#over every question in the packet

[variegated-fairywren]

physics fucking sucks it’s like calculus if calculus was entirely word problems

[buckysleftbicep]

cradles and chaos 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader

warning: morning sickness, loads of fluff, and team shenanigans

summary: you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: i love writing fics with teeth rotting fluff, genuinely love them so much! i hope you enjoy them, i love ya and stay safe out there!

requests are open! i love, love, love soft!bucky

The day started like any other.

Morning training. Groggy coffee run. Bucky kissing the top of your head before heading off to spar with Alexei and you trying not to gag at the smell of the protein powder he insisted on putting in his smoothie. Just the usual.

Until it hit you.

The wave of nausea crashed into your gut so suddenly that you barely made it to the compound bathroom in time. Knees on the cold tile, you gripped the toilet bowl and dry-heaved like you were trying to launch a demon from your oesophagus.

It was violent. Loud. And, unfortunately for you, not private.

Footsteps approached behind you, followed by a dry, unimpressed voice. “If this is your version of The Exorcist, you forgot the head spin. Come on, at least commit to the bit.”

You groaned. “Yelena, for the love of—”

She stepped inside without hesitation, casually grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and gathering your hair like this was a weekly occurrence. “Let me guess. Either Alexei made you try his ‘secret stamina shake’ again, or…” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re pregnant.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Wait,” she said, pausing mid-sentence. Her expression changed, slowly morphing into that wide-eyed look she got when she spotted a new target. “Wait. Wait.”

“Don’t—”

“YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

“Shhh!” You jumped up and flushed the toilet like it would somehow erase the moment. “Keep it down!”

Yelena’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are! Oh my god. I knew it. That explains the pickles and peanut butter at two in the morning. Also, the weird crying over that dog food commercial last week.”

“I was hormonal! That golden retriever had abandonment issues!”

“I’m not judging,” she said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just honoured to be the first to know. Or like, second, I guess?”

You bit your lip. “…He doesn’t know yet, does he?”

She froze. “Wait. You haven’t told Bucky yet?”

You winced. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise him. Big surprise. Sweet. Emotional. Crying, maybe him, not me. I’ve cried enough.”

Yelena blinked twice. Then her hand flew to her chest in dramatic horror. “Oh my God. I am in charge of a secret. I’m responsible for withholding information from Barnes. Do you know what this means?”

“That I trust you?”

“That I’m going to be the best fucking godmother in the world.”

You finally breathed again, until she added, “Though… I am tempted to tell the others."

“Yelena.”

“Relax,” she said with a shrug. “Your secret’s safe. For now. But if you die, I get to raise the kid like a tiny assassin. Deal?”

“…Yelena.”

“Deal?”

“…Fine.”

She grinned, already scheming.

You had taken every precaution.

No more sparring. No caffeine. Your prenatal vitamins were hidden behind a bag of trail mix no one ever touched. You kept your hoodie on at all times, avoided combat drills, smiled through nausea, and faked normalcy like your life depended on it.

But Ava wasn’t the type to be fooled by quiet exits and thicker sweatshirts.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just watched. The way a blade waits in the dark, calculating without moving. You could feel it—her eyes on you during training, her steps falling in line behind yours a little more often than before.

One morning, you reached for your weighted vest only to find it mysteriously lighter. Five pounds missing. No explanation. She said nothing.

Then one night in the rec room, you were curled up on the couch half-watching some movie you’d already forgotten the plot of, when a packet of ginger chews landed softly in your lap. You looked up, startled.

Ava didn’t turn. She was sitting in the armchair across the room, casually typing something on her tablet like she hadn’t just sniped you with snacks.

“You gagged in the elevator this morning,” she said, still not looking at you. “Second time this week.”

You blinked, fingers tightening around the ginger chews. “I—maybe I’m just coming down with something.”

She didn’t answer. Just gave the softest hum. Like she was humoring you. You waited for her to press, to demand answers, to ask what Bucky somehow hadn’t noticed yet.

But she didn’t.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you asked after a beat, quieter now.

“I don’t care,” she said, voice flat, eyes on her screen. “Unless you get yourself killed. Then it becomes my problem.”

You exhaled through your nose, smiling despite yourself. “So this is you being… concerned?”

“This is me avoiding paperwork.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Ava didn’t do affection, not in the traditional sense. She did proximity. Action. Silence that somehow felt like reassurance. She didn’t say much, but she never missed anything.

“Don’t carry anything heavy,” she added after a moment, her tone just as even, like she was reading off a grocery list.

Over the next week, you noticed the little things.

A decaf coffee cup on your desk, slid across the surface wordlessly while she passed by. Her cutting her own training short to spot you during stretches, silent and watchful, and you were never more grateful.

Once, you opened your locker and found a small bottle of prenatal vitamins tucked neatly beside your usual supplements. The label had been peeled off. There was no note. But you knew exactly where they came from.

Bucky, meanwhile, remained adorably clueless.

He still kissed your cheek every morning, still asked if you wanted spicy noodles, the ramen kind for dinner, still rubbed your back when you sighed too hard without even realising why you were sighing.

“You’ve seemed kinda tired lately,” he said one night, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You okay?”

And just like that, Bucky let it go.

The next morning, there was a new water bottle waiting on your desk. One of those fancy ones with the hours marked on the side like hydration was a full-time job. You didn’t need to guess who left it there.

Ava just knew. And that was enough.

It was bound to happen.

You were doing your best. Truly. Between Yelena’s feral excitement and Ava’s silent protection, you were managing.

Bucky was still clueless (somehow), not that you were complaining, and the rest of the team had stayed suspiciously uninvolved.

But then came Alexei.

Loud, dramatic, built like a brick wall and absolutely no understanding of what the word subtle meant.

You didn’t mean for him to find out. In fact, you weren’t even in the room when it happened.

It started in the kitchen.

You’d left your tea steeping on the counter—ginger with a splash of lemon, the only thing that didn’t make you want to retch—and stepped out to grab your hoodie from the lounge.

Two minutes. Maybe less.

And that’s when disaster struck.

Alexei strolled in, whistling some vaguely patriotic tune, spotted the mug, and immediately sniffed it like a bloodhound. You weren’t even there to defend yourself.

“Hm,” he muttered to himself. “This tea… I know this tea. My babushka (russian for grandmother) used to make this for woman in village. When they were… what’s word? With child.”

From across the kitchen island, Yelena looked up from her cereal with mild panic in her eyes.

“Do not do this,” she warned, spoon halfway to her mouth.

Alexei didn’t listen.

Instead, he sniffed the tea again, leaned back with both hands on his hips like some kind of Soviet sommelier, and declared, “It is pregnancy tea! Very good for nausea. Calms stomach. Boosts circulation. Ancient remedy.”

Yelena slowly set her spoon down. “Alexei—”

“WAIT.” His eyes widened. “IS SHE WITH CHILD?!”

You walked in just in time to see him throw both hands into the air and look around like he expected confetti to fall from the ceiling. “IS THERE A BABY? ARE WE HAVING BABY?!”

Yelena let her head thunk against the table. “You absolute moron.”

Alexei turned to her with wild-eyed enthusiasm. “YOU KNOW?!”

“Of course I knew, you donkey. Bucky doesn't, yet."

He gasped like someone had stabbed him—but dramatically, like an actor in a very bad stage play. “You betray me! I am her family. I am her protector. I am baby future grandfather!”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Yelena muttered.

And then he saw you.

Alexei’s expression softened, somehow, impossibly, turning from full-volume chaos to absolute, genuine awe. He crossed the room in two heavy strides, grabbed your hands in his like you were made of glass, and stared at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

“You,” he said, lowering his voice like it physically hurt him to be gentle, “are miracle.”

“Okay—”

“No, listen. You are tiny, like small baby rabbit, but you carry powerful legacy. You carry strength. Heart. Warrior blood."

Alexei cupped your face—not quite gently, but at least without crushing your skull—and nodded to himself like he was solving a world crisis. “I will protect this child with everything I have. I will teach them discipline. Honour. How to disarm man in six seconds. Also fishing.”

“Alexei—”

“Shhh.” He tapped your forehead. “Little Starfish, you are busy now. You grow hero. I will build cradle. I have plans already. And foam. And tools. Maybe missile too.”

You stared at him.

“…Please don’t put missiles near the baby.”

“Decorative.”

Yelena snorted.

Alexei turned back to her. “We need banner. And possibly anthem. Something that plays when child enters room.”

You sighed into your palm. “No one is making an anthem for the baby.”

He placed a hand over his chest. “We see.”

You didn’t mean to drag John into it. Not directly, anyway.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

You were curled up on the compound couch one afternoon, hoodie pulled over your knees, watching a rerun of Shark Tank and trying your absolute best not to commit murder out of pure hormonal rage when the craving hit, hard, out of nowhere.

You held out for a few minutes—tried breathing, counting backwards, chewing on the inside of your cheek. But by minute five, your resolve crumbled. You pulled out your phone and fired off a text.

you up? can you get me mango gummies. and pickles and vanilla yogurt. not greek. please.

There was a pause. Then:

Walker: you want me to bring you pickles and yogurt?

You: together. in the same container. i'm gonna dip them.

Another pause. Longer.

Walker: that's weird, but I’m on my way.

True to his word, John showed up twenty minutes later, slightly out of breath like he had sprinted through a Costco. He had two grocery bags in hand and a look on his face that said he had seen war—but nothing quite like this.

“Okay,” he said, dropping the bags like they might detonate, “I got four kinds of yogurt because I didn’t know what you meant, three kinds of pickles because apparently there are options, and the mango gummies."

You blinked, mildly overwhelmed. “You're a hero."

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching as you cracked open the yogurt, dunked a pickle, and took a bite like it was the most normal thing in the world. You let out a blissed-out sigh.

John stared, horrified. “You’re really eating that?"

“Yup.”

“Like... voluntarily?”

“It’s good.”

He sat down beside you slowly, arms crossed like a disappointed gym teacher. “I don’t think that’s how taste buds work.”

You shrugged, popping another pickle. “Maybe not for you.”

There was a long silence. Then John tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “Okay,” he muttered. “You cried during that dog adoption video last week.”

“So did you,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, but you sobbed. Like, full on ugly cry. For twenty minutes. Over a golden retriever named Meatball.”

“He was alone in the shelter for six years.”

“And then there’s the naps. The weird tea. The fact that Ava’s been hovering. And now you’re eating that.” He gestured vaguely at your snack combo, then narrowed his eyes.

“Wait. You sparred with me the other day and said my voice gave you a headache.”

You didn’t even look up. “Sometimes it does.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You’re pregnant.”

You froze, mid-bite.

He gasped and stood up so fast the couch groaned. “You’re pregnant, and I gave you a concussion last month!”

“I was already pregnant,” you said flatly. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Oh my God.” He started pacing, one hand on his head. “I told you to lift heavier weights. I told you to jump off that ledge. You had two plates of nachos for breakfast last week and I mocked you.”

“John—”

“I called you a sleepy turtle.”

“John,"

He turned, wild-eyed. “Am I complicit?”

You blinked. “In the pregnancy?”

He looked genuinely uncertain. You let out a long breath. “No, John. You are not.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then he nodded once and walked to the kitchen like a man on a mission. A minute later, he returned with a glass of orange juice and handed it to you like it was a peace offering from a defeated warrior.

After that, he slumped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh, arms flopping out over the cushions.

“I’m gonna be such a bad uncle,” he muttered.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“I brought four kinds of yogurt.”

You smiled. “You’ll be great.”

Bob found out by accident.

You were in the mess hall, quietly sipping ginger tea and trying not to vomit over the smell of John’s overly seasoned reheated chili, when Bob slid into the seat across from you with a smile and a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you managed.

He blinked at the tea. Then at the saltines. Then at the way you were ever-so-subtly glaring at the chili across the room like it had personally wronged you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said too fast. “Fine. Just a headache.”

Bob’s brows pinched together. He looked concerned. Thoughtful. And then, as if connecting puzzle pieces like the others had in real time, tilted his head. “Wait. Is this… like a headache-headache or a pregnant and trying not to barf from chili fumes headache?”

You froze.

His eyes widened. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you—?”

You sighed, smiling sheepishly. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”

He immediately looked horrified. “I wasn’t supposed to find out—oh my god—was this a secret? I didn’t mean to—I just—I saw the tea and the crackers and you’re glowing a little and—"

“Bob,” you laughed, “it’s okay.”

He relaxed slightly, cheeks flushed. “Does Bucky know?”

“Not yet.”

Bob pressed his lips together. Then nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Bob.”

He hesitated. Then softly, genuinely, “Congratulations (y/n), you’re gonna be an amazing mum."

And with that, he stood, walked off quietly, and—ten minutes later—came back and wordlessly slid you a chocolate milkshake with a note taped to the cup that read:

“For when the smell finally clears. – Bob”

You stared after him as he walked off, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed like he hadn’t just completely melted your heart.

Bucky wasn’t supposed to be back yet.

You had counted on at least two more hours, just enough time to hide the half-built, borderline indestructible crib Alexei had wheeled in, distract John before he could bust out his laminated “Uncle Training Schedule,” and maybe, if the stars aligned, finally scrub the yogurt stain off your hoodie.

But the mission ended early. Debrief went faster than expected. And now your husband stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, still in half his tactical gear, brow furrowed as he took in the scene before him.

There was a crib on the floor, if you could even call it that. John was crouched beside it, cross-legged, a wrench between his knees. Alexei was hammering something loudly and completely unnecessarily.

You were mid-movement, frozen between hiding a pink baby blanket under the bed and whisper-screaming at Alexei to shut up.

Bucky blinked, stepping forward just slightly. “Why is there… furniture in our room?”

“It’s not furniture. It’s a cradle.” Ava replied, almost flatly.

There was a beat. Bucky’s frown deepened. “Why is there a cradle in our room?”

Alexei perked up immediately, beaming, holding up what might’ve once been a baby mobile, now covered in polished throwing stars. “Because you, my friend are going to be papa!”

Silence.

The kind of silence that settled in your bones. Bucky’s eyes scanned the room slowly, the cradle, the weapons-grade mobile, the glittery “CONGRATULATIONS?” banner that Yelena had duct-taped across the headboard. And then, finally, his gaze landed on you.

He looked confused. Careful. Like he couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing.

His voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… what?”

Your heart was hammering. You took a breath and straightened slowly, hands behind your back, nerves thrumming through your fingertips. “I was going to tell you,” you said gently. “I had a plan. There were cupcakes. A playlist.”

Bucky blinked, still reeling.

John, who had been trying very hard to fade into the wallpaper, raised a hand slightly and said, “Yelena ruined the cupcakes.”

You turned your head slowly. “John.”

“She punched one!” he said quickly.

“It had a baby face on it." Bob quipped.

Yelena’s voice floated in from the hallway. “It was smiling at me wrong!”

Bucky blinked, trying, and failing, to process any of it. His eyes drifted back to you, still full of questions, still locked somewhere between shock and awe.

And then you reached for his hands. Everything softened.

You stepped toward him slowly, reaching for his hands. He let you take them without hesitation, but still stared down at them like they didn’t quite belong to him yet.

“I didn’t want to drop this on you before a mission,” you said softly. “I wanted to wait until it felt like our moment. Something small and quiet. Just us.”

Another beat of silence. And then something shifted.

His shoulders dropped. His hands tightened around yours.

Then he looked up, and everything changed.

You watched it all happen in real time. The realisation, the wonder and the warmth. His features softened, lips parting as his eyes filled with something impossibly tender. Awe bloomed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“You’re really having my baby,” he whispered, like the words alone could undo him.

Your throat tightened. “I’m really having your baby.”

He moved before you could say another word. One hand came up to cradle your cheek, the other curling around the small of your back as he kissed you—softly at first, then deeper, slower. Like he wanted to memorise the moment through touch, like he was anchoring himself in you.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. His forehead pressed against yours, breath trembling.

“I didn’t know I could love you more than I already did,” he murmured. “But you proved me wrong.”

You smiled through the tears. “That’s my job.”

His hands slipped to your waist, pulling you against him fully. One palm eased down to rest over your stomach, warm and steady, and stayed there.

You could feel it in the way his thumb moved—small, gentle strokes over the fabric. Like he was already in love with the tiny life growing there.

A shaky laugh escaped him, part joy, part disbelief. “We’re gonna be parents.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your cheek. He couldn’t stop touching you, holding you, grounding himself in every tiny, real part of this.

You let yourself lean into it, into him, feeling more whole than you ever had in your life.

"God, I love you". Bucky said softly.

“Even after I’ve eaten yogurt-dipped pickles?” you teased gently, chin tilted up.

He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “That was you?”

“Still recovering from that." John mumbled.

Alexei cleared his throat dramatically. “I play anthem now?”

Yelena appeared in the doorway, cupcake in one hand, "Come on guys, let them have their moment.”

Bucky glanced around the room, eyes still soft but amused. “Wait. You all knew?”

Every head nodded.

He let out a slow, incredulous laugh and looked down at you again, full of something so warm it made your knees wobble.

“Well, damn,” he whispered. “Guess I’m the last to know.”

You smiled, eyes shimmering. “Yeah, but you’re the first to feel our baby kick.”

And right then, perfect, almost surreal, you felt it.

A flutter beneath his hand. A tiny, impossible shift.

His breath caught. His gaze snapped to yours. “Was that—?”

You nodded, tears spilling. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” he whispered, dropping to his knees in front of you, hand still over your stomach, lips brushing gently against the space just below your navel. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m your dad.”

You laughed through your tears, fingers threading through his hair as your team stood quietly in the background, letting the room finally fall into peace.

And in that moment, with his hand on your belly, your heart in his hands, and the promise of forever in the air, Bucky looked up at you like you were his whole future.

Because you were.

[abbotjack]

Irregularities

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

summary : A federal audit brings a sharp, brilliant compliance officer face-to-face with Jack Abbot, a rule-breaking trauma doctor running a shadow supply system to keep his ER alive. What starts as a confrontation becomes an alliance and the two of them fall in love in the messiest, most human way possible.

word count : 13,529

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! explicit language, medical trauma, workplace stress, injury description, mention of child patient death, grief processing, alcohol use, explicit sex, hospital politics, emotionally repressed older man, emotionally competent younger woman, mutual pining, slow-burn romance, power imbalance (non-hierarchical), injury while drunk, trauma bay realism, swearing, one (1) marriage proposal during sex

Tuesday – 8:00 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Lower Admin Wing

Hospitals don’t go quiet.

Not really.

Even here—three floors above the trauma bay and two glass doors removed from the chaos—there’s still the buzz of fluorescent lights, the hiss of a printer warming up, the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed. But this floor is different. It's where the noise is paperwork, and the blood is financial.

You walk like you belong here, because that’s half the job.

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so, its lapel still holding the shape of your shoulder from the bus ride over. Your shoes are silent, soft-soled—conservative enough to say I’m not here to threaten you, but pointed enough to remind them that you could. Lanyard clipped at your sternum. A pen looped into the coil of your ledger notebook. A steel travel mug in one hand.

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : j.abbot@aghosp.org Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh — The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. “I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,” you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re home.

[motthe]

there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds

ཐིཋྀ thunderbolts caught me with a bob-shaped hole in my heart.

warnings: spoilers from thunderbolts, super!reader, fem!reader, not sure if I'll make a bunch of parts or even finish this idea so be warned, gonna go ahead and say canon-divergent to save my ass bc im no marvel expert.

masterlist | ao3

You weren't built for battle—the powers you had were more defense based than anything—but you had been trained by the best of the best. The countless lessons left your survival skills above subpar, and maybe you could make use of your size and strangle a man twice it, but those things didn't make you a hero.

And being around so many of them for so long, it's disturbingly easy to start to feel useless.

“Born or cursed?”

You didn't remember who had asked it. You do remember you had been younger, that you'd been more or less adopted into the world of the Avengers without ever truly being thrown into it. Wanda and Natasha had been your everything, especially when it came to helping with your powers. Between the supernatural and the mental side, they had done wonders.

Sitting around and not making use of yourself would be spitting on their memory, so it wasn't long before you were dragged into government business. Reading minds was handy, but picking apart memories? Entering their psyche?

You were gold to detectives and last resort for men in black suits who would “talk” to criminals if you didn't.

The work had drained enough from you by the time Bucky showed up on your doorstep with a bottle of liquor and a favor.

“This isn't what I do,” you told him, looking over the files. “I'm not a therapist or a teacher. If Void is as powerful as you say it is—”

“It can be beaten,” he explained. “We've done it before. I just need you to help Bob block it out. You know how to do that.”

“With other people's thoughts,” you argued.

He shook his head. “You suppress memories. You put them into neat little boxes for your agent work.”

“You want me to make him forget something that dangerous?”

“I want you to show him he's not alone when it comes to this side of superpowers.” Bucky stood, a warm hand coming down on your shoulder and squeezing. “We've all been scattered. It's a shit team, the New Avengers, but it's something, kid.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Bucky,” you sighed.

“I know. Wouldn't be asking you for your help if you were.”

The door shut to your apartment in farewell, but one visit from the Winter Soldier had too many opening at once. Flashes of earth's most mightiest heroes, of old friends, dead friends, missing ones.

Getting dragged back into that mess was asking for trouble.

Sipping on free alcohol, you flip through the packet of Robert “Bob” Reynolds. Sweet face, fucked past, and a far more fucked psyche for the powers he'd revealed in the last hit on New York.

Cursed, you decided by the end of your research, frowning as a picture slipped free. The New Avengers were definitely a ragtag group. Bucky was the only one you knew, Yelena you learned more than enough about through Nat digging around her head one time too many. Alexei Shostakov as well, but he was easy to pick apart at one glance. Anything revolving around Ava Starr and John Walker was rumors or passed down the grapevine.

Your phone vibrated. Checking it drew a deep line between your eyebrows. Someone was asking for another questioning, this time through the mind of a rampant serial killer in Chicago. They didn't have enough on him.

You leaned into your hands, sighing.

Across the block at a red-light, Bucky glanced at his phone and smiled as he read over the text.

“I need to meet him before I agree to this.”

The light flicked green.

The Watchtower was a shadow of the place you used to know. Repairs were still being made leaving people crawling on every floor but the top level had been finished for two weeks now, leaving the New Avengers with their shared space.

Bucky had promised the team would be out when you arrived, save for Bob. As it was quiet when the elevator door opened, you were glad to see he'd kept that promise.

“Welcome back,” he called, walking up.

“Which room did you snag?” you scoffed, eyeing the decor. Minimalist, neutral tones. Far greyer than the old room you remembered.

“The biggest.” He said it like it was obvious. Maybe it should've been.

Hearing movement, you both turned as a shadow passed by the windows. The hunched shoulders were a dead giveaway, soft eyes flittering between the floor and you as the young man stepped down.

Bob wore a dark blue sweater that drowned his figure and dark jeans. His hair was still a shaggy length and dark brown from the recent pictures you'd seen. By all accounts, he looked normal, but the anxiety flowed off him in waves that crashed against your head.

His mind extends way beyond others.

“Hi,” he greeted softly, clearing his throat. “You're, uh, Bucky's friend?”

You introduced yourself, stepping forward to offer your hand. He was quick to step back even across the room, body tensing.

