitted, grimacing. "she'll be a carbon copy of you." you frowned, feigning annoyance, although internally, you could picture a tiny baby with huge eyes the same color as Zayne's. the baby was already just as calm as him, and she hadn't even been born yet. and the worst part was that now she seemed excited about heart surgery, not just surgery, not any other specialty. "see, and you were afraid she wouldn't recognize your voice."

"do you think she likes sweets too?"

you snorted, turning your face to look at him. "I think she'll be a little sugar monster if she's just like you." a smile escaped your lips, and a part of you was happy at the thought of a tiny copy of your husband.

a few weeks later, you finally confirmed that those little kicks whenever Zayne talked about surgery weren't just a coincidence, and you forced yourself to mentally prepare for the fact that it was quite possible your daughter had an interest in medicine and was a little sugar monster just like Zayne.

#zayne #love and deepspace #zayne x reader fluff #zayne x reader #zayne x you #love and deepspace zayne #lads #lads x reader #lads fluff #lads zayne #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x reader fluff #love and deepspace fluff #love and deepspace zayne x reader #one shot #headcanon

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flofaiiry · 28 days ago

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how jack abbot shows love

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ told through the five love languages ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

warnings: written somewhat informally (some uses of “i think that…” etc), fem!reader, sort of implied but not specified age gap, in the physical touch section there's oral f!receiving & other sort of smutty details also praise (good girl etc) and a hint of oral m!receiving in the words of affirmation i couldn't help myself, everything else is just fluff!!!

wc: 2.2k

note: wanted to write some cute fluff to try and get outta this mini slump bcs i have been hitting a WALL when trying to write smut lately. i'm not sure if this has been done before but i thought it was a cute idea!!! dividers are by @ diviniyae !! also sorry if some of these are shorter than others :(( send me an ask if there's anything u want me to elaborate on & i'll try my best !!!

♡ acts of service

if you work together jack always comes down from the coffee shop in the cafeteria with two cups in hand. he memorized your order after the first time he heard you say it so he likes to make sure you've always got one at the start of the shift.

jack knows how much you love to cook but hate cleaning afterwards, so he'll slip into the kitchen while you're working & wash the dishes you've used. you always say something along the lines of, "it's okay, i can do it after," but he just shakes his head and says it's only fair that if you cook he does the cleaning.

he fixes things around the house, buys more of the moisturizer you use when he notices you're running low, replaces things you've lost etc etc. what's most important to note is that he never draws attention to the fact that he's done these things. he knows you'll notice, and doesn't feel the need to make it about him and make it seem like he wants something in return.

has breakfast started and coffee in the pot before you wake up & sometimes even brings it to you in bed if he's feeling extra fancy. if you're sick you don't even have to say the word, he's taken everything off your plate and will be there for you however you need him.

"i don't think i can go to work today," you say, voice weak and exhausted. jack has to bite back a smile at how extremely congested you sound. he strokes a hand over your hair, "i know baby. i already called your work 'n told them you wouldn't be coming today." you look at him with a little bit of disbelief in your eyes, "i can't believe they were okay with that." he shrugs, "they weren't. not at first. told them it was doctor's orders, just didn't specify the doctor was your boyfriend." you smile and shake your head a little bit, "i can't believe you." he just leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, "go back to sleep."

he remembers what songs & artists you like and has added them to his playlists so that they come on when he's driving. he loves the look on your face when you recognize the song after a single beat & are amazed at how he knows it's your favourite.

jack has no problem taking on a little extra if he can see that you're worn out or just extra tired lately, if he can take something off your plate & make the day easier for you then he does it, no questions asked- he knows you'd do the same for him if he needed.

♡︎ gift giving

jack is the epitome of a "this reminded me of you so i got it," boyfriend.

out getting groceries and sees a bouquet of flowers that are exactly the same shade as the colour you chose for your nails? they're coming home with him. new local vendor in the lobby at the hospital & they've got all kinds of trinkets he knows you'd love? he's taking out his wallet.

he sees you scrolling on pinterest or tiktok before bed, he notices the videos and images you linger a little longer on & save for later. if there's something you've been eyeing but hesitating on buying- a box shaped suspiciously like that item appears on the kitchen table a few days later.

you make a joke once and call him your sugar daddy or something, he just shrugs and tells you if it makes you happy then he wants you to have it. he doesn't necessarily buy you things to "spoil you," you can afford to buy the things he gets you for yourself, but you often hesitate to spend money on yourself. jack notices, and he hates that you think you aren't deserving of that sort of thing so he takes it upon himself to show you that you are.

and circling back to the bouquet thing- he 100% makes sure you have fresh flowers on the table all the time. it doesn't matter if you've been together for 3 weeks or 3 years, this man will bring you flowers before a date.

if there's something you collect, whatever it may be - cds, vinyls, charms - literally anything, if he's out somewhere and sees them or a specific one you've been looking for he gets it.

"didn't take you as a charm bracelet kinda guy," robby teases coming up beside jack and looking over his shoulder. jack just shakes his head, eyes scanning through the vendor's display, "it's not for me." robby smiles, "ah," he mouths, "for the lady?" jack nods, "she's got a whole box full 'a these things, but somehow no butterflies," his eyes stop on one charm, he picks it up slowly, before showing it to robby, "so i'm getting her the butterfly."

jack never forgets things like your birthday or anniversary. he doesn't need to have them marked down on a calendar or in his phone, he just remembers. for these bigger moments, the gift he gets you is obviously more significant. not to be cliche, but one of his favourite gifts to give you for the occasion is jewelry. probably half of your collection is stuff he's gifted you over the course of your relationship.

he remembers if you're a silver or gold girlie, if you've mentioned liking studs or dangly earrings more, if you like dainty chains on necklaces or more chunky ones. he remembers all of it. so when he goes to the store he tells the associate all this, who then brings out a few pieces they think emulate that the best. he loves the idea of you thinking about him whenever you decide what to put on in the morning, or that when people ask where something's from you'll say, "my boyfriend got it for me."

♡ physical touch

jack loves! to! be! touching! you!!!!! he's constantly got his fingers laced through yours when you're walking together or just near each other. when he's driving, he's got a hand on your thigh. he definitely does the hand on the lower back thing whenever he's guiding you somewhere or you're in a crowded place. he just always wants you to know he's there.

he can tell when you've had a long day at work & will wordlessly come over to you and just let you bury your head in his chest, running his hands up and down your back soothingly and kissing the top of your head. he lets you cry if you need to cry, not saying anything until you're ready & just holding you in the meantime.

he loves loves LOVES when you lie down on the couch with your head in his lap so he can run his fingers through your hair. he finds it so calming & grounding & cute that you fall asleep almost every time he does it.

jack kisses you like the answers to all the worlds problems can be found on your lips. he's more than happy to kiss you all night long and never escalate it into anything more. it's not uncommon for you to just lie side by side in bed, lips moving in perfect tandem, legs all tangled up and hands all over each other.

in bed, jack is a very giving lover. sure, he likes sex, who doesn't, but nothing gets him off more than seeing you feel good and knowing he's the one making you feel that way. his favourite place to be is with his head buried between your legs, fingers working you through your nth orgasm of the night with your hands tugging at his hair because it just feels too good.

all you can see is jack's salt and pepper curls peeking out from between your thighs. he’s already make you cum once but that’s not enough for him. his tongue’s licking diligent strokes up your slit, two fingers curling inside you to hit just the right spot that makes your hips buck into his mouth and your back arch off of the bed. he brings his free hand to your hip, keeping you from squirming too much as he sucks at your clit. the noises you make only encourage him, and you swear every time you moan his name you feel him smile against your cunt.

♡ words of affirmation

phrases along the lines of: "good job" & "i'm proud of you" & "i love you" & "you're so beautiful," fall from jack's lips like they're the easiest things in the world to say. he obviously truly means them but he takes extra care to vocalize it to you because he sees the way you light up when he does.

he’s a big texter for sure, since a lot of the time when he’s at work he doesn’t have time for anything more than a quick check on his phone. before you move in together he texts you good morning & good night every day & asks you if you got home safe. messages you throughout the day if he's not with you to ask how you're doing or ask you if you’ve eaten anything or even just to tell you that he’s thinking about you.

to get a teeny bit nsfw, jack definitely has a huge thing for praise. loooves to call you a good girl, tell you how pretty you are, how good you taste, how well you take everything he gives you etc. he’s very vocal esp when you’re giving him head, telling you how good you feel and how you’re doing such a good job.

if he’s in a store & they’ve got a pretty card he thinks you’ll like, he’ll buy it for you just to write a little love letter in it or something.

jack walks in through the door with a few bags of groceries in one hand and a little pink envelope in the other. he sets down the bags in the kitchen before going over to you to hand you the letter. you take it, a little confused, you genuinely wonder if you’ve forgotten about your birthday. when you open it, it’s a beautiful, fancy hallmark card. inside, a few paragraphs written with whatever pen he found lying around in the car. he watches you read it with a little smile on his face, seeing how it almost brings a tear to your eye when you read it- just sentence after sentence about how much he loves you and how you make every day better by just being in his life and how lucky he feels to have found you.

i’m not sure if this falls under words of affirmation but he definitely loves pet names & nicknames and stuff like that. terms like baby, sweetheart, baby, honey, my love, all of it. even if it’s just a nickname for your first name, he likes to have that sort of special connection with you.

