Stanley Uris Lover

I write fanfics (sometimes) 18+

[pedrettilov3r]

Masterlist Accepting Requests!

ER

Bite Me John Carter x Fem!OC

Bite Me pt. 2

SINNERS

Darling Remmick x Fem!Reader

Darling pt. 2

ADULTS

In Secret Paul Baker x Fem!Reader

SCREAM

Hate To Love Chad Meeks-Martin x Fem!OC

STRANGER THINGS

Steve Harrington x Reader

THE PITT

Jack Abbott x Reader

Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Dennis Whitaker x Fem!OC

BRIDGERTON

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

[crimsoncoatedscalpel]

All Over Again - 1: Lapse

click for chapter & character trope index ^

pairing: dennis whitaker x fem!reader

w/c: 4.5k

synopsis: when you’re late for work, everyone worries. safe to say everyone worries more when you show up, just not to work. you’re rushed to trauma 1 as a patient. (characters included/mentioned: m.robinavitch, t.santos, y.garcia, d.evans, j.vanhorn, c.jefferson, & j.kwon)

cw/s: car accident, injuries, care of injuries, altered mental state, unstable mood, potential medical inaccuracies.

a/n: set during the same month as s2 (july), just not the same day (july 4th). some plot points and history between characters will be elusive, but that’s intentional as it will be clarified as the fic progresses. hence the name, All Over Again. slow burn if you squint. no use of y/n, y/l/n, y/n/n, or anything of the sorts and absolutely zero use of ai to write/edit. searching the pitt set floor plan is recommended if you’d like (extremely helpful with visualizing paths characters take and the layout of the rooms). reblogs are always welcome and appreciated! thank you. indulge.

Everything was loud as you began to wake, almost too loud, reverberating through your skull. You winced at the sensation, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room.

“She’s becoming conscious.” A feminine voice noted aloud, full of worry and relief.

“Ow,” you hissed.

“I see that.” A masculine voice responded. “Let’s start her on morphine.”

“Potential distal radius fracture, from the looks of it.” Another feminine voice chimed in. “Gonna need an X-ray.”

“Hey,” a woman came into view, saying your name. Her voice sounded like the first one you heard when you woke. “We’ve got you, okay? We all do.”

“Where am I?” you managed, barely opening your eyes wider. The lights were cruel to you, but thankfully bright enough to where you could make out what her badge said; Trinity Santos. Trinity looked up from you and across the room to a man, who after a few painful attempts to see his badge, you figured out was Michael Robinavitch. His face was stoic, hiding any emotions he felt whereas Trinity’s was wholly concerned.

“You’re in a hospital. Any idea on which one that might be?” Dr. Robinavitch leaned forward a bit, meeting your gaze. When you didn’t verbally answer, your face did for you–confusion, anywhere and everywhere.

“That’s alright. Do you have any idea on why you’re in a hospital right now?” He continued to question you.

“No.” you answered quietly. Your eyes darted to Trinity as she interlocked her hands behind her head, visibly in distress.

Your attention was now back on Dr. Robinavitch as he spoke.

“Take a minute if you need to, Doctor Santos, otherwise get yourself together if you’re staying.” He glanced from Trinity to you, asking more questions. “Do you know your name?”

You quickly recited your name and everyone, including those you hadn’t fully acknowledged yet, relaxed a bit.

“Good. And today’s date?”

You were suddenly back to answering no.

“Okay,” he began, eyes moving from your face to your torso that was clothed by bloody scrubs. “and what about when I touch your rib area? Any-”

You sucked in a sharp breath as Dr. Robinavitch’s gloved hands gently pressed upon you.

“That’s a yes if I’ve ever heard one.” The second feminine voice you recognized from earlier spoke up again. “Possible rib fracture or contusion.”

“Let’s reel in the commentary unless it’s important and not obvious, Doctor Garcia.” He averted his attention to her, beckoning her to follow him with a swift jerk of his chin as he hastily removed his gloves, the two meeting near the corner of the trauma room.

“What happened?” you finally ask, despite your bone-marrow-deep fear of knowing the answer.

Trinity, who had managed to cool herself down enough to speak again, answered your question. “You got into a car accident on your way here.”

“On my way here?”

Trinity’s face fell all over again, the efforts she made to remain calm and collected completely dissipating. “Just a second.” She said before she left your side, huddling in the corner amongst Robby and Yolanda. “She doesn’t even know why she would be coming here. Robby-”

Robby ran his gloveless hands down his face with a deep sigh. “I know. Let’s keep all this talk of her current state within this room and psych for now, alright? One panicking doctor is enough. I’ll inform everyone else when we know everything.” He grumbles. “Course of action, Doctor Santos?”

Trinity closes her eyes, trying to find her focus. “X-ray for her wrist, CT for her head and chest.” She described before opening her eyes, now looking at Yolanda. “Think surgery is in her future?”

Garcia shrugs, crossing her arms. “Hard to tell now, with the swelling. I’m thinking reduction, though. So, anesthetics either way.”

“Agreed.” Robby nods, pursing his lips. “Oh, and can someone get a hold of Jefferson, please? We need someone from psych down here. Preferably sooner rather than later.”

Observing their rigid demeanors as they spoke, you quickly got sick of not being able to hear what they spoke of. Deep irritation flooded every crevice of your being. You looked at the man who lingered nearby, clearly focused on eavesdropping in on their conversation. “Hey, excuse me? My head hurts, any chance I can get something else for that?” you tried to keep a level tone, but you were agitated and afraid.

He approached, a small smile on his face. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks, Jesse.” you tried for politeness.

His smile dropped to mild surprise and an air of hope. “You remember?”

“Oh, uh, no… I just read your badge, sorry.” you paused. “Should I remember?”

He blinked a couple of times. “I’m gonna go get you some Tylenol, okay?”

Jesse left your bedside and informed Robby on your request, getting the stamp of approval. The second he got said approval, he was out of the trauma bay, leaning over the top of the hub. Dana looked up at him, glasses on the bridge of her nose. “She stable?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but disoriented and irritable. Need psych down here. Also, Robby wants to keep this under wraps until we know what exactly is going on, so no telli-”

“I know, I got it.” Dana’s voice was strong and comforting, as usual. “I’ll get Caleb down here.”

Jesse drummed his fingers against the countertop before heading to the Pyxis machine to grab you Tylenol.

Back inside Trauma 1 where you reside, you ache not only physically but emotionally as Robby informs you of what happened, the suspected specifics based on your injuries. You felt as if your emotions were going through the motions of the wreck itself, going from entirely anxious and sad to incredibly agitated and confused next.

“I know this is a lot to take in, especially since you don’t seem to recall the accident or what came before it, but you’re in good hands, I assure you.” It felt weird to Robby to reassure you like that. You of all the patients in here should know that you are in fact in good hands, but here you were…clueless. “It’s with the uncertainty of your memory and recollection that I feel compelled to call a psychiatrist down here to speak with you. His name is Doctor Caleb Jefferson, and he is one of our best. Now, if he gets here within the next few minutes, that consultation can happen, but should it take longer, I’m going to have to advise that we go ahead with the X-ray and the CTs and go from there, resulting in a potential extended wait time to get in contact with him. CTs are going to be to check for potential rib fractures and the extent of your head trauma to see if there is something going on that we may not notice right now. X-ray is going to be for your wrist. It appears to be a distal radius fracture,” he lifts his forearm, going to point to the area, but you stop him in his tracks.

“I know.” you add and his expression softens. You seemed to remember long-term things, so that was good, but he couldn’t be sure yet. You oozed impatience.

“Right.” Robby smiled to himself. “So, with that, if it is the fracture I think it is, I believe a reduction is necessary, but if the X-ray shows something different or more complex than what meets the eye, surgery may be required. With the head trauma you just endured paired with the fact we don’t know the severity yet, I don’t feel one hundred percent comfortable with sedation. So, I believe the best route for your comfort and safety is what we call WALANT, which means-”

“Wide-Awake-Local-Anesthesia-No-Tourniquet. I’m okay with that, if that’s what you believe is the safest route. Whatever doesn’t cause further misery for me would be great.” you were already unlucky enough that it was your dominant hand, you really didn’t want to take on more healing time.

Robby angles his face towards the linoleum floor of the room, fighting his expression. He feels not only immensely hopeful, but proud of you. Your knowledge of anatomy and medical terminology still being intact thus far is the closest reminder that you’re still in there he’s seen yet.

“That is correct. You’re smart.” he notes, finally looking back up to meet your gaze. He knows he shouldn’t try and pry your memory right now, not without Caleb here, but…“You a nurse? Doctor?”

“Fourth year medical student, just looking for a place to begin and work towards PGY-1. Plant my feet somewhere.”

“There you go.” he said encouragingly, though his voice betrayed him, wavering ever so slightly. While seeing a smile tug at your lips as you talked about your medical career made him glad, it was what you said about it that made his heart drop. You did find a place to begin your work as a student doctor, to plant your feet. Here. With him, with everyone. In the Pitt. Nearly a year ago. You were a doctor now, a title you accomplished just this month alongside someone you started with—Whitaker. It made his gut churn, thinking of the possibility that you’d have to start the year over, relearning how PTMC and its staff operate and how you operate within its walls. You just got to the goal. He couldn’t imagine you, a year from now, stuck finishing a year you already went through when you should be entering your second year of residency. That would be devastating.

As if the walls could hear his thoughts and told someone to break the tension, Jesse came inside, Tylenol on deck.

“Here’s this. Sorry that took a bit, got yanked every which way.” he sighed, handing you the meds along with a tiny paper cup of water. It was true, he was getting pulled in every direction. Those who knew you were here were checking on you through him.

“You’re totally fine. I understand how hospitals can get sometimes, especially the ED.” you assured him. Robby’s brows raised slightly, the mood swings giving him whiplash.

“Guessing the pain didn’t get much worse while I was away? You look a bit smug.” Jesse smiled at you and Robby.

“Oh, yeah. This one was just telling me about how she’s in her fourth year of med school, looking forward to working into residency. Just has to find a place.” he restated what you previously said as a way to inform Jesse about your memory without actually telling him. They exchanged a glance that went unnoticed by you as you took water into your mouth, swallowing the Tylenol.

“Really? That’s a big achievement, you should be proud.” Jesse said with a casual humor that he shouldn't exhibit but naturally fell into. It’s you, for fucks sake.

“You guys seem cool so far, everyone's been nice. Really…sympathetic,” you said, remembering the look on Trinity’s face. “Might try and work for my residency here, if you’re lucky.” You joked, suddenly feeling comfortable to do so with them.

Both Jesse and Robby laugh at that, exchanging yet another look. Personality seemed to be intact thus far, despite the switch up. Great sign.

A knock was now at the door and Robby went to see who it was, being met with Caleb. Robby opened the door, stepping outside of the room for a moment to update him on what a conversation with you entailed in the past ten minutes.

“I hope we’re lucky.” Jesse spoke. You quirked a brow and he continued. “I hope we’re lucky and you apply here. You’re funny, we could use more funny people around here, heaven knows.”

You huffed a laugh that was cut off by a wince. Boy, did your head and chest hurt. Your wrist hurt too, of course, but it was easier to ignore it when you didn’t move it—which you haven’t since you woke.

“Though right now I think we need one less funny person. I don’t want to cause you more pain, you know?” he shrugged casually. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Humble.” you croaked, fighting another laugh as Jesse opened the door, letting Robby and Caleb in as he left.

“Hello,” Caleb began, saying your name. “I-”

“Hello, Doctor Jefferson.”

Caleb glanced up at Robby. Post-trauma, your short-term memory seemed to be performing well. You remembered Robby informing you of who the psychiatrist you’d be speaking with would be.

“Yes, I am Doctor Jefferson. I would explain why I’m here, but I believe it’s safe to assume you recall that, too?” he began, leaving it open-ended, leaving you wiggle room to elaborate on what you remember.

“Basic stuff, just checking on what's up with my noggin’.” You say it as a joke, though it comes out humorless.

“Something like that, yes.”

Robby glances between the two of you. “Alright, seems like you two are acquainted and ready to go. I’ll be running around like a chicken with its head cut off out there in the chaos, if you need me.” His eyes met yours. “Talk soon.”

“Wait-” you interjected. “Can you…turn the lights off? They’re sort of killing me.”

“Sure thing.” Robby’s voice was smooth and full of empathy as he approached the door, turning the lights off.

“Thanks, Doctor Robinavitch.” you tossed out as he excused himself. He hid his cringing expression, opting to distract his anxious hands with hand sanitizer the second he was out of the room. Dr. Robinavitch? Really?

Dana caught his gaze from where she stood in the hub and he reluctantly began to approach.

“Any updates?” she pried as they both looked up at the names of other patients.

“Memory is patchy, ribs might be broken, wrist might be broken.” Robby kept his volume to a low grumble, wanting to keep the info between him and Dana alone. “Got a scalp laceration on her hairline too, bled on her face. Once Caleb is done assesing, gotta get her cleaned up again. Dried blood and dressings-”

Dana took a breath, he was beginning to ramble on nervously. “Robby, I know. Memory, how patchy are we talkin’?”