“Wait, don't. I'm not sure if I—”

“When's the last time you transported someone into a shame room?”

The shock on his face had you glancing at Bucky for answers.

“Last week,” he said, crossing his arms. “Nothing super dangerous. Uncomfortable, but we get a lot of repeats so we break off easily enough.”

“Wait, so how much do you already know?” Bob asked, arms wrapping around himself.

“Enough,” you and Bucky respond.

Bob sighed, head nodding along as he turned away. “Great, guess that makes it easier.”

“I wouldn't say that; you're guarded now.” You moved closer, keeping your steps slow and your hands behind your back. Bob remained tense but didn't shy away. “Bucky called me here to see if I could help you, but I came here to see if you even want it.”

“Well, uh…” he swallowed, head bowing.

Do you want my help? His eyes flashed wide, breath catching as he looked up. You kept your expression neutral as you raised a brow. Do you? This will only work if you want to put in the effort.

“Can you see everything?”

You fought not to smile at the childish awe in his voice as it echoed back to you. I'm not looking. I'm listening.

A series of curses and panicked background commentary had you laughing.

I've heard and seen a lot. Honestly, don’t worry about it.

“That's easy for you to say,” Robert grumbled. “I cant control my thoughts like you can.”

“Would you like to?”

“It's not that I don't want your help,” he said, hands tangling into his sweater. “I just don't want to hurt anyone again. A lot of people… Some don't snap out of what I make them see. It's bad.”

“I have faith in my mental state,” you assured him. “Mental barriers, especially. I need to see just how powerful you are, though. Because if you get past mine, that means I'll be training you through trial and error. It's risky but it's not impossible.”

Bob looked to Bucky. “Do you think that's a good idea?”

Your old friend shrugged. “I brought her in because she's good at what she does. Whatever she wants to do, I have to trust it's the right decision.”

“I could hurt her!” Bob breathed and looked back to you. “I could hurt you really, really bad. Are you sure you know what you're signing up for?”

“I read through your files. I saw the extent of your powers and the aftermath of the accident,” you explained. “I'm prepared to help you with all things mental and psychic, but trust has to go both ways.”

You raised your hand again. He flinched, shuffling back.

“You want to help me now. What if that changes?” he whispers. “What if you see what it's really like and it scares you?”

“We won't know unless we try.” You took a step. Hand outstretched.

Bob looked at Bucky again, as if waiting to see if anyone would disagree. Whatever he searched for wasn't there.

He sighed and met your gaze. Pale blue eyes, you noted, with colors shifting around the pupil.

“Okay,” he nodded, holding up a shaky hand. The skin was bitten raw around his nails, skin dry but warm. The moment you felt it, there was a pressure against your mental shields. You could see the darkness clouding around you, searching for a way in, but you held firm.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, arm trembling as he stood there. His eyes were closed, head turned away.

You smiled, holding in a laugh as you used your other hand to grab his. “I'm fine, Bob. You're definitely powerful.”

“But you didn't see anything?” he said, eyeing where you were joined.

“I've had years to work on my mental barriers. You can't breach what doesn't have an entrance.” You squeezed his hand. “This is a really good sign. I'm going to have to let you in at some point to see just how potent your power is, but we'll work up to that.”

“You really don't see anything?” he whispered, hope rising in his expression as he searched your gaze.

“Just you,” you promised, unable to keep from smiling. “We'll have to work on your projection. Your thoughts are…loud.”

His face flushed red as he pulled away, sputtering an apology. There was some halfass excuse about the bathroom as he fled. Bucky stepped up to fill the empty space.

“What was he thinking?”

“None of your business,” you chuckled. “You got a guest room for me?”

But you had to admit you were flattered. Mens’ thoughts usually came up with the same descriptions for you at first glance. All your life you'd been met with disgusting thoughts and hateful opinions or plain “hot” and “sexy.”

This might've been the first time a man had ever thought of you as “radiant” before.

[saeun]

he's married ?! nanami kento.

sum. he's easily the top most handsome guy within his job. his relationship status is unknown, so what happens when his co-workers ship him with a female worker?

nanami is well known within his company. tall, insanely fit, and an attractive voice. it's not uncommon for men and women alike to find themselves thinking about him often. what's not common is knowing about his love life. no one knows anything and he would've kept it that way. but when push comes to shove, and you're shipped with someone who's not your beloved, nanami will make it known that he's not only taken but married.

in the coffee-break room there are three guys. now, there's nothing unusual about this — no, no. they're just three guys that are co-workers... except there's a twist. they aren't your regular co-workers, they're your uncommon trio of male gossipers and nanami just so happened to be their newest victim.

"shh, shh! he's here," guy one, tichi, whispers to the others, raising his eyebrows and pointing his chin to nanami's position.

the other two take a quick glance, nodding their heads when they've seen nanami's back faced towards them. it's a perfect moment to strike up a conversation, especially since it's just four men here.

guy two, tacho, shuffles his feet to the empty space near nanami. he pretends to open a sugar packet, fiddling with it as his eyes peep over nanami's shoulder. his heart skips multiple beats when the man himself turns around.

"morning to you, tacho," nanami greets, nodding his head before he turns his attention back to his cup of coffee.

"y-yeah, morning!" he stutters, awkwardly smiling in return. he turns his head to the other two in the background, mouthing the word 'help' to them. unfortunately, they do not give the aid to their friend. instead, tichi fakes a series of coughs and guy three, toeny, gives him a confident double thumbs up. there's no hope, tacho sighs.

it's a silent moment between the men — only the sounds of coffee brewing and a spoon coming into contact with the mug can be heard. tacho's mouth itches him, he happened to remember his group's recent conversation about nanami. he must ask — even if it costs him a mutual co-worker.

"so, nanami," he begins, waiting for nanami to give him the undivided attention.

nanami doesn't face him, but he hums in response. tacho doesn't mind this as an answer, so he continues, "i was wondering if the rumors of you being with the new worker, yeri, are true?"

there is one big lie in that question: there are no such rumors. it's just a theory the trio has been gossiping about every night. nanami's been helping out yeri for quite some time, one can only think that they have a special connection going on.

"that is bullshit," nanami gives a firm answer. nothing more, nothing less.

tacho's stunned, he blinks a few times to recollect himself. "oh — so you're not with her?"

nanami doesn't answer yet, but the two in the back give their unwanted reactions. tichi clicks his tongue three times, shaking his head in disappointment at tacho's second question. it's obvious dumbass, he thinks. toeny, on the other hand, presses his lips in a thin line, pretending to read a magazine that's been on the counter.

nanami reaches into his pocket, whipping out his phone. the trio's confused until nanami speaks.

"i am married man. this is my wife," he educates, pressing the power button to show you as his lockscreen.

he collects three gasps, internally nodding at their shock. that's right, i'm gladly taken.

"all this time you've been... MARRIED?!" tacho's voice heightens, he drops his spoon in shock. it's unbelievable yet somewhat believable.

nanami breathes out a 'yes', raising his arm to show the wristwatch. "she bought this for our five-years anniversary recently. it's quite expensive, going over four-thousand," he brags, emphasizing on key words.

he's been waiting for the precious day where someone indirectly asks for his relationship status. the day has come and he will spend it bragging about his beloved.

nanami doesn't give them a chance to speak, he carries on with his bragging, "she's a very lovely woman. all my bentos are made by her and she writes little notes for each. some may think it's childish but that's bullshit! they just haven't experienced the love of a woman. matter of fact, her most beautiful moments are when she's freshly awake. the smile she gives me is nothing but angelic."

his speech doesn't stop there, but it did for the trio. his words went in one ear and out the next. nanami's blabbering about his wife immediately set a blank face upon tichi, tacho, and toeny. they're jealous and also surprised.

"the way a woman can change a man will never not be amazing," toeny whispers, blankly gazing at nanami's ongoing speech.

[sebsbarnes]

go-bag || jack abbot

jack abbot x reader

summary: the secrecy of your relationship is left hidden behind closed doors and the corners of the emergency department, until your missing necklace appeared in jack's go-bag

warnings: none, improper grammar i'm sure, reader not designated to specific shift or stated if nurse or doctor, age and gender not implied

word count: 2k

a/n: luv this man.

"hey, have you seen a silver necklace? small flower on it?" you recited the questions like a mantra, every person that walked past you you pestered them, hell even the patients and medics in the bay.

robby called out to you, "do you even take it off for work? there's no need to, you can wear necklaces."

a groan resounded from the bottom of your throat, "it's on every day. i could count on one hand how many times i've taken it off in the last year."

robby fell in line with you as the both of you made a beeline to the echo of a flat line. his eyes peered at you from above his glasses, "seems like you may need to start counting on that second hand," he grinned.

the hours of the shift lulled on with distractions from angry patients in the waiting room, new med students bouncing about, myrna’s continued attempts to hit on anyone who breathed, and a bidding war over a stolen ambulance. there truly is no normalcy in the ED but for certain a mass casualty incident was far from normal.

it shouldn’t have surprised that the squeak of the sliding doors allowed for the entrance of abbot. his mouth morphed into a straight line, eyes quickly catching yours before offering robby a hug. robby and abbot ordered out commands completely transforming the structure and practice of the ED before the arrivals. every single doctor and nurse tended and moved to the injured allowing for the best possible care even with the tight restrictions in place.

“abbot!” robby yelled out, eyes and hands focused on his patient.

“what’s up?” his rough voice called back, moving to the next gurney.

“you got LMAs in your bag?”

with a confirmation, robby beckoned mckay to grab abbot’s go-bag. quickly, the blood-covered gloves came flying off and his hands fumbled around the open pocket. robby knew he grabbed the LMA but what he wasn’t expecting was the added bonus wrapped around the protective packet.

a silver chain with a flower gleaming at robby.

“is…is that…?”

mckay tried stifling a laugh as she shot a look towards an oblivious abbot. robby toyed with the silver chain for a brief moment before the chaos around him pulled him back to reality.

robby slid the necklace back into the backpack, “it has to be,” he replied with a smirk.

the mess of the MCI made it difficult for robby or mckay to question you or abbot about the necklace. abbot was laser-focused ordering out commands while you were cloaked in crimson darting around.

robby knew there was always something between you and abbot. abbot was devoted to his work despite his numerous roof visits, but what first raised suspicions was when he would come into a shift way too early a few weeks after you started. abbot was punctual by half an hour, maybe an hour, but suddenly that morphed into a full-length feature film early.

abbot would arrive and glance at your charts, silently admiring your thought process. though medical terminology can sometimes feel like its own language your documentation was effortlessly easy to follow and he often tried to mimic your work. abbots been in the field long enough but even he can learn something new. he was enamored by your drive and care for patients, you never wavered in your professionalism no matter how hard a patient may be. the kindness you exuded to your fellow co-workers had him taking note to have a bit more grace for others.

you could tell abbot had a heightened interest in you. his rough and tough exterior was a bit wobbly around you. you would find abbot following you throughout the last two hours of your shift, an invisible tether with a short leash and if you strayed too far he would come jerking towards you. abbot would situate himself beside you in the trauma rooms, not because he didn’t think you could do it, but because he knows you can do it and he wants a front-row seat to bear witness. his hand would brush against yours while you two did the tango passing equipment around. abbot thanked god he didn’t have a heart monitor on when you peered at him, eyes crinkled and smile hiding behind a mask.

it was a chilly evening and a couple stories in the air when abbot officially broke the ice. you had wandered up to the roof to watch the moon exchange places with the sun as abbot made his way to his shift, from the sidewalk outside he could see your figure above. it didn't take long for him to trudge up the stairs and onto the concrete roof. unbeknownst to abbot, he was greeted by your figure leaning against the metal bars, backside to him. god—he felt like he was back in high school blushing over his crush.

"how was your day?" he asked now by your side.

"easy going actually," you nodded, "how are you, how’ve you been sleeping?"

"could always be better, but y’know...thrilled to be here," abbot replied now looking towards you.

a small laugh left your nose, "we all know you love it here. it can be hell but we all seem to thrive."

abbot to this day doesn't know what possessed him to utter these next words. perhaps the moment just felt, right. the slight chill in the air signaling pittsburgh's looming winter, the laughter of the couples wandering the streets, or maybe it was the way the moonlight shone on your face. the white glow highlighting and contouring the plane and the way the light bounced off your eyes. god, what color even were they now? abbot swears he has never seen a shade so beautiful.

"nowhere is hell if you are around."

so here you are now, naive to the fact robby and mckay have discovered your little secret. that missing necklace of yours tangled in abbot's supplies. the silver chain abandoned and forgotten about after a weekend lake trip in which abbot insisted his go-bag needed to come "just in case". his fingers had danced around your neck and unlatched the tiny clasp, tucking the jewelry away in his bag before the two of you waded in the water.

mckay found herself assisting abbot with one of the victims and although it was not the time and place to ask questions, she was itching to.

"hey abbot, where do you bring this?" mckay inquired, head nodding towards the black bag.

abbot peered up from his protective glasses, "uh- usually don't need it. maybe take it camping sometimes, it's usually in my car. why?" he panned out, drilling a small hole into the patient's upper arm.

mckay grabbed a bag of blood, "just curious."

on the other side of the room, robby found himself gravitating towards you. maybe the venture was a way to keep himself from going mad over the horror surrounding him, a slight amusing distraction that he can later pester abbot about. robby waited until you and langdon finished assisting a patient until they were wheeled off into the green zone.

"hey," robby trailed suddenly feeling awkward, "what was that necklace you lost again? i uh- saw a necklace in the staff lounge."

you raised a brow at the question and robby's hands wringing together, "it's silver with a small flower."

"wrong necklace then."

robby drifted back to the red zone with a small smirk, one of his hands came up to rub the disbelief off his face. without missing a step he continued past mckay whispering 'bingo' on his way into a trauma room.

it was another hour before the chaos simmered, the blood-stained floors now vanished, the cries of those suffering gone but still reverberating in your ears. your palm found the hospital wall, head bowed to finally catch the breath you’ve been holding for the last three hours. a hand ghosted your shoulder.

“you okay?” abbot’s head tilted to meet your face, eyes locked.

it was rhetorical but he still meant it. if you strung together any vowels or consonants that suggested you were far from okay abbot would’ve swooped you into his arms and carried you to his house, ignoring the aching pain of his prosthetic.

a nod was all that was needed, silent confirmation that you were still standing. abbot’s eyes drifted towards the door, clear of anyone roaming, “i’m with you. always”, he whispered into your hair.

bags were gathered and goodbyes were muttered as everyone filed out for the night to their respective plans. the late-night beer in the park wasn’t a permanent solution to ease the troubles from the shift but it offered a temporary distraction. it was a small group tonight understandably so with some sitting and others rocking on their feet. keeping up with the secret you and abbot were situated on opposite benches. you nursed the same can of beer listening to the others go back and forth with a watchful eye from abbot.

this would turn into a routine for nights spent at the park. everyone would file out after they raised their blood alcohol level, just enough to make them feel warm. robby usually took a beer to go and donahue would load up the cooler as princess gushed about her new boo. unknowingly leaving the two love birds alone to whisper sweet nothings.

everyone began to scatter leaving you, robby, and abbot to rehash a story about gloria from a few weeks ago. robby stretched his legs which was a typical signal that he was heading out. the large backpack hung from his shoulder as he halted his steps, a click from his lips before he spoke,

"oh," robby started with a scratch of his head, "check abbot's bag for your necklace."

with bludging eyes, you sputtered out incoherent words in pure shock. robby's laughter echoed into the night paired with a quick 'zip!' from beside you. abbot was grateful the dark night masked his burning face.

"i didn't know i left it in there, fuck. jack--i am so sorry."

he gestured for you to finally join him on the bench beside him now alone and secret exposed in the empty park. the chain fell back into its rightful place with the delicate touch of abbot's fingers.

abbot let out a soft chuckle, eyes narrowing in happiness, "there is nothing to be sorry for.”

you fiddled with the chain as anxiety set in. nervous about the potential implications of the ED discovering the secret relationship. not only that, but a small part of you liked the secrecy. you weren’t embarrassed to be with abbot, you loved him even if those three words hadn’t been spoken yet. there was a daring aspect as the two of you navigated the ED pretending to be nothing more than professional acquaintances while simultaneously sneaking into a hidden corner to plant a kiss on the other's cheek or abbot slipping out an inside joke that would fall flat to others but caused you to hide a coy smile. after the shift, you would part ways but it wasn’t long until the familiar knocks echoed from your wooden front door, abbot’s face smiling at you and his curly hair disheveled. he would stumble forward, lips desperate to find yours after a long day, and cusp the side of your neck, his other hand pressed flat against your spine, and your feet edged backward to find a wall for support. abbot would whisper against the base of your throat how he couldn't wait to feel you in his hands and you would push against his firm chest, now guiding him backward till you reached the couch. laughter would bubble up your throat as he hastily ripped off your work clothes.

a hum left your throat, “how many people went into your bag and- and saw?”

abbot’s head leaned back against his neck, a smile itched into his lips and his gravelly voice stated, “damn near everyone."

[carnalcrows]

HOW TO STEAL A MAN (AND HIS GROCERY LIST)

pairing: gi-hun x top male reader

synopsis: When Gi-hun’s late-night cat-feeding routine attracts a stalker with a cart full of cat food and questionable social skills, chaos—and maybe romance—ensues.

content warnings: 18+, top male reader, stalking, blowjobs (reader receiving), missionary, unprotected sex, breeding, creampie, reader wants to get gi-hun pregnant asap, age gap (reader is in his 20s and gi-hun is in his 40s).

word count: 2.2k

A/N: ty anon for the request!! i had fun writing this one

Seong Gi-hun’s life wasn’t glamorous. Every evening, after whatever sorry excuse for a day he’d had, he stopped at the corner store, bought a packet of cheap cat food, and made his way to a run-down alley to feed a scruffy stray. It was the one bright spot in his life, and he looked forward to it more than he cared to admit.

What he didn’t know was that someone else looked forward to it too.

That someone was you.

You first noticed Gi-hun a few weeks ago while wandering through the neighborhood. At first, you thought he was just some random guy lingering in the alley, but then you saw him crouch down and pour food into a chipped saucer. His voice was soft as he spoke to the stray cat, coaxing it to eat.

It was... oddly endearing.

From then on, you couldn’t help yourself. You started following him—not in a creepy way (okay, maybe a little creepy)—but you were curious. Who was this man? Why did he care so much about a stray cat?

Your fascination grew, and soon, watching him feed the cat became part of your routine. But you wanted more than to just watch. You wanted to talk to him. To know him.

One evening, as you watched Gi-hun walk into the corner store, you got an idea. A foolproof, albeit slightly unhinged, plan. You hurried inside ahead of him, grabbed every single packet of cat food off the shelf, and went to pay, ignoring the cashier’s confused look.

When Gi-hun arrived at the pet aisle, you lingered near the exit, pretending to browse.

“What the…?” Gi-hun muttered, staring at the empty shelf. He rubbed the back of his neck, sighed, and turned to leave, only to almost bump into you.

You were standing there with a massive bag filled with cat food packets.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” you said, pretending to be startled.

His eyes narrowed. “You’re the reason the shelf is empty?”

“I feed a lot of strays,” you said innocently, though the amusement in your voice probably gave you away.

Gi-hun raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “You think I could buy one of those off you? There’s a stray I feed every night, and now I’m empty-handed.”

You pretended to think about it, then smiled. “I’ll give you one… if you let me come with you. I’d like to meet the cat.”

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he considered your request. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But don’t scare it off, okay?”

That’s how it all started.

What was supposed to be a one-time thing turned into a routine. Every evening, you’d meet Gi-hun at the corner store, walk with him to the alley, and sit on the curb while the stray cat ate. Over time, you learned bits and pieces about him: his failed marriage, his gambling problems, and most importantly, his love for his daughter, Ga-yeong.

“She’s all I have left,” he admitted one night, his voice soft.

You nodded, unsure what to say. It was clear how much he cared for her, even if he didn’t always show it in the best ways.

As weeks passed, you also got to know Ga-yeong, who was surprisingly cool for a kid. She started teasing her dad about how much time he spent with you.

“Are you two dating yet?” she asked one evening, smirking as she watched you and Gi-hun prepare dinner.

Gi-hun spluttered. “W-what? No! We’re just friends.”

“Sure, Dad,” she said, winking at you.

You laughed, enjoying how flustered he got.

One rainy evening, you were at Gi-hun’s apartment again, helping him cook dinner. The kitchen was small and cramped, but it felt cozy with the two of you working side by side.

As you chopped vegetables, you glanced at him. “You know, you’re not half bad at this.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m just saying,” you teased. “You’re full of surprises.”

Gi-hun smiled, but when he noticed you staring, his brow furrowed. “What? Do I have sauce on my face or something?”

“Nothing,” you said, setting the knife down. “I just… I’ve been wanting to do something for a while now.”

Before he could ask what, you stepped closer, your heart racing. Gi-hun froze like a deer in headlights, his hand awkwardly holding a ladle full of stew.

“What are you—”

You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him.

At first, he didn’t move, his eyes wide with surprise. But as you pressed into him, his shoulders relaxed, and the ladle clattered to the counter. Slowly, tentatively, he kissed you back, his lips warm and soft against yours.

It started gentle, careful, like he was afraid to mess it up. But as the seconds ticked by, something shifted. He leaned into you, his hands nervously gripping your waist, pulling you closer. You smiled against his lips, enjoying how hesitant he was, even as his breathing grew heavier.

“Relax,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his. “You’re doing fine.”

“I—I don’t—” he stammered, but you cut him off with another kiss, this one deeper, more insistent.

Gi-hun let out a muffled sound of surprise, his hands fumbling as they slid up your back. His inexperience was endearing, and it only made you want to kiss him harder.

Somehow, the two of you ended up pressed against the counter, the dinner long forgotten. Gi-hun’s hair was an absolute mess from your hands running through it, and his cheeks were flushed a deep red.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered breathlessly, his forehead resting against yours.

“Good,” you said with a grin, leaning in to steal another kiss.

The smell of burning stew eventually snapped the two of you out of it, but not before you got one last, lingering kiss. As Gi-hun scrambled to salvage dinner, muttering curses under his breath, you leaned against the counter, watching him with a satisfied smirk.

“I like you,” you said casually, making him freeze mid-stir.

He turned to look at you, his expression somewhere between flustered and incredulous. “You think?”

“I know,” you corrected. “And I think you like me too.”

Gi-hun sighed, his lips quirking into a small, shy smile. “Yeah... maybe I do.”

You laughed, reaching out to tug him back toward you. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Your mouth found his once more, and you slowly lifted the man onto the countertop. He yelped in surprise, and you used the opportunity to slide your tongue, relishing in how he tasted.

His hands gripped onto your shoulders, while you held his waist, steadying him. You slowly trailed butterfly kisses from his jaw to his neck, stopping at his Adam’s apple before lightly nipping on his ear lobe.

Gi-hun was still quite unsure of what he was supposed to be doing, not having engaged in such…activities for far too long.

“You do want to do this right? We can stop the moment you tell me to,” you said to him, your tone soft. After a second of pondering, he gripped your shoulders with determination, and latched his mouth right onto yours.

You took it as a sign to continue, and slowly broke away the kiss to close the stew before continuing to have your way with him.

You slowly picked him up from the countertop and carried him to the couch, revelling in how surprised you were. Carrying those giant bags of cat food was worth it.