♡ quality time

if he’s not at work or sleeping off a night shift jack is with you.

he loves to take you on dates, whether they’re just simple dinner and a movie’s or more elaborate day trips somewhere or walking around downtown all day. his favourite kinds of dates are the ones where you get to talk- so admittedly movies aren’t his preference. he loooves talking to you, hearing what you have to say, bantering back and forth on a hot topic, and just the sound of your voice in general.

but you’re both busy people, and often don’t have the time or energy to be going out all the time, which is fine because jack is more than happy to just spend a lazy night in with you. maybe you order takeout or maybe you cook something together, as long as he’s with you he doesn’t care.

sometimes though when one or both of you are just absolutely drained, he likes to just do nothing with you. scrolling on your phones with your feet in his lap, wordlessly watching the news side by side. when words are too much effort, he’s more than happy to just be next to you.

jack gives me big reader vibes. one day he takes you to a cute little indie bookstore where you each pick out a book to spend the rest of the day curled up in bed together reading.

he also loves to travel, so you two definitely go on trips whenever your schedules line up. he loves planning itineraries but always works in days for you to just lounge around the hotel or by the pool.

“what’s this?” you ask, nodding at the plane tickets stuck on the fridge. jack looks over at you, “i noticed that we have a week off at the same time next month so i thought we’d go somewhere.” you take the tickets from under the magnet, reading them over. “bahamas!?” you say excitedly once you spot the destination. he nods walking over to you, “needa get out of this depressing pittsburgh winter. spend some time by the beach, drink in hand, getting tanned and attacked by seagulls.” you laugh, and pull him into a hug, “thank you baby,” he smiles into your shoulder, “of course, we need this. been workin’ our asses off lately,” he pulls away to press a kiss to your cheek, the leans in right next to your ear, “plus i really like the way you look in a bikini, so that’s a bonus.”

send an ask if you want me to write one of these for any other characters!!! (robby, pope, etc!!!) or if u want me to elaborate on any points :P

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot blurb #the pitt x reader #jack abbot fic #jack abbot drabble #jack abbot smut #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot imagine #jack abbott x reader #dr jack abbot #the pitt

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g4rvez-r3id · 6 months ago

Text

I’m Here, Now

Post Prison! Spencer Reid x Girlfriend!Fem Reader

Synopsis: Your boyfriend, Spencer gets released from prison and you’re his first stop after dealing with Cat Adams and her schemes. And all he wants to do is see you and love you.

Category: Smut, Fluff

Warnings: 18+ MDNI established relationship, prison arc, spoilers of season 12 of Criminal Minds, it’s a lil sad tbh but it only lasts for a second, reader’s in disbelief, spencer and reader being cutesy, crying, kissing, mentions of bruises, threats, sappy speeches, fluffy ending, lowkey not true to 12x22/13x01 so this could be an au! smut warnings: soft!dom spencer (firm believer here🙋‍♀️), a lil body worship from reader to spencer, oral sex (m receiving & reader receiving), facefucking, cum swallowing, “good girl”, riding, unprotected sex, mentions of masturbation, creampie, overstimulation, spencer lowkey being a munch- that should cover it 😃

Author’s Note: hey lovelies, i can’t stop writing smutty oneshots ahhhh i can’t help it, i just love my man 🤭 i hope y’all enjoy this because i’ve had my mind on prison arc reid bc i’m watching s12 rn and oooo he so fine in 12a and in 12b 😩 anyways hope y’all like this <3

You worried that maybe he’d never come back. Upon hearing he was in jail in Mexico, you worried you’d never see Spencer again.

If your past self could tell you that your boyfriend, Dr. Spencer Reid, who was a nerd at heart, who spent his free time playing chess and reading and watching Doctor Who with you under your fluffy blankets and wore mismatched socks because he believed it was good luck, that he would one day end up being framed and sent to prison, you would’ve laughed in your face.

You never would’ve expected this to happen. But then you heard why. He was framed for murdering a woman named Nadie Ramos, who was helping him get his mother medicine that seemed to calm her from her episodes. If there was anyone he would’ve risked everything for besides you, it was his mother.

And to be honest, you were a little mad at him for lying to you. He told you that he was going to Houston to talk to some of his mom’s doctors. You’d been together four years now and not once did he ever lie to you until now. When he got transferred to the Milburn Correctional Facility, due to overcrowding, he’d requested to see you and only you.

It wasn’t until Spencer wrote you a letter, practically begging you to come and see you. The first time you’d gone to see him, you actually didn’t even recognize him, skipping over him and almost staring at him in confusion when he walked over to the other side of your plexiglass.

And you tried to play it off like you expected him, even while looking like he did, but he knew deep down you didn’t recognize him. He chose not to acknowledge it but you both knew.

And you visited him frequently, until he decided to cut you from the visitor log with no warning. You were hurt, to say the least. And you ended up avoiding everyone after that. You even ignored the many fruit baskets Garcia kept sending over but you kept sending them back.

But then a miracle happened.

They proved his innocence. And he was out.

You would’ve found that out if you’d checked your phone but you spent the entire day in bed, away from society and sobbing at the fact that he was gone and he wasn’t here, comforting you like he did so well.

You hated him, you hated him for putting you in this position, for making you deal with the aftermath, for pushing you away. But you loved him. You would never stop loving him, no matter how much you hated him right now.

You’d been laying in bed, tossing and turning all day as the TV played some random sitcom you watched every now and again. And you’d heard something. A soft knock coming from your front door.

You almost missed it but it was faint. And you heard it. Choosing to finally get out of bed, you opened your room door and walked to the front door. You opened it without checking the peephole, because at this point you’d had enough and just wanted death to get you over with already.

But death may have stopped your heart only for a moment when you open the door.

Because standing there, in the suit he’d gotten arrested in when his bail was denied, his hair outgrown and his stubble framed nicely on his face — was your boyfriend, Spencer Reid, in the flesh.

You gasped softly as you backed away from the door and stared at him, almost as if you were disbelief. You’d had a dream like this before. Where he came back and promised he was here to stay. (But it was another one of God’s cruel jokes and you cried when you woke up the following day).

He walked in and closed the door right behind him, standing tall in front of you. You noticed the bruises on his face, how his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and stared at you.

“Hi.” He said softly and all you can do is stare at him. “Am I dreaming?” You find yourself asking out loud and his heart breaks. He can see that you’re scared. Scared that if you go up to him, he’ll disappear like smoke. And he hates that.

“No.” Spencer shakes his head and he waits for you to approach him and you do, walking slowly towards him as the floorboard creaks beneath your socked feet.

He waits as you first grab his hands, and interlock your fingers together. When that seems not to be enough for you, your hands move to his face. You caress the sharp new grown stubble on his face and drag your index finger to his plump lips and stare into his hazel eyes and they’re full of wonder and love.

You don’t even register the tears until you hold him in your arms and you hold onto him for dear life. He holds you tightly in his arms as you find yourself wrapping around him like a koala and all he can do is hold you back. And it grounds him, you ground him.

Your head moves towards his and you kiss his lips, like you’ve longed to do for three months. And part of you still couldn’t believe this, that he was here, holding you like you were going to break.

You kiss him a few more times before you pull back and ask with tears in your eyes, “Are you okay?” Spencer nods toward your forehead, “I’m okay, now that I’m here.”

“You’re here, now.” You look him in the eyes as you say this and he nods at your words, repeating them to himself. “I’m here, now.” It’s as if he’s reminding himself that he’s here with you because he’s worried he’s gonna wake up any minute and he’ll be back in that cell. You weren’t the only one who had a hard time believing this was real.

Spencer’s lips catch yours and he pushes into the kiss and you get back on the ground, your hands (or mouth) not leaving him for a second and making their way up to his hair and pulling. You whine into his lips as he you pull him by his belt and walk backwards to your bedroom with him following you.

With your strength, you twirl the two of you around and straddle him as you continue to kiss him. You rock your hips into his growing bulge and he moans into your mouth and you smirk in the middle of the kiss.

You begin to unbutton his suit and successfully get his blazer off and now next is his dress shirt but he’s quick to grab your hands and you look at him with wide eyes.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” You ask, willing to put a stop to this if he wasn’t ready. “Nothing, I just…” Spencer looks down as he lets go of your hands and seemingly now growing insecure all of a sudden.