He blew raspberries at that. He didn’t want to say it, it made it too real, but he had to. “When she woke, she didn’t know where she was or why, didn’t remember the date…” he cleared his throat. “Doesn’t show memory of ever working here and doesn’t remember any of us she’s seen, so far. I hope Caleb pokes around and she remembers, but…” he shook his head, glancing at Dana.

“Yeah, that’s not great, but she’s a stubborn girl.”

“I just hope she-”

Joy popped into the hub for a second. “Doctor Robby, Whitaker needs you at thirteen.”

He was frozen for a solid ten seconds before Dana put a hand on his shoulder. “Go, kid needs ya.”

He shook himself out of it, going to follow Joy. “And don’t-”

“Lips are sealed, I know.” Dana pretended to toss a key behind her back with a friendly wink. Her smile promptly faded the second Robby was out of sight, eyes drifting to Trauma 1.

“I already answered all of these questions with Doctor Robinavitch earlier.” you snapped, sighing. “Sorry, I just…” you trailed off, not knowing what to say.

Caleb noted that you recalled being asked these questions already. “Alright,” he nodded as he listened to you. “Well, I’ll tell you this—feeling confused and frustrated, flip-flopping between the two? Normal in cases of head injury. Anything new and or notable you feel could be connected to it. What you’re describing is not irrational in the slightest, especially when it comes to realizing you don’t remember certain things. It’s best to try and focus on having patience with yourself rather than focusing on what you don’t remember.”

“Easier said than done, but…I’ll do my best.”

Caleb began to wheel himself backwards. “I don’t doubt that, but please focus on the patience aspect. Best not to push yourself too hard.”

You gave him a small wave with your uninjured hand, muttering a thank you. Your eyes relaxed for a moment, staring down at both hands now. The injured one looked…rough, to say the least.

Then, a knock was at the door, stealing your attention.

“Hi hon, I’m Dana.” She came into the room quiet and gentle, hands rubbing together as the hand sanitizer did its job.

“Hi.” your voice melted away from the rigid nature, going into something softer at her mere presence.

“How are we feelin’?” She was moving around the room with swift expertise, gathering supplies. Saline, gauze, gloves.

“Honestly? Hard to tell.” You watched as she set up beside you, placing everything where it needed to be before cleaning her hands again.

Putting on gloves, she spoke. “That’s okay, and understandable. I’m not here to bug ya hon, just to get you dolled up again. No stitches or staples, Doctor Robby said. Looking at the HAT method, since it’s not that bad.” She smiled at her own words, wetting the gauze with the saline. “That alright?”

You nodded slightly so as to not irritate your head.

“Alright then, I’m just gonna make sure the dressing isn’t too stuck to ya.” she explained, beginning to gently dab the wet gauze against it. “Once it’s up and removed, I’m gonna clean that dried blood off as well, then replace the dressing and-”

Dana continued to explain everything she was doing, and even though you already knew what she was doing and why, you didn’t feel the urge to inform her that you knew. Something about the way she was saying it felt as if she wasn’t informing you, rather just walking you through it. To keep you in the know, to keep you feeling safe. That appeared to be all you focused on the entire time because it felt like you blinked and she was done, finishing off the dressing with a gentle swipe of her thumb at the corner.

“All done.” Dana said, disposing of everything and practicing hand hygiene with, yet again, a swift expertise. “Shouldn’t be too long now until you get your X-ray and CTs, okay? Do you need anything in the meantime? Food, water…space?”

At her words, you huffed out a small, pathetic laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

She shook her head, waving you off with a playful scoff. “No, no. It can get overwhelming here real quick, that’s all. I wouldn’t blame you.”

She gave you a small smile before leaving the room as quietly as she came. Being around her was refreshing and comforting to you. She didn’t make you feel like a wounded puppy who needed extra treats and loving to get by.

As Dana made her way back to the hub, she observed Robby and Caleb’s demeanors as they spoke. Pensive, not a good sign.

“Gossiping about me while I’m gone?” she eased the moment as she approached. “What’s the verdict?”

Caleb sighed. “Post-injury, long term memory seems to be sporadic, short term memory seems to be secure. She remembers core things; her name, birthday, birthplace and what not, but there’s still blank spots. I believe it could be mTBI or TGA. All things considered, her memory loss aligns with retrograde amnesia–retrograde aligning with mTBI and anterograde aligning with TGA, but the mind works in wondrous ways, so it could still be TGA. But as I said, so far, she doesn’t exhibit difficulty with memory retention, rather recollection. Which is promising. Let’s hope I’m right and it’s mTBI, as it tends to resolve over time with exposure to things and people forgotten. Overall though, that is a one time observation, so I’d definitely like to keep her here overnight to see if her memory strengthens over time, or not, to confirm which it could be. Regardless, it looks promising. And Robby, night shift is just as equipped as me, so don’t stress. I know you pick favorites.”

At that, Robby laughed in slight embarrassment and disbelief. “You are funny, Doctor Jefferson.”

“What can I say? Comes easy. Get her head CT, talk to me then.” he smiles cockily before heading on his way.

Dana crosses her arms. “Alright. I heard the words ‘resolve’ and ‘looks promising’.”

“That you did- Oh, shit.” Robby’s face pales when he spots Joy looking up at the trackboard, Dennis not following far behind as Joy says “Is that…?”

“What?” Dennis smiled in confusion, meeting Joy’s side and craning up his own neck now. Those who knew you were here also knew it was a matter of time before Dennis checked the board and spotted your last name, age on the board matching yours. They just hoped they had more time, more information, before that happened.

There it was. That look on Dennis’ face, just as imagined. Fear and betrayal, all at once. He very clearly had a lot to say, but you were more important. He sprinted for Trauma 1–for you.

“Whitaker!” Robby hollered, going after him. Dana followed not too far behind.

Suddenly, your room was bright as the lights turned on, a guy coming in with a quickness. You bit back a hiss of pain as you tried to sit up, alarmed. “Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong?” The man echoed. “Of course something’s wrong, you’re in here.” he gestured around the room.

“Whitaker,” Robby spoke firmly as he trailed in from behind him, voice full of restrained warning.

What the hell is going on?

“Are you okay?” The man, who you now know as Whitaker, sauntered closer to you, eyes full of worry.

“Well, no. Like you said, I’m in here.” Your tone was clipped. Robby caught it. You were overwhelmed.

Dana finally made her way in, going to meet your bedside, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“How can you be joking right n-” Whitaker (or rather, Dr. Dennis Whitaker, your eyes caught on his badge) was cut off as Robby’s hands gripped his shoulders tightly, pulling him out of the room.

Dana was quick on her feet, shutting the lights back off. “Cheese and rice.” she sighed sharply. “You okay, hon?”

Your focus was on the men outside the room, whom you couldn’t hear in general, but heard even less as Dr. Robinavitch dragged him away.

“Calm down, right now.” Robby’s voice was full of venom.

“C-calm down? Calm down? She is here as a patient and you want me to calm down?”

Robby cocked his neck in stress as he peered into B2, ensuring it was empty before he dragged Dennis inside. “Stop. Look at me, I need you to listen very carefully right now. Can you do that?”

Dennis nodded. He had many choice words for everyone who knew you were hurt and didn’t tell him, but fear of what Robby was going to say outweighed it all.

“She was late because she got into a car accident.”

He was silent for a moment. “I-I shouldn’t have said yes to carpooling with Trinity. I should’ve stayed with-” his voice caught.

“Don’t do that to yourself, kid.”

“No, b-because it’s true. I should’ve said no and- and just drove me and my girlfriend to work like I usually do. Shit. The one day I say yes to carpooling with a friend and this happens? I-”

“Dennis.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes, but-”

He laughed out of shock, a cry threatening to come along with it. “But?”

“She hit her head pretty hard.”

“And?”

“And her memory is unclear right now. I already had Caleb come down from-”

“W-what about her memory?” Dennis’ hair began to stick to his forehead as he began to sweat and spiral.

“She doesn’t remember the accident or where she was going and, so far, she doesn’t appear to remember any of us she’s seen yet, either.”

Then, it all hits him. Your face when he came into the room, the way your body language was guarded, the way you spoke… you didn’t remember him, did you? And what about all the hard work you put in to getting to your residency? To getting the title ‘Doctor’? Was that all dust in the wind now? Would you have to restart? What did this mean for your relationship and your career?

“Whitaker.” Robby urged, but got no response.

Dana came in then, expression pathetically sympathetic.

He only spoke then. “Is she okay?”

“She’s calm. Confused, but calm. She’s getting her X-ray right now.”

“X-ray? Jesus- Why didn’t anybody tell me anything?”

“No offense, kid, but look at ya.” Dana said, though her voice wasn’t sarcastic at all. It was heartfelt. “Want me to get Jefferson back down here so he can answer all your questions the best he can?”

He sighed deeply, breath quivering in the process. “Yeah, yeah…That’d uh…t-that would be nice.”

“C’mere, let’s go to the family room. I’ll get Santos to cover your patients for now.”

He followed Dana as she guided him out of B2 and through the chaos that ensued around them. He glanced up once, spotting Trinity at the hub, wearing a look of immense guilt that shouted ‘I’m sorry’ without her saying a word. All he could do was blink. What was he supposed to do? Continue to work his shift knowing you never got to yours because of a car accident? Carpool with Trinity until he somehow lumped up the funds to fix your car? And on top of that, what was he supposed to do around you? His partner, whom he lived with. Who didn't remember him.

“Hey, we’re here.” Dana’s voice coaxed him back to the present moment. He nodded, stepping inside. She stayed in the doorway, eyes fixed on him.

“I’ll get him down here A-S-A-P, you got it?” Dana made sure he was paying attention as she spoke. “And I’ll keep you updated on everything to do with her, alright? She’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Was all he managed. As Dana closed the door and left, he was swarmed with his thoughts. You were okay, and he was incredibly grateful for that fact. But, selfishly, he wondered…will we be okay?

You two worked together…did everything together, as a team.

Team. That is what he would focus on. You two had an agreement to be there for each other no matter what. It would be tricky to uphold that, given you probably don’t remember the declaration if you didn’t remember him, but… he would be there for you, through it all. As long as you wanted him to be. And God, he wished with everything in him that you wanted him to be.

[liafieldnotes-03]

I love a good angsty read. Got me giggling

[str4wbsstuff]

hug me. console me. slide those big hands up my neck and constrict it until im gagging from lack of oxygen but in my last breaths before i pass out. i hiccup out his name in garbled morse code and the goosebumps on my clammy cold skin spell out “i love you” in braille.

[missmanlykink]

IK HES BEING SILLY BUT LOOK AT HIS FUCKING ARM.

PUT ME IN A HEADLOCK PLSSSS

( @str4wbsstuff @deansdeer @d3ad-aliv3 )

[v4mpfolk]

if i see one more person blaming Amy, a woman who’s husband died right before she gave birth, instead of Whittaker and his terrible boundaries, i am going to FLIP….

like yeah, ofc it would suck and hurt her if he said ‘this is inappropriate, i’m sorry’ etc and put up a boundary, but she is not making him drive to the farm or help out. he is actively feeding into an unhealthy dynamic bc of his people pleasing……….HELLOOOOOO?!?!?

the babygirlification of men in fandom spaces needs to be studied bc i cannot stand the misogyny (like why did i see someone hoping that Amy would die…??????)

[everything-else-from-noxx]

Man of all time

bonus:

Billy the Kidder

[dinod3su]

Langdon asking Dennis if he's been working out because he looks like in shape and bigger LIKE YEAH BABE TRUST WE'VE ALL BEEN LOOKING AT HIS ARMS THE ENTIRE SEASON

[caffeinefiles]

for the record // dennis whitaker

summary: your five year old sister needs stitches and thinks you’re in love with your coworker. she might not be wrong.

dennis whitaker x fem!reader, so awkward omfg, hospital things mentioned, they both like each other, maybe pt 2🤔🤔🤔

word count: 900

a/n: first time writing whitaker kinda nervous… also ignore if there are incorrect things abt this, like trauma two being a curtain😣 anyway yea not proof read so this is ass !!!!!!!!!

“hey we got a patient asking for you, trauma two.” robby came up behind you as you exhaustingly typed your charting.

“me? what’s the issue?” you stand, confused, grabbing your stethoscope and draping it over your shoulders.

“new admit, head lac, no older than five years. came in with a teenager about forty-five minutes ago.” confusion washes over you as the patients he describes sound awfully familiar. dennis rounds the corner who earns a call from robby.

“whitaker, join her on this case.” this makes your heart flutter slightly knowing that the cutest r2 is joining you. robby gives him the whole speil he gave you and finishes just in time of reaching the curtain. robby turns towards you “oh and by the way, they have your last name. that’s why they needed you.”

completely confused, your heart drops thinking of the worst. your five year old baby sister who was brought in by your fourteen year old sister is in the ER for a laceration on her head. you pull the curtain back and rush to your sister in nervousness and almost anger.

“what are you doing here?!! oh my god how did this happen? are you hurt too? where are mom and dad? how did you get here??” you’re just word vomiting questions while hugging your baby sister. your younger sister stands quickly, startled. all of this caused you to forget that right behind you was dennis whitaker, standing off to the side as to not interrupt this surprise family reunion.

“y/n it’s okay, slow down!” the teen said. you force yourself to breathe. you can panic later. right now, you’re her doctor.