You laid him on the couch gently, its base creaking with the sudden weight. Gi-hun hastily pushed your pants down, tugging at the strap for a few seconds before it made way. Your cock sprang out, hard and leaking.

His eyes widened, and he looked up at you. Your eyes were soft, letting him know that this didn’t have to continue if he didn’t want it to.

Before you could say anything, he licks a stripe across your length, savouring the musk emitting from the base. You let out a groan, gripping onto his hair–but not too tight; not yet.

You let him experiment with your dick, leaving small kisses along the underside, while his hand moves up to clutch your balls, heavy with your seed. He wonders to himself on how your cum would feel inside him, and the thought makes his ears burn a bright red.

“Don’t take this long darlin’, wanna please you too,” you mumble, wanting him to speed up just a little bit.

He slowly wraps his pretty lips around the tip of your cock, making you let out a garbled moan. His mouth was just so, so warm.

“Breathe through your nose baby, that’s it,”you cooed, watching him struggle to take your length all the way.

He slowly bobbed his head up and down, savouring the precum hitting the back of his throat. Your moans were getting louder and louder, to the point where you had to muffle the noises with the back of your hand. The walls of his house were quite thin.

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he struggled to swallow you whole. Your grip on his hair had gotten significantly tighter, as you push his head to take you all the way. His garbled mumbles did nothing but send vibrations straight up your dick, turning you on even more.

“So good f’me baby, I’m almost done,”you groan before releasing your grip on his hair and pulling out of his warm throat, before ejaculating all over his face. 

He looked up at you in shock, his face a mixture of tears, sweat and semen. It truly was a sight to see. Your dick stood right back up.

His eyes widened, but before he could say anything, you quickly turned him around on the couch, his ass up towards you.

You pulled his pants down, along with his boxers, to reveal his tight hole, clenching around the cold air. He hissed when he suddenly felt a finger at his hole, slick with lube (where did that come from).

“This might hurt a lil’ bit,” you said before slowly pressing your finger into his hole. His back arched with the intrusion, the pain mixed with the pleasure going straight to his cock, the tip red and weeping.

You slowly added another finger, watching as his ass practically swallowed them whole as you pumped them in and out.

After adding a third finger, you deemed that he was prepped enough to be fucked. He already looked out of it, that was a different thing altogether. His shoulders were slumped and his elbows were the only thing keeping him upright.

You positioned you cock at his entrance, and slowly slid in, groaning at how tight and inviting his hole was, as if it was made just for your dick.

Gi-hun let out a loud moan, it was almost pornographic. He had never felt this full in his life– your cock was almost ripping him in half!

You bottomed out all the way to the hilt, and you slowly started to move, whispering dirty nothings in the older man’s ear.

“How does it feel, getting fucked by a man half your age, hm?” Gi-hun could only blabber at this, his brain could no longer form coherent words as his mind was so focused on how your cock was hitting the right spot with every. single. thrust.

You felt his hole mould into the shape of your cock, and every time you hit his prostate, his moans got more high pitched. One of your hands caressed his stomach, and you were surprised to find his belly bulging with every thrust. He squealed when he felt it, his brain was feeling so empty. 

“Y’know Gi-hun, your daughter must be quite lonely, considering that she is an only child. Wanna give Ga-yeong a sibling?” you teased, to which he could only moan, his head filled with the thought of you making him pregnant with your seed. The thought didn’t seem too bad.

To this, you lifted him up and sat on the couch with him on your lap, his back to your chest. You lifted his legs up in such a way that every single time you lifted him up and dropped him back on your lap, your dick would hit places he didn’t even know existed.

He threw his head back, eyes rolling to the back of his head with the vigour of your thrusts, fucking into him like you were an animal in heat. At this point, it really felt like you were trying to get him pregnant. A man couldn’t biologically get pregnant, but all rational thought had flown out the window, and who said you couldn’t try?

As your thrusts started to stutter, you knew you were at a climax, so when Gi-hun came with a cry, painting his abdomen white, you pushed into him all the way to his imaginary womb before coming undone with a loud groan, painting his gummy walls a pearly white.

You kept your cock in him for a while, letting him relax. His hole clenched and unclenched around your dick, while only spurred you on even more.

Gi-hun turned around to face you lazily, but with surprise, as he felt your cock harden in him once again.

“We can’t stop yet love, I need to give you a baby after all,” you smirked before pushing Gi-hun back down onto the couch.

He was fucked.

And somewhere out there, a stray cat was probably wondering why its dinner was late.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and I take genuine effort to do them.

[tbaluver]

S/O With Depression- The Love And DeepSpace Men

parings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader, Caleb x Reader requested by: anonnie ⋆˚꩜｡ genre: comfort a/n: hihi lovelies! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ i would like to mention that everyone has different types of depression and goes through different things! i wrote the ones i’m familar with and what the anonnie requested! what might be common for me or from the anonnie that requested can be completely different to someone else! if you want to see more then i’ll write a part 2! hopefully this brings some comfort to those that need it enjoy reading! <3 any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

Will do his best to be a light and source of comfort for you

Xavier would stay close when getting out of bed feels impossible. But if you needed space, he’d respect that, keeping you company from a small distance in bed to remind you that you’re not completely alone. He wouldn’t let you stay curled up in bed for too long. He’d gently carry you to the kitchen to make sure you’re fed.

On days when your words don’t come easily and your thoughts feel jumbled, he never interrupts or rushes you. He stays quiet, a hand on top of yours, nodding along while letting you speak at your own pace even if your sentences come out jumbled. Occasionally, he might ask a question to understand the context. When you do finish what you’ve needed to say, he’ll work through it together with you

If you were taking any medications, he’ll go through the entire packet and read through any information about it online. He’ll remember all the side effects that come with it and checks up on you whenever you take them

When every little sound starts to feel like it was too much, he draws the curtains and does everything he can to make it more peaceful. He moves carefully, no sudden sounds will be made in this household. Even the way he eats or shifts in his seat would become more gentler. If you were comfortable with it, Xavier would gather you into his arms, holding you close against his chest. His hand rest gently over your ear, blocking out whatever noise is left.

Xavier would offer to listen and be the place where you can let it out. But if it’s an unexplainable feeling that you just can’t put into words then he’ll find a different way to cheer you up. He’ll settle beside you, pulling up your favorite comfort shows and have your snacks ready

Zayne:

Whenever getting out of bed feels like too much, he’ll leave a warm cup of tea and a few slices of fruit or your favorite snacks by the bedside table. He never rushes you so he waits. Sometimes he’ll sit nearby so you don’t feel alone. Other times, he gives you the space you want, trusting that you’ll reach out when you’re ready. But when it starts to feel like too much and the silence grows too heavy, he will step in. Never forcefully. He’ll encourage you to start off slow, a hand on yours. Maybe something as simple as sitting up or maybe just brushing your teeth.

Anytime you went through a depressive episode, Zayne has no problem doing the extra housework or helping you with your physical health. He’ll help you shower, brush through your hair gently, and help brush your teeth. He’ll praise you for each small step you take

The type to send you reminders to take your meds at the right time and that you should eat something before you take them so you don’t get nauseous.

Zayne would understand and has never taken it personally when you don’t want to be touched. He doesn’t try to hug or reach for your hand. Instead, he makes space for you until you you’re comfortable once again

He can tell when you get sad randomly. Zayne would never force you to explain but he will always remind you if you want to talk, he’s there. Sometimes when it’s just a quiet ache sitting in you for no reason, he’ll also understand that. He’ll suggest a walk out for fresh air or just for a different scenery if you’ve been inside for too long.

When the smallest sounds can feel too much, he’ll make sure to move extra quietly. He’ll offer noise cancelling headphones to drown out any sounds. Any open windows will be closed and he’ll draw the curtains to keep the noise out. He’ll make sure to close any of the doors inside softly, silence his phone and pager and he’ll make sure to give you the space you need.

Sometimes the words just don’t come out right but Zayne would never rush you. He would always be patient, even when your voice shakes or when you pause for too long. And when you do finally get them out, no matter how jumbled or messy it sounds, he listens. Every single word and every detail. Once you said all you needed to say, that’s when he speaks and helps

Reminds you that he is always there for you. Even if he was busy at work and you know he can’t reach you right now, you can still message him. He reminds you to never hesitate to reach out, spam him, leave him voice messages. He’ll read through every word and detail and he’ll find time to immediately reach out to you

Rafayel:

You would never feel alone if Rafayel was by your side. Even if he was away from an art exhibition, he would text you throughout the day. If you need him by your side, then he’s finding an excuse to get out of work and find his way to you.

When you’re having a hard time getting out of bed, Rafayel would be by your side under the covers so you don’t feel alone. However if you continue to have a hard time, he doesn’t hesitate to step in. He’ll scoop you up in his arms, carrying you to the bathroom. He’ll start with something simple, like a warm bath since it can maybe cheer you up.

When every noise seems to bother you, he’ll make sure to move around quietly in the studio. He’ll close up the windows and doors so his seagull friends won’t bother you. He’ll even breathe more quietly so he doesn’t bother you. Rafayel would still stay nearby but gives you your space to make sure you’re not alone. He’ll wait until you’re ready to talk with him

Rafayel would never take it personally when you did not want to be touched but he definitely does get a little pouty about it behind your back. He just misses holding onto you but he understands and gives you the space you need.

Feeling sad randomly? Rafayel would never push you to explain what’s wrong but he encourages you that it’s good to let it out and that he’s always there for you. However, if it was unexplainable, he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. He’ll find ways to cheer you up as best as he can. He’ll pull up videos on his phone and you silly videos he found that might make you smile. He’ll even suggest a quiet walk by the beach just for a change of scenery and for some fresh air

Sometimes the right words just won’t come. They get lost somewhere between your thoughts but Rafayel has never once looked at you confused or has never been impatient. He watches you carefully, trying to understand your expression. Sometimes he finishes the sentences for you, not to interrupt but because he’s piecing it together with you. And if you grow frustrated, he offers to sketch it out with you.

Sylus:

On days when getting out of bed feels impossible, he stays beside you but he doesn’t let you stay there for too long. He understands the weight of it all but he will step in. First he’ll start with encouragement, asking you to sit up just for a bit. But if your limbs feel too heavy and your body refuses to move, he never gets frustrated. He’ll carry you in his arms. He’ll run you a warm bath and help bathe you. Later he’ll encourage you to do some small activities with him to get you a little motivated

He would never take it personally if you were not in the mood to be touched. There’s no wounded ego or disappointment. He gives you the space that you need until you are ready to curl up next to him again. He’ll make sure you were absolutely comfortable with it before he reaches back

Sylus would always give you the choice to talk or cry or let it out to him in whatever way you need. But if it’s those days where it’s just unexplainable, he doesn’t press on. Instead, he’ll offer distractions. He’ll pull out a new vinyl that he’s been saving for or maybe stepping out to a new scenery to get rid of whatever ache you have in your chest

When the world feels too loud and your thoughts won’t slow down, no matter how hard you try to explain to Sylus through hiccupped sobs, he doesn’t ask you to make sense of it. Instead, he pulls you into his arms. He doesn’t say much at first, his hand moves slowly up and down your back. He doesn’t need you to have the right words. He’ll listen, hiccupped sobs or not, to every detail you have to say. When your sobs begin to slow, when you start to breathe a little easier, he’s still there, helping you sort through the weight you've been carrying. It doesn’t matter if the problem is big or small. He’ll work them out with you together.

Luckily your shared bedroom is at the top floor to avoid any noises from the city. However if any noise continues to bother you, Sylus wouldn’t ask what’s wrong, he’ll just move around quietly as best as he can. He’ll stop playing any music on his record player unless you don’t want him too. He’ll make sure Luke and Kieran are not in the same building and he’ll make sure to mute Mephisto

Caleb:

Having a hard time getting out of bed? Caleb would give you the space you need, leaving you your favorite snacks and water by the bedside table with a cute little note and a doodle for you. He’ll check in on you often to see if you’ve eaten or just by ‘passing’ by the room. However if it does stretch on, he’ll kneel beside the bed and offer his hand, suggesting a few easy stretches. He’ll encourage just a small stretch for your arms and then legs next and then a small little walk to the kitchen where he has a little meal waiting in the kitchen just for you

As much as Caleb loves to hold you and have you in his arms, he would never be offended if you did not want to be touched. He would never hover and never pressure you. He gives you all the space and time you need when you’re comfortable again

Feeling sad out of nowhere? He would be SO worried, it would be written all over his face. His first instinct is to check in, offering to let you vent out if you need to. He’s always been a good listener. If it just feels unexplainable and you can’t quite name the reason, then he’ll find ways to cheer you up. Caleb would curl up with you and pull up your favorite comfort shows or movies. Or he’ll bring you your favorite snack or make your favorite dish that you love. And of course, he offers his signature big bear hug.

If any sounds were bothering you, he’d make sure to not make a single sound in the house. No loud footsteps in the halls, no clinking dishes, you name it. He’d even go as far as making sure no plane flies in the direction over your home to make sure you get the peace you need.

Sometimes you can’t get the right words to come out and Caleb would be patient with you the entire time. He lets you speak and lets you take all the time you need to get it out. His hand rests on yours, his thumb traces slow, soothing circles over your knuckles as he reads your expressions carefully. If any tears come out from frustration, he cups your face with so much care and wipes away any stray tears.

ʚɞ cr. for the divider @/ cafekitsune

ʚɞ 𝘕𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯:

ʚɞ my other works if you want to check it out! The Love And DeepSpace Masterlist, Pg. 2

ʚɞ Others:

Wattpad ( still updating it rn )

twitter @/ tbaluverr but idk how to use twitter </3

[eureka-its-zico]

Residuals Pt 3

Ongoing Series

Synopsis: You and Robby spent seven long years together until the day it ended. You’ve done your best to create space; to become invisible. You can’t miss what you don’t see. Unfortunately, the universe (Gloria and the Board of Directors) seemed to have missed the memo.

Pairing: Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Genre: Established previous relationship, slight age gap (by about 15 years give or take), a little bit of tension mixed in with a little bit of hate yearning, cause she’s a saucy angsty fic ok

A/N: Screaming at the top of my lungs because you have all been so incredibly lovely and sweet. I appreciate every single one of your comments, reblogs, and your excitement over this spur-of-the-moment series idea. Honestly, I can gush forever. Thank you! This chapter is centered around a little extra backstory on their relationship (briefly). I noticed it's around ep. 4 when everything starts popping off in the show (and I have scenes already pre-written cause I’m excited!) so I hope the story stays entertaining and true to showing slow insights into characters, their flaws, and being human. As always, I hope you all enjoy this next chapter. Much Love. Jenn

Thank you to the bestie @viridian-dagger for humoring me and checking all of my work. Thank you for helping keep me sane.

Words: 7208

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You remembered with agonizing clarity the last day you’d seen Robby. You could recall down to the very marrow of the hour how you’d watched him grab his backpack and head out the door. 

If you weren't careful, your subconscious loved to dredge that particular memory up in frequent rotation. 

If you weren’t careful, always on mental high alert, the memories came violently to the forefront demanding that you remember what it felt like to walk the halls of your home in nothing but his shirts. It had you up late in the middle of the night writing a list of all the achingly obvious differences between the empty bed you now slept in and the one you’d shared with him. How his large frame curled against your back or how his nose pressed into the crook of your neck before he woke you, trailing kisses down your collarbone. 

Sometimes, Robby held you so tight you’d jokingly ask if he was trying to morph together like The Thing. 

You’d gotten used to the quiet in your home. The lack of security knowing another person was there. You’d learned to portion down your meals, so you didn’t make some on accident for two, or three when Jake was home for the week. You did laundry less and didn’t have to fold as much. There was no one to help you build furniture or tear it down. The trash was handled by you and only you. Dishes sat questionably for longer in the sink than they should’ve. There were no hands on your hips to keep you steady as you demanded to be an independent woman and use the step ladder to change broken fixtures and lightbulbs. No car rides with blues gently playing through the speakers with his hand on your thigh. 

No. You were reminded every minute of every day since you’d left of what you lost. What you chose to leave behind.

The day you left you’d waited in the hall. In the past, before the pandemic, before the world went to shit and stopped making sense, Robby waited for you to send him off. You’d bring him his backpack full of protein bars, a homemade sub sandwich (if he ever got to it), and instant coffee packets when he didn’t. The moment you were close enough for him to grab - to touch - Robby would reach for you. 

Before Robby, you didn’t know what it felt like to be worshipped; to be craved and wanted so badly that they couldn’t wait for the moment they could touch you. The safety of trusting someone because they loved you without pretense allows you to be comfortable enough to be good, bad, weird, and everything in between. 

“You’re my favorite person.” He’d told you this randomly, while you’d both been curled up on the couch. Your cheek pressed against his chest. You heard the slight change in rhythm before he spoke. It was an answer to a question you’d asked weeks ago. One he refused to answer because “What are we in junior high?” 

You didn’t believe in fairytales or the idea of perfect relationships. You believed in what someone’s actions said about them when they tried to cover them up with words. You didn’t know what it was like to have someone choose you, all of you, until Robby. 

Whenever he had the chance, Robby was always touching you - light traces of fingers that drew aimless doodles in your skin while he read. His hand glided across your back as he passed you in the kitchen or the hallways at work. Once Robby learned how much you loved having his hands on you, he found ways to use them all the time - in ways that made you feel secure and others that were far from innocent. 

But out of everything, Robby always made sure you were taken care of and, most of all, loved. 

Usually, when Robby departed from the house, he used his large frame to crowd into your space. Possessive hands snaked around your waist to pull you flush against him. Every time, like clockwork, you eagerly respond to his touch. Your neck already falling back just enough for his mouth to slate over yours.

Those memories of better days, days where you didn’t have to question if he still loved you, are what made the last day so hard. You stood there, silently hoping that he would turn around. That Robby would just stop putting in his air pods, looking everywhere but at you, and finally acknowledge you. You didn’t want your last fight to be what you remembered - the words you’d hurled at one another with tired vehemence the final thing you heard. 

You just wanted him to love you like he used to. But the problem was, you weren’t sure if you could love him how you used to anymore either. 

“I think you should take Kiara up on her offer, Michael. You need to speak with someone even if it isn’t her.”

“Jesus,” he huffed. A hand scrubbed at his face before latching behind his head. His eyes screwed tight as if he could simply blink the conversation away. “Here we fucking go again.”

“Yes, here we go again. We wouldn't have to keep doing this merry-go-round around the issue if you would just admit - “

“Admit what?” His voice rose in challenge, and it took every ounce of you not to return it. “You seem to want me to say I’m broken so you don’t have to be the only one.”

“That’s bullshit,” you scoffed, pushing your dinner plate further down the table. 

You weren’t hungry anymore.

“It’s not bullshit! I’m not the only one in this room who won’t be honest with themselves.”

“That’s real rich coming from you, Michael. If you think that’s true, look me in my eyes and admit you don’t feel some type of way since he passed. And I never once fucking said that you were broken - “

“That’s the point! You don’t have to. I can see it in the way you look at me. The way you talk to me. It’s like no matter what the fuck I say you don’t believe me. You just want me to be depressed like - “

“Like what, Michael.”

The room went glacial cold. Your eyes turned to slits as you waited for him to finish his sentence. A piece of you prayed he didn’t because you didn’t know how much more you could take before you finally broke. 

“Like you,” he sighed, voice defeated as if he hated saying it as much as you hated hearing it. “You haven’t been the same since -”

“Shut up.”

“- it happened and I’m sorry. I - I wish I’d been there - “

“I said shut up! Jesus, just stop talking!” 

The venom in your voice was toxic. It had your arm lashing out and shoving the plate of food off the table. The sound of tableware clattering and glass breaking dimmed the flash of anger enough to be embarrassed at your outburst. You hadn’t meant to do it. Just like you hadn’t meant to do a lot of things since Adamson passed, since the pandemic, and…since you received the news. 

It was written plainly in the silence held between you. The unspoken depression from two different spectrums left you both unable to help the other. Neither of you knew how to bridge the gap your stubbornness bred.

Doctors were historically the worst patients because of that very reason. Pride. You used to believe Robby and you didn’t share an ounce of it between you, but you’d been wrong. You forgot you were both human and flawed.   

“I just want to help you, Michael. Please. Ever since Adamson passed and - and what happened - “

“He doesn’t have anything to do with what happened! What happened fucking happened because it’s nature. It’s - it just wasn’t our time. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up for something you have no control over. How many times have we told our patients this?” Robby looked up from his hands and you wished he hadn’t. His watery eyes were close to spilling; the tsunami of pain was all-consuming and when he whispered your name before he spoke again, you wanted to shatter. “You’re killing yourself from the inside out with this self-hatred.”

How many times have you been told that exact thing? It was an unfortunate natural process. It just ‘happened’. Every word is sterile and scientific which makes you feel less and less like a person. And what about the news that came after? Was that natural too? 

Maybe you were the one who was broken.

“Adamson happened too, and you haven’t been the same since we lost him. You’re on edge more, Mike. You snap at work and home. You’re closed off. You’re so desperate to put it under the rug that we only focus on me? Bring up my faults so we can bury yours.”

A sneer pulled up his lips as he turned away from you. His eyes scan over the shelves and furniture in the room - looking everywhere but at you. 

“You just want to help me? That’s what you keep feeding yourself but in reality, you just want me to be who I was before this. I don’t know if I can be that man again and when I tell you that, you act like a fucking child going around slamming doors.” Shame flushed up your face, turning your cheeks red with embarrassment. You’d done that and worse. You thought you could wait whatever this was out until it got better. But it wasn’t better. It was worse and you were so, so tired. “You want to focus on me but what about you?”

“You aren’t the only one hurting - that lost someone. You left me! You fucking left me to deal with it all on my own. Where the fuck were you when I needed you?”

“I’ve been right here with you!” Robby shouted back. “I’m right here with you, baby, but you don’t fucking see it. You won’t let me in.”

The tears you struggled to contain escaped in one shaky exhale. You carried around so much of your shame and guilt - tried repairing the cracks with quick fixes so Robby wouldn’t see because the last thing you wanted was pity. You didn’t want the confirmation that you were irreparably broken. 

“But you’re not here. Are you? Not really.” 

The earlier flash of rage was extinguished with each word. This job was a marvel and a curse. It took and took without forgiveness. Sometimes you’re fighting to save people who don’t want to be saved; who’ve never known the support and love they needed to believe they were more than their demons. Who wanted to succumb to a brief drop of loneliness in the ocean of a lifetime. Or you saw the ugliness that people did to one another and left you having an existential crisis if someone’s bad choice made their life unworthy of saving. 

Robby dealt with all of these things daily. He shouldered them for every friend in the hospital. For every patient who needed the strength of his resolve and the care he delivered. He gave all that and more during the pandemic and now he’d given so much that there wasn’t much left to tend to himself. 

Robby used to lean on you for just about everything. Sometimes, your talks were gradual - opening up little by little until everything was exposed. Other times, they came in bursts. A rush of words said too fast because if neither of you just ripped the band-aid off and said it, nothing would ever get fixed. Now all of that came to a screeching halt. You didn’t know what he was feeling anymore or thinking. He shut you out in so many ways. You tried to break through and failed. 