He stands up from the bed and you look up at him as he holds his arms over his stomach. “I just… I got hurt pretty bad in there. You’re gonna see some bruises. I just don’t want you to freak out. He admits and your heart breaks, “You don’t have to take your shirt off. Or we can just stop entirely and—”

Spencer shakes his head, “No, it’s okay. You’re gonna see them eventually.” With that, he begins to unbutton his dress shirt and you give him all the time in the world to do so, not wanting to rush this at all.

When he takes off his dress shirt successfully, you finally see it. He has bruises everywhere on his ribs and some near his belly button and on his stomach. Some are still in the process of healing with yellow and gray hues and some are purple and mucus green.

“Oh, my love…” You whisper to yourself as you stand up and you turns him around and find more on his back and there’s just too many of them. You find yourself tearing up but you know you need to keep it together for him. Who could hurt your sweet boy? Was this why he didn’t want you to see him anymore while he was still in there? How long did this go on for?

It’s then that you register the bruise near his eye. You thought that it was due to the lack of sleep he’d been getting and assumed it was the bags under his eyes he so often got but it was a bruise. How did you miss that when he walked in?

He almost wants to hide himself, like a turtle under its’ shell and you look down at his body. “Baby…” You start but he shakes his head. “I’m so sorry.”

He looks at you as you guide him towards the bed and he lays back and you go back to straddling him, but this time, you’re careful as you hover over him.

You kiss his lips before making your way down to his neck and then to his body and it takes a second for him to register that you’re not just kissing his body, you’re kissing the bruises.

He feels himself getting choked up as you kiss every visible one and his heart swells for you. What did he did to deserve you?

You begin to unbuckle his belt but he rests his elbows on the bed and looks down at you. “You—You don’t have to…” He trails off but you quickly shake your head. “I know. But I want to. It’s your first night back. This is about you tonight, baby.”

Spencer doesn’t interfere, just stares as you unbuckle his belt and pull out his cock through the hole in his underwear and it springs into action, dripping pre-cum from the head. “Oh, my sweet boy. You must be so pent up.”

You kiss the tip of his dick and he shuts his eyes tightly as if he’s trying to hold back from already cumming. You lick up his shaft and fit his cock inside your mouth and he curses to himself as he grips your bedsheets as tight as he can.

You notice this, grabbing his hand and interlocking your fingers together, as if you’re telling him and giving him permission to touch you as you bob your head up and down.

He takes this opportunity to caress your face as you take him into your mouth. He ties your hair into a makeshift ponytail as he pushes deeper onto his cock and even lifts his hips to ensure that you’re taking all of him until you’re gagging.

“Let me know if it’s too much, okay?” Spencer tells you and you nod to the best of your ability until you begins to fuck your throat, using your mouth for his pent up pleasure. “Fuck… God, you’re so good at that. Letting me fuck your throat like the good girl you are.”

His words could make you cum on the spot without him even laying a finger on you. He rarely cursed in your domestic setting but he did it often when you two were in bed.

All you can do is take it as deep as it can go in your mouth. He whines into the ceiling as he says your name until you feel his hot cum dribble down your throat and your nose is buried into his crotch as he holds you there and makes you take all his cum into your mouth.

He pants as he releases your head from his cock and you swallow the rest of his cum. He looks at you with worried eyes, concerned that maybe he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry, baby. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He asks, like he didn’t just cum into your mouth and call you a “good girl”.

You shake your head at him with a small smile. “That was just about the hottest thing you’ve ever done.” (And everything he did was always hot). He blushes and crooks a smile.

“Are you willing to keep going?” You ask him and he nods with an immediate answer, “Absolutely.” He’d never let you go to bed without making you cum at least twice.

You climb on top of him with a smirk and look deeply into his eyes. They’re filled with lust, love and adoration for you and for you only. “You’re so beautiful.” You say to him in a whisper but Spencer chuckles a bit, “I should be saying that to you.”

You look down as your pussy catches the tip of his cock and you sink down into him carefully. He moans at the feeling and you gasp. He fits perfectly.

“God, I missed you. Missed this…” Spencer catches his breath. “Perfect pussy.” You chuckle and looks into his eyes as you rock back and forth. “It was so lonely without you, Spencer.” You whine. “I missed you so much.”

You lean down as you kiss him on the lips. “Did you…” He pauses, not wanting to be crude even while he was inside of you. “While I was away?” It took a second to figure out what he was talking about. And then you realized that he was asking if you’d masturbated while he was away.

“A few times,” You admitted shyly, despite suffocating him with your pussy. “I thought about you every time. It just wasn’t the same. Missed your body.”

Spencer smiles darkly, “Maybe I should punish you for that.” He says, half-joking. You lean forward as you smirk, “I’d like to see you try.”

And without a second thought, it was as if a switch flipped as Spencer was quick to flip your bodies over and he hovers over you, both hands on either side of your head, gripping the pillows. “You really wanna test that theory?”

You bite your lip and smirk once more as you pull him in for another kiss and he glides himself into you and you gasp at the feeling of his dick inside of your pussy. It’d been such a long time since you felt him like this, here, in your arms. God, you love him.

He rocks his hips, thrusting deeply into your body as leans his head in your shoulder, mumbling sweet obscenities and how good your pussy feels and how responsive you were. He dreamt of the day he’d have you like this. And since being in prison, he longed for it more.

He reached down in between your legs as he found your clit without even looking down and staring deeply into your eyes and your moans reverberate through the walls as keeps his eyes on you and you only.

“Baby, I’m sorry, I need to cum— where? Where?” He asks and you shut your eyes tightly as you shout, “Inside! Oh, god, inside!”

He pushes himself hard into you as you finally cum, your legs shaking as you moan his name into the ceiling and he collapses on your body, still sheathed inside of you.

You both lay there, panting and reveling in the feeling of each other. Eventually, Spencer does pull out of you and you feel as he lowers himself, eyeing your pussy up close and you look down at him sleepily. “Baby, you don’t have to. This was about you.” You assure.

“Nonsense,” Spencer tells. “I need to clean up my mess and even the score, might as well kill two birds with one stone.” He jokes, diving face first into your pussy and you whimper at the contact he makes, especially with the way his stubble is rubbing against your thighs, cleaning his own cum out of your pussy and relishing in the way you both taste.

His mouth captures your clit and he twists his tongue around the bud in that delicious way you love and he moans into your pussy. “We taste so good together, baby. Cum again on my tongue, this time.”

You tug at his messy hair as you hold his head to you pussy and you use him, rocking your hips into his mouth. You feel as your legs shake once more and you let go of his head for him to take a breather.

That breather lasts only a second before he dives back in and you whine at the contact. “Spence… baby, I’m sen—sensitive.”

“You can take one more, baby. I know you can. You can cum again.” Spencer says, his pupils are blown as he looks at you and he’s commanding you to cum again. “Just one more, baby.”

You nod at him and Spencer grabs your hands. “Here,” He interlocks your fingers with his and somehow, the pleasure is so much and yet not at all as makes you cum for a third time tonight. If he could spend forever eating your pussy, he would.

You close your eyes for a moment and when you finally open them, he’s right next to you and holding you. (He’d cleaned you up properly with a warm rag and left your favorite snack and water bottle on the desk next to your bed whenever you were ready to wake up). You remembered the loving words he whispered to you as you drifted off into a heavy slumber.

And you’ve finally woken up. You look up at him, still in awe of him being here. You take the chance to check the time. It’s already 5am and the sun is still shy away from rising but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters because you have your boyfriend right next to you, holding you for dear life and loving you the way you deserve to be loved.

You worry that he’s still up, but you figure that after all those months in prison, maybe he has trouble sleeping every now and again. You find yourself holding him tighter as you look down at the bruise near your head. You can’t believe he was hurt. How did he manage to survive in there? You’re still wondering why he’d taken you off the visitor’s log.

“Spencer?” You ask and he looks down at you, your voice surprising him. “Yeah?” You sit up and look at him, face to face, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Why did you take me off the visitor’s list?” You decide to ask.

He’s about to respond and you don’t want to hear another lie. You’d been through plenty of those already. “I mean, I didn’t even want to see you at first and then you begged me to and then all of a sudden, I wasn’t allowed to. I feel like I have the right to know.”

“No, no, you do,” Spencer knows that much. He hates the fact that he’s lied to you and has forced you to deal with this when all you deserved was the best from him. He sits up next to you he knows he’s gonna need to tell you, even though he doesn’t want to.

“The last time after you came to visit me,” Spencer started. “I got cornered in my cell. A lot of the guys there were asking about you. And they said that it’d be a shame if something happened to you when you came to visit again.” You look down as he talks about it. “And I didn’t want to risk that. And I wanted to tell you, really, I did.” He grabs your hand assuringly. “But I didn’t have any way to. And I didn’t want you to get hurt. I would’ve died if something happened to you and I didn’t do everything in my power to stop it. I’m sorry it went down like it did.”

You shake your head. And you finally understand. Because if the roles were reversed, you would’ve taken him off the visitor’s list, too. If it meant protecting him. “You were just trying to protect me, I understand.”