“i’m sorry, let me start over.” you gesture to dennis who waves at the girls. “this is dr. whitaker and we’ll be taking care of you. what happened to your head? how did you girls get here?”

your baby sister’s eyes are still watery, cheeks flushed from crying. she sniffles as you and your other sister talk. “she fell down the stairs and i was too scared to call mom so i walked her here.”

“walked?!! oh my god i can’t believe you. let me take a look.” you exclaim and examine her head. it’s a pretty deep cut, most likely needing stitches of her forehead.

“do you mind if i look?” dennis steps up and gently takes ahold of her chin to tilt it to check her head. “i’m gonna take your vitals and let’s do a ct head scan to make sure you’re not concussed.” he says that last part at you, almost as if asking for your approval. “yea that’s a good idea. let me go grab you a gown, do you girls need anything?”

you turn to leave after they both shake their heads when a small voice perks up. “sissy, come kiss my booboo please!!” the ‘please’ drags out a bit as she does the cutest pouty face.

your face burns red with embarrassment. you take the walk of shame back to the toddler in the chair way too big for her, glancing over at dennis who’s trying to muffle his smile as you lean over and kiss her forehead.

“okay i’ll be right back, he’ll get you all patched up and ready for your scan, be kind to dr. whitaker.” you joke at them, trying to clear the air. you hear him let out a quiet, pitying laugh as you close the curtain behind you.

you walk to your desk to call your mom and dad and inform them of your surprise guests at work. still thinking about dennis, you’re completely mortified that you acted how you did in front of him, of all people.

dennis walks out as you wrap up the call. you don’t notice him until he’s leaning up against your desk right in front of you.

“you’re really good with her.”

you shrug it off, embarrassed, and he adds, “not just as a doctor.”

“oh thanks, yea growing up the oldest you kinda learn to parent them. were her vitals okay?”

“yup, perfectly normal. just waiting on a lab to open up for a ct. hey how come i never knew you had sisters?” he shifts his weight against your desk, like he’s trying to keep it casual.

“oh uhm you’ve never asked.” god could you be any more awkward?

“yea… that’s on me.” he smiles a little.

there’s a beat before he adds,

“your sisters seem to like me though.”

you groan, dropping your head into your hands. “oh no, what did she say?”

he laughs quietly. “oh nothing, only that she thinks you like me. she made it very clear that i’m a common topic among your conversations.”

“did she really say that? she’s five, she has no idea what she’s talking about.” you try to play it off as nonchalantly as possible. you’re almost positive your face is burning red.

“uhh… i’ll check if they’re ready for her ct now. ”

“yeah, okay.” you mumble, head down, suddenly very interested in whatever paper is on your desk.

he pushes off the desk, but pauses for a second.

“for the record,” he says, glancing back at you, “i don’t think she’s completely wrong.”

your head snaps up. “oh my god.”

he just smiles, quick, a little shy before turning and heading back down the hall.

you look back up, just in time to see him smile to himself. you don’t even try to hide your own.

plsplspls reblog and like if you enjoyed !! don’t be scared to send requests 🫶

[margottenenbaum222]

girl get up

[d3ad-aliv3]

Wake up kittens, daddy has some new Gerran photos for you.

@str4wbsstuff @deansdeer @missmanlykink @yeschefcarm

[str4wbsstuff]

gerran imma fuck you so good your ancestors will feel it.

[leulah]

pov: you’re the only one who’s gone to therapy

[k33ryeggs-deactivated20260402]

late night talking

paring: ryland grace x reader 

summary: the spaceship seems to be malfunctioning and you are forced to sleep in your crewmates quarter. in the same bed. obviously.

warnings: ship malfunction

word count: 2.1k

a/n: ofc i had to write same bed trope for ryland i mean who else would i be.........

MASTERLIST

You are forced to stop your research, because of an unexpected noise beeping into your ears.

It’s a low, persistent hum - slightly off from the usual rhythm of the systems, just enough to make you stop mid-step and frown at the wall like it personally offended you. You listen for a second longer, tilting your head, trying to place it, but before you can, Ryland’s voice cuts in over the comms.

“Okay, quick question,” he says, far too casually for someone who definitely found the same issue you did, “how attached are you to your current sleeping arrangements?”

You freeze.

“…Define attached.”

There’s a pause. You can practically hear him deciding how honest to be.

“Hypothetically,” he continues, “if I told you that one section of the crew quarters has decided to become… not livable for a bit - purely temporarily - would you be open to, say, a roommate situation?”

You close your eyes.

Of course.

“Ryland.”

“Yes?”

“…What did you break?”

“I didn’t break anything,” he says immediately, which is exactly how you know he did. “Something broke. Near me. While I was being completely responsible.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It shouldn’t be,” he agrees. “But good news! I fixed most of it. Bad news: your room is currently part of the ‘most’ that is not fixed.”

You stare at the wall for a long second.

“…You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. On the bright side,” he adds, and you can hear the grin in his voice now, “my room is perfectly functional. Very comfortable. Plenty of space for-”

“Ryland.”

“-two people,” he finishes anyway.

You exhale slowly, already regretting every life decision that led here.

“Fine,” you say. “Temporarily.”

“Temporarily,” he echoes, far too pleased about it.

His room is, unfortunately, exactly as functional as he promised.

Clean. Organized. Slightly too neat in a way that makes it obvious he tried to make it look like he didn’t prepare for this possibility. There’s an extra blanket folded on the side, and you immediately narrow your eyes at it.

“You planned this.”

He looks up from where he’s pretending to adjust something on the console. “Wow. Accusations already? We’ve barely started living together.”

“I am not living with you.”

“You are currently standing in my room with your stuff,” he points out. “That feels like living with me.”

“It’s temporary.”

“Mm-hmm.” He nods like he believes you. He absolutely does not.

You set your bag down on the chair, glancing around. It’s… fine. Smaller than your quarters, but manageable.

Then you notice it.

You turn slowly.

“There’s one bed.”

Ryland, who had been very deliberately not looking at you, finally glances over. “Ah. Yes. The bed.”

“The one bed,” you repeat.

“The singular bed,” he confirms.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

“…You’re enjoying this,” you say flatly.

“A little,” he admits. Then, quickly, “But I am also a gentleman. I can take the floor.”

You look down at the very obviously not floor-sleeping-friendly metal surface.

“You will not survive the night on that.”

“I have survived worse,” he says, placing a hand over his heart. “I am resilient.”

“You complain when your coffee is too hot.”

“That is a valid complaint.”

You cross your arms. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He tilts his head. “So what I’m hearing is… we share?”

Your heart does something extremely unhelpful.

“We… manage,” you say carefully.

“Manage,” he repeats, like it’s the best word he’s ever heard.

The first hour is awkward.

Painfully awkward.

You sit on opposite sides of the bed, pretending to go through notes, both of you very aware of the fact that you are, in fact, sitting on the same bed. Ryland clears his throat approximately every thirty seconds. You flip through the same page three times.

“So,” he says finally.

“So,” you echo.

“This is normal.”

“Completely.”

“Very professional.”

“Incredibly.”

A pause.

“You’re sitting really far away,” he adds.

You blink at him. “We are on the same bed.”

“Yes, but there’s a clear… emotional distance.”

You stare. “Ryland.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “if we’re doing this, we could at least commit to the bit.”

“We are not committing to anything.”

“Wow,” he says, mock hurt. “That’s devastating.”

You try not to smile.

You fail.

Night makes it worse.

Of course it does.

You both go through your usual routines - brushing your teeth, pretending this is normal, avoiding eye contact like it’s a dangerous experiment. By the time the lights dim, the tension in the room is thick enough to be its own atmosphere.

You hesitate beside the bed.

Ryland gestures dramatically. “After you.”

You climb in, carefully staying on your side, pulling the blanket up like it’s some kind of barrier. He follows a second later, settling in on the other side.

There is space between you.

Not much.

Too little.

“Okay,” he says into the darkness. “Ground rules.”

You sigh. “There are ground rules?”

“Oh yeah. Very important. Rule one: no kicking.”

“I don’t kick.”

“Everyone says that until they do.”

“I don’t.”

“Noted. Rule two: if I snore-”

“You snore?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But if I do, you’re allowed to… gently wake me. No violence.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Good to know.”

“Rule three,” he continues, voice softer now, “if this gets weird, we just… pretend it’s not.”

You glance at him in the dim light.

“It’s already weird.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But like… manageable weird.”

You relax a little, staring at the ceiling.

“…Okay.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

You’re just starting to think maybe - maybe - you can actually fall asleep like this when-

“You’re still awake, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Same.”

Silence again.

Then-

“You’re really close,” he says.

You turn your head. “I have not moved.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

You stare at him.

“…Do you want me to move?”

“No,” he says immediately. Then, softer, “No, you’re fine.”

Your heart stumbles.

Neither of you moves.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

The lights are dim, the steady hum of the ship filling the silence, and the space between you - small as it is - feels like something you’re both very aware of without wanting to acknowledge it too directly.

You try to focus on sleeping.

It doesn’t work.

“You always this bad at falling asleep?” Ryland murmurs after a minute, voice quieter now, like the dark has softened him a little.

You huff softly. “Only when I’m sharing a bed with someone who won’t stop talking.”

“That’s fair,” he admits. “I bring a certain… energy.”

“That’s one word for it.”

He shifts slightly beside you, the mattress dipping just enough for you to notice. “Okay, but in my defense, this is new. Usually I get the whole bed to myself. I can spread out. Exist dramatically.”

“Exist dramatically?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know. Starfish position. Peak comfort. Maximum presence.”

You snort quietly, turning your head just enough to look at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, here I am, sharing my tragic lack of space with you.”

“You offered,” you remind him.

“True,” he says, and there’s a hint of something softer under the humor now. “I would offer again.”

Your chest tightens, just a little.

You look away first.

A few minutes pass.

You close your eyes again.

Still not asleep.

“You’re still awake,” he says.

“You are too.”

“Yeah, but I asked first.”

You roll your eyes, even though he probably can’t see it. “Go to sleep, Ryland.”

“I’m trying,” he says. “You’re just… very distracting.”

You blink in the dark. “I’m literally lying still.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Suspicious behavior.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Correct.”

There’s a pause.

Then, softer-

“Hey.”

“…Yeah?”

“You comfortable?”

The question catches you off guard a little. There’s no teasing in it this time, just something simple and genuine.

“…Yeah,” you say after a second. “I am.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

Another pause.

“…You?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Better than I thought, actually.”

Your heart does that small, annoying thing again.

Somewhere between one quiet breath and the next, things shift.

It’s subtle. Barely noticeable.

You move - just slightly - adjusting the blanket.

The space between you gets smaller and your arm brushes his.

“Sorry,” you whisper automatically.

“Don’t be,” he says just as quickly.

Neither of you moves away.

The contact is light. Barely there.

But it stays.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” he says after a moment.

You let out a quiet breath. “All of it? Or just this part?”

“This part,” he says. “Though, to be fair, all of it is weird. Space, saving the world, sharing a bed with someone who definitely judges my life choices.”

“I do not judge your life choices.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Only the bad ones.”

“Ouch.”

You smile into the darkness. “You’ll recover.”

“Debatable.”

A small silence settles again, but this one is different. Easier.

Quieter.

“Hey,” he says, voice softer now.

“Yeah?”

“I’m… glad it’s you.”

Your breath catches.

“…What?”

“For the roommate situation,” he adds quickly, but not quite fast enough to hide it. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been someone who actually enforces rules or something.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t quite cover the way your chest tightens. “Yeah. That would’ve been terrible.”

“Exactly,” he says. “You’re… you’re easy to be around.”

That does it.

That stupid, simple sentence lands harder than any of his teasing ever has.

You turn your head slightly, looking at him in the dim light.

“…You too,” you say quietly.

For once, he doesn’t joke.

At some point, you fall asleep.

You’re not sure when.

Everything just sort of fades - the quiet hum of the ship, the tension, the awareness - until there’s nothing but warmth and stillness.

You wake up slowly.

Warm.

There’s a moment where you don’t move, still caught halfway between sleep and awareness, trying to figure out what feels different.

Then it hits you.

You are very, very close to Ryland.

At some point during the night, the careful distance you both maintained has completely disappeared. Your arm is tucked against his, your shoulder pressed lightly into his side, and-

You freeze.

His arm is around you.

Just… there. Resting, like it ended up there without permission and neither of you noticed.

Your heart immediately starts racing.

Okay. Okay. You could fix this. You could move. Very carefully. Very slowly.

Like it never happened.

You start to shift.

His arm tightens slightly and you stop breathing.

“…Don’t move,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

You go completely still.

“I’m not,” you whisper, even though you definitely were.

“Good,” he says, barely awake. “This is… comfortable.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Comfortable. Right. Of course. Totally normal.

You stare at the wall, trying to ignore the fact that you are very much still half tucked against him, his arm still loosely around you, his presence warm and solid and entirely too distracting.

After a second, he exhales softly.

“…Wait,” he says.

Oh no.

“Are we-”

“Yes,” you say immediately.

“Okay,” he says.

A pause.

“…Okay.”

Neither of you moves.

“This is… new,” he adds after a moment.

“Very.”

“Not bad,” he says.

You swallow. “No. Not bad.”