You both stood at separate spectrums of grief and neither of you knew how to reach the other anymore.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You hadn’t meant about your relationship. You wish you could’ve said that - informed him that the despair and betrayal of your own body left you in a place of purgatory. The pandemic stripping you bare and raw pressing salt into every wound. How was Robby supposed to love you if you didn’t know how to love yourself?

But it’s not how it sounded leaving your lips. It’s not how he took it as you watched his shoulders deflate. The emptiness that hollowed out his eyes in protection and left them empty as you felt. 

“No one is forcing you to stay.”

You never did get to tell him you saw him - saw that he’d been there waiting for you to open up. He wasn’t who he was, but he’d still tried the best he could in whatever ways he could. In the end, you believed you deserved punishment. 

Maybe that’s what losing Robby was - the universe's way of dishing it out for a wrong you never knew you committed. 

It felt suffocating; your chest caved to create a black hole of grief that felt never-ending. You watched as the pandemic tore him down piece by piece - shredding him to ribbons. So many lives were ravaged by the virus with no way to combat it. You remembered the overwhelming, crushing feeling of seeing dozens of patients lining hallways because there were no more beds. Every doctor, nurse, RTs, and CNAs struggled to care for every patient and be with those in their final moments because the families couldn’t. It was chaos. It was frightening. It felt like it would go on forever. The last thing anyone expected was for Adamson to get sick. For the virus to infiltrate his body and claim his life. 

Robby had run outside, tearing off his hazmat suit. Unable to breathe around the soul-crushing grief that constricted the air from his lungs. He’d crumbled like a house of cards as you held him in your arms, but he wasn’t allowed to grieve. He was a doctor, you were still a fucking doctor, and neither of you were allowed to grieve. You needed to compartmentalize; sew up the fraying edges of your grief and go back inside and be the doctors everyone needed.

It was agony watching what came after. The way he struggled day and night to get any amount of rest while wrestling with his demons. The guilt kept him up at night and woke him screaming covered in a cold sweat. Eventually, he stopped sleeping in bed with you all together. Slowly, you saw him less at home and only at work. You watched while the anxiety ate him alive and transformed him into someone you could barely recognize, and you felt helpless against it. At any moment, the pain in your chest would swallow you whole.

And just when you thought, given a few months, you’d be able to find new joy in your life, it all came crashing down again.

So, you waited in that hallway. You waited for any sign that you should stay. You waited to see if you’d change your mind and begin to be honest with him. You waited for him to at least turnaround and look at you - for the recognition of the life you’d had months before to flash in those beautiful brown eyes. You waited in the hallway even after he’d left - waited for your tears to dry before you went upstairs to pack up your old life and find a new one. 

You’d expected a lot of possibilities when Gloria brought you back down to the Pitt. You considered all the variables and the endless amount of what-ifs. It felt inevitable for you to end up in this very situation; him being the attending, in charge of the Pitt, and overseeing a case. The only thing you hadn’t accounted for was how the heat of his body pressed against your back made you forget how to breathe. Your mouth suddenly dry and your heart pounded violently against the ache in your chest. 

Was Robby even aware of what he was doing? You could practically feel him take a breath he was so fucking close. Fuck, you wanted to scream and you almost did when you felt his gloved hand move across your lower back as he stepped around you. The old desire to touch you every chance he could was a surprise to you both when the reflex made its appearance. It must have been a mistake - a subconscious tick because old habits can die hard. It was the only thing that made sense. You fought the urge to mouth a, ‘What the fuck?’ at him. Did he even realize what he’d done? If he did, he was damn good at hiding it. 

You needed to get your shit together. You brought him in here for your patient.

“Allan,” you began to introduce him and found you had to clear the warble from your voice. “Allan, this is Dr. Robby. He’s the attending doctor here in the emergency department. Robby, this is Allan and his mother, Rebecca.”

“Pleasure to meet you both. Now, Allan, why don’t you tell me what brings you in today?”

Once Robby agrees to your use of wire cutters to remove the key rings, conferring on medications during and after a take-home prescription, you immediately go to work. It took a few extra minutes of explaining to Allan (and his very traumatized mother) that you would be as gentle as possible, but the longer the key rings stayed on to cut off circulation, the higher the chance of necrosis would occur. You also promised him lidocaine to numb the area. Lots and lots of lidocaine. 

You’d just signed off on discharge paperwork and spoke with him one last time about maybe just buying what he wanted to try next time. It was not only the safer option but probably more fun and less mortifying than having his mom bring him here. 

You stepped out of the room and made your way up to Dana’s desk. While you’d been in the room doing minor surgery to metal keys, you’d heard a couple of new traumas that arrived through the ambulance bay. The one that unfortunately had stuck with you was the nineteen-year-old kid who’d been found unresponsive. Nineteen. Two years older than Jake. 

For years you tried to make sense of how it was possible to become so attached to a son that wasn’t even yours. You didn’t give birth to Jake and missed the beginning stages of his life. You met him at his ninth birthday party and thought he would automatically hate you. Instead, he asked you questions about superheroes and if you had a favorite wrestler. 

The relationship between Robby and Jake’s mom had been hard to navigate. Harder when you came into the picture because all mothers are understandably weary of unknown variables and people around their children. You did your best not to step on any toes and bided your time until Jake’s mom trusted you - felt comfortable enough - with your presence to allow Jake to stay over when he asked Robby. 

You went on field trips as a chaperone when Jake asked, helped him build science fair projects, and tried your best to play basketball with Jake and Robby. You were better at three-pointers and playing horse than the original two - on - two. Jake chose to see you as another parent. His mother decided to let you be a part of his life and knowing Robby, loving Robby, brought you all together. You were forever grateful to both of them for it. 

But seeing cases like this one - hearing about them - caused a cold sweat to spread across your body. Jake was a good kid - a smart kid but even smart kids could make mistakes. 

You pulled your phone out of your back pocket and continued moving towards where Dana sat front and center in all the chaos. She was currently on the phone but her eyes tracked you as you made your way towards her. 

Quickly, you unlocked your phone and went to your messages. You tapped on Jake’s name.

Mom v2.0 ~ Hey kiddo just checking in. Everything good?

You were about to lock the phone and put it away when his reply came back at lightning speed. 

JakeTheRipper ~ Hey! Ya everything’s 👍🏽 I’m coming by the hospital later to get tickets from dad. Be cool to see you.  JakeTheRipper ~ if you can! JakeTheRipper ~ if you have the time!

You and Jake never lost contact with one another after you and Robby split. It’d been his golden rule and who were you to break rules, especially golden ones? But you hadn’t seen him since he was fifteen. The last weekend you spent housed up in the house - his teenage self picking up a dark cloud stole the warmth from the home. 

He’d asked to see you a few times since then but you were always busy. Always unsure if you were overstepping. But you were here now and he said he was coming here anyways so -

“What’s got you smiling all goofy?”

Dana’s question sent you crash landing back into the present. You were standing directly in front of her seated position, phone in one hand and wire cutters in the other while a perfectly arched brow did most of her questioning.

“Ugh, it’s nothing,” you replied, tucking the phone back into your pocket. 

God, you were acting suspicious. Be natural. Be cool. 

“You got a boyfriend or something?”

“Oh, god no, no, no.”

You were throwing in way too many no’s. 

You felt like you were under a microscope when Dana’s eyes narrowed in on you like this. A cold sweat was going to happen any minute now. 

“There aren’t that many things that make women smile at their phones like that.”

“Memes make people smile at their phones because they’re witty and funny. A good deal on a pair of shoes, funny videos of animals, or cute babies…anyway,” you mumbled before handing the wire cutters over the top of her computer. “Ron the maintenance guy should be coming by to pick these back up. If I miss him, can you let him know I appreciate him letting me borrow these?”

“Did you tell him what they were gonna be used for?”

“Oh, god no, and please Dana don’t tell him I used it to cut key rings off a patient's penis.”

“You mean he didn’t know why you were asking for them?” She laughed. Dana fucking laughed and it eased the tension from your shoulders tenfold. “I think at least owe the man some kind of lunch, don’t you?”

“Ugh, well, I disinfected them. Twice? Does that count?”

Another bark of laughter came as she shook her head in disbelief. She was still smiling when she reached out and took the cutters from your hand. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be up in triage?” Langdon asked, sliding in on your right. 

“Did you come all the way over here from your spot in hell to ask me that, Langdon? Are we slacking off today or willfully choosing to be lazy?”

Langdon shot you a sarcastic smile before he reached over to grab a tablet and handed it over to the med student who’d been with him before. Her dirty blonde hair was slicked back into a tight ponytail and her glasses gave her an almost childlike demeanor that was only enhanced by the excited way she bounced on her heels. Her hand shot across the counter in way of introduction. 

“Melissa King - everyone calls me Mel.”

She was so eager - sweet - that you almost warned her to be cautious in the Pitt. It tends to eat the good ones alive. 

“Dr. Fullerton,” you replied, taking her hand briefly. “I remember you from earlier. Hopefully, Langdon is taking care of you and isn’t showing you what not to do during a residency?”

“Ha, that’s very funny, Fullerton. How long has it been since you’ve been down here? You’ve probably gone soft with all the babying they do upstairs.”

“Out of the two of us, Langdon who is still in their last year of residency and who is a board-certified doctor?”

“You know what I smell?” 

“I don’t smell anything,” Mel interjected, thin lines of confusion creasing around her eyes.

“No, I don’t mean - it’s metaphorical, Dr. King.” 

“Okay, kids that's enough. Robby sees you two both standing here bickering, you'll both be in trouble.”

“Is that your way of telling us to go back to taking care of the board?” You asked. 

“No, it’s my way of telling you both to get the hell away from my station. Now shoo both of you,” Dana retorted, using a stack of patient demographics to swat at Langdon and you. 

“I’m going, I’m going,” you surrendered, backing away. 

You were mid-turn when an enthusiastic wave from Dr. King was thrown your way. 

“It was nice to meet you. Again,” she excitedly called after you. 

She seemed too pure to have picked the Pitt. Everyone had their reasons for doing residencies here and, hell, you believed med students should be mandated to work at least one full rotation in an emergency department to truly learn. Mel, however, made you just want to protect her from the harsh realities of a place like this. It could be soul-crushing and there is no way to prepare yourself for when it happens.

“Likewise, Mel. If you ever want a break from ER Ken you’re more than welcome to come find me.”

“She’s good where she’s at, Fullerton.”

You didn’t bother giving a retort; you and Langdon could keep up the verbal back and forth the whole shift. You were only a couple feet away when you heard Dr. King state, “She seems nice.”

“Yeah. She’s alright. A little unhinged, but alright.”

Each word had been pulled like teeth from him; admitting you weren’t the absolute worst thing in the world, or at least inside this hospital, you knew made Langdon grumpy. Those few words left a sour taste in his mouth admitting anything nice about you, but it was enough for you because it meant one thing for you. There was hope that today wouldn’t be a total disaster after all. 

It was a busy morning but mornings were always busy in the Pitt. There shouldn’t have been a reason the hum of panic constantly buzzed behind his ears. It only grew louder the closer he got to the pediatrics wing of rooms. The bright colors blazed out into the hallway; all greens and blues. Animal motifs meant to instill comfort instead summoned what he’d struggled to keep buried. 

Dana already caught him helplessly trapped outside the room. The memory of that day - the last day with Adamson - flashed vividly like every nightmare he’d had of that day since. Robby had been so engrossed in the recollection of monitors blaring and Princess shouting for him to do something, “Robby we’re losing him,” that he wasn’t able to shake the feeling of dread off. 

He knew Dana noticed. The way her eyes craned over his shoulder to take in the peds room was the only confirmation he needed. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. When do I ever make you worry about me?”

“Are you kidding?” Dana chuckled. “All the time.”

They both knew he was lying. Robby never did confirm it when Dana asked, but he didn’t need to. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be fine or even close to simply being okay. Even after four long years, Robby found he still sought Adamson’s advice. Moments in the Pitt he swore he could hear him directing the room; asking questions to challenge Robby because “a doctor never stops learning.”

He missed being able to confide in him. The expectant look on Adamson’s face when Robby asked about situations in his life where he was at a loss of what to do. 

Robby needed to change the subject - and lead Dana down a safer path of questioning that he could handle. If he could keep himself away from that room he should be okay. He could handle you being here and everything else if he didn’t have to step foot in that room. He should’ve known there was no safe space where Dana wasn’t going to bring you up. Robby could see the hard exterior she tried to keep up to defend against your presence was beginning to crack. 

Maybe so was his. 

“The two of you looked cozy earlier.”

“Dana, you know I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“Uh-huh.”

Her voice oozed a playfulness that edged towards teasing. 

“But there is no universe where you and I talk about this.”

“I was just making an astute observation.”

“I would appreciate it if you maybe observe somewhere else. We have eleven more hours of this shift to go and I’d rather not have to spend it talking about her.”

“Yeah, because you’re allergic to talking in general.”

“Well, that’s just not true. I’m allergic to people I don’t want to have a conversation with,” he pointed out.

She tried to shake the smile off her lips. Her palm lightly smacked at his shoulder which caused his smile to rise in response. 

“You’re such a smart ass.”

“I try my very best,” he mumbled as he leaned down towards the computer. 

He’d just grabbed his badge to swipe past the electronic monitor to unlock the computer, placing his arms to brace on either side of the keyboard when he felt her presence eclipse to his right. Dana was leaning over the counter divider. Her arms hanging over waiting for him to look back up at her. 

“Something else I can help you with, Dana?”

“Just wondering if you’d be more talkative if you knew Fullerton was all smiles earlier. She had her phone out. Seemed to be textin’ someone.”

Robby could feel his eyes narrow in on her position. He shouldn’t care - he shouldn’t fucking care - because you were the one who left. What did he care if you were dating anybody? It’s been two years. The chances of you dating were astronomically high; shit, he’d attempted it a while after you left. Instead of taking care of himself because, “You look like shit,”, as Dana lovingly told him, he’d done what 95% of the population does: he ran from it. 

Heather Collins was an R2 at the time. She was funny, intelligent, witty, beautiful, and he’d fucked it up in record time. All the things you’d thrown at him about being shit at taking his own advice, hiding from his problems, were true. When things took a turn he’d lock up. Collins noticed the cracks and mentioned them enough he countered with argument after argument. The worst part was he was harboring a love for someone else that was gone. You can’t love someone else, give them the love they deserve, when you’re buried ten feet deep for someone else. She deserved better than to be a rebound - better than what Robby could’ve given her because no matter how amazing she was he still thought of you. Heather deserved more than to be a body to bury his sorrows in. He tried dating again a year later but that had also gone up in spectacular flames. Robby couldn’t keep the ghost of you from haunting him.

He tried to act like he didn’t care - that Dana’s words weren’t threatening his last proper brain cell for the day. By the look on Dana’s face, he did a shit job of hiding it. So what if you were with someone? He shouldn’t even care. 

“Did she say who she was talking to?”

Why the fuck did he ask that? Dana didn’t necessarily answer him as much as she chose instead to grin. A silent, ‘Gotcha’ flashing that he absolutely hated. He’d walked right into it. 

“Surprise, surprise. I thought she’d be one of your allergies.” 

A huff of laughter rushed past his lips that he tried to cover up with a cough. 

“You’ve got a mean streak in you.”

Dana patted his arm before she retracted back inside her bubble. The phone went off in record time to pull her safely away from having to hear him complain. She gave him one last thumbs up before her back faced him, completely ending the conversation and forcing him back to the open file on the screen. 

He enjoyed the quiet for all of a millisecond before he heard - 

“Hey, fruitcake.”

God, take him now. Robby chose to ignore her. Ignore her like every other time - 

“Hey, I’m talking to you, fruitcake.”

“Myrna,” he bit out. “I told you a hundred times my name is Dr. Robby.”

He expected her to argue about nicknames and their usage. It’s usually what happens when he advises her that maybe she’d get better treatment if she’d use real names. That isn’t what he got. 

“Do you wanna see my vagina?”

Robby’s eyebrows ran towards his hairline as he replied, “I've already seen it. And once was enough, thank you.” 

“And what about mine?”

Robby knew that voice. He’d know it in any lifetime, through space and time; Robby would know your fucking voice anywhere. He turned to his left and there you were with your elbows and back resting against the counter. You’d leaned close enough so that your words were for him and him alone. 

Robby wanted to humor himself that it had to be his imagination. The flash of something dark, ravenous, and achingly familiar he saw in your eyes must have been his subconscious going haywire. It wasn’t until he watched recognition dawn of what you said, the way you’d fucking said it, crest over your face that Robby knew he hadn’t made it up. 

The heat of embarrassment had you straightening up beside him. He could see it in the light tinging of your cheeks, the anxious beat your fingers rapped on the counter. You weren’t looking at him now but he wished you would. 

And then the memory of Dana saying you’d been caught smiling at your phone reared its evil head. 

Mine. 

He couldn’t keep the word from forming in his head. You’d been his for so long and those words of yours meant to tease and force him to give you a response. Robby wanted to tell you that no, once wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

Mine. 

The last few months of your relationship had ended in flames but the rest. What about the rest of the many years you’d spent together? They’d been spectacular. The best memories he had you were a part of. The attempts at gardening and doctoring up sick animals. The way you’d dance to his records as you danced through every room while you dusted. The sounds of yours and Jake’s laughter mixing from the kitchen table going over homework. 

He could remember the way your hands fisted the sheets as his hands hooked under your thighs to bring you closer to his greedy mouth. Your slick drenching his face, his beard, stubble - whatever phase he was in with or without facial hair. Robby loved it when you began to let go; body melting in his hands as your fingers wound themselves tightly in his hair to pull him closer, deeper. Robby could get drunk off your taste, the soft keening breaths that came ragged and shaking from your chest. How your body trembled as he worked each finger inside you until your back arched beautifully off the bed. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine….

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t fucking care, but he fucking did. 

“What can I do for you, Dr. Fullerton?”

Robby grabbed the PPE gown from beside the table before he went to his full height. From this advantage, he could faintly make out the dying hint of a flush on your cheeks. 

“I was talking here first, Sugar tits.”

You pivoted to glance around him and waved at Myrna who waved back with her middle finger. 

“Myrna, always a pleasure. I think that’s my third finger wave today,” you muttered the last part to him. 

“Dr. Fullerton.”

“Right, right. I wanted to see if I could borrow one of your med students. Central 3 and 4 have two patients, males twenty-three and twenty- four in age. Both were at the same BBQ and believed dumping liter fluid on a fire was a good idea.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah, they look like human marshmallows right now. One has second-degree burns while central 4 has, what I believe, might be second degrading into three.”

“Do you need me to come take a look?”

It felt like a reasonable question. He was attending and usually, all consultations like this went through him for an opinion. He’d just done it with her half an hour ago. It shouldn’t be a big deal - 

“Oh, no, no. Thanks but I think I got this.”

“Oook. If you got it, why do you need a med student?”

“I figure it would be a good teaching moment for one of them on treatments of burns and how to assess the level. I’ve already called surgery for a consultation on central 4. Plus, there’s no available nurse to help me attend to both.”

Robby tried to keep the scoff from coming out. He shook his head and went to move around you, shooting Myrna an irritated glance that hopefully she caught as his nonverbal way of telling her he didn’t want to see her the rest of the day. 

“So, you are saying you need help, you just don’t want my help.”

God, he sounded like a petulant child. By the look on your face, you’d agree with that statement. 

“Robby, I know you’re busy - “

“I’m not busy,” he cut in. 

“Robby, the parents of the OD teen are here.”

Dana came from behind the station, her eyes glancing between the two of you. 

“Okay, park them in Trauma 1. He’s not back from CT yet. I’ll be there in a minute. You can borrow Whitaker,” he directed at you.  

He had to move. There was still the floating face patient in trauma 2. He needed to find out if they’d been able to prep for a safe intubation and if not, they were doing a solid alternative. Langdon was there with both interns. Robby could trust him. He should’ve been more worried about himself because as he passed by you on his way to trauma 2, he felt his body dip towards you. The jealousy rushed up like a lance piercing his heart as he remembered Dana’s words. The idea that you’d moved on, that someone else had taken his place, threatened to remove whatever sensible bit of himself he had left. 

“And don’t pull your phone out on the floor. It’s unprofessional, and I won’t have it in my department. You can step outside like everyone else.”

You didn’t look at him as he spoke. You didn’t even snap at him or give him any hint you’d heard him. Robby knew you’d heard him, but your eyes were solely focused behind him. It was the spot he’d just been standing - the spot Dana now occupied. 

There should’ve been some satisfaction in watching Dana’s face crumble like this. All the earlier anger dissipated back into a playful, if not biting, rhetoric that gave you some hope the day wouldn’t be your version of Dante’s Inferno. 

But Robby’s comment…

Only one person saw you on the phone earlier. One person who’d asked about who you’d been talking to while you’d read Jake’s texts. You’d been so ready to shout at Robby that it was Jake, his son. It might have given you some retribution but why should you have to explain anything to him? He was acting like a jealous significant other, not a damn boss. The way he’d pressed himself against you earlier; touching you as if half-possessed. 

You weren’t helping, were you? The minute the words had leapt from your mouth you’d wished you could take them back. You shouldn’t have said it and yet, you did. You fucking did and now the wanton look he’d given you was forever etched into your brain. 

You were an idiot. 

An even bigger idiot for thinking Dana would’ve left anything between you. 

“You just couldn’t help yourself. Could you?”

“Kid - “

Dana took a step forward ready to explain. You didn’t have it in you to listen. When the phone went off in her hand you found your way out and took it. 

“Do you know where I can find Whitaker?”

“He had a patient around the North-East hallway.”

“Thanks.”

You heard her call your name. Not Fullerton, not kid. Dana said your name and for the first time today, you wished she’d stuck to calling you an asshole. 

You followed Dana’s instructions and moved toward the hallways. You weren’t sure how long you’d be searching for him, but luckily it wasn’t long. On the opposite side of the hall, you watched him wheel a patient out of 17 North and into the halls. Whatever the patient said stopped Whitaker in his tracks - both grateful and surprised all at once. You waited a few minutes longer for him to enjoy a good moment with his patient (because sometimes it didn’t always go like that) before you made your way around to get to him. 

“Whitaker!”

“Uhm, oh yes. Hi, Dr. Fullerton.”

“I have a couple of burn patients in Central 3 and 4; second to third degree. Dr. Robby said you’d be able to assist if that’s alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I would. That’d be awesome. Thank you.”

He was so earnest it was endearing. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s go remove some dead tissue.” 

You took the lead in showing Whitaker to the rooms. You were trying to make polite conversation. It only seemed fair to take a small interest in what motivated a young doctor to get into the field of medicine, of saving lives. Basic questions such as those were able to tell you a lot about who someone was and if they held enough compassion to be around people during their most vulnerable times. 

You did try your best to keep your attention trained on the work. It was your turn to be a teacher, and you wanted to do it well. You didn’t have an excuse why you looked toward Trauma 1. No excuse at all why you watched Robby speak to the kids' parents looking defeated before they’d even begun. There was even less of an excuse for when Robby looked away from them, his eyes searching until he found yours, that should’ve made you want to forget these last two years. You hated the old impulse to run to him - to care for him. The last time you’d seen Robby looking desperately close to combusting like this it’d been a few doors down standing outside pediatrics. 

Looking at him now, Robby seemed ready to quit, and it wasn’t even close to 8:30. 

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As always, thank you all so much for reading!! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

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Tag list: @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange

[nyoru]

━━━ SMART BOY, SHOW ME

ㅤsypnosis ⁝ㅤㅤif you were going to learn anything, why not ask the smartest person you know ?ㅤㅤ〝 cw.ㅤㅤprotected sex, mentions of virginity ﹢ sexual curiosity, light body worship / praise, best friends to ??ㅤㅤ﹪ㅤㅤ𝗒𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗂-𝖾𝗎𝗇 × 𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

you met si-eun when you were sixteen. he sat alone at the back of the classroom, a thin shadow against the window, always half-lit by grey skies and never once acknowledging the chatter around him. he was the type of person who didn’t seem real at first. quiet in a way that wasn’t shy, just detached. still. not like a boy, but like a blade, folded cold and sharp.

you, on the other hand, were always a little too soft. not dumb. not loud. just… curious in a way people didn’t always understand. you liked to ask questions no one else thought to ask. and si-eun, for all his silence, never once ignored you when you did.

the first time you spoke to him, you asked if he liked the rain. he looked at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable, and said, “i don’t like or dislike things. they just happen.” you nodded. then sat beside him the next day. and every day after that.

friendship with si-eun wasn’t simple. he didn’t laugh much. didn’t talk unless there was something to say. but you learned to read the space between his words. how his fingers twitched when he was thinking hard. how he always bought two bottles of water and silently handed you one without asking. how he walked you home when the sun went down, even if he never said why.

you got used to it — his silence, his stares, the way he always seemed like he was calculating the world and choosing you anyway.

people didn’t get it. they said si-eun was scary. too smart. too closed off. and maybe he was. but not with you.

with you, he listened. when you asked about physics, he explained. when you forgot things, he remembered. when you cried over a bad grade, he let you sulk in his room and only rolled his eyes once, before quietly pushing a packet of snacks your way.

you admired him. that was the simplest truth of it all. not in a puppy love way. not like those girls who whispered about him in the halls. you admired the way he always knew what to do. how he seemed immune to everything that confused you — emotions, impulses, the mess of being young. si-eun had answers. you.. had questions.

you always thought si-eun was a little unreal. not in the dramatic, daydream kind of way. more like he didn’t seem to belong to the same world as everyone else. while your classmates stumbled over themselves, trying to be liked or seen or chosen, si-eun just existed. unbothered. untouched. like the rules everyone else followed didn’t apply to him, and maybe they didn’t.

he was too smart, too fast, too aware of everything. not just in class — though his grades made teachers swoon — but in fights too, the kind that happened in empty stairwells or behind buildings when someone pushed too far. he always won. but to you, he was just si-eun.

you, who couldn’t punch a wall without crying. who didn’t understand half the formulas written on the board. who walked through the world like it was full of things you hadn’t figured out yet. and somehow, for reasons you never fully grasped, he liked being around you.

sometimes you wondered why. you talked too much. you asked questions that made other people look at you funny. once you asked si-eun if he believed in ghosts and spent the next fifteen minutes rambling about the difference between spirits and shadows. he didn’t interrupt. didn’t laugh. just listened, completely still, until you trailed off with a sheepish “…never mind.”

“I think you’re more interesting than a textbook,” he said after a beat and hell you didn’t stop smiling for hours.

the others noticed it, of course. “why does he only talk to you?” su-ho once asked, mouth full of snack crumbs and voice full of suspicion. “like, what do you even do to him?”

“is he maybe into weird girls?” he snorted, dodging a soda can you threw at his head. “it’s kinda funny watching him look at you like that.” he added.

you had no idea what su-ho or they meant. you weren’t doing anything. si-eun was just your friend. your weird, closed-off, unnaturally competent friend who let you fall asleep on his shoulder during movie nights and always stood a little too close in crowded places.

who handed you napkins without being asked when you spilled something. who once got a nosebleed during a fight and still texted you right after: you need help with physics tomorrow?

you didn’t overthink it. you admired him, sure. everyone did. but your admiration was different.

you liked how he remembered small things. like how you hated seafood and couldn’t drink coffee without sugar. you liked how he never tried to make you feel smaller for being confused or slow. even when you whined and said things like “i’m gonna drop out and open a flower shop,” si-eun just nodded and said, “you’d be good at that.”

he didn’t say things unless he meant them. and that made you want to believe every word that came out of his mouth. he wasn’t as expressionless as people thought, either. you learned how to read him.

when he was annoyed, he’d tap his fingers — short, quick movements like he was trying not to snap. when he was amused, he’d blink a little slower, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.

and when he looked at you, sometimes — just sometimes — there was something different in his eyes. not fondness, exactly. something heavier. softer. you didn’t know what to call it, but it made your skin feel too warm.

si-eun wasn’t much of a talker, but he never shut you out. not really. once, you asked him if he liked being your friend. it was a stupid question. you regretted it the second it left your mouth.

but he looked at you and said, “you’re the only person who makes me feel like.. i’m not just good for fixing things.” you didn’t say anything back. just leaned against him and hoped he could hear your heartbeat. it was loud. embarrassingly so.

and now, you were in si-eun’s room again, the one place that never changed. the curtains were still half-drawn, the light outside dim enough to make everything inside feel like it was holding its breath.

his desk was organized like always — books stacked in perfect columns, black pens lined in a row, a digital clock ticking too quietly. you were on the floor, stretched out on your stomach, chin propped up on your arms, your phone somewhere nearby but forgotten.

si-eun sat behind you, back against the wall, legs stretched long beside yours. he was scrolling through something on his tablet, probably notes you wouldn’t understand even if you tried. you didn’t know why your heart had been beating too fast all day.

maybe it was because you’d started noticing things you used to ignore. like the way his hair had grown just a little longer over his ears. or how his sleeves were pushed up, exposing veins and wrist bones and that thin scar on his forearm that you’d once touched without thinking.

or how his voice sounded different when he talked to you — slower, quieter, like he didn’t need to say much at all to keep you listening. you couldn’t focus. your thoughts were loud in your head, tangled up and restless.

you were thinking about how you’d never kissed anyone before. not seriously. not properly. and you weren’t embarrassed, exactly — it just felt strange. like you were missing something that everyone else seemed to understand instinctively. like you were too far behind, and eventually someone would find out.

but the real problem wasn’t the kiss. it was that you kept thinking about what it might be like if si-eun was the one to teach you. the thought had been creeping in lately. quiet, uninvited. the way his mouth would feel. the way his hand might tilt your jaw.

the way he’d look at you after. it didn’t make sense — you weren’t dating. he wasn’t flirty. he wasn’t even particularly gentle. but there was something in the way he always noticed you. something that made your stomach twist and your fingers curl.

so you said it. you didn’t even mean to. it just slipped out, too casual, too soft, like a pebble dropped into still water.

“hey… can I ask you something?”

si-eun hummed. not looking up yet.

“it’s gonna sound really dumb.”

he glanced at you then. his face was unreadable, but you could feel his attention sharpening. he always listened like that — completely, like he was watching a wire for signs of tension.

you hesitated. your skin prickled.

“…do you know how to kiss someone?”

the silence hit you immediately. thick. loaded. you almost regretted saying it — almost laughed it off, ready to cover it up with a joke, but then he sat forward slightly, tablet lowering to his lap, and your breath caught in your throat.

“why are you asking me that?” his voice was calm. too calm. not teasing, not annoyed, just.. still?

you swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were to him, how the space between your knees and his was barely wide enough to fit a thought.

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice smaller now. “I guess… I was just wondering. you always seem to know everything. and—” you paused. “I haven’t. not really. I mean, I’ve never done it properly.”

si-eun stared at you for a long time. his eyes weren’t cold, but they were heavy, like he was holding something back. something sharp and coiled and dangerous, sitting quiet just under the surface.

“and you want me to teach you?”

you blinked, he didn’t sound surprised, more like he was trying to confirm it. like he’d already run the calculations in his head and was now trying to decide if he should press the button.

you sat up slowly, heart pounding so hard you thought it might echo. “I just thought… if anyone could explain it, it’d be you.”

he let out a breath. not a laugh. just an exhale, low and almost bitter. “you really think kissing someone is something you can explain?”

your mouth opened. closed. “you’re smart,” you tried again, weakly. “you’re good at things.”

“i’m not good at this.”

you tilted your head, trying to read him. “you’ve kissed someone before, right?”

he didn’t answer, which meant yes. you nodded, trying to play it cool, trying to stay where the air wasn’t burning.

“i’m just curious,” you said, softer now. “i’ve never done it. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

si-eun didn’t move for a long time. then, quietly: “what do you want it to feel like?”

you blinked. “I… don’t know. warm, I guess?” his jaw tensed. his hands stayed in his lap, fingers laced together, like he was trying not to reach for something. you. the air. anything.

you didn’t say anything else. just watched him. waited. the way you always did when he needed time to think. and finally, si-eun looked up. looked at you.

“come here.”

your chest squeezed. you didn’t know what he meant, not exactly — but you moved anyway. toward him. slow. unsure. your knees touched his first. then your legs slid between his. your hands hovered. you didn’t know where to put them. he fixed that for you.

si-eun reached out, and gently — like he’d been imagining this for a long time — he cupped your face. his palm was warm. steady. your skin lit up under his fingers.

he looked at you like he was memorizing you. like he didn’t know whether to pull back or fall forward. and maybe, for the first time in all the years you’d known him, he looked a little unsure.

but his voice didn’t shake. “i’ll show you once,” he said, low. “but after that… you don’t get to pretend you don’t know what you’re doing anymore.” you nodded.

his mouth met yours slowly, at first. like he was testing it — testing you — making sure you wouldn't flinch, wouldn’t pull away once you realized this wasn’t just about helping you anymore. this wasn’t about being smart, or useful, or your reliable best friend. this was him giving in to a thought he shouldn’t have had in the first place.

you didn’t move for the first second. you just felt it. how warm his lips were. how firm. how careful he was, like he was afraid one wrong angle might make you disappear. and then he tilted his head just slightly, hand still cradling your cheek, and kissed you deeper.

and you made a sound — a soft, breathy sound in the back of your throat — that made him freeze. just for a moment. like hearing you respond flipped something in him he hadn’t meant to turn on.

his other hand came up, resting at the side of your neck, and his thumb brushed over the pulse there. and you didn’t even realize you were leaning into him until your knees were bracketing his thighs and your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

“you’re shaking,” he murmured, against your mouth.

“you kissed me,” you breathed back.

he huffed something between a laugh and a groan, thumb dragging lightly across your bottom lip as he pulled back a fraction — just enough to look at you.

“this was your idea.”

“you said just once.”

“do you want me to stop?”

you stared at him, he looked calm, too calm. again. but his eyes — his eyes were glassy, his breath unsteady, and you could feel it in the way his hands stayed on your skin like he didn’t want to let go.

you shook your head, slow. “no.”

his jaw flexed, and then he kissed you again, hungrier. no more holding back. no more waiting. the second his mouth opened over yours, you felt your whole body react — your stomach tightening, thighs pressing in, heart stuttering out of rhythm.

his tongue slid past your lips, coaxing yours to move, to respond, and gosh — gosh — the low sound he made when you kissed him back with more pressure, more curiosity, more want —

you’d never heard that from him before.

your hands were in his hair before you could think about it, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, mouth hot and desperate now. he shifted beneath you, letting you settle fully in his lap, your knees on either side of his hips — and when your bodies pressed flush like that, you both gasped into the kiss at the same time.

his grip tightened on your waist. “fuck,” he muttered, lips dragging down to your jaw, your neck. “you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

“then show me,” you whispered. “teach me.” he let out a shaky breath. like he was barely hanging on.

“you have no idea what you’re asking for.” but his hands were already sliding beneath your shirt, and you weren’t stopping him.

his fingers slid under your shirt, slow and tentative, careful not to make any sudden movements as if you were something delicate. you weren’t sure why your body trembled at his touch — it was barely anything, just skin grazing skin, the slightest warmth over your waist — but somehow it made you feel stripped raw.

like you were finally standing on the edge of something you’d only ever dared to imagine. you didn’t stop him. you tilted your head instead, offering more of your throat, and his mouth found the hollow there — gentle, reverent, teeth barely brushing.

his palms flattened, spanning across your hips, feeling the rise and fall of your breath like he was memorizing it. “you okay?” he asked you softly, voice lower than usual, hoarse at the edges.

you nodded. “yeah.” he paused, like he was giving you space to change your mind. “you’re sure?” your fingers curled around his wrists, holding him to you. grounding him. “I trust you.”

and that must’ve been all he needed. because something in him cracked. a quiet breaking, not a loud one, like ice melting, like something long-contained finally spilling over.

his mouth was back on yours with a hunger that hadn’t been there before, lips parting yours open, tongue licking into your mouth with purpose. he kissed you like he’d been waiting a lifetime. kissed you like this was all he’d ever wanted but never believed he could have.

and when his hips rolled up against yours, you felt it — him. hard beneath his sweats, thick and undeniable, pressing right where you were already aching. your breath caught. your legs tensed around his sides. you whimpered, just a little, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder with a guttural sound.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice low and shaken. “don’t do that.”

“what?” you breathed.

“make sounds like that. I—” his hands gripped your waist tighter. “i’m trying to go slow.”

you could feel your pulse everywhere now. your thighs clenched again, instinctively, seeking friction. “you want to stop?” he asked, a final out, even now, even with the way his body trembled.

you shook your head. “no. I don’t want to stop.” he lifted his head. his eyes were dark, lashes fluttering slightly like he was holding back something deeper. “do you want me to be your first?”

your answer came in a whisper. “yes.”

he kissed you once more, slower this time. then reached beside the bed, into the drawer, and when he pulled out a condom, you blinked.

“you just… have that?”

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “su-ho gave it to me.”

“as a joke?”

“he said something stupid. like, about how I need to ‘get laid before I die cause my pen doesn't work anymore’ or something.”

you laughed, despite yourself. and si-eun’s eyes softened.

“but now,” he said, voice turning quiet again, “i’m glad I have it.”

he rolled it on carefully. you watched, heart pounding, seeing him fully now for the first time. long and thick, flushed at the tip, already leaking. your mouth went dry.

you hadn’t seen a guy naked before, let alone like this, aroused, ready. you swallowed hard, thighs tightening. your whole body ached with nerves and want.

“you okay?” he asked again, brushing hair from your face. “yeah,” you managed. “just… new.”

he leaned down and kissed your temple. “then we’ll go slow.”

he pulled your shorts and underwear down in one motion, so gently it felt like a question. you lifted your hips, let him slide the fabric away, suddenly aware of the cool air on your exposed skin, the vulnerability of being bare in front of someone for the first time. but he didn’t leer. didn’t stare. he looked at you like you were something to be honored. something sacred.

his fingers slid between your legs, testing. your whole body jerked at the first touch — light pressure over your clit that made your thighs twitch.

“you’re already wet,” he said, breath catching. “fuck. you’re soaking.”

your face burned. “sorry—”

“don’t apologize,” he said quickly. “that’s good. that’s so good.”

he dipped one finger lower, easing it into you slowly. you gasped at the stretch. even that was new. he stilled, letting your body adjust, whispering, “breathe,” as he stroked your inner walls gently.

once you relaxed, he added another, curling his fingers, spreading you open with deliberate care. the sound of your slick filled the space between you — wet, soft, real. when he pressed his thumb back to your clit, circling it gently, your hips jolted, and you whined.

“you’re doing so good,” he whispered. “so fucking good.”

your eyes fluttered shut, body rocking helplessly against his hand. when his fingers finally slipped away, you felt empty. needy. but then he was positioning himself, cock brushing against your entrance.

“deep breath,” he murmured. “i’ll go slow.”

and he did.

the first push was the hardest. you tensed without meaning to, your cunt clenching, breath hitching — but he paused, whispered to you again, and let your body guide him.

once you opened up, he eased in deeper. your fingers clawed at his shoulders, trying to hold onto something. the stretch burned. it was full, unrelenting, almost too much.

he was big. bigger than you’d expected. and still he moved gently, carefully, until his hips were flush with yours and you’d taken all of him.

“jesus christ,” he breathed, shaking. “you feel—so tight. so fucking perfect.”

you exhaled shakily. “you’re big.”

he chuckled softly, forehead pressing to yours. “you’re doing amazing.”

he didn’t move right away. just kissed your cheek, your collarbone, brushing his nose against your skin like he was grounding himself.

your walls fluttered around him, already adjusting, and when he finally started to thrust — slow and shallow — it knocked the air from your lungs.

each movement was controlled. each drag of his cock inside you purposeful. he hit deeper with every rock of his hips, and it didn’t take long before your body began to want it.

your breath hitched. your fingers dug in. you let out a moan — small, involuntary — and si-eun groaned. “fuck. that sound.”

you tilted your hips toward him instinctively, seeking more, and he took the cue. he rolled his hips, found a rhythm. and when he shifted slightly — angled deeper — you cried out.

“right there?”

you nodded helplessly. “si-eun—please—”

his hand found your clit again, rubbing you just right while he fucked you through slow, deep strokes. your head fell back. the tension was building fast now, tight, molten, dizzying. your cunt squeezed around him with every thrust, every perfect touch.

and then you broke. your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, rushing through your body, stealing your breath, leaving you writhing beneath him. your cunt fluttered around his cock, milking him, and that’s what pushed him over.

he groaned your name, voice wrecked, and fucked into you one last time, deep and hard. you felt him twitch, felt the heat of him spill into the condom as he came, hips stuttering, body pressed tight to yours, jaw clenched.

you collapsed into each other, breathless and shaking, his arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t bear to let you go. neither of you spoke for a while. but eventually, he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “you’re mine now, you know.”

and you smiled, because you already were. you didn’t know how long the silence stretched between you after it was over, only that you didn’t want to move from the warmth of his body or the way his arms had circled around you so tightly, like he was afraid you’d slip away.

his breath was still a little uneven against your skin, his chest rising and falling against your back now that he’d pulled you into a side hold, your legs tangled under the sheets and your heart still thudding softly in your chest.

he hadn’t said anything more since the last kiss he’d pressed to your shoulder. hadn’t asked how you were. hadn’t pulled away or shifted like he was finished with you.

he was just holding you.

you weren’t sure what came over you, but your fingers reached out and curled lightly into the soft fabric of his shirt, he’d pulled it on again after discarding the condom and wiping you up with the gentlest hands, like it was the most natural thing in the world to clean and dress you himself.

you hadn’t even realized how shy you felt until that part, but he hadn’t teased. hadn’t smirked. just murmured, “tell me if anything hurts, okay?” and you remembered thinking then, he really did think everything through. even now.

“you’re really quiet,” you whispered, voice still hoarse.

his arm tightened around your waist. “thinking.”

“about what?”

he paused for a beat, and then his voice came out low. “how lucky i am.”

you blinked.

your heart stuttered in a different way now, softer, almost painful. he wasn’t the type to say things like that. si-eun didn’t do grand confessions or obvious declarations. he always kept his feelings close to his chest. but now, lying here in the dim warmth of your room, the words felt like they’d slipped out before he could stop them.

you didn’t say anything back. just nudged your head gently under his chin and curled into him more fully.

and for the first time, you felt his lips brush your hair. not in a lustful way. not in a way that tried to start anything again. just quiet affection. soft. steady. like he didn’t want the moment to end either.

you don’t remember when you fell asleep, only that you woke up the next morning still in his arms.

he was already awake when you opened your eyes, blinking blearily against the sunlight seeping in through your curtains. his hair was a little messy, eyes on you like he’d been watching you for a while now, but not in a way that made you nervous. he looked.. calm. at peace. like maybe sleeping beside someone had made him rest easier than he had in years.

“morning,” he murmured, voice rough.

you smiled sleepily. “hi.”

he looked like he wanted to say something, then settled for brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “you still good?”

“mmhmm.” you stretched slightly, muscles sore but not unpleasantly so. “better than good.”

he looked relieved. and then, like something clicked in his head, he muttered, “wait—class. what time is it?”

“we have plenty of time,” you said, laughing softly. “I always set an early alarm.”

he groaned and flopped back beside you, an arm thrown over his eyes. “you’re too responsible.”

“well, you need me to keep you on track.”

you hadn’t meant it to come out so naturally, but the second you said it, you felt his hand drop from his face and his eyes meet yours again. and not that heavy, unblinking stare you used to catch him slipping into when he thought no one noticed.

his eyes had always carried something haunted in them, ever since the day you met. something fractured, a little hollow, like he’d learned too early that the world could betray you if you weren’t ready for it.

but this morning, it was different. you didn’t notice it right away. it was in the tiny shift. the way his gaze warmed instead of hardened. how he blinked slower, more at ease, like the knots in his chest had loosened overnight. you stared at him for a long second, trying to trace what had changed — and then you realized.

the sadness was still there. maybe it always would be. but it wasn’t all-consuming anymore. not sharp. not cold. there was something softer behind his eyes now.

something that bloomed quiet and tender, like spring cracking through frost. and for the first time, he didn’t look like he was fighting himself just to be here. he looked like he wanted to be.

you leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “you’re different today.”

he raised a brow. “already?”

“I mean it in a good way,” you said. “your eyes don’t look sad.”

he was quiet for a second, then laughed under his breath. “maybe it’s because you kissed me back.”

“maybe it’s because I let you fuck me.”

he turned to face you fully, lips twitching into a smirk now, but not cocky. still fond. “both.”

you rolled your eyes and shoved at him lightly. he caught your hand. and then he said, “can I take you somewhere today?”

you blinked. “what do you mean?”

“after class. I wanna take you out. just us.”

your heart flipped a little. “a date?”

he nodded.

“okay,” you whispered. “i’d really like that.”

the walk to campus that morning felt strangely new, even though it was the same sidewalk you took every morning. the sun was a little too bright, your bag slung too casually over your shoulder, and si-eun was right beside you — hands in his pockets, that unreadable expression on his face that made most people wary of him.

but not you. not anymore. not with the way his pinky kept brushing yours on purpose as you walked. not with the way he leaned in to murmur, “you’re sure you’re not sore?” while your classmates were still ten feet behind.

and definitely not with the way you glanced up and saw it again — that look in his eyes. no longer cold, no longer cracked, still intense, still si-eun.

but clearer, softer, like he could breathe a little easier. like you were the first thing he’d ever let soften him. and god, you wanted to protect that softness for as long as he’d let you.

[sundrlands]

‘significance’ j. sunderland x reader

minors dni

cw: light face slapping, light scent kink, sub/top j. sunderland x dom/bottom reader, oral, breath play if you squint, breeding kink, light spit play, dry humping. no depictions of specific characterizations in regards to the reader’s looks. reader has she/her pronouns.

summary: what happens when two deprived people meet by accident? a server and that odd man who’d always come to drink coffee every morning at 6am. from awkward conversation to a dinner that turned into rough, needy indulgence. it was easy, a deprived little thing like him… it was just too significant.

a/n: this is years after the events of sh— no mentioning of the events either. forgive me if this is all over the place… it’s definitely a long one. i kind of went wild while writing this one. there’s more smut than there is plot but nonetheless… i hope you enjoy my very first james sunderland fic.

there he goes again… that odd man… in the same spot he’d always sit in. the farthest table by the window with no one to accompany him besides himself.

james… that was his name. james sunderland.

he was kind enough to tell you this after the tenth time he’d come in. you didn’t have to ask or even tell him your own name… mostly because you didn’t know how to approach that level of conversation. you were just a server— giving the customers phony smiles, a ‘hi, how can i help you today?’ and the fakest kind of enthusiasm when any other would try to offer a joke out of curtesy.

yet something about him… his somber eyes— with light wash of rosy pink coloring the bags underneath them— that looked as if he was deep in thought… as if he were to be troubled by something… or someone from his past… the short stubble that grazed over his chin and upper lip, and his body language that seemed as if he never wanted to be bothered or probably never slept. his gaze always wandered around the diner, out the window or at the soft ripples within the mug he’d hold. sometimes… you found him staring at you, nervously looking away whenever your eyes connected. you never understood why though or what he could be thinking each time he looked at you, so you never asked or gave it much question.

james was just a stranger who came at the same time, almost every single day— six in the morning, as the sky still glowed its grey hues— not a minute early. not a minute late. the bell from the diner’s door ringing loud and brash with the thick of his boots stepping on every creaking, rotten floor board.

each time he’d come, you’d watch him to see if he’d do anything different. maybe he’d add in a sugar packet… two or three… or maybe he’d get a breakfast sandwich like mr.colemen always did— the trucker who you knew had a wife but still flirted with the older cook, ms.miles on tuesdays— or maybe he’d bring in someone he knew to occupy his time… he didn’t. it was the same each time. he’d arrive, ask for seating and sit— not wanting anything else but his coffee— black. no sugar. no cream, just like he liked it he said. he’d watch the steam from his cup vanish until it ran cold then take his sips that felt like a lifetime in between each one.

you couldn’t lie… you were fairly intrigued by him… it wasn’t as if you hadn’t had regulars come in just as much he does, if not more, but something about him seemed different… the expression he always wore… he always seemed so lost in thought yet… so attentive in his surroundings. something in you wanted to know who he was.

each time you gave him a cup of his favorite black coffee, you couldn’t help yourself but try to formulate conversation after he gave out his name… but he was always just so fucking vague… each sentence he spoke was watered down— that trickled slow like shallow water… simplistic and dry, running in a soothing hum.

it was pretty. the way he spoke.

you told him that too. a gentle, ‘you have a nice voice’ after he sung a sweet ‘thank you’ after setting the coffee down in front of his hands. he was awkward about it, like he hadn’t received a compliment like this one or a compliment at all. no words given other than that, having the conversation run flat and you walking away in regret thinking, ‘maybe that was too much’.

it only took one day when you had been off shift to see him sitting at a park bench, the one at the end of the town with his hands in his pockets, back slouched and those same somber eyes staring into the park’s pound to finally sit next to him and not feel the dynamic imbalance hit you like how it did in the diner.

“james!” your breath creating its soft clouds within the cold air as you softly spoke, vanishing as it rose.

“ah!” he hummed, “funny to see you here.” he looked at you… the blonde strands flowing against the wind, his attention fully on you instead of him quickly trying to look away. it was direct, like he stared from within your body… you didn’t expect a person like him to have such good eye contact… it almost made you nervous.

“no coffee today?” you replied, offering a smile.

“afraid not. im just on my lunch break… needed some fresh air.”

“may i ask where you work? hope that’s not improper of me to ask.” you laughed quietly, taking a real good look at him. he was almost like a statue… a rugged one. his lack of fashion sense…and his ability to hold so much expression all the while it being so bland and so cold.

he chuckled, shaking his head as he turned his head back towards the pond, “no… no it’s not ‘improper’. it’s just an office job. pretty boring id say.”

“fitting.” you replied, “not that you’re boring! just… seems like a occupation you’d have is all.”

“i wouldn’t say that you’re wrong even if you did say that.” giving yet another humming chuckle.

you stayed for the time he had to spare. the conversation going just as you thought it would… awkward but he was sweet nonetheless. though it was the way it was, his words flowed with every sentence he spoke, like the gentle stream of the pond in front of you both or the thick clouds that scattered in the grey sky. it took you just a few moments to notice how pretty that man was. he exuded such odd comfort… and warmth that made you want to keep talking to him. listen to anything he said even if it meant nothing or sounded humorously stupid.

“well.” he sighed, grunting as he stood, “id love to keep… talking, but i have to go back.”

you nodded, exchanging your goodbyes as you watched him walk down the park’s path until his body disappeared in the distance.

and so, from then on it had been easier to talk to him. finding any way to get to know more about the odd man who only drank black coffee and stared at you from time to time. it started just at your workplace, quick and steady back and forth talk then at the park, then offering a time to spend together on your off day for breakfast.

that was the first time he had something other than coffee. it was the first time you saw him smile more than once… not a faint one… a real one— seeing how his teeth jumbled at the bottom of his mouth or the harsh smile lines appear by the sides of his lips.

the more you looked, the more you conjured how pathetic of a man james really was. his life seemed so dull… just like the springs occasional showers and faded blue skies… but he was like the sweetness of june— the warmth within this man was little to none but still, he captivated you with his odd charm even if he tried or didn’t. you couldn’t help yourself but to think it was so easy to get him flustered, to have him smile whenever you showed interest in whatever he spoke about… like a lost puppy who finally got attention after being alone for so long.

a slip of a compliment flowed in almost every other sentence, seeing him stutter in his words, choking up a thank you whenever he could. it was amusing… like an addiction. sewing your way into his life was oh so significant. he considered you a ‘friend’ to put it lightly, one who obviously stared at you whenever you weren’t looking: like at the pier. you stood in front of him, hearing the crows sing and the water waves crash against the wood— he’d eye down your frame, seeing the way your clothes hugged your form… dissociating the world’s music around you both with an open mouth and twiddling fingers.

each time, you acted as if you hadn’t noticed and maybe you were just that good for him to not pick up on it whenever you failed to mention or question why he’d stare so goddamn much. it didn’t matter anyway, you liked it just as much as he liked staring at you.

he’d sit stiff, noting how erect his back would be whenever you placed your hand on his shoulder, a soft grip given as you both spoke about whatever. he’d clear his throat whenever you stood a little too close to him, rubbing the tapered part of his hair on the back of his head with a line of ‘uh’ and ‘ums’ in between each word he spoke.

god… this man was just so pathetic.

“why don’t we have dinner?” you smiled as you turned towards him, the bustling chatter amongst the passing people as you both walked down the same park you and him had your first real conversation.

“oh.” he chirped, a quiet laugh intertwined in his speech, “sure. where?”

“my house.” you answered confidently. through the few months of you being his ‘friend’, it only seemed right, so you told him. you wanted him in a place of vulnerability. to rule out every other being that’d pass by or surround you while in public. you just wanted it to be you and him. him and you. “if that’s fine by you. im not too bad of a cook.”

“your house?” his voice fell flat but it was nothing that worried you. the ring of his monotone voice was thick and with how he reacted to your small gestures, you knew he was more than willing to oblige. “you don’t mind me… coming to your house?”

you gave a little nod and he gave a gentle smirk. james didn’t know what could happen once the dinner would happen but he had no reason to disagree… or even want to. he grew accustomed to your company, more than any coworker he had that tried to gather him for night drinks after tough shifts… or even the women who were so abrupt in their interest in him… the thin pencil skirts and revealing blazers. he didn’t care.

a date was given. four days from then after his early ending shift. and so time flew. he hadn’t come to the diner at six in the morning like he did, he wasn’t even at the spots he’d sit during his breaks from work. a part of you had been worried if he tried to avoid you, wondering why you haven’t seen him since your request. he wasn’t good at texting— sending him a ‘hi’ would only result to him replying a ‘hey’ three days later. you almost didn’t buy the groceries you needed to prepare or an outfit that wasn’t too much but definitely would grasp his attention.

luckily you did.

it had been the day and it was five in the afternoon, the sun setting itself and the wind blowing more rapidly, flowing with the night’s usual atmosphere. james stood at your door with the address you gave him not too long after he agreed for the dinner you proposed. he just stared at it’s wood, his heart racing without his mind fully understanding why. he was a grown man but too afraid to see your face until this very moment. so he’d stay in the house longer than he needed to without going to the diner in the mornings. he’d stay in his cubicle on his lunch break, finishing any extra assignments he needed done for his boss.

moments spent with his feet planted on the ground before he gave three knocks at your door. he waited, only for a minute before you opened the door. you were dressed so nicely opposed to his work outfit still on and the light fragrance of the food fumigating in the air, hitting his nose.

“you’re here.” you spoke, relieved that he hadn’t stood you up. “come in.”

and so he did. small talk was given, complimenting your abode and trinkets you had scattered all about, admiring the personality your home gave opposed to his apartment that was just there… only the essentials, almost soulless. you thanked him of course, going on about little things as he listened before you finished all that needed to be done for dinner— it was pasta. simple and easy to not fuck up.

two plates placed with wine in crystal glasses and forks being spun. you connected over the flavor of the sauce and the warmth of the garlic bread that complimented the pasta. everything went smoothly, more than you thought it would’ve. easy conversation with the add in of knowing more about who james was… though he was his usual vague self.

you couldn’t pinpoint why he had been or what was truly on his mind. in certain instances, he’d drift off, his eyes wavering with a slow chew before ending his sentence with something mundane. your curiosity kept prodding with each question you gave— he didn’t show feeling of intrusion but he wrapped around certain topics leaving you needing more to be answered.

it felt like twenty one questions… moreso… him answering yours than you were with his but his composure and hospitality hadn’t changed from his kind and awkward demeanor he’d always give. it took awhile before you realized you had been digging in his chest like a crow on a rotting corpse before you covered your mouth with a soft, inaudible gasp.

“ive been blabbering…” you say, shyly laughing as you continued the last of what was left on your plate.

“no.” he responded, his voice trickling like soothing raindrops against a windowsill, “you’re just curious.”

“that i am.” your eyebrows raising as you sipped the bitter red liquid of your wine, “but you’ve had enough.”

he shook his head, wiping his mouth with a nearby napkin as he gulped, “i enjoy the conversation. i just have a lot in my past im not too fond of is all.” you noticed his eyes again… that troublesome look… the blank stare. whatever happened seemed to had never left him. james was like a puzzle piece… all scattered… some pieces missing so the full picture could never be seen or even admired.

“don’t we all…” pursing your lips as you set your glass down, “…but that’s the beauty of life, yes? it’s shitty… things come and go. regret… wrapped in solace. but that only means you can make happier memories.” trying to be positive to remove anything he had stored in thought.

you saw his shoulders relax from its usual tension, his eyes finding their way towards yours with a thick silence being transferred between you two. “yeah.” he spoke, breaking the silence momentarily before it fell back. the white noise… the gentle buzz cradled your eardrums, sitting like a stone in both of your seats.

the contact between your eyes spoke a million words… ones that haven’t been spoken out loud— it was of interest, undeniable lust. from his constant gaze from when you once were strangers… his usual order of coffee, to the moments you spent together in numerous places to now. those pretty light eyes shook as they bounced from each part of what your body showed at the table. they were quick… hungry… without any hesitancy. he dared not to look away, enjoying the visual of your being in a place with no one around, just you both.

as for you… the feeling of his eyes felt like fire caressing your skin… as if his wherever his pupils directed themselves, you could feel. it felt like fingertips gliding underneath the fabric of your clothes… just as when he ate… the way his lips latched onto the silver of his fork— the unintentional sensual gesture as he slid it from his mouth and chewed. the coat of spit that was left across it, and the delicate way he held onto the spine of the wine glass. you wanted to replace the flavor of your homemade sauce with the flower of your labia… to feel the latch of his lips against your breast or on the sides of your neck. the way he ate gave you an intense feeling of need… greed… swelling indulgence. not to mention his goddamn voice… the voice you were already so found over— the subtle cracks and dips between certain vowels… how deep it was… how gentle it felt amongst the silence.

“james..?” you questioned, tilting your head slightly, almost in a trance by the tone of your voice.

he gulped roughly, already sensing whatever you were going to say by the look you gave. “yes?”

“may i kiss you?” the words flowing softly within a sigh, holding your breath as you waited for his answer.

he just stared at you, eyes blinking like a cat in comfort as he continued to stare. moments past… which felt like hours before he nodded.

you stood from your seat, his attentiveness not failing to follow you in whichever way you went, slowly walking towards him with your hand sliding against the rough stubble on his face. he exhaled through his nose, his eyes shutting closed, his body melting into your touch as if he longed for such embrace. he hummed… the vibration flickering against the tips of your fingers before you felt the warm air of his exhale against your lips. slowly you leaned, shaky breaths with a soft press of the lips.

his lips were so soft yet stiff, a long press, occupying the other side of his face with yet another hand, pulling his face closer to yours as you deepened it. james let you lead, his rough calloused hand grazing against your wrist with a gentle grip, simultaneously pulling you closer to his embrace.

at the touch of his lips, you felt yourself get jolted with pleasure in between your legs, the softness rushing to a hungered one— his lips opening, allowing your tongue to push through and taste the sweetness of his of spit. his mouth was warm and the muscle of his tongue slid into yours as spit started to slide down his chin… quickening breaths and an even louder hum than he ever gave.

with the sharp sound of the chair scraping against the floorboards, he scooted back, you unconsciously sitting onto his lap just to feel the growing bulge against his work pants. you sat right on it, feeling it press against your clothed cunt with a groan that wrapped around your tongue and down your throat. he felt big, and the throb of it excited you, having your hips think on its own with a heavy yet slow rut.

the hands that held onto your wrist fell at your hips, the tightness of his fingers digging into you as if he’d never want you to leave from his touch. your bodies molded into one, your breasts pressing against his heaving chest with your hands now gripping the back of his neck.

at release, your forehead pressed against his… his deep gasps sounding pathetic and irregular, lips ajar, trying to savor the feeling of your lips that were once on his. the creek of the chair upon your slow grinds were loud and obnoxious but that didn’t stop you from adding on more friction, loving the feeling of his hardening cock against you.

“let me… do what i want to you… let me make you feel good.” you whispered against his lips, feeling your words being sucked from his quickening gasps.

“please.” he whined… a sound you’d never heard before from a man, let alone one of business. his willingness in the subtle acceptance of him submitting to you had your mind fill with haze. the glisten of his eyes pleaded for something… anything… like he had never been touched before. “please…”

his face leaned in the crook of your neck, his nose nudging against the warmth of your skin, sharp inhales, devouring the perfume that coated it. light peppering kisses lining up and down, all along the side of your jaw. a smile crept up on your lips… you knew just from the sight of him that he was just a pathetic little thing. and with the way he acted just from a kiss… how hard he got with you sitting on his lap, you knew that whatever you did he’d grant you a reaction that would be better than any man has ever gave you or will give you.

you gripped the back of his head, a drunken stare as his lips still purse from the abrupt release of his kiss. “wait.” you breathed, pressing your finger in the center of his lips. he was so tantalizing… his eyes drooped with anticipation, knowing that since he has you now… his self control was little to none.

at the side of you finger, he kissed it, holding onto your wrist as you placed another finger against his lips. you watched and he watched you— his mouth slowly opening and guiding his fingers against his tongue. with hallowed cheeks he began to suck, bobbing his cute head down to the knuckle. curling your fingers, you felt his tongue slither in between, spit messily sliding down your palm and arm.

“good boy..” you praised, your voice in sync with the sounds of his sucks— a deeper whine trembling against your fingers at the sudden pet name.

you grinned, cocking an eyebrow at his reaction. he liked that? you thought. seems fitting.

sliding your fingers from his mouth, you gripped his chin, a gentle press given, “watch me.” you whisper and with a pull at your top, he watched. his eyes directing themselves at your breasts with an even quicker and excited exhale exuding from his whining lips. eyebrows furrowing at the need to touch, his hands hesitantly removing from your hips and curling, waiting for the okay to be able to grope them upon your request. unclasping your bra, they drooped prettily in his face, letting whatever you took off hit the floor beside the chair.

“come on pretty boy… touch them.” you slurred, your voice seductive, teasing him, watching how his eyes never left, just opening at the sight of your bare breasts. “i know you want to.”

he sighed, one that was pent up and riddled with eagerness. “oh my god…” his voice shook. james was driven by the lustrous nature of your body. captivating by the sounds that fell from your lips and the commands you spewed— each word directed itself at his cock, feeling it twitch and tighten at his pants. the way you were entranced by his eyes as he was with yours, looking up at them with admiration, need and desire that festered throughout his body, making him burn at the touch.

doe and gentle with a sweet song flowing in the disguise of a moan he sung. the single free strands laying against his skin, complimenting with the reds that blossomed at his cheeks.

‘i want her… i need her… all of her… i want it. i want it. i want it. i want it.’ he chanted in his brain— feeling as if he was going to pass out at how hard he was breathing— his hot mouth curling at the warm bud of your breast, tongue flicking at it’s hardened tip, pulling back with the gentle graze of his teeth until a pop was heard, pressing a series of kisses around your breasts.

you were drunk off the man. that poor pathetic odd man. his body calling for more… groping your breasts with vigor, feeling the shortness of his nails digging and molding them to his liking… and the little broken noises he made, so soft and sweet, higher than his usual tone. a fleeting glint of mischief glistened in your eyes, letting out a chuckle.

“that’s it…” your voice trailed, lifting your hips, starting to bounce on his lap, granting a broken moan to feather against your nipple.

“god… fucking dammit..” he exhaled, gritting his teeth as his body sunk into the chair, his feet planted harsher on the floorboards, bucking his hips upward, feeling the weight of you created more friction, his swelling cock pulsating. “don’t stop… please.” he whined, eyes squinted as drool fell from the side of his trembling lips.

your hands running in his warm blonde strands, “that’s a good boy.” you tightened your gasp, pulling it with a yank. he blinked slowly with a coo, “you like it when i bounce on it?” you teased.

he nods. his poor hips already tiring out, them stuttering at every upwards thrust. “yes ma’am… fuck it feels… it feels so good.”

planting your hands at his chest, you felt the fast pace of his heart, running your palms up his body until your fingers wrapped around his slender neck— each digit falling into his skin, hearing his strain. “poor baby… you wanna feel more don’t you?” you grunted, his head tilted back with your face hovering his. with a slight cock of your hand, it collided with the softness of his cheek, a loud yelping moan bouncing along the dining room walls.

“fu… fuck…” he stuttered, his lips almost at pout.

no woman had ever treated him this way, so rough and teasing and you hadn’t even fucked him yet. his nerves was heightened as his cheek burned with the faint remnants of your palm. never did he think he’d enjoy something like this, in fact… he was left speechless. the sight of his eyes looking more pleasing than they already looked. they never looked away from you, wanting to get every expression you gave… watching your lips as they continued to taunt him, needing to see the way your breasts bounced as you continued to rut against his lap above his pants.

“oh?” you chirped, noticing the deepening submission in his glare. “you liked that didn’t you?” your hips now stopping in its place.

weakly, he laughed, “i do.” his voice still so sultry and deep.

leaning closer to his face, your lips feathered his, exchanging breaths with shared smiles, “go on your knees and take it out for me.” your other hand sliding down slow until it cupped his bulge. removing yourself from his lap, now standing.

he lifted himself off the chair, taking off his bottoms and boxers. there he sat, like an obedient little thing, on his knees— his thick dick laying and jerking at every throb as it laid so delicately against his thigh— staring up at you adoringly with gleaming eyes, as if he had been admiring a star.

it wasn’t as if you necessarily thought about what he looked like underneath his boxers, but the sight of it made your eyes sparkle— it was so thick and long, it made your mouth water.

“james…” shocked and even more turned on at how pretty his dick was. the light graze of his brown pubes looking well kept. “fuck it’s so pretty.” running your finger down its side, hearing the most pathetic moan fall from his lips— his fists balling at the sudden touch. “needy little thing you are.”

it was cute. from the little slap you gave him and the way he wanted you to have your way, it only fed into the desire to treat this boy with some excitement. that dull life he had was now changed as thoughts puddled at your brain seeing this man look so weak as you stood to look at him.

“such a pathetic… pretty man.” you cooed, tilting your head, “and look at your dick.” his eyes dropping to watch it leak and pool at the flesh of his thigh. “it’s excited for me isn’t it?”

his fingers wrapping around his shaft, needing some type of friction… it was starting to get painful with how long it hadn’t been touched bare. whenever he was turned on in the comfort of his home, he’d jerk himself off until he fell asleep. over and over again until his wrist burned and his throat dried. he had no self control and with you around, he could cum just from your voice.

“take your hand off.”

“god i just…” he whimpered.

“mmh mmh.” your head shook, as you bent down, “hands off. i tell you when you can and can’t, do you understand?” placing your finger underneath his chin to raise it, seeing gentle plea in his eyes.

“yes ma’am.”

he felt belittled, unable to control his own person. a quick shiver fell down his spine, leaning closer into your embrace… just the soft touch of your finger gave him a bolt of pleasure. knowing if he touched himself, you’d slap him in retaliation. oh how he so desperately wanted that.

you unzipped your pants, stepping out from them, alongside your panties, already dripping against the inner of your thigh. placing a palm at the top of his head, your fingers gripped tight, angling yourself in front of his face.

he gulped roughly, staring at the swelling of your clit. “lick it.” without hesitation, his face fell in between your legs, his curved nose nudging against your clit as he inhaled, lapping his tongue in between the folds of your pussy.

the scent of it drove him wild— eyes rolling back as he continued to inhale, loud enough for you to hear. he smothered himself, the muscle of his tongue thickening with his lips latching it just to get the taste of you fully.

you were taken aback at how skilled his tongue was, how his nose stimulated your clit so lovingly with each bob of his head. obnoxious sucks radiated in the air with his fingers clasping against your thighs, hard enough to hurt.

moans trickled from your throat, gasping on the thick of the air, guiding him with the hand that gripped his hair. his tongue plunged deeply into your pussy, feeling his mold his muscle inside of your fleshy walls, thrusting his head to fuck your opening.

you felt yourself already needing to cum and that has never happened before. at least not this quick. the softness of his lips sucked so roughly and his tongue flicked so fast, your knees buckled inward, unable to keep up with the pace of his mouth.

“james…” your moans heightening in volume, your chest deepening after every breath you took, “your fucking mouth…”

his hair, all tattered and messy, with his eyes reddened from it almost tearing up because of the lack of air he was given, not stopping for a second as he drank in your arousal and your moans. a tingling sensation bounced off his body, circling through each part of his limbs.

the sounds of his sucks almost overpowering your moans itself, as he felt your meaty pussy flutter in and out his mouth loving how full you made his mouth.

“i can’t stop,” he gasped against your cunt, “it’s just so good… i love it, i fucking love it. fuck… fuck…” nothing in this man’s brain could made him stop. it was like he pushed himself in between your legs like he wanted to be apart of you— keeping his strength in his neck to keep his same motion.

removing himself to breathe, he gathered spit, directing at your clit and watching it drip before catching it in his mouth, rolling his tongue along the hood of your clit before latching on with hallowing cheeks. sucking in air, your body curled forward, feeling two of his fingers slide in the opening of your pussy. they curved as they started with long strides.

that ‘odd’ man surely knew how to please a cunt. fingers picking up its pace with the loud wet sounds interweaving the moans you both sung. “yes… yes… james…” you panted, his wrist steadying, feeling you leak against and down his knuckles. your walls clamping on his fingers like a heartbeat.

“im gonna..” you announced, your body trembling more than you could even control, your legs giving out with him quickly holding you up as much as he could— his face deepening in your cunt, grunting as he felt you cum against his tongue.

“mmmhm” he hummed over and over again, feeling you shudder against his face.

falling to your knees, your face was angled with his— his mouth wet all from his nose down to his chin. the sight of you, trying to compose yourself from the orgasm you had made him feel dizzy. “feel good?” he whispered, trailing your face from where it hung low, catching your lips. you could taste yourself on his lips, running your tongue at the flesh of his bottom, sucking it in your mouth with small nips before pulling back.

forming spit in your mouth, you held onto his cock, an immediate grunt rupturing from his throat, letting the spit falling down at his tip. brushing your thumb over it, lathering your spit down to his shaft.

“tighter… please…” he mumbled, foreheads now pressing as he watched your hand wrap around his throbbing and slightly veiny shaft, rolling your wrist in circular and jagged movements. tighter you held, hearing the sound of his throaty moans.

“like this?” you breath, quickening your pace. he deserved it.

lifting the bottom of his shirt, he placed the cloth in his mouth, seeing the light spread of hair that tracked up his navel and a hollowing abdomen at every whine he let out. “yes..” he gritted through his teeth.

his precum swaying around from the vigorous speed that continued to grow. he held his breath, brows knitted, body tense at the rhythmic pattern, veins channeling on your forearm with your fingers glazing against the underside of his tip. “look at me.” you whispered, his eyes slowly traveled up your body until they locked with yours.

you spoke of lust in both your gazes, hearing the wetness of his spit coated cock at every pump, hunger radiating in you both like you desperately needed this— shameless and passionate intimacy.

your body yearned to feel him inside and the way he stared at you— the burning sensation it brought you— made it difficult for you. you wanted to feel him stretch your cunt. pushing him back by the press of your palm against your shoulder, he lay. hovering over him, wrapping your leg over his waist before angling yourself over him.

slowly you slid down on him, never feeling something as big as his. even just from the tip, you felt yourself gasp heavily as you kept lowering yourself down onto him. “fuck you’re so… big…”

james continued his whines, eyes closing tight, his body shuttered… you were so warm, your fleshy walls holding him so comfortably. bodies slowly enveloping on another as he tried to talk to your body with his hands— sliding against your thighs, up your waist and momentarily on your breasts.

“you….” he breathed, it hitching as he mindlessly held his breath, with you pushing more of him into you— textured and wet, with a heartbeat that cradled the shaft of his cock. “your pussy is sucking me in…” he groaned, his ass tensing.

all of you. the sight of it all, each movement you made. fuck, didn’t you drive him insane. at this moment, he knew he couldn’t hold back any longer.

your pussy gripped his cock, deeper it went, as if your grip was unable to let him go. each moan you let out, your pussy clammed and mimicked each word as it pulsated against him.

he couldn’t stay still, whimpering as you started to lightly bounce against him— hands planted on his chest with a slight roll of your hips. you couldn’t believe how good he felt inside of you, how full he made you. with you already cumming, it was hard to keep yourself steady, feeling yourself break down each time you lowered yourself.

pressing his hand on your back, he turned you both, now with you on your back laid against the floor, “let me pleasure you… please.” he begged, both hands placed on the sides of your head.

“fuck me like the good boy you are…”

and with that, it was as if a switch had been turned on in his brain. using one hand to grasp your thigh, “like this?” he breathed, his words as slow as his thrusts, his drowsy-like eyes running up against your face. gritting his teeth, sucking on the cool yet hot air, eyebrows knitting together. he placed his forehead against yours, your hand now sliding up to his neck— the pads of your fingers and thumb pressing down the sides of it, slowly tightening your grip. with struggling breaths, his hips continuing his rhythmic thrust yet trying to find the spot, the spot that will lead you into ecstasy.

the hand that held your thigh pressed it down further, his knees fixing itself at a better position, now his groin aiming downwards. his thrust now falling into slow, hungry pounds, his balls hitting just above your asshole. “does it feel good here…?” leaning down as he pressed wet kisses at the edge of your lips.

all you could give were responding moans, your body overstimulated by every movement he made.

each inward thrust, you could hear skin slapping against one another, your breasts mashing into each other. lips trailing down to your cheek, then to your ear, his tongue running at the side of your ear then switching to the next, groaning a series of ‘fucks’ and your name as the thrust started to increase in intensity. they were once slow, now holding more power, grunting at each inward hit. “god. your… pussy… feels… so…. soo fucking… so goood…” each word ending in a hitch.

his voice now holding a deeper, grosser tone, more animalistic as he grew pussy drunk at how you wrapped around him.

he enveloped your lips, inhaling and capturing your tongue in his mouth, sucking on its pink muscle, bobbing his head and swallowing any ounce of spit that rolled down to the back of his throat. your tongue slipped from his mouth, pressing a long kiss against his lips once more.

your mind transversed across what could possible be the gates of fucking heaven at this point. each twist and turn of his hips hitting spots your fingers could possible never do, your damp walls clamping around his girthy cock—greedily needing to paint your insides with his cum, over and over again if he could.

"it feels good, it's so good...." you trailed off, lips pressing together as you muffled a few moans of satisfaction that sounded nearly like his name—the tip of his relentless cock hitting sweet, sweet spots with each charging pound. your hands removing themselves, now dragging and scratching into his back, tugging the flesh leaving continuous marks onto his skin— causing him to wince in blissful pain.

the reverberating sounds of your name rolling off his tongue along with the desperate whines and groans of pleasure only elevated your lust "you're obsessed with my pussy," you whined, head thrown back at the intense plunges against your favored spot.

your promiscuous ways dragging him down in the mud, wanting to rut and fuck you like an untrained animal. that alluring voice of yours, cracking into a moan after you tried so desperately to tease him.

your concaving walls collapsing at his cock, walls with a flowery texture that ran against the pulsating veins of his dick. your wails rushing to his dick alongside your suction— with each inhale making its grasp tighter than before. your folds clasping at the sides of his shaft at every pull.

he place a thumb so kindly pressed at your slippery clit. circling it slow, with rougher presses at each thrust, it’s hood pushing back, feeling your wet, exposed bud nudge at the skin of his thumb. each run around, he could hear it, how your slick found it’s way all the way to your clit, making it harder for his thumb to be held in place.

his body loosened, with his hips now controlled, it’s speed rising with a longer pull and harder pound, body muggy with a thin layer of sweat, with your face buried in the inner corner of his neck.

“i don’t ever want to stop fucking you… your pussy is too good.” his voice ridged and strained.

rhythmical slaps of wet skin colliding as his balls felt a sharp sensation each time it bounced against the sweetness of your hole. your pussy’s heartbeat causing his eyes to roll, holding his breath and letting it out shakily.

“fuck me just like that james… just like that.” your eyes widening with your legs wrapping around his waist. “im close!”

“i don’t want to stop fucking you… i wish i could fuck you nonstop… i want to keep going…” his chest madly rattling against his ribcage.

shivers cascading through your arms as they gripped his hair firmly once again. your beings were joined in such an impassioned, fervid act of lustful ignited bursting flames out of your bodies. “can i..." he breathed out, voice hoarse, “can i breed you… please… please..”

the walls echoed sounds of your repeated pleasure lamentations followed by his needy words and melting into the increasing melody of skin against skin, lead you over the hill, "cum inside! do it baby…" you uttered directly into his eyes, the familiar knot forming at the pit of your abdomen, convusling cunt tightening around his sliding shaft with each thrust.

he couldn’t stop himself, feeling you cum on his cock made him bury himself further inside, hot spurts of his own cum filling you with rolling eyes and harsh gasps. glazed spit lips, bodies trembling from their high, and strained moans.

his arms snake around your body, cum oozing down his balls and thigh. “fuck….” his body not even finished with his high, slow thrust to chase after the leftover high you both breathed out.

“god james… who wouldn’t known you fucked so well…”

laid out on the floor, you both tried to catch your breaths. the contrast between every moment of you knowing one another to now, fucking each other like your life depended on it, you couldn’t help but laugh.

how significant is it to have a simple man— attractive at that— with his usual order of black coffee in your house, fucking you without a care in the world.

you knew… this wouldn’t be the last time.

[elsiewritesss]

omg girl you should make a smut of vinnie teaching the reader how to ride since the reader is shy

as this one won the poll here we are :)

pairing: vinnie x shy gf reader

warnings: smut, p in v, protected sex, praise, swearing

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Are you sure baby?” Y/N chewed on her bottom lip, her hands nervously playing with the bottom of her boyfriend’s t-shirt she was wearing.

“Yes.” She looked up, meeting the brown eyes of her boyfriend, as he stood in front of her at the foot of the bed.

Vinnie eyed the shy girl in front of him. His shy girl in fact. She surprised him when she suddenly asked him the question a few minutes ago.

“Okay. What do you want?” Vinnie asked, wanting her to say it again so she was a hundred percent sure.

“Vin-” Y/N whined slightly, her big doe eyes looking at him.

“I know babe, I want to hear you say it again so I know you are very positive about this.” Vinnie spoke, his voice soft as he leaned forward and placed both hands on her cheeks.

“I-...I want you to teach me to ride you.” The girl spoke out and Vinnie held back a smile, the words sounding like pure filth coming from his sweet girl’s mouth.

Vinnie leaned down, placing his lips on top of her as his thumbs rubbed up and down her cheeks soothingly.

Slowly, he leaned her on her back, hovering above her as Vinnie slowly moved his hands down her body and stopping at the bottom of the shirt of his she was wearing.

Vinnie disconnected their lips as he lifted the shirt up and over her head, tossing it to the floor as Y/N watched his every movement.

“My beautiful girl.” Vinnie whispered as he looked down at his girlfriend who tried to cover the blush on her face. The boy softly removed her hands from her face, leaning back down to connect their lips again.

Their lips moved in sync as Vinnie moved his hands down to Y/N’s hips, slowly pushing her white lace panties down her legs.

“Alright baby, sit up.” Vinnie pulled away, the girl rising to a sitting position as Vinnie pushed his sweat pants down along with his boxers, leaving both of them naked in the room.

Vinnie walked over to the bedside table and grabbed the small gold foil packet before sitting on the bed with his back leaned up against the headboard.

“Come here.” Vinnie spoke, making a beckoning motion with his fingers as Y/N crawled over to sit beside his legs on her knees.

Vinnie opened the packet and rolled the condom on his hard length. He looked up at his girlfriend, seeing an uneasy look on her face.

“What’s wrong love?” Vinnie furrowed his brows, reaching over to grab her hand.

“I’m nervous.” She whispered, turning her head to look at him. They’ve had sex before, but always just missionary and her not needing to do anything as Vinnie always took care of her.

“Don’t be. I promise you got this, okay? If you want to stop at any time you tell me okay?” Y/N nodded her head slowly, taking a deep breath as Vinnie helped toss her legs on either side of him as her center hovered above him.

“Okay now grab me, and line me up with you.” Vinnie instructed, watching as he watched her small hand grab his hard cock, tensing at the feeling of her hand.

Y/N sat higher up on her knees, lining Vinnie’s tip up with her as she slowly sat back down just enough so his tio was nudging her entrance.

“Good girl. Now, slowly start to sit yourself down. Take your time and go at your own pace.” Y/N nodded at his words, placing her hands in his for comfort as she began to slowly sink down on his length.

“Fuck baby, that’s it.” Vinnie moaned out at the feeling of her warm, slick walls taking him inch by inch until she was fully seated in his lap.

“Mmm…o-okay now what?” Y/N asked looking up at her boyfriend, a tense look on his face as he breathed with his eyes closed. He opened his eyes up to meet hers as she still had her fingers laced with his.

“Get a feel for it. Grind your hips back and forth, or move up and down. Whatever you like better.” Vinnie placed his hands on her hips slowly guiding her movements as she began to slowly rock her hips, her breathing being cut off by a whimper as she felt pleasure throughout her whole body.

“God baby. Look at you doing so well.” Vinnie gripped her hips tighter as her slow movements felt torturous against him.

Y/N let go of his hands, placing them on his chest as she upped her speed. His cock hitting that perfect spot inside her each time making her moans come out in pants.

“Fuck Vin-” She whined, her eyes squeezing shut as Vinnie halted her movements before slowly lifting her hips up only to move them down.

“Come on pretty girl, bounce on my cock.” Vinnie spoke, the words making Y/N moan as they left his mouth.

The girl began to slowly move her hips up and down to get a feel for it, feeling his tip brush against that spot again as she upped her pace.

“Shit Y/N,” Vinnie moaned out, in complete awe at the sight in front of him.

Y/N felt her orgasm reaching in her stomach, making her movements rougher to reach that climax she so desperately needed.

“You close baby? Hm? Wanna cum all over me?” Y/N let out a whimper as she frantically nodded her head.

“Give it to me baby.” That’s all it took for Y/N to reach her orgasm, Vinnie’s following just behind as Y/N’s movements slowed to a stop.

The couple worked on catching their breaths as Y/N ran her hand over Vinnie’s chest slowly.

Slowly, Y/N lifted herself off of Vinnie, pulling the filled condom off of him and into the trash next to the bed.

Y/N flopped on her side next to Vinnie, the boy rolling onto his own side to face her. He pulled her close to him as he wrapped an arm around her middle, her head finding its home on his chest as she let out a content breath.

“Did I do good?” She asked softly as Vinnie slightly pulled away to look at her.

“Good? Baby you were amazing.” Vinnie watched as her eyes lit up slightly, a small smile making its way onto her face as her heart swelled with proudness.

“I don’t think my shy girl exists anymore.” Vinnie teased, wiggling his fingers on her waist making her squirm as she let out a laugh.

“I think she still does.” Y/N spoke, nuzzling herself closer to him as Vinnie placed a kiss to her head.

[dilfenthusiast-union]

Can you please do Josh and reader watching a movie?

I absolutely can anon! Gonna do a horror movie cuz that’s on theme HAHA. I hope this satisfies your Josh craving 🫶 feel free to request something different if not 🫡

Study Session

Joshua “Josh” Washington x Reader

I ended up referencing an old German film so if anyone can figure out what it is from the very vague description I gave then here’s a sweet treat 🍰

Gonna update the gif when ppl start making gifs of the sexy delicious remake

GIF updated with cutie Josh passed out in front of the fireplace literally the exact vibes IM LIVING

“You got the snacks, princess?” Josh calls out from the living room, as he sets up the projector for your weekly “special movie” night.

As part of Josh’s psychology degree, he had the chance to pick a major, and to him and his parents, it was a no brainer— film.

However, what he didn’t anticipate was the amount of weird, silent movies from the 1920s that he had to analyse in his classes.

“It’s like watching paint dry!” He exclaims, “I get that I have to understand the rules of film before breaking them, but Dad’s been doing this since before I was even an idea!” Josh drags on.

“Josh, babe. You’re starting really to sound like every nepo baby in Hollywood. I love you!…but shut up.” you peck him on the lips before pulling back to smile at him, a kinder way of telling him to shut his trap about his first world problems. He smiles dumb from the small act of affection and touch love, unable to recall what was bothering him in the first place as you dissolve his worries.”

Upon hearing his complaints, you suggest making it into a movie night, as opposed to a traditional study session where you’re both hunched over your laptops and textbooks.

Your idea sends a colony of butterflies into Josh’s stomach— you want to watch a boring movie with him? The fact that you want to spend time doing mundane things, like studying with him, makes him envision a life of pure domesticity. How could he say no to an opportunity to cuddle and be with his partner?

Before you know it, you’re microwaving popcorn and opening packets of lollies to enjoy (and to pass the time).

“Just about done! The popcorn is extremely fresh so enjoy with caution!” You mention as you pinch the bag from the top to avoid burning yourself.

He stands back up from setting up the projector equipment, looking at you with warm eyes. He questions “Are you saying that because you nearly burnt your mouth trying to eat it?”, his tone underscored with amusement.

“Guilty.” The one word expresses your regret for attempting to snack early. You settle the bags of snacks and popcorn on the coffee table, and sink into the pullout couch, ready to be entertained.

“What is this movie about exactly? The cover looks kinda freaky, I won’t lie” you examine the starting screen projected on the wall. Josh appreciates how you’re eager to demonstrate an interest in his studies despite not knowing too much.

“In the most succinct way I can say it without spoiling things…” he trails off, “A vampire tries his hand at real estate, and rats wipe out a town of people!” Your face morphs from interested to deadpan at the lack of proper context, “I guess I just gotta watch and see, hey?”

“Precisely, princess.” Josh affirms as he sits down next to you. His pet names for you never cease to make your core temperature rise with the influx of butterflies. As he wraps an arm around your frame, he presses play on the film.

Josh adds, “Thankfully for us, there’s English subtitles… because this entire movie is in German. So you’re gonna have to focus just as much as me, and resist the urge to go on Instagram.” He kisses your head to avoid any rebuttal from you.

An hour passes by and at this point both you and Josh become extremely comfortable on the couch. Lying down whilst cuddling, you hold eachother accountable by not scrolling in your phones and actually discussing the plot of the film and the main points Josh needs to remember for his analysis. The movie finishes and you’re both still awake.

Josh breaks the comfortable silence, turning to admire your features “Thanks for watching this boring movie with me, babe. You made this way more fun for me.” he pecks your forehead, followed by the tip of your nose. He gazes at your lips longingly, before looking into your half-lidded eyes and receiving a small nod.

He leans into to kiss you passionately, receiving a mutual signal from your eagerness. He can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks and he’s sure you can hear his pulse rapidly increasing the longer you two occupy the same space.

You place your hands on his broad chest, feeling him gently and slowly. Josh wraps his arms around your waist and places you in his lap, and breaks away from the kiss. You catch your breath simultaneously, staring into eachother’s eyes, as if you’re telepathically communicating your love for each-other.

“Josh, there’s no need to thank me. I’ll do just about anything with you. Because, as long as it’s you, nothing can possibly be boring.” you cut into the hot silence.

Josh revels in your statement, his eyebrows raised “Are you saying you liked the movie?” his amusement is discernible at this point. He looks at you like you contain galaxies in your eyes.

You give him a kiss on the lips again before breaking away again and grinning widely “I actually did, and I like spending time with my boyfriend.. let’s study more often!” You suggest lightly.

Josh picks you up to carry you bridal style, walking down the hall to your shared bedroom, “I can think of a different kind of studying we can do. Don’t you have an anatomy exam soon?” he smirks before laying you down on the bed, wedging a knee between your legs and trapping you in his arms.

Maybe this studying will involve an all-nighter for the two of you.

[gf2bellamy]

queen why do i feel you'll EAT writing about shy! reader and subtly flirty post-prison reid? 🤭

shy — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: shy / awkward reader , they're working on a case so mention of victims / unsub etc. a/n: HEYY thank you for your request hope you like this i gave it my best shot <3

“And the two of you can work on the geographical profile.” 

Your head snapped up at the sound of your name, eyes meeting Spencer’s for the briefest of moments before you instinctively looked away, pretending to refocus on the files in front of you. Heat crept up your neck, and you tapped your fingers lightly against the table, a nervous habit you never quite managed to shake. 

Spencer’s gaze flickered down to your fingers, watching the repetitive motion before shifting his attention back to his own files. He knew you were shy—reserved, careful with your words—but over time, he’d started to notice something else.

You were even quieter around him. 

Forty-five minutes later, you arrived at the police station with the rest of the team. The usual chaos of a local precinct swirled around you—officers moving in and out, phones ringing, hurried conversations about the case at hand.

As the others scattered to their respective tasks, an officer led you and Spencer to an open conference room, giving you both space to work. 

You slipped your bag from your shoulder and draped your jacket over the back of a chair before settling into place. Just as you were pulling out your notes, Spencer’s voice cut through your thoughts. 

“Do you want coffee before we start?” 

You hesitated. You did, of course. You always started your work with coffee—it was practically a ritual at this point. But the last thing you wanted was to inconvenience him. 

“No, that’s fine,” you said, offering a small, polite smile before looking back at your notes. 

Spencer didn’t respond, just studied you for a moment, then turned and walked out of the room without another word. 

A few minutes later, the door creaked open again, and Spencer reappeared, carrying two cups of coffee. Without a word, he set one down in front of you before taking his own seat. 

Surprised, you looked up at him, eyes wide. “Spencer, you didn’t have to—” 

“I know,” he interrupted gently, stirring a packet of sugar into his coffee. “But you always have coffee before you start working, and I didn’t see you get one today.” 

Your fingers curled around the cup, the warmth of it seeping into your skin. You glanced away, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your lips curled up into a small, bashful smile. 

Spencer noticed. And he smiled too. 

You two worked side by side, occasionally exchanging thoughts on the profile as new details emerged. Every now and then, Spencer would glance at you, watching how you furrowed your brows in concentration, the way your fingers tapped against the table when you were deep in thought. 

At one point, a police officer working the case stepped into the room. He was friendly—maybe a little too friendly. He started asking about the case, directing every question to you instead of Spencer.

At first, you simply answered out of politeness, not thinking much of it, but as the conversation continued, it became clear that his interest went beyond the case. 

Spencer noticed immediately. The officer’s body language, the way he leaned slightly toward you, the casual, almost playful tone in his voice—it was obvious.

And it was bothering him. A lot. 

He watched as you shifted slightly in your seat but too polite to ignore the man’s questions. Spencer could see it—you weren’t necessarily reciprocating, just trying not to seem rude. Still, that didn’t stop the uncomfortable twist in his stomach. 

His grip on his pen tightened. Then, without looking away from the officer, he spoke. 

“We have to keep working on this,” Spencer said, his voice even but firm. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Alone.” 

The single word carried weight. 

You bit your lip, lowering your gaze to your files, unsure how to react. The officer hesitated for a second, as if debating whether to challenge Spencer, but ultimately nodded and excused himself from the room. 

Once the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt quieter—almost tense. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, not quite meeting Spencer’s gaze. 

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, keeping your gaze fixed on the open case file in front of you. "I didn’t mean to—" 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Spencer’s voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable certainty in it. You hesitated before glancing up at him

You shifted in your seat, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I just… I didn’t know how to get out of that conversation without being rude,” you admitted. 

Spencer let out a small hum, tilting his head as he considered your words. “You really don’t like making people uncomfortable, do you?” 

You exhaled a small, breathy laugh. “No, I guess not.” 

He nodded, then tapped his pen against the table. “Even when they’re clearly making you uncomfortable?” 

Your fingers tightened slightly around your pen. “I mean…” You hesitated, suddenly very aware of how intently he was watching you. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

Spencer’s lips twitched, almost like he was holding back a smirk. “Right. Not that bad.” His voice was thoughtful, but there was something teasing in it. 

You furrowed your brows. “What?” 

He shrugged, flipping a page in his file.“It’s just interesting,” he mused, his tone casual. “Watching someone else try so hard to get your attention.” 

You blinked, suddenly feeling warm. “What—” 

“Not that I can blame him,” he added smoothly, cutting you off. His eyes met yours, and this time, he didn’t look away. 

Your breath hitched, and you quickly dropped your gaze to your files, trying to will away the sudden heat in your face.

Spencer chuckled, the sound quiet but amused. “I’m just saying,” he continued, leaning slightly toward you, his voice lower now. “If he had been paying closer attention, he might’ve noticed that you weren’t interested.” 

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping your pen. “And what exactly makes you so sure of that?” 

He smiled—just enough to be infuriating. “Because,” he said simply, “you get a lot quieter when you actually are interested.” 

Your heart skipped a beat. 

Your lips parted slightly, ready to respond—except you had no idea what to say. Spencer, ever the profiler, seemed to pick up on that, because his smirk deepened just a little before he finally turned back to his notes, acting as if nothing had happened. 

Meanwhile, you stared at your files, pretending to read, even though the words in front of you had lost all meaning. 

Some time later , you were staring at the board, your eyes scanning the map and the scattered notes pinned to it. The geographical profile was coming together, but something felt off—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You were pretty sure you had found a pattern, a connection that might help narrow down the unsub’s next move, but the last thing you wanted was to sound like a complete idiot.

Especially not in front of Spencer.

The way you could barely string a sentence together around him was embarrassing enough, and the fact that he had already picked up on it made it even worse. 

Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the file in your hands, your thoughts racing. The more you stared at the board, the more convinced you became that you were onto something.

 Before you could gather the courage to speak, Spencer appeared beside you, his presence so close that you could almost feel the warmth of his arm brushing against yours.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as he tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the board. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice soft but curious. He was looking at you from the side.

You swallowed hard, your fingers instinctively reaching for the necklace around your neck, twisting the delicate chain between your fingers.

“Oh, nothing,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you quickly averted your gaze, focusing on the board instead of him. 

 Spencer didn’t move. He stayed right where he was, his eyes still on you, waiting. The silence stretched between you, and you could feel the weight of his attention pressing down on you.

Finally, he spoke again, his tone gentle but persistent. “You’re staring at the board like it’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “If you’ve noticed something, I’d like to hear it.” 

 You hesitated, your fingers still fiddling with your necklace. “I just… I think there might be a pattern here,” you said slowly, gesturing toward the map. “The locations of the victims—they’re not random. They’re clustered, but not in a way that’s immediately obvious. It’s like… like the unsub is following a specific route, but he’s deviating just enough to throw us off.” 

Spencer’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and he turned his full attention to the board, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map. “Go on,” he said, his voice encouraging. 

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. “If you look here,” you said, pointing to one of the pins on the map, “the first victim was found near this intersection. The second was a few blocks away, but still within walking distance. The third was further out, but if you draw a line connecting them, it’s almost like…” You trailed off, suddenly unsure if you were making any sense. 

 “Like he’s spiraling outward,” Spencer finished for you, his voice tinged with excitement. He stepped closer to the board, his eyes darting between the pins as he followed the pattern you had described. “You’re right. It’s not random. He’s moving in a deliberate pattern, but he’s expanding his radius each time.” 

 You nodded, relief washing over you as he validated your theory. “Exactly,” you said, your voice gaining a little more confidence. “And if we can predict where he’ll go next, we might be able to catch him before he strikes again.” 

 Spencer turned to look at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s… really good,” he said, his tone genuine. “I hadn’t considered that, but it makes perfect sense.” 

 You felt a rush of warmth at his praise, and you couldn’t help but smile back, even as you tried to hide it by looking down at your notes. “Thanks,” you said softly. “I just… I didn’t want to say anything in case I was wrong.” 

 Spencer shook his head, his expression softening. “You shouldn’t doubt yourself like that,” he said. “You have a good eye for details. You should trust your instincts more.” 

 His words caught you off guard, and you glanced up at him, your eyes meeting his for a brief moment. “I’ll… try to remember that,” you said softly. 

 Spencer didn’t say anything else, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he turned back to the board, his mind already racing with the new information.

You stood there beside him, your heart still pounding in your chest, but for the first time, you felt a little less unsure of yourself.

Two days later, the case was finally wrapped up. The unsub was in custody, and the team was heading back to Quantico. The relief was palpable, but so was the exhaustion. You were walking toward the jet, your go bag slung over your shoulder, when Spencer caught up to you.  

 “Let me help you,” he said, reaching for your bag before you could protest.  

 “No, no, it’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively pulling the bag closer to you.

But before you could say anything else, he gently took the bag from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest of moments.  

“Thank you,” you mumbled, your voice soft as you glanced at him. He was walking beside you now, his pace matching yours, and you couldn’t help but notice how close he was.

Close enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne—something warm and subtle, like sandalwood and books. 

Spencer just smiled, adjusting the strap of your bag on his shoulder as you walked. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the tarmac, and the sound of the team’s chatter filled the air as they made their way to the jet.  

 “You did good work on the case,” Spencer said after a moment, his tone casual but sincere. He glanced at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “Really good, actually.” 

You felt a rush of warmth at his words, and you quickly looked down, your fingers instinctively reaching for the necklace around your neck. You twisted the delicate chain between your fingers, a nervous habit you couldn’t seem to break.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “That… means a lot.” 

Spencer didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his gaze on you, steady and thoughtful. The two of you walked in comfortable silence, the jet now in sight.

The rest of the team was already boarding, their voices carrying across the tarmac as they chatted about the case and what awaited them back home. 

When you reached the plane, Spencer stepped aside to let you board first. You murmured another quiet “thank you” as you climbed the steps, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.

You climbed the steps onto the plane, settling into your usual seat by the window. Spencer followed, stowing the bags in the overhead compartment before sliding into the seat beside you.

The proximity made your breath catch, and you quickly busied yourself with adjusting your sweater, trying to ignore the way your heart was racing. 

As the plane’s engines hummed to life, you found yourself fidgeting again, your fingers toying with the necklace around your neck. It was a nervous habit, one you couldn’t seem to shake, especially when Spencer was this close. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance at you, his gaze dropping to your hands before shifting back to your face.

For a moment, he hesitated, as if debating whether to say something. Then, without a word, he reached over, his fingers gently brushing against yours as he stilled your hand. 

“You’re going to break it if you keep doing that,” he said softly, his voice low and warm. 

You froze, your breath hitching as his touch sent a jolt of electricity through you. His hand lingered for a moment, his fingers lightly tracing the chain before he pulled away, leaving your skin tingling where he’d touched you. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled, your face burning as you dropped your hand into your lap. 

Spencer chuckled, the sound quiet but amused. “Don’t be,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “I just… don’t want you to ruin something that’s clearly important to you.” 

You glanced at him, your heart pounding in your chest. There was something in his tone—something teasing but tender—that made your stomach twist.

“It’s just a habit,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“I know,” he replied, his eyes meeting yours. “But you don’t have to be nervous around me, you know.” 

Your breath caught, and you quickly looked away, focusing on the window as the plane began to taxi down the runway. “I’m not nervous,” you lied, your voice shaky. 

Spencer didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his gaze on you, steady and unwavering. “Okay,” he said finally, his tone light but with a hint of amusement. “If you say so.” 

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. The plane lifted into the air, and you leaned back in your seat, the hum of the engines filling the silence between you. 

After a few moments, Spencer shifted slightly, his arm brushing against yours as he reached for the book he’d stashed in the seat pocket. You glanced at him, your heart skipping a beat at the way his fingers traced the spine of the book before he opened it. 

For the rest of the flight, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the occasional brush of his arm against yours sending a thrill through you.

And as you closed your eyes, the faintest of smiles on your lips, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, Spencer Reid saw something in you that you hadn’t quite seen in yourself yet. 

[hotluncheddie]

wc: 1.6k | rated: G | tags: Fluff, getting together, recovering Eddie Munson, they're in love

‧₊˚ ⋅

It’s Wayne’s idea first.

Eddie has to take talking again slowly, his throat ruined by the bats; some of it reconstructed and most of it heavily scarred. It’ll all return: talking and singing and silly voices. But only with time and patience.

But patience is not something that comes easy to Eddie Munson.

He seemed to take the ‘no talking’, ‘take it slow’, and ‘only do so much’ rules like it pained his soul. And they all realised quickly that asking Eddie questions to have him practise doesn't work because Eddie can never get his fully formed response out before the pain became too great. It became quickly apparent that no answer was better than something half-finished.

To help, he’d write long, sprawling journal entries, song lyrics and letters. Scratchy handwriting etched all over notebooks and loose pieces of paper, receipts, napkins and pill packets. Some he’d share, and others were squirrelled away, too honest in their pain and intensity.

But he still needed to practise; he needed to learn to speak again.

The doctors said keeping a catalogue of how he’s progressing would help with treatment; the more information available, the better they can help. To have something consistent to gauge Eddie’s ability to talk and to keep a note of the pain scale day to day or week to week. To see how far he has to go, but eventually, hopefully, to see how far he’s already come.

Dustin tries first with lines from Lord of the Rings. But the prose holds too many memories and, like the questions, too many opinions and connected tales he’s unable to voice.

Steve tries mundane stuff, like the back of the little hospital shampoo. But that quickly bores them both to tears and the idea is put away to never be spoken of again.

Robin tries asking him trivia – where do penguins live? Who was the first president? And that works for a few days, until they seem to step on some long-buried trigger, the demand too much like schoolwork, the unknown answers stinging too closely to past teachers' bitter berating of his academic failures. So trivia gets thrown out with the shampoo.

Then, one afternoon, Wayne walks in with the funnies pulled out and tucked under his arm. Spreading it out under his mug of freshly brewed coffee from home. The little grumpy Garfield looking up at Eddie from his hospital tray table.

‘I hate Mondays.’ Eddie rasps, a complex mix of frustration, relief and endearment on his face. Pain 7, words clear but slow, M most difficult because of the damage to his lower lip.

And so it goes: Garfield, pain, clearness and any details that might be important. Every day.

Steve can’t seem to let it go and becomes fixated. Garfield clearly being the answer to their problem. But more so, maybe, is the little smile the comic is able to get out of Eddie. Even on days where his pain is high and it really, really hurts him to talk, words coming near garbled, Garfield works. He talks even when he doesn’t want to, which makes him smile, small and quiet and pleased again. It’s progress.

Steve sees this, and Steve really can’t let it go. He’s a numbers guy, a bit of a stats lover – when he lets himself be honest and ignore the little voice in his head that says it’s embarrassing and he’s too dumb for all that. So he makes the chart anyway. Keeps note of when a new comic comes out and which ones Eddie’s already read. Finds old newspapers and clips the comic out of them, pilfering them from anyone who will let him – he's not above knocking on doors and asking. Not if it means Eddie might smile again, just like the very first time and so many times after.

He has a little chart for that too. A secret chart, just for him. It catalogues which lines made Eddie smile most, which made him outright laugh. Which he read when it was raining and he ached more. Which were the hardest to get out, that Steve wants him to try again one day, if just to hear him say it without the strain. Say it one day, hopefully pain-free.

Steve hopes Eddie can one day say them all with a smile and an ease, because seeing just a glimpse of it made something in Steve’s heart bright.

//

‘I’m sick of not being able to eat proper food.’ Eddie rasps, pouting. Steve is fiddling with Eddie's knuckles, drawing lines across his skin, over the dark hairs that sprout on his fingers. Steve tugs one, Eddie smiles. Cheeks dusting pink.

‘Two more weeks, then you’re released. As soon as possible after that, you come over and I make you lasagne; how about that?’ Steve says.

‘Like Garfield?’ Eddie asks, voice small, smile teasing. Steve watches him swallow, watching the scar on his neck move as he does. Steve’s fingers tingle; he wants to reach out and cup where he had to before, when they were in the upside down. Steve searching for that little bit of life, fingers slick with pooling blood. Once he’d found it, he’d ripped off his shirt and pressed it against Eddie’s neck. Steve wants to press against it now, just to feel the skin again, as it is now, raised and lumpy. But safe. Warm and dry with life.

‘Like Garfield.’ Steve smiles, his finger shifting between Eddie’s own, joints brushing, linking and locking. Almost holding hands.

//

Steve lays the table and lights a candle, smoothing his hands over his jeans and checking his hair in the reflection on the microwave again. He admitted to himself after the sixth time that it’s because he wants to look nice – make a good impression.

The doorbell goes at exactly 6pm. Steve doesn’t run, but he walks more quickly to the door than he thinks he ever has, pausing a moment to breathe and tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

He opens the door and has to resist kissing Eddie right then and there. He tears his eyes away and waves at Wayne instead, who’s backing out of the drive in his truck.

Eddie’s using his new cane, shiny black with a silver handle. He’s wearing black Livi’s and a grey check flannel. His hair is curly and shiny as it falls over his ears but above his shoulders, trimmed shorter than Steve’s ever seen it. Steve doesn’t resist the urge to reach out and wrap his fingers around a strand, tugging lightly. (Steve knows it looks different because he read an article about curl care in the hospital waiting room. Which led to buying Eddie the nice shampoo and conditioner it recommended, partially as a welcome home gift, partially as another reason to be in the room with Eddie, with something new for them to talk about. And partially because Steve watched El try to brush Eddie’s hair for him. Steve having to look away whenever she caught a tangle, Eddie wincing, the halo of frizz around his head growing.) Steve’s fingers comb through easily, locks slipping between his knuckles.

Eddie looks at him with his big eyes and his lips slightly parted, eyelashes fluttering, and Steve has to resist kissing him all over again.

Wayne honks as he pulls off down the street. Eddie starts. Steve ushers him inside, through to the candlelit dining room table and napkins Joyce taught him to fold into swans.

‘Garfield’s favourite.’ He declares, laying the pan down between them, sauce oozing through bubbling cheese.

And Eddie’s eyes are big and brown and beautiful in the candlelight. He smiles up a him so big, Steve thinks his heart will jump right out of his chest.

He gets a little excited, serving Eddie almost a whole quarter of the dish. Handing it to him before realising, ‘Sorry, sorry, that’s way too much. Oh my god, you do not have to eat all of that.’

But Eddie smiles at him, licking some stray sauce off of his thumb. ‘S’fine, Stevie.’ And he digs in.

Steve watches Eddie, tearing a piece of garlic bread with his teeth. The movement of his jaw as he chews and swallows. The curl of his fingers around his fork.

He is here. He is beautiful.

Steve feels tears well behind his eyes. His knife clattering as it drops from his fingers. ‘Sorry, m’sorry.’ He sniffs, looking up at the ceiling and placing his fork down against the plate more quietly.

‘C’mere, Stevie.’ Eddie says gently.

Steve steps around the table, hunched and fevered, and he falls at Eddie’s feet. Knees hitting hardwood as his forehead collided with Eddie’s chest. Steve turns his head, his hair rustling against his ears, Eddie’s heartbeat coming next, solid and steady and perfect.

Steve lets his fingers crawl up Eddie’s arm, up to the scar at his throat. Holding it, palm against suture, fingers against jaw and tissue and skin.

‘You’re here.’ Steve says. Voice wet and desperate.

‘I’m here.’ Eddie whispers kindly. ‘I’m here, baby.’

And choked sob leaves Steve, wounded and animalistic, and Eddie almost died. Almost died in his arms, his hands covered in Eddie’s blood. Trying to keep his insides inside.

But he’s here, and he’s beautiful, and Steve wants Eddie to have everything he ever dreamed of, anything he didn't get time to dream of yet. Because he’s here, and he deserves it.

Eddie’s palm rests over his own, connected over his neck. The other cradling Steve’s cheek, swiping a tear away from below his lashes. Gently he pulls Steve closer, pulling him up and in.

Steve can’t resist it anymore; he can’t resist when Eddie’s so close.

He leans forward the same time Eddie does. Steve keeps his eyes open just to watch Eddie’s close; he looks blissed out and perfect. Steve lets their lips collide, dry and soft and sweet, his own eyes fluttering close. Then Eddie tilts, leaning into the hands on his neck, their noses brushing, and then there’s tongue and teeth, and Steve whines weakly, shuffling closer, chest to chest, between Eddie’s spread thighs. Exactly where he was meant to be. Meant to be here. Eddie’s here and they can be together, at last.

‧₊˚ ⋅

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@bookworm0690

[mrspiffy123]

Hollow Knight's Adventures with Dewi

"Okay, dad! I'm heading out to the woods for a bit!" Dewi threw his bag over his shoulders and tied up his boots. He wanted to spend every possible moment in Hallownest that he could. His dad called back, "Again? You've gone out every day for the past month… just be sure you have your walkie talkie so I can reach you." Dewi was already halfway through the door as he shouted back, "Don't worry, I got it!" and leapt out of the front door, heading back to the cave to meet up with Ghost, Hornet, and all is other insectoid friends.

After some time, Dewi reached the cave Hornet had first brought him to. He'd gotten better at navigating with each visit. Just as Dewi was grabbing the flashlight out of his backpack, he heard a rustle coming from behind. Whatever it was, it sounded much larger than the squirrels and small prey he was used to seeing. He quickly turned around, but didn't see anything. Dewi held the flashlight close in case he needed to bonk anything and run. Suddenly, from a bush popped up to… horn? Antlers? They didn't look like any animal Dewi had seen before. Quickly, the rest of the figure followed until out from the bush appeared… a small, cloaked child. They looked even younger than Dewi, and the wooden mask they wore looked exactly like his friend, Little Ghost.

"Uh… hi?" Dewi lowered his flashlight.

The figure nodded.

"Sorry, I was just… um… meeting some friends here. Do- do you know them? They go by Hornet and Little Ghost- er, just Ghost… I guess"

They nodded again, this time more enthusiastically. The figure pointed to itself.

"You do know them? That's why you're wearing that mask, right?"

They shook their head and again pointed at themselves.

"You… Ghost, is that actually you?"

The figure nodded and walked up to Dewi. Even though Dewi could now see eyes through the mask, their gaze remained empty as usual. He did, however, notice a small sword hanging by their side. "You, still have your sword I see… no, what did Hornet call it? A nail! Though… I guess sword would be more appropriate now." Ghost followed Dewi's gaze and slowly unsheathed the sword. It hesitated in almost every action, like every movement was a conscious effort.

The sword was real, no doubt about it, but it was a far cry from the glowing, pure white metal either of them were used to. The edge was noticeably sharp, but the blade itself was made from a dull, gray alloy. As Ghost put the sword back in its sheathe, Dewi couldn't help but keep asking questions, "What's happening? Did this happen to anyone else? Are they okay? Are you okay? What's going on?" Ghost waited for Dewi to catch his breath before simply shaking their head once. "Nothing, you don't even know or why this happened? W-what's the last thing you remember? Can you act it out?" The little one thought for a moment. It took a step back and started mimicking vague actions. Old habits die hard, it seems, for even with its new limbs and dexterity, Ghost couldn't manage much beyond stiffly waving its arms about.

"I'm sorry, I- I'm not getting anything from that. You can stop." Ghost came back and sat on a nearby rock. The two sat together in silence for a minute, both trying to process what they've found themselves in. After a while, Dewi took off his backpack and began rifling around in it, "Are you… hungry? Do you still need to eat? Did you need to eat before?" Just as he asked, the two heard a rumbling straight from the little one's stomach! Ghost nearly fell off its seat in shock before quickly readying a hand on its sword. Dewi just let out a small chuckle, "I guess that answers all three! Here! It's the best thing I could pack this early in the morning." He handed Ghost a small foil packet. It took the packet, and simply… held it.

"Oh, right. You're probably not used to wrapping, let me get that for you," Dewi grabbed the snack and tore the top open to reveal two pink frosted poptarts. He handed one to Ghost, who again gave nothing but an empty gaze. "It… goes in here," Dewi pointed at his mouth a took a bite from his own poptart to demonstrate. Ghost followed suit, slipping the confection under its mask and pulling it back to reveal a small chunk taken from the corner. "Now chew it, like this," Dewi started chewing through his food, heavily exaggerating the motion. It took Ghost a moment to figure out the movements, but it eventually got a hang of the process. Dewi tried explaining the rest through a mouthful of frosting and jam filling, "now, you shwallow…" He grabbed his water bottle to wash down the rest. He was about to offer it to Ghost before seeing it clearly struggle to figure out the mechanics of swallowing. Dewi couldn't help but giggle at his friend so clearly out of its element.

"Dewi? Ghost? Is that you, little ones?" The two whipped around towards the voice. Behind them stood a woman much taller than Dewi. Her perfect posture would have made her look quite elegant if it wasn't for the ragged cloak she was wearing. In her hands were a ring and a small harpoon, both attached by a long thread of twine, and she wore a mask just like Ghost, only ceramic instead of wood. Dewi recognized her voice immediately, and her mask was unmistakable. Whatever happened to Ghost, it had happened to her too.

"Hornet!" Dewi nearly leapt at her with a hug. She tried to stop him, but the kid's enthusiasm broke through her guard and toppled them both to the ground. "Dewi, please refrain from doing that again! I am not yet familiar with having only four limbs." She nearly had to pry Dewi off her. "Sorry! You don't know how long I've waited for that, now that we're the same size! Well… human sized, at least," he did his best to help Hornet as she slowly got up from the dirt.

"Dewi, what have you done. How have you made us both higher beings such as yourself?" Hornet straightened her mask and dusted off her cloak.

"I didn't do anything! I don't know how to turn bugs into humans!" Dewi was getting increasingly exhausted with Hornet's insistence on Dewi's status as a "higher being". He sat back down on his tree stump, defeated. "To be honest, I kinda hoped I'd get to be a bug and explore Hallownest with you guys. That place sounds so cool…"

"I wouldn't wish such things, Dewi. Even after you and Little Ghost triumphed over the Radiance, Hallownest is still a dangerous place. With your luck, you would wind up alone, or worse, stuck with Lemm." Dewi perked up at the name, "Who's Lemm?" Even in the current situation, he couldn't stop asking about Hallownest. "Just a crotchety old hermit. Lives in the City of Tears, hoarding and obsessing over his relics. I do not believe he would take kindly to your presence, Dewi. Apologies, I did not mean that as an insult."

"Uh… none taken? Oh! You're probably hungry! Ghost is it okay if I…" he plucked the poptart out of Ghost's hands. It hadn't taken more than that first bite, anyway. "Here!"

"What is this?" Hornet eyed the pastry with suspicion.

"It's food!" Dewi continued to offer it with a smile, "it might be a little sweet, but I really like them!" Hornet grabbed the popart cautiously before breaking off a piece and slipping it under her mask, being sure to keep her face hidden from Dewi. She chewed for only a few seconds before spitting on the ground.

"PLEH! This is the food of higher beings!? Is this even natural?!" She was kind enough to give it back to Dewi instead of the ants.

"Well… my dad says they have all kinds of preservatives. He doesn't like me eating too many. Calls them 'an affront to the natural order' but I think they're really tasty!" He breaks a piece off for himself before giving it back to Ghost who continues to hold it absentmindedly. "Here, have some water," he offers the bottle to Hornet.

She grabs the bottle, "This is simply water? Not another disgusting concoction of higher beings?"

"Well you don't have to be mean about it… but yeah, it's just water." He takes the bottle when Hornet's finished and sets it back in his back. He offers Hornet a seat at their new, impromptu meeting spot, to which Hornet silently obliges.

"Dewi, we need to know what is happening, and we are unfamiliar with your world. We do not know if this has happened to anyone else, or who. Are you willing to guide us?"

@lilybug-02 @violetthunderstorm