“I just…” Spencer looks at you, holding your face in his hands. “I love you, so much.” He looks deeply into your eyes. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He reveals and your eyes widen. “What?”

Spencer closes his eyes and holds his index finger up. “One second.” He stands up and grabs his blazer from off the floor and digs into one of the inside pockets and pulls out a red velvet box.

Your eyes widen as you cover your body with the sheet and he kneels down on one knee in his boxers and opens the velvet box to reveal a ring. “I didn’t want to do it like this but I’d rather do it now than wait for the right time to.” Your eyes glance down at the box for a mere second and then to the love of your life.

“I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You make my days better, hell, you’ve made my life better. And no matter what we’ve gone through, you’ve stayed by my side and you never ran. I love that you sing off-key, I love that your nose twitches when you get mad, I love that you like… pineapple on pizza, oddly enough.” You chuckle at this. “I love everything about you. And I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve you. But… but true love, it fosters a connection that goes beyond the superficial. It's a bond that often involves understanding each other's core values, beliefs, and life goals. And you’ve made me believe in true love.“

You stare at him in disbelief as he continues, “Will you marry me?” You feel tears spring into your eyes as you nod vehemently, “Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!” You smile widely and he smiles at you, slipping the ring onto your ring finger as you continue to mutter a million yeses.

When you finally get the ring on, you pull him in for another kiss and he holds you to his heart’s content. It wasn’t the way he envisioned it going, but with you, you knew you didn’t want big and bold ways of him saying he loved you and wanted to marry you, you were content with something small and sweet because it was coming from him and that was the biggest gift of all. You were one for grand gestures, you liked it just the way it was. It was perfect. He was perfect. And you’d spend the rest of your life reminding him he was.

So, you laid back in your bed with your fiancé and talked and talked about sweet nothings until the sun came up. And all of the ache you felt the night before, the pain you endured was long gone and now replaced with something beautiful and sweet.

#criminal minds #mgg #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x fem!reader #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid angst #spencer reid smut #post prison spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #g4rvez-r3id

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starryeyedjanai · 5 months ago

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"’I burn for you’? Who talks like this?” Steve asks, squinting at the note in hands. “What does that even mean?”

“Think it means he has the hots for you,” Robin says, waggling her eyebrows.

“He?” Steve asks, his voice pitching up almost comically.

“Oh, please. You can't tell me you don't recognize that chicken scratch.”

At Steve's confused look, Robin pulls him into the kitchen, pointing at one of the many post-it notes that have taken over his fridge’s surface.

Eddie’s handwriting on the note reminding Steve of his eye doctor appointment matches the note in his hand.

“Oh.”

#steddie #stranger things #stwgdailyprompt #prompt: i burn for you #eddie has definitely been writing cheesy secret admirer notes to steve for weeks now #but this is the first one he's shown to robin #janai.doc

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

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Echo

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: Under the bright lights of a fundraising gala, what began as polite smiles and veiled jabs unravels into something far more intimate. Between rooftop confessions, quiet grief, and a night neither party can take back, something buried for years finally comes undone. warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, f!reader), blood and trauma in a hospital setting, description of medical procedures and deaths genre/notes: slow burn, frenemies to lovers (much banter), robby cameo + being a father figure, heavy angst + heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed idiots in love, non-linear timeline, one (1) very touch-starved man, abbot down bad for his s.o. and def has a pain kink, balcony sex + confessions, pwp word count: 9k a/n: love letter to grief, rooftop confessions, and all the things left unsaid (+ shameless, self-indulgent smut), basically i saw this dress on pinterest and i—

The hospital’s annual fundraiser was all overpriced wine and board member schmoozing—the kind of thing Jack Abbot usually avoided. He and Robby had spent the better part of the week arguing with Gloria about why they really didn’t need to be the ones attending.

“But who better to represent the emergency department than its finest?” Gloria had smiled with teeth. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer we reallocate your trauma bay supply order for next fiscal quarter?"

Abbot had muttered something under his breath. Robby had called it extortion. Gloria had walked away victorious.

“If she reassigns our trauma supply budget one more time, I swear to God I’m quitting,” Robby had muttered, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Right there with you, brother,” Jack had said dryly.

Which was how he ended up in a suit, lingering by the bar with his tie already loosened.

The gala was obscene in its extravagance. A live string quartet played near the grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers caught every glint of champagne. Rich donors floated from one hors d'oeuvre table to the next, laughing politely and stuffing their faces with canapés that probably cost more than a full day of supplies for the ER.

It made Jack sick.

Not the donations—he appreciated those. Hell, the hospital needed them. But the tone of it, the way money moved through the room like perfume: thick, cloying, and designed to mask something rotten underneath. The people here didn’t know what a trauma bay smelled like at 3 a.m. They didn’t care. They were here to write a check, slap their name on a wing, and pretend it made them saints.

Jack took a sip of his club soda and stared at the bottom of his glass.

He wanted to gouge his eyes out. He just wasn’t sure which fork to use.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on Robby across the space, mid-conversation with a bejeweled donor who looked like she’d never set foot inside a hospital ward. Robby’s eyes caught Jack’s for the briefest second and widened—just enough to scream help me. Jack raised his glass and shot him a wink.

Then he saw you. He'd recognize your stride anywhere.

What he definitely hadn’t expected was the red satin dress.

Floor-length, plunging back, slit high at the left thigh, the kind of fabric that caught the light like it was trying to start a fire. When you walked into the room, it was almost as though time stopped. You were across the room, charming some rich donor, laughing politely as he fumbled through a question about pediatric trauma outcomes.

Jack didn’t hear the question. He didn’t hear your answer either.

As you turned away from the donor, your bright smile dropped like a mask torn off. Your jaw clenched. You let out a tight breath through your nose, barely more than a sigh. It was the kind of reaction only someone who’d seen you under a hundred different kinds of stress might catch.

Then you looked up and locked eyes with him. You froze.

Goddamn did Jack Abbot look good in a suit.

Salt-and-pepper curls styled just enough to look deliberate, not overdone. The tux hugged his frame perfectly—sharp at the shoulders, tailored at the waist, cutting the kind of silhouette that belonged on a magazine cover instead of an ER floor. He’d even opted for a close shave, his normally stubbled facial hair absent. And his tie—loosened just a touch too much—left a sliver of his throat visible, collar open like he’d tried to behave and gave up halfway through the evening.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But neither of you looked away.

The first time you met Dr. Jack Abbot, you were fresh off your fourth twelve-hour day shift that week. For the first two years of your residency, you’d been under Robby’s wing—solid, day-shift training, plenty of first-time experiences, and a support system that kept you steady. But when it came time to switch rotations, it was Robby who recommended you move to nights.

"More fast-paced," he’d reasoned. "Higher stakes. They could use your skills. You’re ready."

You’d heard about Jack Abbot by then. Everyone had. Ex-military. Brilliant. Demanding. A damn good trauma attending, and an even tougher mentor. You were equal parts intrigued and warned.

The ED hallway was buzzing, but you didn’t miss the way Jack paused as you approached. He glanced at your badge, then at your posture—upright, composed, betraying none of the exhaustion you carried—and finally at the trauma board.

“Hope you’re fast,” was all he said, voice low and dry, like a test he didn’t expect you to pass.

Turns out, you were more than fast. You were precise. Efficient. Clinical.

When a GSW came in thirty minutes later—a young man with a single penetrating wound to the upper abdomen—you and Abbot stepped in together. He hung back just enough to supervise, giving you space to lead the resuscitation while staying close.

You scanned the vitals: hypotensive, tachycardic, altered mentation. “GSW to the upper abdomen, likely mesenteric involvement. Initial BP was 80/40 with HR in the 130s, GCS at 13 but trending downward. Type and crossmatch. Two units O-neg. Prep for a laparotomy?” you asked, assessing quickly as you reached for gloves. Abbot nodded once, already handing you a sterile gown without a word.

He didn’t stop you, but he didn’t let you coast either.

“What’s your plan if the pressure doesn’t stabilize after the second unit?” he asked as you both finished gowning up.

“Call for a third, reassess fluid responsiveness, consider vasopressors if no improvement,” you replied, already focused.

“And if there’s massive hemoperitoneum?”

“Prioritize source control. Suction, pack, find the bleeder.”

Jack gave a small, approving hum. Then you glanced back at him, sharp, poised. He was holding out the handle of a blade to you—steady, without fanfare.

“I’m not handling it,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blinked once, then reached for the blade. Gloved fingers curled around the handle as the rest of the room faded into peripheral noise. It was your show now—and he was trusting you to lead it.

The team moved quickly. You made the incision, suctioned blood, clamped the bleeder—a mesenteric vessel torn clean. Laparotomy pads soaked in seconds. Abbot kept an eye on the monitor, watching your hands. You found the source and controlled it, methodical and focused, with Jack’s quiet presence steady behind your shoulder.