Another pause.

“Should we… move?” he asks, like he doesn’t actually want to.

“Probably,” you say, equally unconvincing.

Neither of you moves.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, finally lifting his head slightly. “Wow. We are handling this with incredible professionalism.”

“Absolutely,” you agree.

“Top-tier astronauts,” he says.

“Scientists,” you correct.

“Right. Even worse.”

You finally shift, just enough to create a little space, though it’s less than before. He lets his arm drop back, but slowly, like he’s not entirely sure he wants to.

You sit up, running a hand through your hair, trying to regain some composure.

“…So,” he says.

“So,” you echo.

“We survived our first night as roommates.”

“Barely.”

“Speak for yourself,” he says. “I slept great.”

You give him a look. “You were using me as a pillow.”

“I was not-” he pauses. “…Okay, maybe a little. But in my defense, excellent pillow. Ten out of ten. Would recommend.”

You laugh despite yourself.

He grins, clearly pleased.

“…We’re doing this again tonight, aren’t we?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

“…Looks like it,” you say.

His smile softens, just slightly.

“Good,” he says.

And somehow, that one word lingers a little longer than it should.

[hearts4hughes]

— three times jack abbot flirted with you without you realizing, and the one time you realized !!

jack abbot x fem!resident!reader 5k+ word count warnings: medical inaccuracies (i researched the best i could), age gap (not specified), reader may come across as “dumb”, but she’s just overwhelmed!! note: first jack writing!! he’s my dream man btw. also, i refer to the characters as i think of them in my head😭 some are first name basis, others are strictly last name because i cannot remember their first names for the life of me.

{ ONE }

the emergency department at two in the evening feels like a beehive someone kicked. monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, stretchers rattle past with loose wheels that squeal against the tile, santos and langdon argue for the tenth time in an hour, and you stand right in the middle of it with a big smile.

you’ve always loved your job. even when it meant eight straight years of school. nights spent bent over anatomy textbooks while your roommates got dressed for the bars. even when med school felt like someone had taken your brain out of your skull and wrung it dry. you loved it. you loved the moment something finally clicked. the way a diagnosis stopped being a puzzle and started making sense.

now you’re a second-year resident and technically a doctor, even though sometimes the word still catches in your throat when someone says it out loud. the emergency department is exhausting and overwhelming and perfect.

“no, look,” you insist, tapping the chart with the end of your pen. “if his potassium was actually that high, he’d look way worse than this. always check for hemolysis before you panic.”

ogilvie blinks from across you. he runs a hand through his tousled hair and nods curtly. “oh,” he says faintly, internally freaking out because he was the top of his class at whatever school he went to and he wasn’t supposed to mess up.

you grin, knowing that feeling all too well. “hey, don’t get down on yourself. with time comes wisdom. you’ll get used to it.” you promise, giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder. you scribble something quick on the chart and hand it back to him before he scurries off.

you’re already turning back to the computer when you pat the counter beside you automatically, searching for something that isn’t there. your hand lands on the cold desk and you frown. “…damn.”

dana glances over. “what’s up, kid?” she tilts her head, looking above the top of her glasses.

“forgot my coffee this morning,” you sigh, already pulling up another chart. “i was already here before i realized.”

“rookie mistake.” she tsks, already looking up at the patient board again.

“i know,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “this shift might kill me.” you say casually, fingers clicking against the keyboard again.

three feet to your left, jack abbott hears every word. he’s leaning against the far counter pretending to review a chart he finished five minutes ago. his eyes lift the second you say forgot my coffee. he continues watching you—like always. you’re talking again now, explaining something to a student doctor javadi, gesturing with your pen, hair slightly messy from the start of a long shift. you laugh at something perlah says and the sound carries toward him.

jack used to feel guilty for observing you. it would curl up the nape of his neck and plant itself there every time he realized he’d been watching you for longer than necessary. you were one of the best residents he’d ever seen, so naturally, like any other attending, he kept an eye on you (even though you technically were under dr. robby). still, the first few times he caught himself leaning against a counter across the department, eyes following the way you moved from patient to patient, he’d look away immediately. like he’d been caught doing something he couldn’t quite justify.

now it’s just routine. jack walks into the department and his eyes find you automatically. across the room, down the hall, wherever you’ve planted yourself in the middle of the noise. he tells himself it’s habit. just keeping track of a resident. but the truth is simpler than that.

“abbott.” he looks over, snapping out of whatever trance overtook him. robby, his longtime friend and coworker, raises an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at her for like…three minutes. blink, brother.”

jack glances back at you. you’re still talking, still smiling, still completely unaware. “…was reading the chart,” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

robby snorts, fingers drumming against the tabletop. they’ve known each other long enough to call bullshit. “whatever keeps you going.”

jack sets the chart down with a huff and pushes off the counter. he taps his pocket, feeling the cold weight of his phone, and murmurs, “gonna make a call.”

robby stifles a laugh, shaking his head briefly before assisting dr. mckay with her patient.

~

about twenty minutes later, you’re halfway through typing a note when a paper coffee cup slides quietly into your line of sight. you pause, blinking like it’s a figment of your imagination, before looking up.

dr. jack abbott stands on the other side of the station, one hand braced on the counter, the other nudging the coffee toward you. he’s wearing a black scrub top that squeezes his juicy biceps, and acting pretty casually for someone who’s not supposed to be working yet.

your eyes flick between the cup and him. “did someone get this for me?” you ask, fluttering your lashes at him subconsciously.

jack stares at you. his mind runs blank. behind you, princess slowly swivels her chair to watch. jack drags a hand down his face. “yeah,” he says flatly. “somebody did.”

you nod thoughtfully. you should ask who or where it came from, but you’re running on fumes. “okay.” you pick up the coffee, pressing your lips against the lid and taking a generous sip. jack watches you drink it like a man waiting for a verdict, his finger tapping against his thigh. your shoulders relax instantly. you hum quietly. “this is really good.”

jack exhales through his nose. “glad you approve,” he murmurs, biting back a smirk. call him a creep, but he’s the only person in the department that can get your coffee order correct down to a T.

you finally glance up again, eyebrows lifting like you’ve only just remembered he exists. “wait,” you say. “you’re here early.”

jack tilts his head slightly, pursing his lips. “that bother you?” his voice is lower than before, causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

“no,” you say quickly, ignoring the tingly sensation in your stomach. truth be told, you’re never bothered to see him. “you just usually come in later.”

he shrugs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. it’s a losing battle to keep your eyes on his. “couldn’t sleep.”

dana snorts from behind you, shaking her head while dialing a number on the phone. she bites her tongue, choosing peace for once. jack doesn’t take his eyes off of you, ignoring dana’s antics entirely.

you groan sympathetically. “that’s the worst. i always have melatonin with me if you need it.”

jack’s mouth twitches. a flush forms from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. still, his gaze stays glued on you. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

with a smile, you turn back to the computer, already clicking through charts again, and attempting to calm your nerves. you grip the poor coffee cup, hoping jack doesn’t notice your skin is hot to the touch.

finally, he begrudgingly leaves to assist on a patient down the hall. when he’s out of sight, dana, who stands besides you, leans closer. “you know he bought that for you, right?”

you frown at your chart. “abbot?” you glance up at her, brows furrowed. she nods her head, widening her eyes like ‘wasn’t it obvious?’ you glance over your shoulder toward the hallway he disappeared down. “yeah, but he’s just nice. he’d do it for anyone.” you insist, scratching the top of your head.

dana stares at you like she’s trying to solve a complex neurological condition. “sure…” she finally says.

you just shrug, taking another sip of your coffee because that has to be the reason. right? why else would he buy you the coffee? you close your eyes, shaking the thoughts out of your head because…no way. meanwhile, somewhere down the hall, jack abbott is absolutely losing his mind.

{ TWO }

hour five is always the worst, in your opinion. close enough to the middle of your shift that you should feel motivated, but not quite there. not enough to push you through. just enough time for the exhaustion to settle in your bones and stay.

you’re in bay four with a chart tucked under your arm. the elderly woman on the stretcher looks small under the hospital blanket, silver hair falling loose around her shoulders. her ankle is already swelling beneath the thin sheet and she keeps apologizing every few seconds for something that wasn’t her fault.

“hey,” you murmur gently, crouching slightly so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see you. “no apologies. gravity gets the best of all of us.”

she laughs softly at that. “i tripped on the rug,” she explains again. “my daughter keeps telling me to get rid of it.” her lips pull downward as she continues. “but it’s just so beautiful.”

you nod while carefully pressing along her ankle, fingers gentle but firm as you check for tenderness. “nothing wrong with enjoying art,” you say lightly. your thumb presses along the swollen joint and she winces just a little. you soften your touch immediately. “even if it occasionally decides to fight back.” she smiles in response.

behind you, jack stands close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours when you shift. robby got pulled into something more serious ten minutes ago, and jack (who once again is here before the start of his shift) stepped in without much explanation besides a quiet, i’ll help you with this one. you didn’t question it.

jack watches the way you explain each movement before you touch the patient. the way your voice softens slightly when she winces. the way your hands move with that careful confidence that only comes from repetition. you’re good at this. he already knew that, but still.

“alright,” you say after a moment, straightening slightly. “i’m gonna order an x-ray just to be safe, okay?”

the woman nods, commenting something about you being a doll. then, her eyes flick between you and jack. a slow smile spreads across her face. “aren’t you two just the sweetest together.” you both freeze. “such a nice couple,” she continues warmly. “working side by side like that.”

your brain stutters. “oh-” you start, laughing nervously. jack’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t flinch. you shoot him a quick look before turning back to the patient. “we’re not-”

the woman waves her hand dismissively. “no need to explain, dear.”

jack lets out a quiet chuckle behind you. it’s low and amused and extremely unhelpful. you clear your throat, suddenly very focused on the color of your pen ink. “we just work together.”

the woman hums like she heard you and chose not to believe it. well,” she says sweetly, glancing at jack, “he looks at you very nicely.”

your face heats instantly. you pretend to adjust the blanket around her ankle so you don’t have to respond. jack goes very still beside you. the room stays quiet for a beat before you say, a little too brightly, “okay! we’ll get that x-ray and see what’s going on.”

you scribble something on the chart and step toward the door. jack follows. the second you’re out in the hallway, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath. “oh my god.” jack laughs softly in response. you glance at him. “you could’ve said something.”

“about what.” he feigns innocence.

“the couple thing.”

jack shrugs, hands slipping casually into the pockets of his scrub pants. “didn’t seem necessary.”

you stare at him. your eyes are wide and mouth agape. “it was embarrassing.”

jack tilts his head slightly, studying you for a second longer than necessary. then he says, voice low and teasing, “i didn’t mind playing your boyfriend for a few minutes.”

your brain stalls. you stare at him like he spoke a different language. jack watches the exact moment the words land. the faint color climbing up your neck. the way the floor tiles suddenly call your attention. his mouth curves slightly.

you clear your throat once again. he definitely didn’t mean it like that. jack abbot is many things, including a vigorous flirt. he’s just trying to fluster you. “i’m sure you’d do it for anyone,” you say weakly, turning toward the nurses’ station, “i-i,” cough, “have to, to go do something.”

jack moves to the side, motioning for you to walk. “go ahead,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling.

{ THREE }

the ambulance bay doors swing shut behind you with a hollow metallic clang. outside, the air is colder than it looked through the glass. it slips straight through the thin fabric of your scrubs, raising goosebumps along your arms almost instantly. your hands brace against the cool metal railing and you stare out into the dark parking lot like it might answer the questions still bouncing around your head.

the case had gone bad fast. too fast. one minute the patient had been talking. the next minute the room filled with voices and hands and alarms screaming over each other. someone calling for another unit of blood. someone else pushing meds. robby barking orders across the bed. you’d done everything right.

your shift ended an hour ago. by now, you should’ve been cuddled up with a hot cup of tea and your favorite fluffy socks and maybe a nice book. but after…that…you couldn’t leave. you offered to help the transition into the night shift and assist with some cases. it was enough to keep your mind off of it until now.

your jaw tightens. you take another slow breath, trying to push the noise out of your head. the ambulance bay door opens again behind you, but you don’t have the strength to turn around. heavy footsteps approach, steady and familiar, until someone stops beside you.

jack rests his forearms on the railing beside you. for a second, neither of you speak. he glances sideways, taking a deep breath. the brisk air burns his throat. you’re staring straight ahead, shoulders tense, lips pressed together like you’re trying very hard not to let the thoughts spill out.

jack knows that look. he’s spent way too long memorizing it. “hey,” he says quietly, bumping his shoulder against yours. you hum in response, which is about the most energy you can spare. jack watches you for another moment. “you did good in there.”

you shake your head slightly, inhaling sharply. “we lost him.”

jack sighs, nodding. “sometimes we do.”

you stare harder at the parking lot. “that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.” you mutter, tears pooling at your waterline.

that pulls the faintest huff of a laugh out of him. “yeah,” he says. “that’s the official medical term.” you shake your head, a small smile threatening at the corner of your mouth before it disappears again.

the wind picks up slightly. you shift your weight. jack’s eyes fall to your arms. they’re crossed loosely over your stomach, bumps covering every inch of skin. your shoulders hunch just a little to tell that you’re shivering. he straightens slightly. “hold on.” he says with a tight-lipped smile.

you glance at him. “wha-” but he’s already pushing off the railing before you can finish. you watch him disappear back through the ambulance bay doors with a small frown. he probably got sick of watching you mope. you scoff, kicking yourself mentally because he’s the chief attending and you’re standing here burdening him with your emotional issues.

about a minute later the door swings open again. jack steps back outside to find you in the same position as before. this time, something dark is slung over his arm. you blink as he walks back over and holds it out. a gray zip-up sweatshirt lies in his extended hands.

you stare at it, not moving. “what’s this?” you ask, even though it’s pretty obvious. you’ve never seen him wear the fabric. you’ve only watched him saunter through the automatic doors, eyes intense, and sweatshirt in his hand as he prepares for the night shift.

jack lifts an eyebrow, motioning his hand toward you. “take it.” his voice is low and raspy.

you hesitate. “i’m fine.”

jack gives you a look. the kind that clearly says you’re absolutely not fine. “you’re shivering.” he simply states.

you glance down at your arms like you only just noticed. “…maybe a little.” your hands rub up and down against your arms. jack doesn’t move. the sweatshirt stays extended toward you. after a second, you sigh and take it. “thanks.” when you pull it on, the scent of musky cologne and him fill your senses. you breathe deeper, the smell like a drug. your brain catches up a bit later. “wait—are you gonna be cold?”

jack snorts quietly. “i’ll survive.”

you zip it up the rest of the way, the sleeves a little long over your hands. you fold your arms again, but this time it’s inside the sweatshirt. “thanks,” your voice is softer.

jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “don’t get used to it.”

you glance sideways at him. “you’re very grumpy for someone doing something nice.”

“i’m always grumpy.”

“debatable.”

jack looks at you. his eyes bore into yours, memorizing every detail he can of you. your shoulders have relaxed slightly. the tight line between your brows is gone. mission accomplished. “you should go home now.” he starts softly. “the day shift is all gone and we can handle the rest from here.” he urges.

after a moment, you clear your throat and nod. “i’ll bring this back tomorrow.”

he shakes his head. “keep it.” he says it like it’s no big deal. like he’s not your boss and he’s not lending you a sweatshirt in an oddly intimate way. before you can argue, he says, “you forget things,” he’s already turning toward the door. “figure this way you’ve got a spare.”

you stare at him and just laugh. “that seems like a terrible system.” your shoulders move as you giggle. after the night you’ve had, this is the funniest scenario ever.

jack glances back over his shoulder. his mouth curves slightly. “works for me.” he disappears back inside before you can respond. you stand there for another moment, wrapped in his sweatshirt, staring at the ambulance bay doors.

your fingers curl into the sleeves, fabric bunching around your hands, still warm from him. it sits heavier on your shoulders than it should. you exhale slowly, shaking your head to yourself, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips.

he’s probably just used to this. used to residents stepping out after bad cases, quiet and shaken and trying to hold it together. used to knowing exactly what to say, what to do. how to fix it just enough to get you back on your feet.

you huff out a soft breath, pushing yourself off the railing. “yeah,” you murmur under your breath, already turning toward the doors. “he’s just good at his job.”

{ + ONE }

the bar is loud. a different type of loud than you’re used to. instead of the sharp, frantic noise of the ER, it’s the warmth of conversation and light jokes. robby makes a toast, glasses clink, and drinks are tipped back. the day shift claimed a long stretch of tables near the back. someone dragged two together at some point. chairs are half pulled out, people shifting and talking over each other like no one’s had a full thought all day and now they finally can.

you’re next to samira with one leg tucked under your chair, and your drink sweating in your hand. “i’m telling you,” samira says, covering her mouth to giggle before she even gets the words out. “dr. robby is hot.”

you gasp, choking on your drink before barking out in laughter. “i mean…i can see it.” you say quietly. she raises an eyebrow. you pause. “ok…of course he is.” you rephrase. “he’s just not my usual type.”

beside you, perlah and princess chuckle, pretending that they aren’t eavesdropping.

“what you mean is,” samira takes a swig of her drink before finishing. “he’s not jack abbot.”

you swear you almost drop your glass. “keep your voice down!” you hiss, looking over both shoulders to see if anyone heard.

“it’s not like it’s a secret!” she argues, barely containing her laughter. “you both like each other and you’re both too dense to see it.”

“i would know if someone liked me.” you insist, swirling your straw around in your glass. the ice cubes clink with each stir.

she rolls her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “yet, you’re the only one who doesn’t.” she huffs out a laugh, shaking her head.

the conversation shifts again after that. someone across the table starts complaining about charting, whittaker gets louder, joy says something dry that makes half the table go quiet for a second before laughing. this is the part of the job makes everything else feel worth it.

you’re sitting quiet, listening to the chatter of samira and the occasional arguments of the med-students when a cool breeze brings goosebumps in its wake. you shiver, peaking over your shoulder.

jack abbott steps inside, pausing just past the threshold. he wasn’t planning on coming. it’s his night off. he told himself he’d stay home for once, maybe get a decent night’s sleep. maybe do something that didn’t revolve around the hospital. then robby mentioned called and drinks. then mentioned you’d be there, and here he is.

he scans the room once, finding you easily. he almost physically stumbles when he processes you. you’re laughing at something samira said, head tipped slightly back, hair down around your shoulders instead of tied up like it always is. you traded your scrubs for a pair of jeans and a simple top that fit you in a way that should be illegal.

jack exhales slowly. right. this was a mistake. he runs a hand over the back of his neck, debating turning around and walking right back out. instead, he straightens slightly and makes his way over. he doesn’t go to you first. mostly because he’s nervous and he’s sporting a semi-hard that needs to go down.

he stops by the end of the table, nodding at everyone, and engaging in conversation with robby. dana gives him a knowing look that he pointedly ignores. “thought you had the night off,” she says, blatantly interrupting robby.

“i do.” he crosses his arms.

“and yet.” dana motions to the room and where he stands.

jack shrugs, casual. “heard there were drinks.” dana hums like she doesn’t believe him for a second. she glances past him, toward you, and then back. jack pretends not to notice. he lingers there longer than necessary, letting himself get pulled into the edge of a conversation he’s not really listening to. how could he listen when you’re there looking like that?

he’s aware of you in a way that hinders his ability to interact. the sound of your voice cutting through the noise. the way you gesture when you talk. the way you lean into samira, laughing at something under your breath. he drags his gaze away, but it always comes back. he’s metal being pulled into your magnetic field.

finally, he pushes off from the end of the table. he circles the group until he’s right behind you. he can hear you clearly now, even smell your perfume.

“you always this loud?” he asks, voice cutting cleanly into your conversation, “or is this a special occasion?”

you freeze. samira’s eyes go wide for half a second before she bites her lip to keep from laughing. slowly—slowly—you turn your head. up close, he looks even better than he did from across the room. you can see his features clearly. the stubble beard he bother shaving, his salt and peppered curls, and that hardened look that always melts you. could he be anymore perfect?

your brain stutters. “i’m not loud,” you retort, which is immediately a lie.

jack raises an eyebrow. “no?” he asks, voice low, amused. “could’ve fooled me.”

samira lets out a quiet snort beside you. you shoot her a look before turning back to him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “maybe you’re just eavesdropping.”

“maybe you’re just easy to overhear.”

you open your mouth, then close it. you can barely breathe the way he’s still looking at you, never mind forming coherent sentences. you swallow. “what are you doing here?” you ask, tone lower.

jack shrugs, one hand settling on the back of your chair. your back brushes his fingers when you lean closer. “thought i’d see what you all look like outside the hospital.”

your stomach flips. samira makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like oh my god. “and?” you ask, lifting your chin slightly. “what’s the verdict?”

jack’s gaze drags over you in an antagonizing slow manner. it starts at your face, and dips before coming back up. your breath catches.

he hums. “undecided.”

samira chokes on her drink. “i need another round,” she blurts, already sliding out of her seat. she grabs princess and perlah by the wrist and drags the with her before you can even process what just happened.

traitors.

you’re suddenly very aware of the empty chairs beside you, and the fact that jack doesn’t move away. if anything, he moves closer. “so,” you say, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the way your heart is picking up speed. “night off?”

“yeah.”

“and you chose to spend it here.”

“seems that way.”

you huff a quiet laugh, glancing down at your drink (because if you don’t you’ll stare at him arms). “we’re honored.”

jack’s mouth twitches. “you should be.” he lowers his voice to a gruff sound. that has to be his bedroom voice, you think. you look back up at him, rolling your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

he watches you for a second longer than necessary before finally dropping into the chair samira abandoned like it was always his. your knee brushes his and neither of you move. you take a sip of your drink just to give your hands something to do. jack doesn’t look away. he leans back slightly in his chair, one arm draped behind you like it belongs there.

you clear your throat. “so,” you say, glancing at him, “you just haunt bars on your nights off now?”

jack huffs quietly. “only the ones you’re in.”

your brain trips over itself for half a second. you recover fast. mostly. “that’s…concerning.”

“yeah,” he nods. “i’ve been told.”

you shake your head, trying not to smile into your drink. the liquor warms your throat, giving you some much needed confidence. neither of you move. you glance down at your glass again, tracing the rim with your finger. “they’re short on night shift,” you say after a second. “again.”

jack’s attention sharpens. he notes the way your voice lowers. you don’t want anyone else at the table to hear. “yeah,” he nods, pouring himself a beer from the pitcher on the table. “we are.”

you look up at him through your lashes and he has to adjust his pants. you stall, questioning if this is the right time or place to talk about this. finally, you exhale. “i was thinking about maybe switching over for a bit,” you continue, shrugging one shoulder. “just temporarily. try something different.”

almost immediately, he replies, “you should.”

you blink, stifling a laugh. “that was fast.”

he doesn’t even try to backtrack. “you’d be good over there.”

you tilt your head slightly. “you don’t even know what i’d be like on nights.”

“yeah, i do.”

your brows lift. “you’ve never seen me on nights.”

“don’t need to.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to calm yourself. you feel tingly all over. “you’re very confident.” you say, avoiding eye contact with him.

“i’m usually right.”

“debatable.”

“not about this.” there’s a quiet certainty in his voice that makes it hard to brush off.

you shift slightly in your seat. “i just-” you sigh. “i don’t know how robby’s gonna feel about it. i feel like he’s gonna think i’m abandoning day shift or something.” you ramble. “and-”

jack leans forward now, thick forearms resting on the table. “robby won’t be mad at you,” he interrupts with no room for discussion.

you glance at him. “you say that like you speak for him.”

“i’ve known him longer than you,” jack replies easily. “he’s not gonna hold you back.” you nod slowly, but your not convinced. “he likes you,” jack adds.

your lips twitch. “he likes everyone.”

jack shakes his head slightly. “he admires you.” he corrects himself.

your eyes flick back to his. there’s something in his tone that makes your chest tighten again. you look down quickly. “i just don’t want it to be weird,” you say, softer now.

jack watches you for a second. then leans in just a little more. “it won’t be,” he says. he’s close enough that you can feel his breath fanning against your skin. your breath catches. after a moment, he straightens again. “we can talk more about it over dinner.” he states in a matter of fact tone.

you nearly choke. your brain tries to file that under professional—it doesn’t match. “…what?”

jack’s mouth curves slightly. “dinner,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. like you’re the one lagging behind.

you stare at him. that didn’t sound like just a friendly request. your heart starts picking up. “like…with the team?” you ask, clinging to logic.

jack’s gaze doesn’t waver. “no.”

your stomach drops. “…just us?”

“that’s usually how dates go, no?” he smirks. there’s no hesitation.

everything clicks at once. the realization flashes across your eyes in series of memories. the coffee, the sweatshirt, the way he shows up early, and the way he watches you like you’re the only thing in the room. your breath catches. “you’re asking me on a date?” you ask like you had to say it out loud for it to process.

jack’s smile deepens. “took you long enough.”

your heart stutters. “wait-” you sit up straighter, staring at him. “you’re serious?”

jack leans in slightly, voice low. “i asked you to dinner.”

your pulse jumps. “i thought you meant like talking about the shift-”

“we can talk about the shift,” he nods, taking a sip of his glass. his eyes flick down to your lips for a split second before coming back up. “doesn’t have to be the only thing.”

oh.

oh.

your face heats. you look away, then back, like you don’t know where to land. “you’ve been-” you shake your head slightly, almost laughing. “this whole time?”

“pretty much.”

you huff out a disbelieving breath. “i thought you were just-” you stop yourself.

jack raises an eyebrow. “just what.”

you groan, dropping your head into your hand for a second. “i don’t know…normal.”

that actually makes him laugh real low. “this is me being normal?”

you peek at him. “apparently not.” you lower your hand slowly, looking at him again. your heart is still racing, but you don’t hate it. “you’re bold,” you say quietly.

jack’s mouth curves. “only when it counts.”

your stomach twists again. you shake your head slightly, smiling despite yourself. “and you just assumed i’d say yes?”