Jack nodded once, the faintest glimmer of something like approval in his eyes. After the patient was wheeled off to the OR, gloves off and adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin, he tossed you a saline flush and a towel. The rest of the team was still moving in organized flurries, cleaning up the bay, resetting trays, pulling down blood-streaked drapes. You peeled off your gloves slowly, breath catching up to you now that the adrenaline was fading.

The smell of antiseptic, blood, and sweat clung to everything. Your scrub top was damp with effort. And still, Jack hadn’t said anything else. Just watched you like he was recalibrating something in his head. Taking the measure of you.

“Not bad,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Not bad?”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll keep you. Though I should probably check the return policy with Robby before the trial period ends.”

Then, lower—just for you: “Though going nipples to navel on that first cut? That’s no man’s land. Bit too risky of a procedure for me to do myself.”

You blinked, thrown off your axis, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or sincere—or both. “What?”

But Jack was already walking away, gloves off, like he hadn’t just left you standing there like a deer in headlights.

You weren’t expecting to see him either.

Jack Abbot in a tux. Sharp lapels. Cuffs neat. Hair styled but slightly tousled like he hadn’t quite figured out how to look formal without messing it up on purpose. Heat rose to your face, tinting it the color of the rosé being served tonight.

Turning around, you reached for a flute of champagne to occupy your thoughts. He’d just crossed the room, weaving past a pair of donors discussing their latest golf fundraiser, his eyes never leaving you. The clink of glass and silver faded just enough for you to hear the soft brush of his dress shoes stop beside yours.

“Red,” he said, nodding toward your dress. "Didn’t think it was in your rotation." He caught the soft trace of your perfume just as you inhaled the quiet warmth of his cologne.

You arched a brow. “Tux? Let me guess—last worn at prom?”

He huffed a laugh. The corner of his mouth tilted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

“Not really,” you smirked.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. "How’d Gloria rope you into this mess?"

You took a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue before replying, “She said the hospital needed a pretty face for the press photos.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you volunteered willingly, I assume?”

“I did. She said she wanted someone who wasn’t going to mention sock puppets in his opening speech.”

Jack tilted his head. "So you pointed her to literally anyone but me and Robby."

You smiled into your glass. “You and Robby are very pretty. Just not ‘donate-millions-of-dollars’ pretty.”

He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

You both leaned back slightly, falling into a rare pocket of easy quiet.

“If I'm being honest,” he said after a breath, “these things make my skin crawl. Donors patting themselves on the back for saving lives they’ve never seen.”

“Agreed,” you murmured. “It’s like they want the moral gold star without the 2 a.m. trauma call. Or the third straight shift without sleep.”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Or the resident paycheck that barely covers rent.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And definitely not the part where we spend a decade training, rack up six figures of debt, and still have to fight for safe staffing ratios.”

He nodded once, quiet. “But hey, at least they get their name etched onto a plaque of a hallway they'll get lost in.”

"God," you sighed. "I'd love to switch places with them for a day."

Jack snorted. “Five minutes in a trauma bay and they’d be crying into their cufflinks.”

You were about to take another sip when you paused. “You realize you’re wearing cufflinks.”

“Which is why I’m drinking soda instead of champagne. Keeps me grounded.”

A quiet breath escaped you, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Your commitment to moral superiority is truly inspiring.”

He gave you a narrowed look, not quite smiling but close. “Someone’s gotta keep the place honest.”

You smiled to yourself, looking down and shaking your head, before excusing yourself to go charm another cluster of donors. “See you around—Jack.”

You’d only ever said his first name once before.

He noticed.

Jack stood there a second too long, stunned, watching your retreating back like he wasn’t sure what just happened—or why it mattered so much.

The patient was coding. Jack was tied up in Room 3 with a liver lac. You were alone when Trauma 2 rolled in—blunt trauma, hypotensive, bleeding out.

You didn’t wait. “I need two large-bore IVs, rapid sequence intubation kit, and thoracotomy tray—stat,” you barked to the team, already moving. “Start the MTP now.”

You slid the laryngoscope in cleanly, tube placed with practiced precision.

“Vitals are dropping,” a nurse called out.

“I know,” you forced out. “Keep pushing the units.”

The tray snapped open beside you. You didn’t hesitate. Just in case.

Abbot walked in right as you pulled your hands back, already prepped.

His eyes flicked from the open thoracotomy tray to the line placement to your gloved hands, bloody up to the wrists. He froze mid-step.

Then, without missing another beat, he stepped in beside you. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice low and calm. He didn’t raise it. He never did when it really mattered.

His presence was immediate—like someone flipping a switch—and suddenly the entire bay adjusted to him, calibrated around the two of you.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted your grip and said, “Vitals holding. Pressure’s up.”

“Balloon’s a little high,” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear over the hum of monitors.

You didn’t flinch, but your pulse jumped. “Adjusted,” you said, fingers tightening slightly on the handle as you recalibrated, eyes glued to the screen.

A beat passed. Then another.

The pressure crept upward. Slowly. Steadily.

The patient stabilized.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, trying to ignore the chill of adrenaline threading down your spine. Jack was still watching you—too closely. And you couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed or both. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours—steady, unreadable, searching like he was still deciding how angry he was allowed to be.

“You never should’ve done that without approval from an attending,” he said quietly, the words measured but firm, laced with something heavier beneath the surface.

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Understood.”

Jack stepped closer. Lowered his voice.

“But that was pretty badass. You just saved a life. Good job.”

Then he turned and left the trauma bay. The moment lingered—his words echoing in your ears louder than they should have.

Every pair of eyes seemed to shift away once he left, the noise of the trauma bay gradually returning to its usual rhythm. Monitors beeped. Carts wheeled past. Gloves peeled off with a quiet snap and hit the bin. Hands—steady during the crisis—now trembled faintly.

Pride lingered. So did fear. And you weren’t sure which feeling was winning.

Outside by the nurses' bay, Jack was leaning against the wall, one foot braced behind him, chart in hand but not moving. His gaze was distant—somewhere far beyond the clipboard. A crooked smirk ghosted across his lips, then faded as quickly as it had come. He was still thinking about what you'd done. How steady your hands had been. How much you'd grown.

He’d been impressed. He’d also been scared.

That kind of procedure… it wasn’t something he’d ever do lightly. And you? You hadn’t hesitated. Not out of recklessness, but because you’d known it was the right call. The only call.

"Ballsy," he muttered under his breath. "Damn near reckless."

But his chest swelled—quietly, privately—with something that felt a lot like pride.

The third time you ran into each other that night, it wasn’t by accident.

You were leaning against a balcony railing, champagne nearly gone. One glass hadn’t been enough to drown out the unbearable jargon and vapid conversations—but you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go overboard tonight. Just enough to appear socially well-versed.

The night had cooled, the breeze brushing goosebumps along your bare arms. Jack found you there, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, eyes catching on the subtle shiver that moved through your frame.

“You always hide from donors this early?” he asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You’d heard those footsteps enough times to recognize the rhythm—the soft, sure cadence of someone who never rushed but never wandered. A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it. Subtle. Reflexive. Familiar.

“Only the boring ones.”

He smirked and stepped beside you, pulling his jacket off with one fluid motion.

Before you could say anything, he draped it over your shoulders—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed your bare arm on the way down. The heat of him lingered even through the fabric. And then there was the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and grounded by something warmer beneath it. The scent made your chest ache with something unnameable—familiar, steady, a little too easy to lean into. It curled in your lungs, lingered in the back of your throat. Your knees dipped slightly, an involuntary response you buried with practiced ease. You’d never admit that, of course. Not even to yourself.

“You’ll freeze,” he said, voice quiet, almost an afterthought.

You didn’t correct him. Just glanced up. He was already looking at you.

“You look good,” he said finally.

Your brow raised.

“In red,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t say thank you. Just looked at him. Let it sit there for a moment—heavy, a little too charged to touch.

"If you keep being nice to me, people are going to start wondering if the sodas were spiked."

That earned you a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly subtle way he smiled when he actually meant it.

"Guess I'll have to ruin it with a sober insult later," he said.

You gave him a dry stare. "Looking forward to it."

The air between you tightened, warm and brittle. He shifted just slightly closer, like something unspoken pulled him there.

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to smother the tension with humor. “Don’t you have some attractive widows to go butter up?”

His lips twitched. “Already secured donations from all of them,” he said, only half joking. Then, quieter, with a faint shrug: “None of them were interesting.”

That gave you pause.

“I prefer women with poor work-life balance and sharp comebacks.” He looked at you again, the curve of his mouth bordering on a real smile now. "You?"

"Hm," you hummed to yourself. "I prefer women with competitive streaks and sharp eyeliner. And men with stress-induced insomnia, commitment issues, and the emotional availability of a damp dishrag."

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. "Bold of you to describe my entire personality like it's a turn-on."

"If the shoe fits," you murmured, toying with your empty glass.

He looked at you then—really looked. Head tilted just enough to feel like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"It’s always the sharp ones," he said. "Cut deepest, don’t they?"

Your lips twitched. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about emotionally repressed men in positions of authority."

"Touché."

But neither of you moved further.

Jack’s voice lowered, something quieter threading through. “You know, for what it’s worth… I notice. How hard you work. How much you give.”

That caught you off guard. The words settled in your chest, raw and warm. You swallowed around them.

“Then I hope you notice how often it gets overlooked,” you said, voice softer now. “By everyone else.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable in them. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he would.

“Hey!”

Robby’s voice cut through the air like a 10-blade.

You turned, blinking back to the present. Robby's head was poking out of the curtains, waving a hand. “Sorry to interrupt your… mood lighting, but I need to help charm this silver fox donor who won’t stop talking about his golf handicap and yacht collection. Won’t stop asking for the 'hot doctor with attitude.' So naturally, I assumed he meant you.”

You glanced back at Jack, reluctant.

He gave you a nod, but didn’t say anything. Just watched you go.

Before you turned to leave, you slid the jacket from your shoulders and held it out to him. Jack stepped forward to take it, but his fingers brushed yours—warm, lingering, just a second longer than necessary.

His jaw tightened for half a breath—barely perceptible—before he masked it, reaching to take the jacket with a small nod. His fingers brushed yours again as he pulled it into his arms. The warmth still clung to it—so did your scent. Subtle, familiar, something floral and grounding. It curled in his chest as he inhaled, slow and quiet, like he didn’t mean to. As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you—sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. Like he was still holding something back—he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

Once you were gone, he allowed himself to bring the jacket up to his face and breathe in lightly, letting the remaining trace of you settle in his lungs. It lingered—clean, unmistakable, and quietly devastating.

With each year, the line between rivalry and familiarity blurred just a little more.

It wasn’t just that you were the senior-most resident anymore—it was that you were his senior-most resident. The one who matched him pace for pace in trauma bays, who called out orders with the same clipped authority, who rolled your eyes at his sarcastic one-liners only to throw them right back at him.

Jack gave you a hard time. You gave it right back.

It started as cold professionalism. Then it turned sharp. Competitive. Then somehow... comfortable.

“Think you can manage this without slicing through the aorta this time?” Jack murmured once during a late night thoracotomy.

“Only if you don’t pass out from blood loss first, old man,” you replied smoothly.

“Old man,” he repeated under his breath. “Remind me why I let you lead in my trauma bay?”

“Because I’m the best.”

He didn’t respond. Just passed the next instrument with a soft, resigned smirk.

There was a night Shen caught you both bickering over a chart like a married couple.

"The guy had a fever and a murmur—of course I’m thinking endocarditis," you said, exasperated, scribbling into the margins.

"And I’m saying we still need to rule out pulmonary embolism first," Jack shot back, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

"I’m writing the note," you reminded him.

"Are you going to type it up for me too?"

"If you want it to be legible."

Jack scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

That’s when Shen passed by, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Just kiss already."

Neither of you responded. Jack��s pen stilled in his hand. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

But later that night, as you leaned against the med station reviewing labs, he passed behind you, fingers grazing your lower back as he brushed by.

Casual. Too casual. And yet, your breath caught anyway.

You didn’t talk about it.

You never talked about it.

But it was there, all the same.

Back inside, the ballroom lights felt too bright. You smiled at a passing donor, glass still in hand, but your mind was still outside—on the breeze, on his jacket, on the way Jack had looked at you like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You found yourself drifting toward the edge of the room, eyes scanning unconsciously. Jack had disappeared into the crowd.

Or so you thought.

“Looking for me?”

You turned to see him at your side again, now holding two drinks—one club soda, one bubbling glass.

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me trashed on overpriced spirits, Dr. Abbot?”

“I would, if this were alcohol.” He offered the glass to you. “It’s ginger ale.”

You eyed it suspiciously, then took it anyway. “Classy.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You called me Jack earlier.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The bubbles soothed your stomach, uneasy from all the talking and dizzy heights of empty small talk.

The quiet pressed in, heavy and hesitant, neither of you quite ready to fill it—but neither willing to walk away.

“Well, Dr. L/N,” he said, tone dipping into something light but curious, “how do you plan on spending the rest of your evening?”

You gave him a half-smile. “Getting some sleep. Or trying to.” You looked back out across the ballroom, then added, “I talked to Robby earlier—offered to be on-call for day shift tomorrow. Filling in for Langdon.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Aren't you supposed to be off?”

“Yup. So are you,” you said, glancing at him.

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. You both knew the pattern by now—same days off, same shifts. Neither of you had ever pointed it out.

“What else would I do on a Friday?” There was something brittle in the joke, something quieter under it. “Work keeps me occupied.”

Jack watched you for a second longer, then said, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to keep yourself occupied. It's okay to take a breather.”

You let out a dry breath of a laugh, the edge of a smile curling—biting, but small. “That’s rich coming from the only other person who works as many shifts as I do.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stepped a little closer.

“You could’ve said no to being on-call,” he said. “Could’ve said you had plans.”

“I do,” you retorted. “Sleep for three hours. Chug coffee. Go back.”

Jack tipped his head, like he was trying to read more into your tone than you meant to give away. “Y/N—”

The name stopped you cold. You took a half-step back before you could think better of it, reflexive and immediate, voice clipped and low. “Don’t.”

That caught him off guard.

“I—sorry,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly.

Jack looked at you then, something close to understanding flickering in his eyes. As though he remembered, too. How could he forget?

The first time he'd said your name.

Blood on your scrubs. Tears in your throat. A patient you couldn't save.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, slowly, and let you go.

Then, just as his mouth parted to say something else—

“Dr. Abbot!” Gloria’s voice rang out from the other end of the ballroom, hand ushering him to come over. “The donor from Penn wants a word before he leaves!”

Jack clenched his jaw. His eyes lingered on yours.

“Rain check,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod as he walked away. And for a long moment after, you stayed where you were, ginger ale sweating in your hand.

You didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment you’d remember whenever someone asked when medicine stopped being just medicine.

The trauma call came in: car accident, two parents and a child, maybe 8 or 9. The parents were in rough shape but still awake, still responsive—moaning through cracked ribs and splintered glass. The kid, though—blunt force, GCS 3 on arrival. Completely unresponsive. You felt it in your gut before the vitals even came in.

Jack was across the bay when the doors opened. He looked up once—nodded at you. “You’re lead. I'll stabilize the parents."

You didn’t hesitate. Airway, trauma labs, two large-bore IVs. Portable chest. Fast scan. You called it all before the stretcher stopped moving.

The child’s body was limp. Small. Already pale. The pressure in your chest felt like a dam ready to burst.

You intubated with steady hands, but your voice faltered—just slightly—when you called for epinephrine. Jack appeared beside you somewhere around the second round of compressions, gloves on, silent. Watching. Present.

“Vitals still unstable,” someone called from behind you. “BP 62 over palp. Pulse weak. We’re pushing TXA now.” At least he'd stabilized the parents, you thought. If he could save them, you could save their little girl.

Four bags of blood and 18 minutes of chest compressions. The monitor stayed flat.

Still, you kept going. Pushing meds. Calling for another round. Someone offered to take over for compressions, murmured that you needed a break. You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Then again, more firmly. “I’ve got it.”

No one tried to argue. You were lead. You had it.

Even as your arms began to ache. Even as the blood kept pooling, the compressions rhythmically jarring through your bones. You wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. The team was moving around you, quiet, reverent.

Then Jack stepped in closer.

“Monitor hasn't picked up a rhythm in 12 minutes,” he said gently. “We can't keep up with the blood loss. There's too much internal damage. You know this.”

You shook your head, barely perceptible, and kept going. Compressing, counting, calling for another round of epi.

Jack’s voice stayed level. “Anyone else would’ve been pronounced dead at the scene.”

You ignored him. Just a few more compressions and transfusions and she'd come back.

Then—

“Y/N.”

That made you freeze.

Your name. His voice.

Your hands were still trembling against the child’s chest.

You looked at the monitor. Heard the continuous tone. Flatline.

No pulse.

“Call it,” Jack pleaded softly.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse. Cold.

“Time of death, 03:17.”

You stepped back, stripped your gloves off slowly. Fingers stained with blood you couldn’t stop from spilling. Jack said nothing. He didn’t leave.

You swallowed hard, trying to force the tears down. To breathe through the break in your chest.

Jack didn’t touch you this time. He just stood there.

Let you fall apart, silently.

Then you ripped off your gloves and threw them hard into the bin, the sound louder than it had any right to be. You turned and stormed out of the trauma bay without looking back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

That was the first time he said your name.

And it pulled you back. You never forgot it.

Sometimes you wished you had.

Back inside, the music had changed.

You’d barely rejoined the crowd when the lights dimmed and the emcee called out for the first dance of the evening.

Across the ballroom, Jack saw you before you saw him. You were standing near the edge of the crowd, nursing the last of your drink, the weight of something invisible pressing into your posture.

But you weren’t alone. A tall man—one of the younger donors—had his hand on your arm, leaning in to say something. He offered you his hand.

Jack’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move—at first. Just watched as you smiled politely, took the man's hand, let him lead you to the dance floor.

It was brief. Chaste. Just a dance. But Jack hated the way the guy's hand lingered at your waist. Hated how close he stood, how you nodded along to something he said, even if your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A minute later, you gently swapped out with Robby, excusing yourself from your first partner. Robby took your hand with a flourish and spun you once like a game show host. You smiled for the first time in hours.

"You okay?" he asked gently, settling into a slower sway with you.

You shrugged. "Long week."

Robby gave you a dad-look. "Anything in particular on your mind, or just the usual existential dread?"

A quiet laugh escaped, softer than you meant for it to. "Just the usual, I guess."

For a while, the two of you swayed in silence. Robby’s gaze stayed soft. "You’ve been a little quiet lately. Even more than usual. You sleeping okay? Eating?"

Instead of answering right away, your eyes drifted to his shoulder. "I’m fine."

"You always say that. Doesn’t mean I believe it."

A small, grateful smile curved your lips. Robby always knew how to make space—never too much, never too little. He left the door open without pushing you through it.

"You know I’ve got your back, right kid? You ever need to talk, about anything, even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to say out loud—come find me."

"Thanks, Robby. I mean it."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I know you do."

A voice cut in—low and smooth.

"Mind if I cut in?"

You turned.

Jack stood there, one hand extended. He didn’t look at Robby. He didn’t need to.

Robby chuckled under his breath and stepped aside. "She’s all yours."

Jack’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“Dance with me?” he asked, softer than you'd expected.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your breath caught, mind still echoing with the last time you’d heard him say your name.

But then you nodded—slow, tentative—and slid your hand into his.

He guided you gently into step, the rhythm of the music slower than your pulse. His hand settled against your waist, warm and sure, like it had always belonged there. The other laced with yours, a silent tether.

You moved together with a surprising ease, like muscle memory forged in proximity, not practice. It wasn’t just a dance—it was a conversation. A quiet exchange, careful and cautious. Every shift of weight, every brush of fingers was a sentence neither of you dared speak aloud.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn't. The proximity was dizzying. It wasn’t the champagne. It was him.

Jack’s voice came, low and even. “You always this good at pretending everything’s fine?”

You finally glanced up, something caught between a smile and a flinch playing on your face. “Only when I’m trying to impress a colleague.”

His mouth twitched, barely. “That why you always pull it together when I’m around?”

You didn’t answer.

Gliding across the floor, you felt like you were floating. And still, the weight of his hand at your waist grounded you.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: the silence, or the closeness.

“I used to think if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel any of it,” you said, voice barely above the swell of the music. “But some things catch up to you anyway.”

Jack’s grip shifted slightly, not tighter, just… more present. “Running works—until it doesn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

He met your eyes. “No. You bury it. Same result, different damage.”

You exhaled through your nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Funny. Thought we were dancing, not diagnosing.”

“We can do both,” he said, dry but not unkind. “I go to therapy. You slow dance at charity galas.”

Your gaze flicked to his lips, then away. “Guess my way is cheaper since I'm not paying for any of the wine or dine.”

Jack’s hand at your waist didn’t budge. If anything, it steadied you more.

“Y/N,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. Like he was handing something over. Like he wanted you to take it.

Your shoulders tensed. Jaw muscles flexed.

He noticed.

You looked up, met his gaze, and said, quieter than before but with unmistakable weight, “Jack, you’re walking on thin ice.”

He didn’t flinch. But something flickered in his expression—something equal parts affection and surrender.

You only used each other’s names when it mattered.

The only difference was: he loved it. You hated it.

The hospital had quieted for the night, but the kind of quiet that screamed underneath.

You assisted on his last case—another loss, but this one had cut deeper than usual. Maybe it was the way Jack had gone cold, all clinical control and efficiency… until the voice crack. Just a flicker. A tremor. He’d kept going, ordering transfusions, calling vitals, his tone even until it wasn’t. You saw it—behind the focused eyes, there was fear.

You were the one standing next to him when he finally called it.

You found him up there—on the roof—where the city lights couldn’t quite wash out the weight in his shoulders. Jack was staring out past the edge, hands in his coat pockets, the wind catching just enough to make his scrubs flutter at the hem.

You didn’t speak right away. Just stood a few paces behind him, letting your presence fill the space before your voice did.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Jack didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

“I had to wrap up some charting.”

A beat.

“They were a veteran,” he said. “Had a daughter who just got into college.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a quiet, humorless sound. “I know. Doesn’t help.”

You hesitated, then moved beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I must have had a reason at one time to keep coming back," he murmured, “but I can't think of it right now."

You didn’t have an answer.

But you said his name.

“Jack.”

It was the first time you’d said it out loud. Not Dr. Abbot. Not anything guarded. Just him.

He turned then, slowly.

“Don’t shut down on me,” you said. “Not tonight.”

The wind carried your words away, but he heard them. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he said, voice rough.

“You don’t have to stay alone.”

He glanced at you then—just briefly, like eye contact might split him open.

You searched his face, thinking back to the moment in the trauma bay where he called it. Where his voice cracked but didn’t waver. Where his gloved hands were steady even though his eyes gave him away. You’d never seen him look like that before—so composed, so clinical, and still, so unmistakably human.

The memory stuck to your ribs.

“I know it’s not fair,” you said, voice low. “That we carry the worst of them home. That we never get to know if we were enough.”

Jack didn’t speak. But he didn’t move either. That was something. So you added, a little too soft, “But you are. You are enough.”

A long silence.

Then, to break it—because it felt like too much—you rolled your shoulder and said, “Robby’s gonna kick your ass if you jump off during his shift.”

Jack huffed, the sound barely audible but real.

“Come on,” you added, nodding toward the stairwell. “Let’s get off this roof before someone reports us for loitering.”

You didn't move.

Not yet.

Just stood there in silence, waiting—not because you needed him to follow, but because you weren’t going anywhere without him.

And Jack came. Eventually. Quiet and heavy and slow, the shuffle of his shoes steadying against the roof's concrete.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped beside you, close enough to share warmth but not break space.

Then you walked. Together. Not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to feel it. Close enough to stay.

The night had grown heavier.

Somehow, you and Jack had found your way back to the balcony—again. It was quieter out here, the city humming beneath you, wind tugging softly at your hair. Your skin still held the memory of his hand at your waist. The music inside was muffled now, like the two of you had stepped out of the narrative entirely.

Jack leaned against the railing, but his gaze never left you. Something about the way he was looking—like he’d been holding back something for far too long.

You crossed your arms, more to anchor yourself than anything. “You’re staring.”

“You said my name,” he replied, voice low.

Your throat tightened. “You started it.”

He pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

You didn’t back away. But your voice came sharper this time, more breath than warning. “Don’t. Don’t start something neither of us can come back from.”

That gave him pause. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe everything—but bit it back. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jack said. “But I can't keep pretending this is nothing.”

With a quiet breath, he confessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart tripped.

“I try,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I’ve tried. But you show up in every shift. Every damn quiet moment. I hear your voice when I walk through those doors. I look for you at every trauma call. And when you’re not there, it’s worse.”

You didn’t speak.

“I’ve been through hell,” he went on, stepping closer, “seen things I still don’t have names for—but none of it scares me the way you do. Because this?” He gestured between you. “This is real. And if I say it out loud, I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He looked at you, eyes tired and wide open. “Say something. Please.”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant. “You're my attending, we’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care.”

The silence cracked wide open between you.

You let out a breath—shaky, exasperated.

"Fuck," you said, voice breaking. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you either? That I see your eyes every time I close mine—your smile, rare as it is, stuck in my head like a damn echo? That I come home and swear I can still smell your cologne because it’s the only thing that brings me any sense of comfort?"

Your hands were trembling now. You didn’t stop—couldn't.

"Pretending this means nothing is easier than risking what happens if it actually matters. Because if it does—Jack—"

Jack caught you before you could even get the words out. His mouth was on yours, rough and unyielding, and you didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. You kissed him like you meant it, because fucking hell, did you mean it.

When your back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a quiet thud, he pressed closer, hands framing your jaw like you were something to be memorized.

There was nothing polite in the way you touched each other now. Just years of tension, unspoken things, and the desperate need to feel something real.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

His lips trailed lower, brushing the hinge of your jaw before nipping gently at your neck. The sound you made—half breath, half shock—only seemed to spur him on.

“Then don’t pretend,” Jack whispered against your skin, voice rough and reverent. “Let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Your hands cradled the sides of his face, fingers brushing across his cheekbones. All these years spent by his side and you hadn’t taken the time to admire his freckles.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his—slower now, deeper. One of his hands slid down your back, splaying across the small of it as if anchoring you in place. The other tangled into your hair, careful but needing.

You gasped when his hips met yours again, your breath catching between kisses. He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

"I need you," you finally said.

And that was all he needed.

He rushed to close the curtains on the inside and lock the balcony doors before returning to you.

Your world narrowed to the way his mouth reclaimed yours, the press of his body, the heat building like a fuse lit too close to the end. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, in the quiet shelter of the balcony, there was only this.

Jack dropped to his knees, the motion fluid. You sucked in a breath as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg upward until your heel hooked over his shoulder. Your foot pressed gently against the curve of his back.

He tugged at the hem of your dress. You were already holding the hem of your dress, bunching it at your hips with practiced ease. The lace of your underwear was delicate, barely in the way—he hooked a finger around the side, sliding it with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

You were already soaked, and the way his eyes flicked up confirmed he knew it. He looked up at you once, eyes dark and unwavering, before leaning in.

His mouth was slow at first—exploring, learning you. The way your breath stuttered when his tongue found a sensitive spot, the way your fingers clenched in his hair. “You taste just as incredible as I imagined,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. When he inserted a finger and curled towards himself, you nearly buckled.

You didn’t mean to cry out, but it slipped past your lips, helpless and raw. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, which made him smirk. He caught your elbow with his free hand, gently but insistently, pulling your hand away and intertwining your fingers into his hair. You gave his curls a tug and were met with a moan. It was impossible to hide the smug grin that painted your face.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. His voice dipped lower, rougher.

You felt the press of the marble wall cool behind you as your back arched. One hand flew to the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he kept going—steadfast, focused, like you were the only thing that existed. Like this was something he'd been starving for.

And maybe you had been too. Because every sound, every gasp that left you was honest.

You hiked your knee higher, anchoring your heel along the dip of his back. The dress had long since stopped mattering.

Jack’s grip tightened, one hand digging into the curve of your ass as he anchored you against the wall. His other hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you with precision, curling until your legs nearly gave out.

"Jack, I'm—" You moaned into your clenched teeth, the sound too loud, too needy—but he wanted it, taking it in like oxygen.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as your breath came in shallow, stuttering waves. He didn’t let up. The rhythm was relentless, mouth and hand working in tandem, dragging you closer to the edge with every sweep, every flick, drinking you like water from a desert oasis. He stopped only when you tapped his cheek twice, silently begging for mercy.

Your skin glistened, painted with heat. Before he pulled away, Jack leaned in again, his tongue tracing the trails of your release up your inner thigh with slow, savoring strokes. Each pass of his mouth made you twitch, gasp, overstimulated but unwilling to stop. He kissed the soft skin in their wake.

When he finally looked up, his face was just as wrecked, jaw set and glistening with you. And the look in his eyes when he glanced up—hungry, worshipful—was enough to ruin you.

His lips were parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. “God, you’re perfect.” His eyes lifted to meet yours with something close to divine awe.

It came out quiet—like a confession he'd finally allowed himself to say out loud.

You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He let out a low, contented sound against your mouth, one hand tightening around your thigh, the other still steadying your hip. You could feel the tension in him—tender, aching—as if the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold it close.

Your fingers slipped into your dress, pulling free a small foil square tucked just inside the cup of your bra. Jack blinked down at it, then back up at you, clearly caught off guard.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, breathless. "Was holding it for a friend."

Jack smirked, eyes dragging down your body. "Sure you were."

You made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and pushing his pants down just enough.

“He talks too much,” you muttered, smirking.

You looked down.

And stopped.

He was perfect. Cut, trimmed, thick, just the right length. The kind of sight that made your breath hitch. Your hand slid along his length with a few firm pumps—just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

You couldn't resist. Lowered to your knees, gave him a few languid licks, savoring the taste. He whimpered, his hand gently gripping your hair—but not pulling, not yet.

After a few more pumps, Jack pulled you up by the chin with a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasp.

“I’m not coming anywhere but inside you,” he growled against your lips.

You smiled, teasing. “Maybe next time, then.” Your fingers trailed down the front of his dress shirt, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric—muscles taut and firm beneath your touch.

Then you turned, facing the wall—cheeks hot, breath short. One hand braced flat against the cool marble, the other gathering the bunched fabric of your dress. You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark with want.

Jack swore under his breath. He moved behind you in a blur, hands rough on your hips as he lined himself up. The heat of him pressed against you, teasing, maddening.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice lower than gravel.

You pushed back, just enough for him to sink in, slow and deliberate. He filled you up inch by inch, warm and hot and perfect, making you gasp as your forehead pressed to the wall.

His hands wrapped around your hips as he bottomed out, his mouth dragging along your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he whispered a sharp, broken "fuck"—more to himself than to you. Like he was trying not to explode.

You tried to move, just a little forward, a little back—restless with need—but his hands tightened.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Just—just give me a second. You feel fucking incredible.”

“Jack,” you whimpered.

If he clenched his teeth any harder, he might've popped his jaw. "Fuck, I love when you call me by my name."

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Please.”

That undid him.

He gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your supple flesh—just shy of bruising. The pain was delicious, grounding you to every thrust, every second of connection, hips rocking forward, slowly at first—deep, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch of you from the inside out. Each thrust sent a spark up your spine, your moans echoing softly. His mouth returned to your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel too good," he muttered, almost like it hurt. "Too good."

You tried to respond, but the words got lost somewhere in your throat as his pace picked up—harder, deeper, everything building.

Your hands flattened against the wall, bracing yourself as your body rocked with his rhythm. It was dizzying—overwhelming—in all the best ways. Every drag of his hips made your knees tremble, every grunt and growl in your ear pushed you closer to unraveling.

Without warning, he turned you around to face him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. He lifted your left leg with his right hand, supporting your thigh against his side as he surged forward again.

The angle had you seeing stars—vision spinning as he hit that spot inside you with maddening precision. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your head dropped forward against his.

Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding tight, desperate to keep him there. You raked your fingers through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him moan—and dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake. His mouth found yours again—tongue hot, hungry—kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His left hand anchored you by the hip, grinding you against him as his rhythm deepened, pulling another cry from your throat.

There was nothing left but heat, hands, breath. And the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted—needed.

"I'm yours," he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a truth. Raw and full and real.

Your lips brushed his, trembling. “And I’m yours.”

The moment cracked open between you. You kissed him—desperate, hungry, chasing the high you were both barely holding onto.

You felt yourself teetering, the peak just within reach. Jack looked like he was holding back, focusing on keeping every muscle drawn tight with restraint—putting your pleasure before his. But you needed him there with you, completely.

You leaned into his ear, breath hot. “I need you to cum for me, Jack.” His fingers dug deeper into your hip. "I need you to fill me up." Your knee wrapped tighter around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as you held him to you, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. You bit the curve of his neck, sharp and claiming.

That was all it took.

He let out a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he came undone, pulling you with him into a release that felt like freefall—earth-shattering and unrelenting.

Your release crashed through you moments after his, drawn out and all-consuming. Every nerve lit up, your body shaking with the intensity of it. It wasn’t like anything else—no drug, no high. Just him. You. This.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Your breath came in broken gasps, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling in the aftermath. Sweaty. Beautiful. And quiet.

Jack’s hand smoothed up your spine, grounding you. His lips brushed your temple, and the world finally began to settle back into place.

He gently brushed strands of damp hair from your face, fingers tender where they swept against your skin. The breeze caught a few pieces, but they clung to the sheen on your cheeks. When you finally let your leg down, your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you without hesitation—arms strong, sure, keeping you steady as your weight shifted. You clung to him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. When you finally loosened your grip, he didn’t let go right away—his arms still braced around you like muscle memory, like instinct.

Pulling back, you realized what a disheveled mess the two of you were.

You reached up and smoothed down the front of his shirt, fixing the lapels of his suit, tugging the hem of his jacket into place. Thankfully whatever hair gel he used was bulletproof, only a curl or two out of place. He brushed his fingers along your hairline, gently tucking back strands that had come loose, then adjusted the strap of your dress where it had slipped off your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, but heavy.

Clearing your throat, you tried to gather your thoughts. “I, uh…”

Jack’s eyes remained a little dazed, as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment.

A breath escaped you—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Tea. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine for tea.”

He blinked once, then his lips quirked.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “Or, like… whatever. Just to wind down. You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head once, slow. “Only if you’re not just holding it for a friend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re welcome anytime, Jack. You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You nodded once, awkward and earnest. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You always this smooth after balcony sex?”

You shot him a glare filled with playful menace. "Depends. You always this cocky after someone invites you over for tea?”

He smiled—one of those rare ones, small and sideways. “Only when it’s not just for the tea.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “But I’m yours, remember?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Return policy on that is… nonexistent, right?”

His smile widened just a touch. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Careful, Jack. That almost sounded romantic.”

He chuckled, then sobered just enough to meet your eyes. “Maybe it was.”

The breeze danced around you both again, brushing cool air against warm skin. Still, the embers between you remained.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his hand. “Let’s go before someone realizes we’ve been out here defiling the sacred balcony.”

He followed without hesitation. Fingers laced with yours.

This time, neither of you looked back.

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