“no.” he shrugs simply.

the honesty catches you off guard. “then why ask?”

jack holds your gaze. “because i wanted to.” he murmurs. “figured you were worth the risk.”

you stare at him for a second longer, tilting your head like it might help you figure him out better. “…ok.” it slips out before you can overthink it.

jack tilts his head slightly. “ok?”

you nod, a little more certain now. “yes, i’ll go out with you.”

a boyish grin takes over his face. it may have taken months of what he thought was obvious flirting, hundreds spent on overpriced coffees, and more self-control than he’d ever admit out loud, but he got there. now you’re sitting in front of him, cheeks warm, eyes a little wide, finally seeing him the way he’s been seeing you all along.

worth it.

[glittermania]

whitaker was so hot this episode i genuinely can’t stop thinking about it like pls

(gif by @dr-whitaker)

[str4wbsstuff]

that feeling when everyone finds out you were homeless “who told you that?”

[estrelamuse]

⋆˙⟡ ma meillure ennemie | james moriarty x reader

—pairing: james moriarty x reader

—wc: 8.2k

—summary: james and reader pose as an engaged couple to find a man who can lead them to solving a case.

—content: smut (minors dni), 18+, friends to lovers, fake engaged/dating, jealousyyyyy, humor, james is a total flirt, slow dancing, tension, reciting poetry??, everyone knows they're in love except them hehe

a/n: i think i blacked out when writing the freaky bits 😵‍💫 i had wayyyy too much fun writing this and i really hope u like it! donal finn is a beautiful man so i had to do something about it

The carriage rattles on the dirt road. The golden gleam of the streetlights guide them away from Oxford and into a night that is pure dark, especially out in the country. Trees hang with their canopy of leaves over the road, grass meadows stretching for miles beyond the cobblestone walls on either side of the road. [Name] has never been in this part of the country before, but it seems lovely, even in the darkness. 

It’s a beautiful night, really: a cool spring air, the moon full and high. It lights the road ahead of them as [Name] occasionally glances up through the window as the horses and their driver push them on. With so much to see, it is hard to forget James beside her, rendered in outline in the shadows of darkness: his strong nose, the ever-mischievous tilt of his mouth. Much to her annoyance, she keeps looking over at him, but she tries not to linger long; he’ll enjoy it far too much, and the last thing she needs is a cockier James Moriarty—if that’s even possible.

[Name]’s thumb slides along the smooth, gold band on her ring finger. The simple diamond set in the band catches the moonlight. James claims to have bought it, but she knows him too well: surely he stole this lovely ring from some poor, unwitting individual. She can only hope that they don’t miss it too much.

She fiddles with the ring as her hands sit in her lap, lost in thought. “What are you, again?” she asks.

James is straightening his cuffs, his suit jacket. He’s in his black pinstripe suit with not a speck on him. Perhaps he stole the suit, too. One can never know when it comes to James. “A banker,” he says. His voice is low and rumbling, as biting as stone. He glances up like he’s pondering something. “Perhaps I took it over from my father.”

A shiver passes through her, undoubtedly from the night air. She’s squeezed into an evening gown that is only a shade darker than blood: it’s bold and it shows off her figure in a way she normally doesn’t dress, but she has to stand out tonight. Her arms are bare and every breeze makes her shoulders hunch, which certainly doesn’t help the corset she is tied into. She feels like a Christmas present, meant to be unwrapped.

Her chest, too, is bare with a scooping neckline—save for a glittering necklace. This jewelry came from Sherlock, and he claims to have procured it from Mycroft. Again, she isn’t sure if that is the truth, but being friends with James and Sherlock has made her come to expect that most things they darn her with have likely come to them through unfortunate circumstances. There is only so much they can throw together at the last minute.

“Is that how we met?” she asks.

James pouts, thinking. “Secretary?”

She scoffs and looks outside. “So very original.” Through the trees, lights wink at her. They must be getting close to the manor.

“That’s usually how it goes, darling,” says James, leaning towards her as he fixes his cuffs.

“It is much too overused.”

“Perhaps that’s what makes it so believable. Occam’s razor and all that,” he adds, waving a dismissive hand.

Persistent, she says, “If we are to be convincing, James, we have to feel real. We haven’t spent nearly enough time on our stories.”

“I do best when I improvise.”

She can’t help the snort that escapes her. “Yes, I’ve seen you improvising in the past.”

“Were you not impressed?”

“Are you referring to the time that you told that poor shopkeep that I was Sherlock’s wife whom you had stolen without his knowledge? All to find the owner of some hat.”

James shrugs a shoulder. “I thought you were rather…stirred at the time.”

“Mortified, more like.” The weathered stone of Whitby Abbey rises over the trees as they get closer and closer. There are more carriages ahead of them now, other guests waiting to be dropped off. “Only God knows whatever will come out of your mouth next,” she says. “I don’t think even He knows half the time.”

“I love to keep my captive audience forever on their toes.”

She shoots him a look that says Oh, I know you do. “I would at least like a hobby,” she insists after a moment’s silence. “Something to make me stand out.”

It was the wrong thing to say—especially to James, of all people. 

Before he can speak, she blurts out, “Perhaps I write poetry.”

That damned smile. Those teeth may very well cut her one of these days. “Oh? Are you any good, mo chroí?”

“Of course,” she says, offended he even has to ask. James is smiling at her as she adds, “I can lift some Browning if I’m questioned. I doubt anyone there knows a lick of poetry.”

Their carriage rattles as they sweep through the gravel in front of Whitby. The historic home sits with golden windows and the distant whisper of string music playing from within. There are many folks in their resplendent eveningwear wandering the grounds—smoking their cigars, sharing whispers—while the rest vanish inside. Not for the first or last time, she wonders why she lets Sherlock and James convince her to do these things with them. Her life used to be so quiet and simple and she resented it, but these men are terrible influences, even if she does love life a bit more with them in it. 

She’ll never tell them that, though.

James sighs deeply, resting his head back against the seat until he is nothing more than a silhouette again, calling to mind a Roman marble bust: hard, strong lines. His Adam’s apple shifts as he recites in a rough voice, “‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’”

Staring up at the manor, almost wistful, she breathes, “‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach.’”

Her voice is so soft that she thinks James didn’t hear, but the silence is heavy. She turns and finds James looking at her, the smile lingering even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks to be somewhere else, dazed and a little distracted, and her immediate thought, for some reason, is Take me to wherever it is you’ve just gone.

The carriage comes to a stop, and the door swings open, startling her. A small gasp and she spins around.

But it is only a valet in a tailcoat, a white-gloved hand extended towards her. “Welcome to Whitby Abbey, madame.”

“How kind,” she says, a hand to her chest, still recovering, while the other slides across the palm of the valet. Her ring winks at her.

There she is, standing in her blood-red dress and similarly painted lips, a mere ant beside a home she has no right stepping inside of. In those handful of seconds, all she can think about is the little girl she used to be: so lonely, always on the outside. She had grown used to it, found comfort there. Lately it seems as if life has done what she can only compare to shoving her from behind the curtain and onto the stage. 

The melancholy threatens to drown her, but then a hand slides across the small of her back and her shoulders rise, turning to find James. He smiles at her, and it is such an honest, familiar smile, one that she knows better than anyone else’s, that when she smiles back, it is like their own little language.

“Are you ready, mo chroí?”

He refuses to tell her what that means. She only hopes it isn’t some joke he’s sneaking by her. “Let’s.”

————————

[Name] hasn’t been in a home quite like this before. They glide through the foyer—gray stone, curved archways, five-figure vases and marble busts—and into the ballroom, which opens up before them like a cloudless sky. A neck-breaking ceiling with shimmering chandeliers, white-draped tables with elaborately arranged centerpieces: flowers and flickering candles. There’s a stage off to the right-hand side of the ballroom where a string quartet plays.

“Fuckin’ hell,” mutters James, staring all around.

She was thinking the same thing. “Sherlock will be here soon?” she asks.

“So he claims.” He slips back his sleeve just enough to peek at a watch. He pauses for dramatic effect, then adds, “Him. And Mycroft.”

She can hardly hide her surprise. “Mycroft?” The only reason he would possibly be coming along is if his hand was forced. 

“He’s the reason Sherlock procured our attendance. I believe he wanted to be here to make sure we don’t humiliate ourselves.”

Naturally. She tilts her head and says, “So, I could’ve had Mycroft to pose as my fiancé.”

James, smiling like the cat that got the cream, tucks a piece of her hair back, his fingertips ghosting across the shell of her ear. It’s a mere whisper of a touch, yet she almost forgets to listen as he says, “I gallantly offered to take the role.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she asks, her voice breathy and trying to hide the very fact.

His eyes drift down to her painted lips, and she doesn’t want to even imagine what is stirring behind those dark eyes. “Would you have preferred Mycroft?” 

“He wouldn’t have been so lascivious,” she says, her cheeks warming. Thank goodness her face is buried beneath so much makeup. “He would have been a perfect gentleman about the whole thing.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing, darling,” says James, taking a step closer, and then his mouth leans into her ear, his hand slipping around to the middle of her back, caging her there. Just being near him, she can feel the warmth of him. Her eyes flutter, especially when his breath touches her ear: hot, ticklish. “I don’t think you want a gentleman.”

When James pulls away, she glares at him—or what she prays looks like a glare. If she thought she was blushing before, she certainly is now. She resists the urge to stamp on his foot or some other such childish thing.

This may be the worst idea they’ve ever come up with—and that’s truly saying something.

“How about a drink?” asks James, and he winks.

Right then, a servant passes with a tray of whiskey. James sneaks two from the tray, his naturally quick fingers making the glasses vanish in a blink. He turns, handing her her glass, and he makes a point to glide his fingers over hers, reveling in the way she scowls. His hands are much larger than hers, calloused from his schoolwork, but soft still, like he takes care of them.

She tries to put any thought of his hands out of her mind as she sips the whiskey. It’s harsh, but she relishes the way it helps her think more clearly. 

“Have you seen Fontaine yet?”

Damn. She’s been so distracted by James and his games that she hasn’t even looked. She does now, turning with her whiskey glass tucked against her chest, trying to cool herself down, appearing as if she is only taking in the sights. There are so many people, at least a hundred, and at times the voices rise right over the music, their own chorus. So many faces and smiles and laughs and beautiful clothes—and she doesn’t see their mark.

“Not yet,” she says, still looking. She cranes her neck. How in hell will they find him in this sea?

As if reading her thoughts, James says, “Don’t worry, love. He’ll find us.”

“How so?”

“He’ll find you, I should’ve said.”

The red dress, the red lipstick, James as her fiancé—this performance is all for Algernon Moreau, a celebrated art dealer. Although he is a married man, he is famous for his love of women, particularly those that are also married. Perhaps he likes the feeling of taking another man’s woman, [Name] had raised, and James and Sherlock agreed. 

Moreau is a mere stepping-stone in their plan—they believe he is acquainted with a murderer and thief they are hunting down; they know they work together and he may have something on his person—but tonight must work without a hitch if they are to get anywhere.

“Should we split up?” she asks.

James makes a doubtful sound. “It would be best if we stick together, I believe,” he says. “We have to be a convincing couple, eh?”

“This won’t be enough to tip him off?” she asks, holding up her hand and showing off her ring.

James squints at her, his nose wrinkling as he leans close. “Just to make certain, darling.” He finishes off his whiskey as another servant passes, and he replaces his empty glass with a fresh one. He downs the new glass with his head tipped back and when he finishes that one, he asks, “Care for a dance?”

So they make their way to the floor. They slip in among the couples, careful to stay visible on the edge of the circle, and her heart trips as she nearly does when James reels her in, his hand falling to her waist as the other takes her own hand, holding her fingers so delicately. Her arm goes around his neck. Has she ever danced with James before? No, she realizes, because she would’ve remembered this panic in her chest: like a bird in a cage.

James, of course, is a great dancer. How he learns all of the things he knows, she cannot begin to understand, but he seems good at everything he sets his mind to. It’s incredibly annoying. 

What’s more annoying is how their bodies move like water together. The space she has put between them shrinks as they step and turn with seemingly one mind. All the while James smiles down at her, like he has her right where he wants her. 

“Do you try to drive me to madness, or does it just come so easily to you?” she asks.

James laughs, his cheeks and the lines around his eyes bunching. And most annoying of all is that James is handsome and he knows it. He has a way of making one feel special and he often directs this superpower towards her. She wishes he wouldn’t, but she knows she would miss it if it were gone. She would never tell him any of these things; it’s embarrassing enough to think it in the privacy of her thoughts—but even then she wonders if he can see those, too.

“Can’t a man just dance with a beautiful woman?”

“There you go again,” she says, rolling her eyes as she looks beyond his shoulder. “Always there with a comment in hand. Ready to flatter at a moment’s notice.”

“Do I flatter?” he asks. His breath whispers past her ear, stirring the hair. “Or do I tell the truth?”

“I think,” she says, looking him in the eye, “that you show flattery to anything that draws breath.”

“If it gets the job done,” he agrees.

She guffaws. “So shameless!”

“Have I ever lied to you, mo chroí?”

“I would have no way of knowing, so I’m inclined to say yes.”

James spins her underneath his raised arm. Her heart spins with her, weightless as a feather, and then she is reeled back in just as quickly, nearly collapsing against him. Her hand falls on his chest to steady herself.

“Every word I say to you is true. I would swear my life on it.”

A little breathless, she says with a slight laugh, “You have told me some rather incredible things, Moriarty.”

There’s a sudden sobriety in his eyes. “As I said.”

She has only his word to take, and how good is the word of a thief? For she knows how good of a thief he is: he steals her heartbeat with a single look.

————————

People mingle amongst themselves, enjoying finger foods and drinks; others greet acquaintances and share stories, laughing together. Eyes catch on [Name] as she passes, some curious, others intrigued. She lets her gaze linger over them—all men. That feeling returns: a present to be opened.

Moreau is nowhere to be seen, though, and neither are the Holmes brothers. And she is bored—well, as bored as she can be with James. He flirts and he flatters and she parries every word with an acuity that has become their custom. 

At some point she wanders off, obtaining a little sandwich and a fresh gin, and when she returns to James—only ten minutes have passed—he has found himself an audience. He stands there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding whiskey, and he waves the glass around as he speaks. When [Name] approaches, the crowd has just started laughing. He flashes a winning smile at them, and his eyes alight when he sees her. “Ah, here she is,” he says, extending an arm.

Confused, she comes to him. His hand falls to the small of her back as he says, “Darling, I was just about to tell the story of my proposal to you.”

“Oh, please do!” says an enthusiastic and very pretty redhead. The man at her side seems utterly bored. As a matter of fact, the women seem most delighted by James, while their men stand there, some looking rather angry at James for distracting their partners.

“Yes. Do,” says [Name] with a sickly sweet smile.

“Well,” he begins, and they fall silent, only the string instruments accompanying his story, “I made sure to cancel any prior engagement she had, and I told her we were spending the day together. I took her on a tour of the city. With my job and her writing, we are so very busy. I wanted to treat her to a day of no obligation or worry. Anyways, I brought her to the university library where I read some Shakespeare to her—” The women coo, some clutching their chests; [Name] fights not to roll her eyes at him. “—and got into some business I would rather not share at the moment.” The audience laughs, gasping and scolding. [Name] wonders if perhaps she should vanish into a ghost about now. 

“We went to eat after, and then we went for a walk through the park,” he goes on. “I didn’t tell her where we were going, but I’m sure she could guess.” He looks down at her with such soft reverence as he says the words that she wonders, again, how he can be so good at lying. “The gardens. I knew it was her favorite place in the city, so I made sure to end things there. There were butterflies, more than I had ever seen in one place, and they were of every color under the sun—and perhaps some new ones. The look on her face was…” James’s voice drifts off, staring at her, seemingly lost in a memory that doesn’t exist. All breathing seems to stop, waiting for him. “She was beautiful.” James clears his throat. “We hardly said a word as we walked through the flowers. I was scared to ruin the moment. But eventually we found a bench and I recited some of her poetry to her. I had found a piece she had written privately. I recited it from memory and then…I asked her to marry me.”

The words flow from him as if they are real. How could he improvise such a story with so many eyes on him? Her face warms under the adulation they receive. The story is all a bit saccharine and certainly meant to flatter the audience, but it’s the sentiment that renders her speechless. How easily he toys with her and his flirtations.

Two can play at this game.

When a woman asks, “What was the poem?” [Name] jumps at the chance.

Turning to James, she warns him only with a devilish smile of her own as she recites, “‘I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.’” 

Somewhere in saying the words, her smile vanishes until she is just standing there, staring into James Moriarty’s eyes, and declaring her love to him.

She hardly hears the fawning of their captive audience with their hands clasped, mouths falling into perfect o’s. It’s at this moment that some of the men slip away, tugging their wives along behind them, and there, just for a second, she sees him, watching with keen interest.

She stands on her toes and presses a kiss to James’s cheek, which seems to leave him rather flummoxed, judging by the way his fingers dig into her waist. She whispers, “Moreau is here.”

————————

The battle wages on. For every flirtation that slips past James’s lips, [Name] is shooting back. It’s as if all of the months of dealing with James have bubbled over within herself. She is sick of being the business end of all of his jokes and teases, rendered speechless and flustered by his practiced advances. She hates the way he affects her, and she is determined to put him in his place.

All the while, Moreau is circling. The dress has done its job, but it was James’ and her performances that caught him like a fish on a hook. He is here with his wife, but he lingers and he leers, trying to catch [Name]’s eye. She needs to encourage him to make the first move.

That’s when Sherlock and Mycroft arrive, looking utterly dashing in their spotless suits. Sherlock’s eyes roll practically to the back of his head when he sees James’s arm around [Name] as they sit at their table. “Truly selling the part, are you?” asks Sherlock.

“Aye. It’s the best role I’ve ever played,” says James, beaming.

[Name] jumps up from her seat. Moreau has been staring at the foursome like a hawk; this is the perfect opportunity. “Mycroft, would you mind sharing a dance with me?”

The elder Holmes pauses as he unwinds his scarf. “Really?” asks Mycroft.

“Really?” asks James, leveling his gaze.

“I’d love a dance,” she says, tucking her arms behind her back, her chest pitching forward.

Mycroft keeps his eyes firmly on her face, his mouth tight. He looks over her shoulder—at Sherlock? James? Whatever he sees there must help convince him. “I’d be honored.” 

As she takes his hand and leads him to the floor, she hears a chair scrape back and an Irish voice bark her name, but she doesn’t dare look back.

There is a tinge of pink in Mycroft’s cheeks as he takes her into his arms. His touch is much more delicate than James’s: James is firm and so sure of himself and what he wants, while Mycroft is the consummate gentleman, plagued with nauseating politeness and concern. She takes his wrist and raises his hand higher until he is right in the divot of her waist. The look he gives her is of pure shock. “[Name]?”

“It’s all a performance, right?” she asks, meaning to jest—but it comes out drenched in quiet resentment.

“Are you well?” asks Mycroft. She nearly steps on his toe as they twirl around the floor.

“Perfectly fine, Mycroft,” she says. She smiles at him, and wonders if she is trying to convince him or herself. “An evening spent with James Moriarty can fray the nerves.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” grumbles Mycroft. “Speaking of, my apologies that we were so late. Sherlock got himself into a—well, a bit of trouble, as he often does.”

“Oh, goodness, what was it now?”

“Well—” And here he dives into a story of a night of errors, constant delays, and nonsensical trouble hindering their arrival to the party. Mycroft says it all with a straightfaced, despairing tone that makes her smile, basking in the pure enjoyment of having a friend that is so utterly himself. She laughs at some parts, and they shake their heads about the chaos of Sherlock, even if they love him.

“Your brother is a handful,” she says. 

“I am well aware.”

“He is a good man,” she says softly. Tucking her cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder, she is suddenly so tired. She stares at the couples dancing all around them, wondering what their lives are like. “In his own crazy way.”

Mycroft breathes in sharply, his chest rising beneath her. “Yes, he is.” He clears his throat and asks in a clearer voice, “How is the business with that man going?”

“He’s rather like a gnat: constantly lingering,” she says. She casts her head about, wondering if she can spot him. “If he doesn’t make his move, I’ll have to.”

“Are you so sure about all of this?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You’re…well—” The pink returns to Mycroft’s cheeks.

“Luring him in?” she asks. It’s the kindest way of putting it.

Mycroft seems grateful. “Yes,” he says through tight teeth.

“Well. There are some other ways I’d rather spend my Thursday evening,” she concedes, “but if it will save lives, I’m willing.”

“Don’t let these boys make you a martyr.”

She laughs. “I can handle myself, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he says, nodding to himself as he stares over her head.

“I’m sorry to involve you, Mycroft.”

He meets her eye. He really is very handsome; she wouldn’t have minded playing as his betrothed. “It’s…nothing. Somewhat.” His mouth presses into a line. “The less I know the better,” says Mycroft, but he smiles kindly. His eyes lift beyond her and into the crowd. “Those boys are trouble.” His brow knits, eyes narrowing. “Good God,” he mutters almost to himself, dropping his head. “I’m being glared at.”

“Moreau?” She forces herself not to turn; she doesn’t want to look too interested.

Mycroft loosens his touch. “Not him.”

Oh. 

Her eyes drop between their bodies, suddenly fascinated by the way her dress sways against the floor. Now that it has been pointed out, she can practically feel the hole being burned into her back. She won’t dare look. “Yes, he’s been playing his role rather well all night.”

“What role?”

“As my fiancé.”

Mycroft’s mouth pinches. “He’s always like this.”

She doesn’t know she has her jaw clenched. “Like what?”

The look that Mycroft gives her can only be described as: oh, poor thing. “Dear, he looks at you like he wants to eat you alive.”

She hates how those words move through her: in the way honey pours from a spoon; the way water flows through a river. But she knows James. He loves the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of winning. He knows he is handsome and he knows she finds him so. 

She wishes she didn’t. 

“He’s a cad,” she says, scoffing. Trying not to care. “He would tire of me the moment he has me.”

Mycroft’s brow is tight. He stares at her, confused. “I don’t think—”

A finger taps on Mycroft’s shoulder. The two of them turn and there is Moreau: he’s about Mycroft’s age, handsome enough, with slicked blond hair. His blue eyes don’t leave [Name] as he asks, “Mind if I step in?”

————————

All they know about Algernon Moreau is his notoriety in the art world: supposedly he is a highly regarded dealer. Their interest is his connection with Lucas Bernard, an antiquarian who works with a select few—including Moreau. The two men and several others are all connected to an underground market. Bernard doesn’t deal to just anyone.

They found a woman who spent some time with Moreau. She told them that Moreau has cards on him for all of the men in this little gang.

You’ll need to get him alone, Sherlock had suggested. They had stood around the table, looking at blueprints of Whitby Manor. He had his closed fist to his chin, staring down at the map as he pondered.

That should be easy enough, she’d said. Would [Name] a mere year ago have been so willing to do any of this? Probably not. But getting tangled up with these two boys had brought out a piece of herself she never knew was buried within her. 

Then what? asked James. He had looked across the table at her, hands buried deep into his pockets. He looked up at her through his lashes, his brow framing his suddenly serious face. She wasn’t used to such a grim James Moriarty.

She had met his eyes like it was a challenge. I’ll get the card. 

How, though? He said the words slowly, circling the table until he was standing beside her. He could be imposing when he wanted to be, and he was right then. Are you going to ask for it? Or do something else to convince him?

Whatever it takes.

James’s stare was hard enough to cut a diamond. Without his eyes leaving her, he told Sherlock, I’ll follow them. I can take care of it.

Do you have no faith in me, James? She had a hip cocked, a hand resting on the table.

He looked her up and down. The opposite, actually. That’s what worries me.

She thinks of that night and James’s face—the flickering candlelight, the low rumble of his voice—as she dances with Moreau. Unfortunately for her, Moreau is a dreadful bore. It amazes her, sometimes, how men like this can secure such lovely women and reel them into their net. But she laughs and flatters like he is the most fascinating man in the world.

As Moreau blathers on about selling a painting overseas, there is James, waiting. He is sitting at the table where she left him. When their eyes meet, he gives her a small nod. 

(I can take care of it.)

“I’m holding a few paintings here,” Moreau is saying. “There’s an auction in a few days' time. Would you like to see them?”

Her eyes alight. “I’d love to.”

The pair separate from the dancefloor. Moreau lets his hand fall to the small of her back as he guides her through the crowds, an innocent enough gesture if she didn’t know him.

[Name] holds her dress to keep from tripping as they mount the stairs.

“How far is the art held?” she asks, suddenly realizing she will be alone with this man.

Moreau turns, looking down at her heels. “Don’t worry,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “You won’t hurt your feet.”

She laughs. “I’d hate to have blisters.”

He tuts at her. A red and gold carpet softens their steps as they reach the second floor. Nobody is up here except for them, the music and voices dissipating with every step. “I saw you dancing all night,” he says. “The stairs shouldn’t be an issue.”

Boring and condescending. What dreadful company. He’s walking ahead of her, so she lets her eyes roll. Then she softens her voice: “I know you saw me.” It must’ve been convincing enough because Moreau turns as he approaches a door, giving her a lingering look before opening the door. 

Light spills out from the room. Across the way, a balcony door hangs open, a cool breeze wisping inside. There are about a dozen paintings of various sizes spread around the room, all of them in heavy gold-filigreed frames. These paintings must be hundreds of years old and even though she knows nothing about art, they are undeniably beautiful. She allows a gasp, not entirely fake, and steps into the room. He closes the door behind them with a soft click.

“Oh, these are beautiful,” she says. She tilts her head, approaching the first one in front of her. It’s a seascape with crashing waves, the whitecaps so realistic that she has to resist the urge to reach out and touch them. Moreau stands by her side, a little too close, with his hands clasped behind his back. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“I thought the same.”

She finds him looking at her. Gross. But she feigns a blush, turning away as if to hide her reddening cheeks. “These will be up for auction?”

“This Sunday,” he says, nodding. “You should come.”

“I don’t know if I could afford these,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Perhaps a generous benefactor can lend a—”

There’s a knock at the door.

Moreau stops mid-word, his mouth hanging open. Casting her a look of confusion, Moreau goes to the door. Right as he opens it, he says, “How may I—” but unfortunately, a fist shoots out and meets his nose. Immediately stunned, Moreau collapses back and hits the ground with a thump that makes [Name] wince.

James steps over Moreau’s body. “Fancy meeting you here,” he tells her.

“You didn’t take long.”

“I was wondering where my darling fiancée had wandered off to.”

James hooks his arms beneath Moreau’s pits and drags the man farther into the room. Moreau is out cold, his mustache practically twitching with his snores. James kicks the door shut as he crouches, digging through Moreau’s pockets.

“I could’ve done all of this,” she reminds him, a hand on her hip.

James glances at her before returning to Moreau. He says nothing.

She smirks at the top of his head. “It would’ve been so easy to—”

“Please stop speaking.”

Another knock. Her brow pinches, ready to panic—their plans never do go well, do they?—when the door opens and Sherlock’s head pops in. “Did you—oh my. So you did.” He slips inside and shuts the door, lazily leant against it. “Well done, [Name]. Anything of note?” he asks James.

James lifts up a wallet. “Just this.” He stands, picking through the sleeves. He pulls a note from the billfold and when [Name] scoffs, he shoots her a wink before pocketing the money. “I’ll use it to get you dinner.”

“How romantic.”

“There,” says Sherlock, pointing at a card buried within the wallet.

James pulls out a stack of business cards. He’s grinning as he picks through them, until finally he says, “Ha!” Between two fingers, he holds a white card with a looping black script. The two men cock their heads as they read the card, slow smiles spreading across their faces. “Good work, folks. We’ve got the bastard.”

[Name] stands on her toes to look. James hands it to her, dropping back down to drag Moreau farther into the room. Sherlock stands before her with his hands on his hips, saying, “This might just be our cleanest heist we’ve ever—”

There’s another knock on the door. James’s head snaps up, still carrying Moreau, whose head lolls drunkenly. Sherlock stops mid-word. [Name]’s eyes widen, her hand coming to cover her mouth. Please be Mycroft.

“‘Ello? Monsieur Moreau?”

Oh, no.

“Sherlock,” hisses James. He nods his head at the body. “Take him.”

“Where?” whispers Sherlock, spreading his hands. There were no secret passageways in their blueprints.

“To the balcony. Hurry.”

The pounding on the door grows louder and more insistent. “Moreau? Moreau!”

As Sherlock drags Moreau away, grumbling to himself, James returns to [Name]. “Mess up my hair,” he tells her. She hesitates for only a heartbeat before she ruffles his hair—soft, so thick between her fingers, good lord—and he takes her face in his hand, cradling her jaw. Her breath ceases in her chest, wondering if he is about to kiss her, the knocking at the door long forgotten. Can he feel her pulse beneath her jaw? But he only smears his thumb across her bottom lip, spreading her lipstick onto her cheek. As he goes to open the door, he undoes a couple of buttons on his suit and rubs his thumb across his own lip.

James opens the door. He stands there with a drunken grin, leaning against the frame and looking rather ravished: his tousled hair and the open suit paired with a look of absolute lovesickness on his face. “Ever heard of privacy, man?”

“What—” The man cranes his neck to look around James. The man is tall and lean, dressed in a nice suit like any other guest. Did Moreau have a guard they didn’t think to keep an eye out for? “I thought I saw—Is there an Algernon Moreau in here?”

“I hope not,” says James, practically pitching forward. “Just me ‘n my girl.”

“Your—?” The man sees [Name] for the first time. He turns away just as quickly, no doubt stunned by the state of the pair. “That’s the woman I just saw with Moreau. Is it not?” he asks James.

“She’s wit’ me, mate,” says James, pointing at his own chest. 

“How did you two get in here?”

[Name] says, “The door was unlocked, sir. We’re very sorry.”

“Get out of here,” snaps the man, finished with them. “There are absolutely no guests allowed in here.” James hooks an arm around [Name]’s waist and follows the man out of the room. The man pulls a key from his jacket pocket and locks the door. He pockets it again, staring them down. “Because you two are so young, I won’t say a word. But you damned lovebirds better find somewhere else to do…whatever the hell you were bloody doing.”

“We will, we will,” says James, miming a drunkard’s slow nod. [Name] has to hide a laugh behind her hand. “C’mon, girl. Let’s leave the man alone.”

James seems to gain his sobriety the moment they hit the stairs, dashing hand in hand down the steps as they both fight to keep their laughter down. [Name] is practically shaking as they return to the party.

James rests his hands on his hips and looks back up the stairs, his teeth glinting as he raises a hand. “Fuckin’ hell, Sherlock is stuck up there,” he says, and hardly finishes the sentence before he bursts out laughing. She tries shushing him, even as she trips over her own hysterics. Has she ever seen anything funnier than a ruffled James Moriarty, her lipstick across his mouth?

Some eyes land on them, shooting curious looks, so she takes his hand and runs again, holding her dress up as they run out of Whitby Manor, pushing past people. “We have to find the balcony,” she says, giggling. She goes from dragging along James to hustling with him alongside her, their shoes crunching on the gravel the moment they step outside. The night air brings shivers, but she can hardly feel them through the heat in her chest.

They find the balcony after a few minutes of searching. “Sherlock,” she calls, and James snorts. She elbows him before daring to shout louder. “Sherlock!”

When his head pops out over the railing, James bursts into laughter again. He stumbles away, a hand on his chest, as she says, “Sherlock, you got locked in!”

“You don’t say!” says Sherlock.

“Is there a way for you to get down?”

Sherlock hits his hands on the railing. “Well, there isn’t a damn ladder!”

James regains himself enough to say, “‘Wherefore art thou—’”

[Name] reels on him, smiling despite herself. “You—”

“James, do you think—” But Sherlock stops, his eyes going wide before retreating from the balcony’s edge.

She’s about to call out his name when James shushes her, a hand on her bare arm. Goosebumps rise at his touch. “Something tells me our dear friend has been found out,” he whispers. “It’s best we find somewhere else to be.” James slips his fingers into hers and they run deeper into the yard, towards the gardens.

————————

Moonlight leads the way. The trees around them seem to shimmer as if painted with silver. The golden glow from the windows beckons to them, but there is something oddly cozy about being on the outside looking in, trapped in their own little world. James doesn’t let go of her hand as they stroll through the garden, accompanied by the occasional hooting owl or yip of a fox deeper in the forest beyond the property.

“Do you think—”

“—Sherlock will be fine? Sure. He’ll give them some story,” answers James flippantly. “He has his brother.” The moon casts shadows across his face, just as it had in the carriage. Was that really all tonight? The carriage ride feels like a thousand years ago. She only knows now, here, with James.

She feels drunk: she hasn’t stopped smiling. She trips over her own feet, stumbling and knocking into James, and his arm comes around her like it belongs there, his own bashful smile so big and bright that her heart swells with warmth: they’re so young and beautiful. James stares into her eyes for a long moment, teetering on the edge—she knows not what’s at the bottom, but she knows she wants to fall. 

“James?”

“Yes.”

“What does mo chroí mean?” After hearing those words in James’s raspy, deep voice, they sound softer in her own mouth, timid and unused to shaping the sounds. 

Has he ever looked so handsome? The moonlight sands down his hard edges. His soft black eyes and his just-as-black hair and his beautiful nose and the tilt of his roguish lips. And the way he looks at her. Has it always been right in front of her? She doesn’t see James look at anyone the way he looks at her.

“My heart,” he breathes. 

Much too enticing.

[Name] kisses him with a desperation like she has been left without air. She holds his cheek—soft, shaved—as she fits her mouth to his, and James meets her with equal enthusiasm, his hands circling around her middle and tucking her in until she knows nothing but the firmness of his body, his touch. Her fingers slip back into his hair, digging in and pulling him in as if he can get any closer. James’s teeth brush her bottom lip, threatening to bite.

When she spreads her lips, the press of James’s tongue is dizzying. She falls against him, her knees weakening. In a hurried, breathless voice, James whispers, “About fuckin’ time, woman.” She laughs against his mouth, her teeth brushing his lip, then his nose. James dives in to press his open mouth against her bared throat, and [Name] stares up at the stars and the moon, praying to be consumed.

————————

James kicks the door to his apartment shut, his hands never leaving her face. He kisses her like she is about to vanish. His feverish hands work at her skirts, shoving them off and out of the way. “Do you have any idea how often I’ve dreamt this?” he whispers against her lips. The excess fabric spills from her waist. Still in her corset and inner skirt, she feels even lighter—and James lifts her into his arms, carrying her to the table.

He lays her down after sweeping everything off of the surface with a sharp clatter. He buries his mouth against her neck, making her shiver with his hot breath. He is a man undone: his ruffled hair, the flush in his cheeks. He can’t keep his hands off of her. His mouth traces down to her heaving chest, her breasts pressing against the corset. His teeth graze against the swell of her breast and she wriggles, begging, “James.”

“Patience is a virtue, mo chroí,” he says with a villainous smile before burying his hands beneath her skirts, drawing them up around her trembling thighs. He kneels at the end of the table and she’s blushing. “Be good,” James warns as he opens her legs, and then his mouth finds her aching, weeping cunt. The first touch of his tongue leaves her lightheaded, her lips falling open as she cries out. He gathers her wetness from bottom to top, licking her up so thoroughly that her hand claps over her mouth, moaning as her fingers find his hair and pull. 

James groans against her cunt, which only makes it better. He blindly reaches up and pulls the hand from her mouth, holding it hostage by her side, burning bruises into her wrist. His nose—that damn nose—rubs so nicely against her clit and her hips move with a mind of their own, chasing the pleasure he provides her. His tongue is relentless, like he’s kissing her all over again. The very thought makes her face burn.

Never has she felt so good. Her fingers have never brought her such joy, nor has anyone else. It feels like James knows every inch of her and can read her every thought, knowing just what to do at just the right time to get her whining and moaning beneath him. 

Without removing his mouth, James releases her wrist and slips free of his jacket, tossing the clothing somewhere in the room. She grinds up against his nose, relentless, as James undoes the buttons of his shirt, the fabric falling open to expose dark chest hair and firm muscle. The sounds of his mouth against her wet core would be humiliating if she didn’t find it so provocative.

“James,” she begs. She needs to be full of him. She has never wanted anything more in her life. A finger, his tongue—anything.

Her fake engagement ring shines with her hand in his hair. 

James kisses her thigh before rising, the sudden loss of his mouth devastating. She gasps, hands reaching up to slip beneath his shirt, desperate for contact. His skin is hot enough to burn, but she pulls him in, greedy for more of him. She worries it’ll never be enough.

He works at unlacing her corset as she pulls on his pants, slipping the button free and drawing the pants down. Her nails trace along his ribs as she loops her arms around him, forcing him nearer. James sheds his shirt. “You’re beautiful,” he’s saying, his voice slurred, and when he kisses her, she tastes herself on his tongue.

[Name] sits up from the table, dizzy. She scoots to the edge of the table and loops an arm around his neck, fingers returning to his hair as they kiss, James slipping his cock from drawers. He falls hot and heavy against her thigh and she’s already shaking, desperately impatient, and James laughs, the sound aching, before he lines himself up and presses into her.

They gasp, their kiss halted by the sudden intrusion. Their lips brush, open-mouthed, as she adjusts to the size of James, steadily pushing deeper and deeper. He’s thick and long, stretching her open until every thought has left her. Her head falls back with a soft, “Fuck.” James buries as deep as he can before stopping, letting them catch their breath. 

Then he moves. 

He rocks out of her before bullying his way back in, leaving her a trembling mess. She clutches his bicep as she meets his every thrust, the next somehow always better than the last. They move in a rhythm that comes naturally, like their bodies have waited an eternity for this. Like a dance.

“Doing so well,” he whispers. He’s groaning at the slide of her. “Just made for me, darling.”

That fucking voice really isn’t helping her regain her sanity. 

With her corset loose around her middle, James’s mouth lowers to her breast, catching a nipple between his lips. She moans, her thighs trembling, hardly able to think. He knows just what to do, how to undo her entirely. He smiles around her nipple, the pleasure blinding. She grinds harder.

James lifts her from the table and she gasps, clutching onto him. His cock stays in her as he carries her to and drops her onto the bed, the mattress creaking beneath their weight. His fingers clasp with hers and hold her hand beside her head as he fucks her harder, whispering in Gaelic the entire time. She flushes at his attention and the thunderous rumble of his voice. When he rubs her clit, urging her to oblivion, it is all too easy.

Her back arches and her nails dig into his back, leaving red marks as she squeezes him tight, moaning and crying out his name. James fucks her through the blinding pleasure, telling her just how good she feels, how beautiful she is. How long he has wanted her. 

Tears slip down the sides of her head as James finishes moments later, a beautiful sound slipping from his mouth as warmth fills her. 

She doesn’t know if she has ever been happier.

They catch their breath for a couple of minutes, recovering. James’s nose brushes against hers as he stares into her eyes, his own half-lidded, pleased and tired. His smile is lazy, and achingly beautiful. “What is it again?” His voice is a wreck. He swallows, clearing his throat. “‘‘To the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach.’”

She wonders if her smile is just like his: besotted and dazed. “Wait until I tell the world how much of a romantic you are, James Moriarty.”

His smile widens. The tip of his nose teases hers. “Aye, but they’ll never believe you,” he says. “Only you get to see me like this, mo chroí.” Brushing a fresh tear from her cheek, James can’t help stealing another kiss.

[itskindofablur]

a man who says grace before eating pussy: