"Oh, how I love being a woman"

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[sintaera]

𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 | 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

Baelor accidentally reads your diary and discovers the vulnerable desires you never dared confess. Instead of judgment, he offers understanding, honesty, and a promise to cherish every hidden part of your heart—and starting it with bending you over his desk.

WARNINGS; explicit sexual content, baelor does indeed bend you over a desk, he is not subtle, possession, rough sex and then gentle sex, minors dni.

NOW EXCUSE ME WHILST I WATCH WALKING WITH DINOSAURS BECAUSE OUR MAN HERE IS THE FUCKING NARRATOR!

The sunlight of King's Landing filtered through the high, arched windows of the Tower of the Hand, casting long, golden rectangles across the polished mahogany of the great desk.

Dust motes danced in the stillness of the solar, swirling around stacks of parchment and heavy leather-bound ledgers. Baelor Targaryen sat in the high-backed chair, his broad shoulders filling the space.

He had spent the morning immersed in reports from the Reach and the Stormlands, his mind a disciplined machine of statecraft and duty.

Beside a stack of tax records lay a small, unassuming book bound in pale blue leather. It was not a ledger, nor was it a history of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was yours.

You had left it behind in your haste to attend the midday meal with the Queen, a lapse in caution that you would soon regret.

Baelor had no intention of invading your privacy. He respected you, loved you with a quiet, steady intensity, and viewed you as the sanctuary of his life. He had reached for a scroll, but his hand brushed the blue leather, and the book fell open.

His eyes scanned a page of looping, elegant script. He intended to close it immediately, to preserve the sanctity of your inner thoughts.

Then, his gaze snagged on a single sentence.

I crave the weight of him, not as a lover who asks permission, but as a master who claims his prize; I want him to bend me over the very desk where he writes his laws and fuck me until my legs fail and I cannot walk.

Baelor froze. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, heavy with a heat that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. He stared at the words, reading them again, then a third time.

The image flashed through his mind, you, his sweet, soft-spoken wife, the woman who blushed when he kissed her neck in public, pinned against the wood, your breath hitching in a way that wasn't caused by gentleness.

He turned the page and then the next.

The diary was a map of your hidden hunger. You wrote of the way his broad chest made you feel small and fragile, and how that fragility sparked a desperate need to be overpowered.

You wrote of the silence between you in the bedroom, the polite, tender exchanges of pleasure that left you satisfied but longing for something more visceral.

You described the fantasy of his calloused hands gripping your hips, the sound of your own whimpers turning into screams, and the sight of him losing the legendary Targaryen composure to the raw, animal heat of desire.

Baelor felt a slow, pulsing throb begin in his groin. His trousers tightened, the fabric straining against the sudden hardness of his cock. He had always treated you with a reverence that bordered on the sacred.

He feared his own strength, the sheer physicality of his frame, and he had spent their marriage tempering his passion to ensure he never overwhelmed you. He had been the perfect husband; patient, kind, and careful.

He looked at the desk. He looked at the heavy oak surface, the inkwells, the scattered papers. He imagined you there. He imagined the sound of your skin slapping against the wood, the scent of your arousal mixing with the smell of old parchment.

A small, predatory smile touched his lips. He closed the book with a soft thud and set it exactly where he had found it, though he did not move from the chair.

He waited.

The sound of your footsteps echoed in the hallway, light and hurried. The heavy oak door creaked open, and you stepped inside, your silk gown of pale cream shimmering in the light. You stopped short when you saw him, your chest rising and falling in a quick rhythm.

“Baelor,” you breathed, your voice soft. “I realized I left my journal here. I hope you didn't...”

You trailed off, your eyes falling on the blue leather book. Baelor did not speak. He simply watched you, his mismatched eyes dark, the pupils dilated until the blue and brown of his irises was a thin, shimmering ring.

The intensity of his gaze pinned you to the spot. “Did you see it?” you asked, your voice trembling as you took another step into the room, eyes wide and lips parted.

Baelor stood up. He was a towering presence, his silhouette blocking out the sun. He moved toward you, not with his usual measured grace, but with a slow, deliberate prowl. Each step sounded like a heartbeat against the stone floor.

“I saw many things,” Baelor said. His voice had dropped an octave, vibrating with a low, gravelly resonance that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “I saw things my sweet, innocent wife had been hiding from me.”

“I... I didn't mean for you to read that,” you whispered. “It was just... fantasies.”

Baelor stopped inches from you. The heat radiating from his body was an oven, smelling of cedar, expensive ink, and masculine musk.

He reached out, his large hand wrapping around the nape of your neck. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm, possessive, leaving no room for retreat. He tilted your head back, forcing you to look up into the storm of his expression.

“Fantasies,” he repeated, his thumb brushing over your jawline. “You wrote that you didn't want softness. You wrote that you wanted to be claimed.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “Baelor...”

“Do you still want it?” he asked, his voice a low command. “Do you still want your husband to stop being gentle?”

You couldn't speak, but could only nod, a small, frantic movement. The admission broke the last shred of his restraint.

You backed away, your heels clicking against the floor, until the small of your back hit the edge of the mahogany desk. You gasped, your hands flying up to your chest. The panic in your eyes was there, but beneath it, a spark of electric anticipation ignited.

Baelor's hand shifted from your neck to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip. With one sudden, powerful motion, he gripped your shoulders, spun you around and shoved you forward.

You let out a sharp cry as your stomach hit the mahogany desk. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and you found yourself sprawled across the wood, your chest pressed against the cool surface, your hips tilted upward.

The position was vulnerable, exposing and raw.

“Look at the desk,” Baelor commanded, his voice right at your ear. “Look at where you wanted this to happen.”

You looked, your vision blurring as you saw the inkwell wobble from the force of your landing. You felt his body press against your back, a wall of hard muscle and heat.

He didn't kiss you.

He didn't whisper sweet nothings, but instead, he reached down and gripped the hem of your cream silk gown.

The sound of fabric rending filled the room. He didn't slide the dress up; he tore it. The silk groaned and gave way, ripping from the waist down to your thighs.

The cool air of the solar hit your bare skin, making your nipples harden against the desk. You whimpered, a sound of pure, unadulterated want.

“You've been so quiet in our bed,” Baelor murmured, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “So polite. I wondered why you always seemed to be holding something back.”

He reached around, his hand sliding between your thighs, he did not tease, he did not linger, but without warning, he had pushed aside your smallclothes and shoved two thick fingers deep into your heat, finding you already drenched.

The sound was a wet, visceral squelch that echoed in the quiet room. “You're soaking,” he noted, his voice devoid of its usual softness. “You've been thinking about this while I was reading reports. While I was playing the dutiful prince.”

He withdrew his fingers and you felt the sudden absence like a wound. You arched your back, your hips instinctively seeking him.

“Please,” you gasped. “Baelor, please.”

“Please what?” he asked, his hand moving to grip your hair, pulling your head back so you had to look at him over your shoulder. “Tell me exactly what you want, since you were so brave in your writing.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you sobbed, the shame melting into a fierce, burning desire. “I want you to take me. Hard. Don't be gentle. Please, don't be gentle.”

Baelor let out a low, guttural growl. He reached for his belt, the leather creaking as he unbuckled it with efficient, hurried movements. He shoved his breeches down, and you heard the heavy thud of his cock springing free.

You didn't have to see it to know the size of him; you could feel the heat radiating from the length of him as he pressed it against the crack of your ass.

He was massive, a thick, pulsing vein thrumming against your skin. He didn't use lubrication; he didn't need to. Your own arousal was a slick lubricant, coating your folds. Baelor gripped your hips, his fingers bruising your skin, and aligned the head of his cock with your opening.

He thrust.

The entry was a violent, singular motion. You screamed, a loud, echoing sound that would have shocked anyone outside the door, but in this room, it was the only music that mattered. He buried himself in you in one go, his cock stretching your walls to the absolute limit.

The sensation was overwhelming, a mixture of pressure and piercing pleasure that made your vision go white.

You felt the air being pushed out of your lungs as your chest slammed back down onto the desk. Baelor didn't give you time to adjust. He began to move, his thrusts deep and punishing.

Shlick. Squelch. Slap.

The sounds of their union were loud and vulgar. Each time he drove forward, his balls slapped hard against your perineum, a rhythmic, meaty thud that vibrated through your entire body. The friction was intense, the head of his cock rubbing against your cervix with every deep plunge.

“Is this what you wanted?” Baelor roared, his composure entirely gone. “Is this the weight you craved?”

“Yes!” you shrieked, your fingers clawing at the mahogany, leaving scratches in the expensive wood. “Yes, more! Harder!”

Baelor obliged as he shifted his grip, hooking his arms under your armpits and pulling your upper body slightly off the desk, angling your pelvis to take him even deeper.

The change in angle allowed him to hit a spot deep inside you that made your toes curl and your mind fracture.

The pace accelerated, for he was no longer a prince; he was a predator, a dragon claiming its hoard, his thrusts became frantic, overzealous, the force of his movement caused him to slip out almost entirely, the wet, sucking sound of his cock leaving your body echoing in the room, only for him to slam back in with a force that made the desk slide several inches across the stone floor.

“Gods, you're so tight,” Baelor groaned, his voice a ragged edge. “You're squeezing me... you're trying to drain me dry.”

You couldn't answer as you were lost in a sea of sensation. The feeling of the hard wood beneath you and the hard man behind you created a vice of pleasure. You could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead onto your back, the saltiness of it mixing with the scent of sex.

He began to grind his hips, his pubic bone smashing against your backside with every stroke. The friction on your clitoris, though indirect, was enough to send you spiraling. You felt the tension building in your lower belly, a coil of heat tightening until it was unbearable.

“I'm... I'm going to...” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“Not yet,” Baelor commanded, his voice a low snap. He reached around and gripped your clit between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it with a brutal, fast intensity.

The combination was too much. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, a series of violent spasms that gripped your internals, squeezing his cock in rhythmic waves. You wailed, your body shuddering, your head tossing from side to side as the pleasure ripped through you.

Baelor let out a choked sound, his own climax imminent. He stopped the grinding and went back to the deep, piston-like thrusts, each one more desperate than the last. He was panting, his breath coming in ragged gulps, his muscles corded and straining.

“Fuck, look at what you have done to me, my sweet girl, I intend to fill you to the brim with my seed and take you over and over again," he groaned, the words almost a plea.

With one final, devastating thrust, Baelor buried himself to the hilt. He stiffened, his entire body locking up as he erupted. You felt the hot, thick jets of his seed hitting your cervix, filling you to the brim.

He didn't pull away, he stayed pinned inside you, his chest heaving against your back, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your spine.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of their synchronized, labored breathing. The room felt different, the air charged, the sanctity of the solar replaced by something primal and honest.

Slowly, Baelor began to relax. He didn't pull out immediately. He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the nape of your neck, his lips soft and warm. The contrast was jarring, the sudden return of the gentle husband after the storm of the master.

He slid out of you with a wet, lingering pop. You collapsed onto the desk, your limbs feeling like lead, your breath still coming in shallow hitches. You were shaking, a fine tremor running through your muscles.

Baelor stepped back and looked at you. Your dress was ruined, your hair a wild tangle, your skin flushed a deep rose. You looked broken, claimed, and utterly satisfied.

He reached down and picked up the blue leather diary. He didn't hand it back. Instead, he tucked it under his arm. “I think I'll keep this for a while,” Baelor said, his voice returning to its princely calm, though a hint of the gravel remained. “I find I have a sudden interest in your... literary pursuits.”

You rolled onto your side, looking up at him. You felt a strange mixture of vulnerability and empowerment. The secret was out, and instead of judgment, you had found a hunger that matched your own.

“You read the whole thing?” you whispered.

Baelor smiled, a slow, knowing expression. He reached down and offered you his hand, pulling you up from the desk with effortless strength and as you stood, you felt the warmth of his seed leaking from you, a sticky reminder of the last hour.

You tried to take a step toward him, but your knees buckled, your legs truly unable to support your weight.

Baelor caught you, sweeping you into his arms and holding you tight against his chest. He looked down at you, his eyes shimmering with an affection that was now laced with a new, dangerous understanding. “You said you wanted to be unable to walk,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “I believe I have fulfilled the request.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. The Red Keep continued to hum with the business of the crown outside the door, but inside the solar, a new treaty had been signed.

“Will you do it again?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Baelor began to carry you toward the bedroom, his stride confident and strong. “My sweet, innocent wife,” he said, his voice vibrating through your chest. “I intend to spend the rest of our lives exploring every single page of that book.”

As he laid you down on the silk sheets of your bed, the sunlight had shifted, leaving the solar in shadow. But in the bedroom, the fire was just beginning to burn. Baelor stripped away the remains of your gown, his eyes roaming over your body with a possessive hunger that made you ache all over again.

He didn't start with kisses. He started by pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

“Now,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. “Tell me what else you wrote. Tell me everything you've been craving while I was being a gentleman.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he silenced you with a kiss, not a gentle one, but a deep, demanding exchange of saliva and heat.

His tongue pushed into your mouth, claiming your space, sucking on your tongue with a hunger that mirrored the act on the desk. You moaned into the kiss, your hips lifting instinctively, searching for the hardness you knew was waiting for you.

He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down to your throat, biting softly at the sensitive skin.

“I want to hear you say it,” he commanded.

“I want... I want you to take me however you want,” you gasped, your voice trembling. “I want to be yours, completely, no more politeness and no more hesitation.”

Baelor paused, his gaze locking onto yours. The love in his eyes was still there, but it was now intertwined with a raw, dominant energy that made you feel like the only woman in the world.

“As you wish,” he said.

He moved down your body, his hands exploring every curve, every fold, with a renewed sense of purpose. He spent a long time with his tongue, tasting you, swirling around your clit until you were sobbing and begging for him to fill the void.

He played you like an instrument, knowing exactly where to press, how to suck, and when to tease and when he finally entered you again, it wasn't with the violence of the desk, but with a slow, agonizing deliberation. He pushed inside inch by inch, watching your face as you stretched to accommodate him. He wanted to see the pleasure, the slight pain, and the utter surrender in your eyes.

The sex in the bed was different, longer, more intimate, but no less intense. He explored every position, bending you, twisting you, making sure you felt every single inch of him.

He was attentive to your needs, but he dictated the pace, the rhythm, and the depth, his cock dragging deliciously through every crevice within the warmth of your cunt. “Fucking take it,” Baelor groaned into your ear, “This is what you wanted, isn't it? I am but a husband fulfilling his sweet wife's desires, so do not fucking hide from me, as you've learnt what I am capable of when you hide from me.”

Your breath hitched, a broken sob of pleasure escaping your lips as Baelor’s words sank in. The threat wrapped in affection was a catalyst, sending a fresh surge of heat flooding your pussy.

You arched your back, pressing your chest hard against the sheets, offering yourself up to him completely. You didn't dare hide; the memory of his previous punishments, the way he broke your resolve until you were begging for mercy, was enough to keep you wide open and trembling.

Baelor didn't give you a moment to recover. He gripped your hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into your skin to anchor you as he shifted his angle.

He withdrew almost entirely, the head of his cock teasing the very entrance of your cunt, before slamming back inside with a wet, heavy thud that knocked the air from your lungs.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice a low vibration against your skin. “Shaking for me. So desperate to be filled.”

He began to drive into you with a relentless, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was calculated, designed to hit that part of you that made your eyes cross together with brutal precision.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a rhythmic percussion to your whimpers. He wasn't just fucking you, he was claiming every inch of your interior, stretching you wide and filling you to the absolute limit.

As he hammered into you, Baelor reached around, his large hand finding your clit and grinding against it with a firm, demanding pressure. The dual stimulation was overwhelming. You felt your walls pulsing, clamping down on his thick shaft in tight, involuntary spasms.

“That's it, squeeze me,” he hissed, his pace accelerating into a frenzied blur of friction and heat. “Take every fucking inch of it. Let me feel how much you need your husband.”

You were spiraling, the tension building in your lower belly until it became an unbearable ache.

You tried to push back against him, seeking more of that crushing depth, but he shifted his weight, pinning you flat and asserting total control over the movement.

He slowed down for a heartbeat, dragging his cock slowly, agonizingly, through the slick walls of your pussy, savoring the way you whimpered in frustration.

Then, he surged forward one last time, burying himself deep enough to touch your cervix. He held himself there, pulsing inside you, as he felt your orgasm shatter through you in violent waves.

“Baelor!” you screamed into the pillow, Baelor let out a guttural roar, his own release hitting him as he pumped load after load of hot cum deep into your womb, filling you to overflowing while he held you pinned, ensuring you felt every drop of his dominance.

Hours later, as the moon rose over the Blackwater Bay and cast a silvery glow over the Red Keep, you lay entwined in his arms. You were exhausted, your body humming with a lingering electricity, your skin smelling of salt and sex.

Baelor held you close, his chin resting on the top of your head. He was quiet, his breathing steady and calm. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

You shifted, feeling the soreness in your hips and the pleasant ache in your core. You smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest. “I've never been better,” you replied.

He tightened his grip, a small, possessive gesture. “Good,” Baelor whispered. “Because I've been thinking about the chapter where you mentioned the gardens. I think it's time we started a new entry.”

You shivered, not from cold, but from the thrill of knowing that your husband, the perfect prince, had finally discovered the darkness you carried and that he loved it even more than he loved the light.

The Tower of the Hand had always been a place of law and order, but for the first time in its history, it had become a sanctuary for the beautifully undone.

“I am still keeping it.”

[faelinda]

not sure if you are still taking requests but this idea of Maekar’s new (controversially young) naive wife is with him for the first time at the red keep. She’s indulged in a bit too much wine and other lords are acting as if she is an unspoken for lady.

Maybe I just like to see Maekar be both possessive and protective lol!

Prince Maekar x Tyrell!reader

WC: 900

TW: Hurt/comfort, implied attempted SA, protective!Maekar, a bit of vomit, possessive behavior, threat of violence, age gap

"Please, Ser, I am spoken for," you whispered, trying to push Osfrey Bracken away. You tripped over your slippered feet, wondering why this man was advancing upon you.

"Yet here you are, all by yourself, little flower." His breath stunk, his teeth half rotted, and it made your stomach sour.

You didn't remember following him down this hall. The amber glow from the flames flickering in their braizers along the wall made you dizzy. Hazy memories unrecalled. Too much Arbor Gold. Barrels of it gifted by your mother's side to celebrate your wedding to Prince Maekar Targaryen and it overflowed in the Great Hall. Another deep voice spoke from behind you, and your blood ran cold. Armen Peake, his hand sliding over your waist, trapping you between the two men. How brazen they were, how cruel, to do this during the celebration feast. The wedding had taken place privately two nights past, and now King Daeron the Good held the feast.

Oh Gods, no, please. Mother, I beg for your mercy and protection.

"You dare lay hands on my wife?" Maekar growled, withdrawing his sword as his boots clacked against the stones beneath his feet.

"My Prince! No, no, we were merely helping the lady find her way back to the feast," Armen said.

"She wished to show us around Maegor's Holdfast," Osfrey smirked.

Your eyes went wide, locking with Maekar, who opened one arm, and you went running into it, tucking yourself against his side. All you could do was tremble and hold onto him, hoping he would not believe the vile lies sliding from their mouths.

"The only thing keeping me from slicing off your cocks and shoving them into your repulsive mouths is that my father and brother would not want blood spilled in the Keep, but be assured, they will be hearing of this matter. It is not forgotten that you sided with the bastard pretender," Maekar growled. He sheathed his sword before bending down, pressing against your belly before tossing you over his shoulder and carrying you to the chambers.

You were breathless for a few moments, nausea swirling in your belly, and you could not help but make a soft retching sound.

"Dear wife, please do not dispose your sick onto me," Maekar huffed.

You squeezed your eyes shut, kept your mouth closed until he got you safely into the privacy of your shared chambers, and he carefully placed you onto a nearby chair. He grabbed the metal basin and pressed it into your hands. That's when it all came toppling up along with your tears and fears.

"You think me foolish and naive," you sobbed, and he raised a brow, stunned by the words. He thought no such thing. Well, mayhaps he thought you a bit naive, but you were young, barely a woman of one and twenty.

"I think you had too much to drink, and two villainous men took advantage of such," he responded, removing his belt and setting it along with his scabbard aside.

You sniffled. "You do not believe them?"

Maekar scoffed. "A Bracken and a Peake? I'd sooner throw them out a window, watch them land on the spikes. Their houses are a blight on the kingdoms."

He prepared two cool cloths from the ewer of water and used one to wipe up your face with before laying the other across your forehead.

"I have ruined our celebration," you pouted, the adrenaline slowly seeping from your system and the pleasant effects of the wine wearing off, leaving you feeling downtrodden and rather sorry for yourself.

His jaw twitched. "You have ruined nothing. Must I put you over my knee and smack sense into you, girl?"

You gasped. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I would," he smirked, slipping his hands beneath your pale green dress with golden rose brocade and squeezing your stockinged calves.

A terrifying yet thrilling threat.

"Not until I am feeling better," you sulked.

He hummed, sliding your skirts further up before rolling down your stockings to rub your feet. "Close your eyes."

That, along with the cool cloth, alleviated some of your ailments. You became silk in his hands as he pulled you to your feet and undressed you, changing you into your pale green nightdress and silken golden robe. Then he changed as well, draped in black and crimson silk. Your hair fell in loose ringlets around your shoulders, and he made you take a few sips of water.

"No more wine tonight, dear wife," he whispered before drawing you agaisnt his chest, stroking your hair.

"Thank you for coming to my rescue," you murmured against the tuft of white hair that clung to his muscular chest, left exposed from his nightshirt.

"Always, my little flower," he whispered, tilting your chin up and pressing a soft kiss to your flushed mouth. Oh, how you needed him to call you that. To chase away how horrid it sounded coming from Osfrey Bracken. Your husband reclaimed the sobriquet. Once again, he gathered you into his arms, holding you in his lap while resting in front of the fire. You breathed in the spice and citrus clinging to his skin with your face tucked into the curve of his neck. His fingers dug into your hip, knuckles blanching. You were his, and he'd make the whole kingdom run red with blood if another dared to lay hands on you.

Taglist: @deadonyouraccount @dixie-elocin @ghostlybfgf @samthegreenapologist

[youknowiloveyou-so]

One Night Only

Jack Abbot x fem!resident!reader

summary: Jack invites you on a date to the movie theater to watch one of the movies he used to watch with his sister. He plans to ask you to be his girlfriend.

content/warnings: fluff, implied age gap, nervous Jack, cute cute Dr. Abbot.

word count: 1.1k

a/n: it’s been a week since I published the last chapter of Heartbeat, so here’s a one-shot that has been circling my head for a few days. <3 I watched Fool’s Rush In the other day, and if you haven’t watched it yet, I highly recommend it. It’s one of my favorites.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Jack texts you the address of the theater like he’s confessing to a crime.

Jack: It’s a small place and the movie is old. You might hate it

Jack: We can just go somewhere else

Jack: Forget I said anything

You’re still in your scrubs, badge clipped crooked, laughing at your phone in the PTMC parking garage while the rest of the night shift staff filters out around you. Three weeks of stolen coffees and hallway glances and now actual, real dates, and he’s still nervous like this—like every time might be the one where you change your mind about him.

You type back before you can overthink it.

You: Jack. I have survived a 12 hour shift running on granola bars and spite. I can survive an old movie. Send me the location pls, I’ll be there ❣️

The theater turns out to be one of those single-screen places tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore, the kind of Pittsburgh spot you’d walk past a hundred times and never notice. The marquee bulbs are half burnt out.

He’s already there when you arrive, hands in his jacket pockets, and the second he sees you his whole face does something helpless and unguarded that he clearly doesn’t mean to let you see.

“Hey.” His voice comes out rougher than usual.

“Hey yourself.” You look up at the marquee.

FOOL’S RUSH IN — ONE NIGHT ONLY.

“Okay. Late 90’s rom-com. Bold choice, Abbot.”

“You know it?”

“I know of it. I was, what, one when it came out.” You watch his jaw tighten, anxious. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve checked your watch 4 times since I walked up.”

“That’s a medical habit. Occupational hazard.” But he’s fighting a smile, and he holds the door for you, and inside the theater is nearly empty… a scattering of other people, mismatched velvet seats, the kind of hush that only exists in old buildings that have outlived their purpose and don’t care. Inside it smells like butter, candy, and old dusty carpet with something underneath that might just be decades of other people’s first dates.

You end up in the back row because Jack Abbot, apparently, is a back-row person, and you don’t dislike that about him. Or anything whatsoever.

“So why this one,” you ask, once you’re settled, his arm already finding its way along the back of your seat like he can’t help it. “Out of every movie in the world.”

He’s quiet for a second. Current trailers are still running, throwing blue light across his face.

“My sister loved it. When I was in my residency, when I never had time for anything, she’d make me watch it whenever I came home. Said I needed at least one thing in my life that wasn’t a medical journal or a chart.” He shrugs. “Haven’t watched it in years but I saw it announced on my way to work and thought maybe—” He stops.

“Thought maybe what?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Jack.”

“I thought maybe I could watch again with another person I care about.” He says it fast, like ripping off a bandage, eyes on the screen instead of you. “That’s it. That’s the whole reason.”

You don’t say anything right away, because your chest has gone soft and full in a way you’re not used to, and you’re worried if you open your mouth it’ll come out as something bigger than you’re ready for. So instead you reach over and lace your fingers through his on the armrest, and you feel him exhale.

“I like it already,” you tell him. “And it hasn’t even begun.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The movie is exactly as ridiculous and charming as you’d expect. Las Vegas neon and impulsive marriage and two people who have no business being together making it work anyway.

The plot feels extremely relatable.

Almost at the end you find yourself humming along under your breath to It’s Now Or Never by Elvis Presley.

“You know this song?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I have an unreasonable amount of music knowledge from decades I wasn’t alive for. It’s a whole thing.”

He shakes his head, staring at you like you’ve short-circuited something within him. “That’s my exact music taste. That’s disturbing.”

“Weird disturbing, or regular disturbing?”

“Don’t,” he says, but he’s grinning now, wide and unguarded, the kind of grin that makes the almost 20 years between you feel less like a gap and more like a coincidence of timing. “You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m nervous.”

“You said you weren’t nervous.”

“I lied. Occupational hazard of that too, apparently.”

You laugh, and somebody in the row ahead shushes you both, and you spend the rest of the movie with your head on his shoulder and his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your hand, and it is, without question, the best old romcom you’ve ever seen.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The credits roll. The lights come up slowly, like they’re giving everyone a second to remember where they are.

Neither of you moves. A couple minutes pass and then he turns to look at you.

“That line,” Jack says, staring straight ahead at the blank screen like it’s easier than looking at you. “Near the end. Where he tells her he loves her so much it hurts and he realizes he doesn’t want the version of his life where he doesn’t take the chance on her—”

“I remember.” You do… it had landed somewhere under your ribs a few minutes ago and hadn’t left.

“I know it’s too soon but I’ve been thinking about that line for three weeks.” He finally turns to look at you, and for once there’s nothing careful in his expression, none of the hallway-glance restraint, just him. “I don’t want to live the version where I don’t ask. So. I’m asking. Be my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

It’s not smooth. It’s not the speech he probably practiced in his head on the drive over. It’s better than that, because you can tell it’s real and the same man who checked his watch four times and texted you three panicked messages about a movie theater, laid bare in the worst lighting a single-screen cinema in the middle of Pittsburgh has to offer.

“Yeah,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which feels like its own small miracle. “Of course. Yes.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting ages to do it properly, and somewhere behind you the ancient sound system is still playing the last few bars of the classical rendition of an old song neither of you can name.

And you think, for the first time, that you’d sit through every movie in the world if it meant more nights exactly like this one because you love him too. So much it hurts.

—

taglist: @lacy1986 @sparrowespresso @staygoldsquatchling02 @thefemininemystique @bruhitsmoose @bethexo07 @everythingabby101 @emma8895eb @lilacs97 @va4mermaids @violetdelrey007 @queen-honeybee-stories @orangecheescakeleftover @chris-tredidation21 @maystyles @ibleednavyandorange @lilykillco @malindacath @glamorizethechaos @lalarennt @camzslex @locaalolaa @ozwriterchick @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @lovesflourmorethananything

[hoe4hotchner]

scrolling your account for the car accident fic that I've been putting on hold and suddenly I see you sharing your hc about how hotch can't skate haha. I skate quite often so wouldn't it be cute if reader has been introducing jack to skating and usually a child is fast to learn lol so I'm positive he'd got it in no time, but then oh oh finding out that hotch can't skate? We gotta fix that right about now. (Oh and I think he would feel left out lol)

Also I've watch children teach their parents to skate and it's kinda funny because I feel like most of them isn't used to the concept of the parent not being able to do things due to how they're always the one teaching things. Jack is totally that!!! In his world hotch is probably the daddy can do it all type of person so switching the dynamic a little would be fun and freshh

Jack’s Best Student | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

WC: 1.9k

Warnings: Fluff

Summary: When Jack excitedly suggests his dad join their ice skating sessions, you discover a well-kept secret: Aaron Hotchner can’t skate.

A/N: I swear, I did not mean for 1,5 months to pass between fics. 🫣 But I'm almost done with all the school stuff now. I leave for Kenya Saturday next week and after that have a tiny exam at the end of June and then I'm off until august.

The apartment smelled like pine-scented cleaning solution when you and Jack tumbled through the door, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

Late afternoon light filtered through the windows, catching on the stray snowflakes still clinging to your jackets. Your skates were still slung over your shoulder, the laces tangled together, while Jack’s were slung over your other shoulder.

Jack’s helmet dangled from his small hand like a hard-earned trophy, when in reality, you had been adamant about buying him one to protect his head while he was still learning to balance properly.

“Dad!” Jack called out, his voice bright with excitement as he kicked off his boots with far more energy than a six-year-old should have after two full hours on the ice. One boot landed with a thud against the wall, and the other skidded across the floor. “You should’ve seen me today! I can do crossovers now! Like, real ones! Y/N says I’m a natural. I went so fast around the corner I almost caught up with the big kids!”

Hotch appeared from the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a dish towel slung over one broad shoulder. The soft domestic sight of him, knowing he had spent the quiet afternoon cleaning the whole house, dark hair slightly mussed from running his hand through it every now and then. He looked every bit the man you’d fallen for, even while holding the plate he had been drying instead of case files.

He arched an eyebrow at Jack’s breathless announcement, the expression fond and just a little amused. “Crossovers, huh?” His voice was low, carrying a rich timbre, one that seemed to settle something deep inside you. “Should I be worried you’re going to join the NHL before you’re ten?”

Jack grinned, all gap-toothed confidence and rosy cheeks. “Maybe! But you could come next time, Dad. Y/N can teach you too. She’s really good. Like, super good. She showed me how to spin and everything, but I’m not good at that yet.”

You caught the exact second the suggestion landed.

Hotch’s expression stayed mostly neutral. Classic Hotchner poker face firmly in place, but you knew him too well. There was a brief flicker in those dark eyes. A tiny hesitation. The man who could stare down serial killers and negotiate with the worst humanity had to offer suddenly looked vaguely uncomfortable at the mere mention of ice skates and frozen lakes.

You tilted your head, studying him with growing curiosity. “You can skate, right?”

A beat of silence stretched between you.

Jack’s eyes went comically wide. “Dad?”

Hotch cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck in that rare, boyish way he did when he was caught off guard. “It’s been… a while.” Meaning no.

“Dad,” Jack repeated, utterly scandalized by his dad’s admission, like he’d just learned the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus weren’t real. “You can’t skate?”

“I didn’t say I can’t,” Hotch replied carefully, but the way he avoided both your gazes said otherwise. His eyes flicked briefly to the window before settling somewhere over your shoulder. “I simply haven’t had much occasion to.”

You bit your lip hard to keep from laughing. It was unfairly, heartbreakingly adorable the way the big, bad BAU Unit Chief was brought low by the idea of frozen water and sharp blades.

Jack stared at his father like he was seeing him in a whole new light. “But… you’re good at everything.”

The following weekend, you dragged him to the outdoor rink anyway.

Jack had been vibrating with excitement since finding out at breakfast that his dad would be joining your outing. He insisted on helping pack the bag, carefully layering in extra gloves, a thick wool scarf, and the ridiculous fuzzy hat with the oversized pom-pom you’d bought specifically to watch Hotch’s long-suffering sigh when his son eventually would beg him to put it on.

The lake was picture-perfect when you arrived. Snow dusted the evergreen trees like powdered sugar, and delicate flakes still drifted lazily from the pale sky. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and rich, and spiked hot cocoa from the nearby stand. Near picture perfect, like one of those Christmas Hallmark movies you enjoyed watching when no one was looking.

Hotch stood at the edge of the rink in a pair of skates rented from the stand, looking unfairly attractive even while clearly regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. His coat hugged his broad shoulders, and his dark hair ruffled in the cold breeze, nose and cheeks already reddening.

Years of tactical training gave him impeccable balance on solid ground, but the second the blades of his skates touched the slick ice, his ankles wobbled traitorously, and he quickly bowed forward, stretching his arms out, trying to regain some semblance of balance.

Jack, already gliding in confident little circles like a tiny prodigy, came to a smooth stop in front of his father. He planted his hands on his hips in a pose that was so comically Hotch-coded that it made your heart melt. Because it truly was a like father, like son moment… despite his son being a hundred times better at skating.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Jack said, voice full of earnestness. “I’ll teach you. First, you gotta balance.”

He sounded so serious, so much like a miniature version of Hotch himself explaining a new case they’d been requested for or giving a briefing out in the field, that you had to turn away and pretend to adjust your laces just to hide your laughter.

“Step one,” Jack continued, skating backward with surprising grace, his small frame moving with natural ease. “Bend your knees a little. Like when you’re looking at clues real close.”

Hotch’s lips twitched in amusement. He bent his knees.

“Step two: gliding forward,” Jack instructed, demonstrating with an exaggerated push. “Just… push and glide. Don’t think too hard.”

Hotch pushed. The glide lasted all of half a second before his left foot slid out dramatically and caught a dent in the ice. He caught himself quickly on your shoulder when you rushed up next to him to make sure he didn’t fall completely.

You slipped your arm through his and pressed close. “You’re overthinking it, honey,” you murmured, voice warm with affection. “Stop profiling the ice. It’s not an unsub.”

“I’m not…” Hotch started, clearly prepared to defend his pride, but the words cut off when Jack let out a bright, unrestrained giggle. The sound of his son laughing at him seemed to short-circuit something in Hotch’s brain. For a split second, he looked genuinely offended, before the reluctant, crooked smile finally won out.

Jack zipped over immediately and grabbed his father’s other gloved hand. “It’s okay if you’re not good at it yet,” he said, suddenly gentle in that sweet way only children can manage. “I wasn’t good at first either. Remember when I kept falling on my butt? You told me it was okay to fall as long as you get back up.” He looked up at you as he spoke the last part.

Hotch’s expression softened instantly. The role reversal hit him square in the chest; you could see it in the slight widening of his eyes, the way his throat worked. For once, he wasn’t the all-knowing, all-capable dad who could fix or teach anything. He was just… Dad. Wobbly on skates. Holding his little boy’s hand for support.

“Alright, Coach,” Hotch said, voice rough with affection as he looked down at Jack. “Show me again.”

The next twenty minutes were pure chaos and delight.

Jack took his teaching duties extremely seriously, demonstrating each movement with dramatic arm gestures and serious little nods. He skated circles around his father, offering constant encouragement. You stayed glued to Hotch’s side, one hand resting on his lower back, steadying him through the inevitable slips and wobbles. Every time he nearly ate ice, the three of you dissolved into laughter.

At one point, Hotch managed a real, albeit shaky, glide of three whole feet without grabbing onto your arm.

Jack threw his arms up and cheered as if his father had just won the Stanley Cup. “You did it! See? You’re doing great, Dad!”

Hotch looked down at his son, eyes shining with a mix of pride and something a little overwhelmed. The vulnerability in that moment was breathtaking. He reached out and “slapped” the top of Jack’s helmet. “I had an excellent teacher.”

Later, as the sun began its slow descent behind the snow-dusted trees, the three of you finally claimed a quiet bench near the edge of the lake. Your legs were pleasantly tired, the satisfying ache of a day well spent settling into your muscles.

The cold had deepened, but it only made the warmth between you feel more precious.

You pulled the thermos from the bag, unscrewing the lid to release a cloud of sweet, chocolatey steam. Mini marshmallows bobbed gently in the rich cocoa you’d prepared that morning, knowing that Jack couldn’t drink the chocolate from the stand.

Jack climbed onto the bench beside his father, his little legs swinging happily, cheeks flushed a bright, healthy pink from hours in the crisp air. Hotch was settled in the middle, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and pulling you snugly into his side. The warmth of him seeped through your coat, chasing away the last traces of chill.

Hotch accepted the warm cup you handed him, wrapping both hands around it. He took a slow, savoring sip, then let out a low, contented hum that seemed to vibrate through the bench and into your bones.

“Step four,” he murmured, lips brushing softly against your hair.

You blinked up at him, a smile already tugging at your mouth. “Hmm?”

He nodded toward the silly handwritten note you’d stuck on the fridge that morning. The steps were listed clearly:

Step 1: Balance

Step 2: Gliding forward

Step 3: Beating your son in a race around the lake without falling

Step 4: Hot chocolate

Hotch’s mouth curved into a gentle smile against your hair as he leaned into you, his breath warm. “I skipped a step, but I’m working on it,” he admitted, voice low and laced with quiet amusement.

Jack grinned around his own marshmallow-dusted upper lip, looking utterly pleased with himself. “We can come every weekend until you’re as good as me, Dad! I’ll even let you hold my hand the whole time if you need to.”

The pure, uncomplicated love in Jack’s voice made your heart swell. Hotch met your eyes, and the look he gave you was devastatingly soft. Grateful. Content. Peaceful. Yours.

“I’d like that,” Hotch said quietly. “Even though I don’t think I’ll ever get on Jack’s level.”

You leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, tasting the sweet richness of chocolate against his cold skin. “We’ve got you, baby,” you whispered against his lips. “All the steps. And all the hot chocolate you can drink.”

Jack made an exaggerated face, scrunching his nose. “Gross! You guys are always kissing.” But there was no real complaint in his voice, only the fond exasperation of a little boy who secretly loved seeing his dad happy.

He bounced on the bench a second later, energy never fully depleted. “Can we go skate one more time before we leave? Please?”

Hotch let out a theatrical groan, tilting his head back against the bench as if the idea physically pained him. But even as he complained, he was already shifting forward, placing his empty cup aside. He stood and offered you his hand, his ankles still a little uncertain on the blades, but the determination burning in those dark eyes was pure Aaron Hotchner: stubborn, resilient, and willing to keep showing up.

“Lead the way, Coach,” he told Jack, the affection in his voice unmistakable.

As Jack raced ahead with a triumphant whoop, you slipped your fingers through Hotch’s. He squeezed back immediately.

[lovebugism]

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE ─── jack abbot

summary: jack has been trying to get the pretty pediatric caseworker from upstairs to fall in love with him for weeks now. the only problem is, you have no idea that he's even into you. (4k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, dana evans

contents: sunshine!reader, slightly ditzy!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, humor, fluff, not proofread :P

FIC #4 / 20 FOR 20

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

PEDES CONSULT — CENTRAL 14.

The message scrolls across your pager on the elevator ride down to the bottom floor, where the chaos of the E.D. hits you before the doors have even opened. A monitor wails from somewhere inside the trauma bay. A nurse rushes by with a crash cart rattling violently against the tile. Someone in triage is crying; someone else is swearing. A thousand conversations fill the air until they turn into a dull roaring in your ears.

You enter like a sliver of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, weaving through the chaos with a practiced sort of ease. A pale blue cable-knit sweater bunches around your wrist, while a flowing ivory skirt patterned with delicate forget-me-nots sways around the tops of your sneakers with each step. You’re made of much softer stuff than the sterile brightness of the E.R. — like springtime washing over a war zone.

Robby and Jack stand together outside the closed door of Central 14. Exhaustion sits heavily in the former’s bearded face, weighed down with the regret of not clocking out an hour ago like he should’ve when he had the chance. The latter flips through the chart in his pale hands, scruffy features screwed in concentration until you enter into his eyeline.

He straightens almost instantly, hardly able to stay casual when it comes to you. “Little Miss Sunshine…” he greets with a cool grin, tucking the clipboard under his strong arm.

Your polite smile widens a little at the nickname. “You paged?”

“We’ve got a three-year-old girl. Suspected meningitis,” Robby briefs in a monotone, each word coated in a thick layer of fatigue. “High fever, lethargy, neck stiffness— labs are ugly, too.”

Your features soften instantly. “Oh, poor baby…”

Your eyes dart to the window. You catch only a sliver of the family through the edge of the curtain — young parents, likely in their early twenties, faking teary smiles for their sick baby, who sits in a too-big bed in a too-big hospital gown patterned with so many cartoon puppies.

“Parents are freaking out, obviously,” Jack adds gently, never once taking his eyes off of you. “We thought you could walk them through the admission process before we take her upstairs.” 

“Of course,” you nod, with a voice as gentle as you look.

Jack passes the clipboard over to you and allows his calloused fingers to brush your softer ones for a beat longer than probably necessary. Though if you notice it, you make no mention of it as you flip through the thin pages and follow behind Robby into the dim room. 

The chaos outside muffles when the door clicks shut behind you. 

A young mother — Nia, the form tells you — sits in a chair beside the bed with a wadded tissue clutched in her trembling hands. Her husband, Malcolm, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the long day all over, as his daughter curls lazily into his side. Ruby Turner is clammy with fever; her round eyes are heavy with it, too. And beneath her chubby arm, is a stuffed animal wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around its long neck.

“Hi, there…” you greet in a gentle lilt, crouching beside the bed until you’re eye level with the toddler, who eyes your warm smile with a weary suspicion. “I have to say, that is a very serious giraffe you’ve got there, Miss Ruby.”

The girl blinks back at you with sleep-weary eyes; the same dark brown as her mother’s. “Pickles,” is all she can make out through her hoarse throat. The words came out like dry gravel, which rattles harshly in her chest when she coughs hard a second later.

Her dad pats her gently on the back with a wide hand and flashes you a tired smile. “She named him Pickles,” he clarifies.

“Pickles?” you gasp. “I had a dog named Pickles when I was growing up— He looked a little like that one there.”

You motion to the shaggy white dog on her hospital gown. The girl tilts her curly head down and begins pointing at each puppy herself, aptly naming each of them Pickles. It’s the first time the child has been moderately alert, or otherwise has been willing to engage, since she arrived some hours ago. Watching you work feels a little like watching a magic trick.

“Sorry. Hi. I should probably introduce myself,” you laugh warmly and rise to full height again, shaking both of the parents’ hands. “I’m one of the pediatric caseworkers upstairs— My job is basically helping families know what’s happening next. You know, all the boring insurance details, and making sure you guys aren’t going through things alone.”

The mother nods, wiping her nose with the crumbled tissue in her fist. “So what happens now?” she asks, voice teary and trembling.

You nod with a polite smile. “Yeah, so the pediatric unit is gonna start preparing a room for her upstairs, so our doctors can give her the full evaluation she needs— They’ll probably monitor her over the next few nights, too, just to make sure everything’s okay. And you’ll be able to go with her once transport comes, of course, we’ll just need to get everything squared away with insurance while she’s getting tested.”

“So she’s gonna be okay?” the father presses, half-strangled.

You never lie to families. Not ever. It was, as you saw it, the golden rule in any hospital. Jack noticed that about you, too — because he couldn’t help but notice everything about you. But he saw how hopeful you were without ever being dishonest, without ever making promises you knew you could not keep.

“She’s exactly where she needs to be,” you answer carefully. “And she has the best doctors I know taking care of her now. You guys made a great decision by bringing her when you did.”

The mother beside you sniffles. Her exhale leaves her mouth in a quiet sob, which she buries behind her hands before her daughter can see her crying. It’s not quite sad — certainly not as much as it had been earlier that day — but rather it’s a cry of distant relief; the first time all day she hasn’t felt like the worst mother on the planet.

Robby exhales quietly through his mouth behind you — scruffy cheeks puffing, obviously eager to leave. Jack, however, just keeps on staring at you, as you turn back toward the little girl with your voice now lowered in a feigned sort of seriousness.

“Now, Miss Ruby, I’m gonna need your professional opinion on this, okay?”

The girl blinks slowly back at you.

“…Do you think Mr. Pickles needs his own hospital bracelet, too?”

Jack sees the young girl laugh for the first time all day when you’re helping her wrap a plastic arm band around the giraffe’s stuffed leg. It’s basically your superpower, the way you make all the terrifying things feel halfway manageable. By the time you’re stepping back out into the hallway, with Jack and Robby at your side, the family is a little bit steadier than they were before you arrived.

Jack eyes you up and down for a moment, before leaning in to nudge your shoulder with his broader one. Your soft sweater grazes his bare arm, and he gets a faint whiff of your pretty perfume before he leans away again.

“When did you get so good at that, huh?”

Your head whips to the side. You blink like an owl up at him “…At talking?”

“Sure, yeah,” he laughs. “At talking people off the ledge.”

“Oh.” You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug, then reach to pull the neck of your sweater back up again when it slips off your collarbone. “I don’t know, I just… try not to sound like a hospital brochure, I guess.”

“Hear that, brother?” Jack quips, reaching behind you to clap Robby on the shoulder. “Try not to sound like a hospital brochure next time, yeah?”

The older man says nothing. He just lifts his hand and scratches at his temple with his middle finger, discreetly flipping him off.

You laugh under your breath and head back towards the elevator, pretty skirt swishing around your ankles. “Try not to traumatize anyone while I’m gone, alright?”

“Can’t make promises like that down here, Sunshine,” Robby calls back. “You know that.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to think we should just keep you down here permanently,” Jack says with a lazy shrug. His freckled biceps flex slightly when he crosses them over his broad chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “You know, just— bring you into every room before the doctors go in. We’ll call you the Emotional Support Coordinator.”

“Oh, would you?” you scoff a faint laugh and hit the button for the upper floor. 

The doors part with a soft ding a second later. You step in through the threshold and turn to face him once more, giving him a much better view of the smile on your face.

“I mean, it’d certainly make me feel better,” he jokes.

“Well, you’re not the patient, Dr. Abbot,” you retort with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few more years before your geriatric assessment, right?”

“A few,” he echoes sarcastically, light eyes squinted. “My opinion still counts, though.”

You shake your head at him despite the soft grin still dancing on the edges of your mouth. “You’re funny, Dr. Abbot,” is all you say, as you press the panel on the inside of the lift. The doors whir when they slide shut; your grin remains visible between them until hatch closes just ahead of you.

Jack drops his head with a chest-deflating huff when you’re gone.

Robby tries and fails to choke back his laughter. 

“You are officially 0 for 6, brother,” the man jokes. He claps Jack on the shoulder, hard, as his dark eyes squint under the weight of his smiling. “It’s honestly getting a little painful now.”

Jack turns to flash him a deadpanned look. “Shouldn’t you be clocking out now?” he wonders in a monotone.

“Not anymore,” Robby scoffs. “It’s just starting to get fun.”

The pediatric floor was quieter in the mornings, you found, after switching to the day shift some weeks back. It was never truly silent, exactly, but it was still a little bit softer, as the panic from the overnight patients faded into a calmer sort of quiet. 

Cartoon reruns play quietly behind closed doors, while lively children’s music can be heard from further in the main area, down the hall to your right. A softer set of lullabies, meanwhile, plays more distantly from the nursery behind the double doors to your left. And, somewhere within the soft sanctuary of it all, a wailing baby is fighting a losing battle against taking their liquid medicine.

It’s all confetti to you, really, from where you sit behind the reception desk with three different charts open on the monitors ahead of you. 

There’s a highlighter in your hand, a pen behind your ear, a paper cup of cooling coffee between your teeth, and approximately fourteen unfinished tasks glaring at you from the computer screen. 

You have not yet properly woken up — the same way the sun has not quite yet risen over the horizon. Your hair has been haphazardly dealt with, for one. Your cherry-colored sweater is bunched awkwardly at your waist, for another, while the white button-up you wear beneath it sticks out over top of your plaid-patterned bottoms. You vaguely noticed that your socks were mismatched when you slid into your scarlet flats, but were much too tired to bring yourself to care.

You don’t even flinch when the phone rings beside you. You reach for it with your free hand without looking, missing twice before finally plucking the plastic from the hook.

“PTMC—” You falter when you realize you still have the paper cup between your teeth. You scramble to set it back on the desk with the hand not holding the phone. You clear your throat and try again. “PTMC Pediatrics— How can I help you?”

“Morning, Sunshine.” 

Jack’s low voice crackles from the other line. You can practically picture him downstairs in the E.D. just now — leaning against the workstation with a computer glowing before him; with his messy silver curls, and his tired blue-green eyes, and that stupidly handsome half-smile he gets every time he talks to you.

You’re smiling at the thought alone before you even realize it. 

“Dr. Abbot?” you answer. “Do you need something? What didn’t you just page me—”

“Weren’t you the one who said I can call just to say hi before you switched to the dark side?”

(The day shift, he means.)

You scoff quietly and lean back in your swivel chair. “Well, I guess, that is preferable to getting paged about sick babies, so… I’ll take it.”

“Wow…” Jack croons drily. “You always say the sweetest things to me, you know that?”

“Well, what can I say? I’m very charming before seven A.M.”

“I think you’re very charming all the time, Sunshine.”

You falter for a brief moment, unable to tell if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just being nice and you’re the weirdo for thinking otherwise. So you shake the thought from your head and change the subject entirely.

“You sound tired, old man— Isn’t it almost bedtime for you?”

“Almost…” His sigh crackles through the faint static of the landline. “But unfortunately, there’s this case manager upstairs who won’t stop distracting me…”

You exhale a frustrated huff, utterly oblivious as you begin to gossip with him under your breath. “Is Hastings bothering you, too? Because she’s been hounding me about clearing beds up here since I came in an hour ago.”

There’s a long beat of silence on the other line, filled by the sound of distant chatter from the E.D.

“…I’m talking about you, Sunshine,” Jack clarifies.

“Oh…” you trail off, face burning hot. Your brain scrambles further when the light starts flashing on your desk, another call waiting. “That’s, uh— Sorry. There’s— There’s just someone on the other line.”

“Oh.”

You tuck the phone between your shoulder and cheek, fingers whizzing across the keyboard as you type with practiced (only now slightly anxious) hands. “So if you wanna have a conversation, you’re gonna have to trek all the way up to pedes, unfortunately.”

“Damn…”

“Yep…” you hum absentmindedly. “It’s a real difficult journey. Very treacherous elevator ride.”

“Well, you’re making a pret-ty compelling argument here, Sunshine.”

“Goodbye, Jack,” you lilt with a big dumb grin on your face, that you hope isn’t as audible in your voice.

“See you soon, Sunshine.”

You think nothing of his words when you decline his call and take another. You hardly expect to see him now, not when he’s still wrapping up the long night and briefing the day shift that’s trickling slowly in downstairs. He’s about half an hour shy of going home and collapsing face-first into his mattress — and you’re hardly special enough to lose sleep over.

Jack, however, respectfully disagrees. 

And so does Dana, who saunters into the workstation to start her morning, only to find the man hanging up the desk phone with a lazy grin hinting at the edges of his mouth. 

“What’s that look for, huh?” she croons in place of a greeting, shrugging off the jean jacket she arrived in and spreading it on the back of her chair before her.

Jack looks up from where he’s shoving the phone back into its cradle. “What look?” he scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”

“Oh, you most certainly have a look,” she argues.

“I have a face, Dana.”

“Uh-huh,” the older woman deadpans, half-distracted, as she logs into the monitor ahead of her, with her glasses sitting low on her nose. “And right now, that face looks like you’re the main character at the climax of a Nora Ephron movie.”

“…What’s a Nora Ephron?” Jack wonders with furrowed brows.

The corner of Dana’s mouth lifts in a crooked half-smile as she peers at him over the top of her clear frames. “Go ask Little Miss Sunshine about it. She’ll tell ya.”

Jack’s light eyes narrow in a smug sort of look as he strolls slowly past her. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to go up there, Evans,” he quips. 

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were already on your way.”

There’s a newfound skip in his step, along with a faint limp in his prosthetic from the long shift, as he makes the elevator ride up to the pediatric floor — where he’s greeted instantly by soothing lullabies, children’s laughter, and reruns of old cartoons.

He’s swaddled instantly by the dim lighting and the soft warmth — both of which are rare to find in the cold, sterile chaos of the unrelenting E.D. just a few floors down. It’s like entering a whole new world when he steps out of the elevator.

Jack hears your voice, distant at first, but growing louder the further he treks down the hall. “No, I understand the policy, sir. You don’t have to explain it to me again—”

You exhale an annoyed sigh when the man on the other line prattles on, anyway, talking in a slow monotone as if you hadn’t understood him the first time. Despite your irritation, you perk instantly when Jack enters your vision, still in his black scrubs from the night shift, with a new exhaustion etched across his scruffy face.

He greets you with a tight-lipped smile anyway.

Your chest swells with a funny feeling accordingly.

“Sorry,” you mouth apologetically. “Just— one second.”

Jack waves a hand in your direction. “You’re fine,” he mumbles and turns away, idling awkwardly some feet away with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover. He marvels at the paintings on the walls, vivid scribbles from children of all ages, as he shifts on his weight — trying to relieve the distant pressure in his artificial limb.

You return to your phone call some feet behind him: “Yes, I get that. But this is a six-year-old going through extensive leukemia treatment— Delaying authorization for inpatient care would—”

You grumble an annoyed breath and drop your head into your hand when the man on the other line speaks over you once more. Jack glances over his shoulder at you, features softening instantly.

“—No, why should his parents waste their time fighting insurance, which should already be in place, by the way, when they could be spending it with their son? How is that fair?” you continue, obviously angry, but still so soft in your way. There’s a few seconds of silence as the person on the other line responds. You nod wordlessly to yourself at whatever they’re saying. “Yes, I will absolutely call back when your supervisor comes in— and every day until this is handled. Alright? Great. Bye…”

You set the telephone back on the hook with a huff.

“…Asshole,” you grumble around your breath, then get all sheepish again when your eyes find Jack’s. You cower under his softened stare. “Sorry… This insurance company’s trying to deny extended coverage for one of our oncology kids— because apparently compassion is illegal now, so…”

Jack musters a weak smile as he closes the distance between you. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

“Hopefully…” you sigh, a little embarrassed now, as you shrink further in your swivel chair. “So, uh... H-How was your shift?”

“Better now,” the older man croons, folding his arms along the countertop ahead of you, and leaning in until you can smell the cologne lingering on his skin — a mixture of leather and sandalwood.

“You’re such a suck-up, Dr. Abbot,” you say with squinted eyes.

His face twists into a look of faux-offense. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone trying to invite you out for lunch, now is it?”

You brighten instantly. “Wait, really? That sounds so fun! Are Shen and Ellis coming, too— I haven’t seen them in ages!”

Jack’s smile falters slightly at the edges. “Well… Well, no, ‘cause I.. I thought, you know, it’d be just us. You know, you and me. Like a date.”

You blink owlishly back at him. “Oh…”

“Unless— Unless you don’t want to—” Jack stammers, quickly losing his ground.

“Of course I want to!” you blurt, a little louder and a far quicker than you mean to. “I just… I didn’t— I didn’t realize that you, you know, that you… liked me.”

His brows lower in confusion because, to him, it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was into you. He’d spent months tripping over himself to get your attention, including the time he ran into a crash cart ‘cause he was too busy staring at you to notice that it was in his way.

A chuckle sputters suddenly from his mouth accordingly. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks! I mean, I’ve been calling up here just to talk to you since you changed shifts!”

“I thought you just liked bothering me!” you giggle in return, face burning hot.

“Yeah, well,” Jack tilts his silver head. “I do like bothering you, actually.”

“I like when you bother me, too…” you murmur sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s unwavering stare as you swivel anxiously back and forth in your chair. You catch yourself smiling wider than you realize when you tell him, “And lunch sounds great, by the way.”

“Great…” Jack exhales a breath he didn’t know that he was holding, that he feels like he’s been holding in for weeks now. “‘Cause Robby’s kinda been threatening to ask you out for me if I didn’t do it myself, so… Happy to save myself the embarrassment.”

Your eyes widen with a girlish sort of horror. “Wait— Robby knew?”

“Sunshine,” Jack grins. “I’m pretty sure the entire hospital knew.”

[jamesbbcrnes]

VIOLENT DELIGHTS

SUMMARY: bucky barnes is head over heels for a girl who could say i love you and simultaneously try to kill him in the same breath. (but don’t save him! he is exactly where he wants to be).

PARING: grumpy!reader x lovesick!bucky

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNINGS: lovesick!bucky, bucky is an idiot in love, fluff, weapons, suggestive comments, no use of y/n.

NOTE: it’s always grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader. i thought i’d switch it up ;) i’m not too sure how i feel about this tbh, but if i stare at it anymore i’ll go crazy </3

If someone was to tell Bucky Barnes two years ago that he’d fall hopelessly in love with a girl who was all flirty smiles, baked cookies and wore pretty pastel sundresses, respectfully?

He would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.

Now, if they were to tell that same Bucky Barnes that he’d fall hopelessly in love with a girl who threw knives for sport and had the permanent expression of I’m going to kill you and enjoy doing it on her face?

. . . Well, let’s be honest, he still would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.

But hey! At least this time they wouldn’t be wrong, but he’d never admit that to their face. Or to anyone else’s for that matter.

The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.

Honestly? That’s the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.

It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.

There’s no panic, there’s no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if he’s okay and spewing out apologies.

You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesn’t say you’re concerned, but rather you’re lucky.

“You good?” You ask simply.

Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.

He was doomed from the very start.

———

After your first encounter, he kept running into you.

In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.

Bucky’s the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.

This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.

“This is gonna hurt.” He says softly.

“I’ve had worse.” You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.

He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.

The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. That’s when Bucky asks you on a date.

And to his surprise? You say okay.

He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"

You shrug, "Sure, why not."

His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."

Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.

The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.

You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.

"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."

"You, uh— you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"

Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.

———

Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.

Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.

Bucky doesn’t deny it, not once— he can't. 

You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.

You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.

And he. . . doesn’t do anything.

Brain short circuits.

Bucky.exe has stopped working.

What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.

“You’re distracted,” You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.

“No shit,” Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, “Kinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.”

You shake your head, exasperated, “Always thinking with your downstairs brain.”

Bucky grins, “Only when it’s you.”

You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.

Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriend’s head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and you’re messing with him. He can’t be sure, and your expression doesn’t give anything away.

All Bucky knows is if it’s psychological warfare you’re playing at?

He’ll never win.

———

You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.

“Sam says I dress like I’m going to a funeral,” You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, “Who the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?”

Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.

A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, “Think he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.”

“I know what he meant,” You mutter, folding socks over each other so you don’t lose the pair, “The comment was uncalled for.”

Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you don’t. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones. 

"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.

"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.

"He's trying to get under your skin."

"He's annoying."

"Aggravatingly so."

You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.

"Bucky?" You say softly.

That tone of voice is never good.

That tone of voice means he's in trouble. 

He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting. 

Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"

You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"

His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"

You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"

Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes. 

He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."

You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"

Bucky doesn't say a word.

You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.

The look on your face says he's fucked up.

"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.

"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?" 

He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."

You hold the offender in your hand— a single red sock. Not even a pair.

"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."

At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.

"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."

Bucky nods solemnly.

"I did."

"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"

"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"

You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"

"I just— I missed the red sock!"

"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"

"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"

You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.

You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.

He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.

Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there. 

Love.

And it's for him.

And isn't that something special in itself?

"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."

You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.

"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .”

"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.

He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss you— slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt. 

Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.

Everything the two of you deserved to be.

"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.

"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."

"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."

You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."

You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight. 

If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.

He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest. 

Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.

Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.

But for right now? You can settle for this.

———

Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.

Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.

Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.

In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.

It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour. 

Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.

Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.

"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.

That alone could've made him melt.

His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep. 

Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more. 

He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.

———

You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.

He watches you move— dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.

Bucky sighs wistfully.

Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.

“She’s doing her job, Buck.”

Bucky huffs, “Yeah, but she looks good doing it.”

“Are you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.

Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.

You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side. 

He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoes— unconscious.

"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.

You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."

"What about me?"

"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.

"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.

And that's for him.

When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."

Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.

There's no place he'd rather be.

🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @juniebjonesin @kileyking @nightfirecomit + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!

[w1nter-fairy]

Operation: Get Barnes Laid!

main masterlist

pairing: tb*!Bucky Barnes x matchmaker!reader

summary: Bucky Barnes is one mission away from strangling his team, so naturally they do the reasonable thing: spend $800 on a matchmaking service as a prank. The plan? Humiliate him. The outcome? Not what they expected.

word count: 5.3 k

warnings: fluff, humor, idiots to lovers, mild language, mentions of violence (mission related), awkward dates, soft!bucky, teasing, light sexual innuendo, workplace boundaries (kind of... ignored), happy ending. (also, bucky sounds kinda pretentious because I just know that man is super smart, you'll get this when you get to this part) english is not my first language so I'm sorry if you see any mistypo/grammar error.

a/n: idk how I even came with this idea, lol, but I had something very clear: I wanted to post it in April Fools. also, who is this? Me not writing angst????? somebody call the police. I hope you enjoy it!

read on AO3

The warehouse was supposed to be empty. It wasn't.

"Fall back!" Bucky shouted into the comm, but Walker was already walking forward, his taco-shitty-shield raised like he had something to prove… which he always did.

The explosion took out the east wall. Bucky felt the shockwave before he heard it, tackling Yelena out of the debris field. When the dust cleared, Bob was pinned under a beam, and Walker was on his back, groaning.

"I said fall back," Bucky snarled, hauling Walker up by his tactical vest.

"I had it under control—"

"You had nothing under control. Bob almost died because you couldn't follow orders."

"Hey," Ava said, helping Bob to his feet. "Everyone's fine. Let's just—"

"Fine? We walked into a trap because someone" Bucky jabbed a finger at Walker. "—couldn't wait for recon."

"The intel said—"

"Well the intel was wrong. That's why we recon first." Bucky's voice was cold enough to frost the air. "Next time, maybe think before you rush in like an idiot."

Walker's jaw tightened. "You know what, Barnes—"

"What I know is that I'm tired of babysitting grown adults who should know better."

Yelena stepped between them. "Okay, everyone back to base. We debrief when we're not standing in a building that might collapse at any minute."

The ride back was silent except for the engine. Bucky stared out the window, jaw clenched, vibranium arm whirring slightly—the tell that he was still worked up.

"You could've gone easier on him." Yelena said quietly.

"He could've gotten Bob killed."

"But he didn't."

Bucky didn't answer.

Back at base, Bucky didn't even wait for the debrief, he dropped his gear and headed straight to the gym.

"Guess we're doing this later," Walker muttered yanking off his tactic vest.

"He's not wrong though," Bob said softly. "I was pinned pretty badly."

"He's also not right," Ava countered. "Shit happens on missions, we all know that."

"He's just…" Yelena searched for the word. "Tightly wound."

"Tightly wound?" Walker scoffed. "The guy's a nightmare. Every mission it's something: too slow, too fast, too loud, didn't follow protocol—"

"He keeps us alive," Bob pointed out.

"He also makes us miserable." Walker grabbed a water bottle. "When's the last time anyone saw him smile?"

They all thought about it. From down the hall, they heard it, the rhythmic aggressive thudding of someone punching a heavy bag like it owed them money.

"He needs to get laid," Ava said suddenly and everyone turned to look at her. "What? I'm serious. The man is wound tighter than a clock. When's the last time he went on a date? Relaxed? Did anything that wasn't working or brooding?"

"Barnes? Dating?" Walker snorted. "Who'd want to date that?"

"Someone with a thing for emotionally constipated super soldiers?" Yelena suggested.

Ava grinned. "I'm just saying, maybe if someone got him out of his head for five minutes, he'd stop biting ours off."

The thudding continued on the background, harder now.

Yelena's eyes lit up with that particular gleam that meant she was having an idea. Usually a bad one.

"What?" Walker asked warily.

"We should hire him a matchmaker."

"A what?" Bob asked.

"Matchmaker. Professional dating service." Yelena was already pulling out her phone. "We set him up, they find him dates, maybe he meets someone and stops being so…"

"Grumpy?" Ava supplied.

"I was going to say 'insufferable', but yeah, sure."

Walker's grin was slow and dangerous. "That's actually hilarious."

"It's mean." Bob protested weakly.

"It's a gift." Yelena said. "We're actually helping him."

"By tricking him into dating?"

"By forcing him to have a life outside of this." Yelena was already scrolling through websites. "Look at this one, 'Professional matchmaking services. Personalized consultations. Find your perfect match'. This is perfect!"

Ava leaned over her shoulder. "How much?"

"Two hundred each for the premium package."

"I'm in," Walker said immediately.

"Ava?"

"Oh, absolutely. This is the best idea you've ever had."

They all looked at Bob.

"I don't know…" he said.

"Bob," Yelena put a hand on his shoulder. "Do you want Bucky to smile? Ever?

"…Yes?"

"Then we're doing this for his own good."

The thudding from the gym was relentless, angry.

"Fine," Bob sighed. "But if he kills us, I'm haunting you."

"Deal." Yelena started filling out the form. "This is going to be amazing."

In the gym, Bucky drove his fist into the bag again and again. The mission played on loop in his head: the explosion, Bob pinned, Walker reckless charge.

He overhears Ava saying something that sounded like "he needs to get laid." Her words echo in his head. He hits the bag harder. Maybe she wasn't wrong, maybe everyone was alright and he was too tightly wound. Too quick to snap, too…

Another punch, the bag swung violently.

It didn't matter. This was who he was: focused, careful. Always three steps ahead because that's what kept people alive. If that made him miserable to be around, then so be it.

His phone buzzed. He nearly ignored it, but something made him check.

Dear Mr. Barnes,

Congratulations! You've been enrolled in our exclusive matchmaking service…

Bucky stared at the email and then slowly turned toward the door. He could hear them in the common room, not the words, but the tone—conspiratorial, excited. They were waiting for him to explode. He looked back at his phone, read the email again.

A matchmaker. They'd hired him a matchmaker.

He should be angry. Should march in there and tell them exactly where they could shove their prank. Instead, he pocketed his phone and headed for the showers.

Fine. They wanted him to date? He'd date.

And when it inevitably failed and proved his point—that some people were just meant to be alone—maybe they'd finally leave him the hell alone.

Your office was smaller than Bucky expected… warmer too. Books lined on wall, plants sat on the windowsill, and the desk was cluttered with papers, a half-empty coffee mug and what looked like a collection of vintage postcards.

You looked up when he entered, and your smile was immediate and genuine. "Bucky Barnes? Come in, come in. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? I have tea but I'll warn you, it's the cheap stuff."

"I'm good."

"Suit yourself." You gestured to the chair across from you—not the stiff formal kind, but an actually comfortable armchair. "So, I'm guessing you know why you're here?"

"My teammates think I need to get laid."

You blinked and then laughed—not a polite chuckle, but an actual laugh. "Well, that's certainly the most direct answer I've gotten. Usually people say something like 'my friends think I work too much' or 'I'm ready to find someone special'."

"Would you prefer me to lie?"

"Absolutely not. Honesty is refreshing." You leaned back in your chair. "For the record, I spoke with Yelena when she set this up. She said you were 'grumpy and needed an attitude adjustment', but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess there's more to it than that."

"Not really."

"So you're just naturally grumpy?"

"Yeah."

You studied him for a moment, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that you were seeing more than he wanted to show. "Okay, different question—are you here because you want to be here or because you want to prove them wrong?"

Bucky paused for a minute and actually think about it. "What if it's both?"

"Then I think we can definitely work with that." You pulled out a notepad, but your posture was relaxed, open. "Fair warning, I'm going to ask you some questions, and some of them might feel silly, but they help, that okay?"

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, maybe someone who'd tiptoe around him, or worse, someone who'd treat this like therapy. You did neither of that. You were just… warm, easy. "Sure."

"Great, let's start simple— what do you do when you actually have downtime? And before you say 'I don't have downtime', everyone has downtime. Including heroes."

"I read. Go to the park sometimes, there's a gym I like."

You were writing. "What kind of books?"

"History, mostly. Some fiction."

"Fiction like…?"

"Le Carré. Vonnegut. I just finished rereading The Hobbit."

Your eyes lit up. "You're a re-reader? Me too, there's something nice about going back to a book you love, right? Like visiting an old friend."

"…yeah." He hadn't expected that answer. "Exactly like that."

"See? We're finding common ground already." You made a note. "Okay, favorite food that isn't whatever protein shake I'm guessing you have for breakfast."

"Plums."

Your pen paused. "That's a fruit, not a meal, but I appreciate the specificity. Favorite meal?"

"My ma' used to make this pot roast…" He trailed off, surprised he'd mentioned it.

But you just smiled, soft and genuine. "Comfort food, the kind that tastes like home. I get it. My mom made this chicken soup that I swear could cure anything—bad days, broken hearts, existential crisis."

"Does she still make it?"

"She does, I visit every couple months and she always has a pot waiting." You tapped your pen against the notepad. "Okay, rapid fire—morning person or night owl?"

"Morning. I like when the city's quiet."

"Oh, see, I'm the opposite. I'm a night person. Everything feels more possible at night, you know? Like the world's asleep and you can just… be," you made a note. "Deal-breakers in a partner?"

He thought about it. "People who are too loud, or rude to waitstaff. Bad hygiene… hm, anyone who claims to be brutally honest in order to be rude."

"Good answer… now tell me about the green flags?"

"What?"

"What would you want in someone? And 'I don't know' isn't an answer."

Bucky sat back. No one had asked him that before. "Someone who doesn't… make a big deal out of things. Sense of humor, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I'd like someone who can make me laugh."

You made a note. "This is workable."

"That easy?"

"I didn't say easy, I said workable." You set down your pen and looked at him directly. "Here's the thing, Bucky. I think there's someone out there for everyone. And I don't mean that in a cheesy, fortune cookie kind of way. I just mean… people are surprising. And connection is surprising. You just have to be open to it."

"You actually believe that?"

"I do. Occupational hazard, maybe, but I've seen it work too many times not to believe it." You stood up, stretching. "Ready to actually try, or are you just here to prove your friends wrong?"

"Both."

"Fair enough. Honesty will get you far in this process." You walked him to the door. "I'll set up some options and email you. And Bucky? For what it's worth, I don't think you're that grumpy."

"You just met me."

"True, but your face lit up when your mentioned your ma's pot roast. That's not a grumpy person thing." You shrugged. "Just an observation."

He left not quite sure what to make of you.

Date one: Michelle.

Michelle was a lawyer. She was smart, attractive, professional. Exactly the kind of person who should be perfect on paper.

"So," she said, stirring her latte, "what's it like working with the New Avengers?"

"It's work."

"Must be interesting, though. All that action."

"Sometimes."

She smiled, but it looked a little strained. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"

"Not really."

"Do you prefer urban operations or undercover missions?"

Bucky blinked. "I… what?"

"I did some research. I thought it… might help us connect."

It didn't.

When he showed up at your office two days later, you were watering your plants. You looked up with a knowing expression. "That bad?"

"She was nice."

"But?" You set down the watering can.

"Felt like a job interview. She asked if I prefer 'urban operations or undercover missions.'"

You winced. "Okay, that's… yeah. She mentioned she did some research. I thought she meant like, looking up your favorite restaurant, not studying your… tactical preferences."

"She was trying."

"I know, but trying too hard is still trying wrong." You gestured to the chair. "Coffee? I just made a fresh pot."

"Sure."

You disappeared into a small kitchenette and came back with two mugs. "Okay, real talk—was it just the research thing, or there was just no spark?"

"Both."

"Well, yeah… chemistry's the hard part," you admitted, settling into the chair. "I can match interests and values all day, but at the end of the day… that thing were you just click with someone? That's lightning in a bottle."

"You think it exists?"

"I know it does, I've seen it." You took a sip of coffee. "When was the last time you felt it? That click?"

He really thought about it. "Honestly? Right now. Talking to you is easy."

You stilled, mug halfway to your lips. Then you smiled, a little softer. "Well, that's my job… to be easy to talk to."

"Is it just a job?"

"No," you admitted. "I actually like people. I like hearing their stories, figuring out what makes them tick. It's…" You searched for the word. "It's hopeful work, you know? In a world that can be pretty cynical."

"You're an optimist."

"Guilty. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No." He surprised himself the moment the world left his mouth. "It's kind of nice, actually."

Date two: Jade.

Drinks with an artist named Jade. She was fun, energetic, laughed easily. She also talked… a lot.

"—and that's when I realized that abstract expressionism is really about the negative space, you know? Like what you don't paint is just as important as what you do paint, and I think that applies to life too, don't you? Like the things we don't say—"

Bucky nodded at appropriate intervals, wondering if you were free tomorrow.

"You seemed distracted," Jade say as they left.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Sorry."

She smiled. "It's okay. I don't think we're a match anyway."

Let me guess. Too much talking? Is that bad? Not bad. Just not right for you.

Bucky showed up at your office an hour later with two coffees. He told himself it was because he was in the neighborhood.

"You didn't have to bring me coffee," you said, but you took it anyway.

"You brought me some last time."

"That's different, you looked tragic."

"And I don't now?"

You studied him over the rim of your cup. "No. Now you just look like someone who's figuring things out." You gestured to the other chair. "You have time? Or do you have to save the world."

"I have time."

"Good." You curled up in your chair, coffee in both hands. "So tell me something."

"About what?"

"Anything. Something you don't usually tell people." When he hesitated, you added, "I'll go first… I'm scared of birds."

"Birds?"

"Specifically pigeons… They're unpredictable and they have those creepy little feet." You shuddered. "Everyone thinks it's hilarious, but I'm serious. One flew at my face when I was seven and I've never recovered."

Bucky felt himself smile. "That's actually pretty funny."

"See? This is why I don't tell people!" But you were grinning. "Your turn."

"I'm terrible at technology… I mean, I do understand how to fly jets but I'm terribly bad at remembering to check my email."

"You're a ninety-year-old man, Bucky… a man out of time, that tracks."

"I'm a hundred and nine, actually."

"Even more reason. Okay, next question—what's something that makes you happy? And don't say 'nothing' because I won't believe you."

He was thoughtful for a minute. "Those historical plaques around the city… the ones that tell what used to be there. I like seeing how things have changed."

Your expression softened. "That's really lovely, actually. You're a sentimentalist."

"Don't spread that around."

"Your secret is safe with me." You took another sip of coffee. "Okay, harder question: what are you afraid of?"

"Being stuck," he said after a moment. "Just… existing without living. I disappeared for five years during the blip and ever since that's been my fear."

"I didn't know that." You were quiet for a moment. "But yeah, I get that."

"And you? What are you afraid of?"

"You mean… beside pigeons?" You smile. but it was more thoughtful now. "That I'll wake up one day and realize I've spent so much time helping other people find happiness that I forgot to look for my own."

"That's deep."

"You asked."

"Do you…" he trailed off. "Do you think you forget to look for your own?"

"Sometimes," you admitted. "But then I meet someone like you and remember why I do this. You remind me that connection is worth it."

"We barely know each other."

"Maybe, but I like getting to know you." You meet his eyes. "Is it weird? Given the professional situation."

"If it is, I don't care."

Date three: Rachel.

She was a software engineer… and she was quiet. Probably too quiet.

"So…" Bucky said after a long silence. "You work in tech?"

"Yeah."

"Do you like it?"

"It's fine."

Another long silence.

"Do you… want to be here?" he finally asked.

Rachel looked relieved. "Honestly? I think my sister set up my profile without telling me the full details. And you're so handsome that it's a bit intimidating."

Bucky's ears turned pink and nodded. "That's fair."

They split an appetizer and called it a night.

"Okay," you said when he came in the next day—unscheduled, you noted but didn't mention. You'd started to expect these visits. Looked forward to them, actually. "So we've ruled out: too professional, too talkative and too quiet. This is actually helpful data."

"Is it?"

"Yes! We're narrowing down what works." You made a pause. "Do you want some tea? I finally upgraded and got some fancy stuff."

"Sure." While you made tea on the kitchenette, Bucky looked at the postcards on your desk. "Where are these from?"

"Oh, those?" You came back with two mugs. "I collect them, they're from everywhere. Every time I travel I send myself a postcard. Sounds silly, but I like having the physical reminder."

"What's your favorite?"

You picked up one with a faded image of a lighthouse. "This one, it was on Maine. I traveled alone after my last breakup… it was a rough one, so I just breathed for a week, read books on the beach, ate lobster rolls and didn't talk to anyone unless I wanted to." You handled it to him. "Sometimes you need to be alone to remember who you are."

"Yeah." He looked at the postcard. "I get that."

There was a comfortable silence, but you blinked away. "Okay, back to business. You need someone comfortable, someone who doesn't need you to perform or be anything than yourself."

"Well, good luck finding that."

"Hey, I'm an optimist, remember? I don't give up that easy."

Date Four: Amanda.

Amanda was a bookstore owner. By this time, Bucky lost track of what he was supposed to do. Amanda was great—funny, sharp, had an opinion on everything from classic literature to the best pizza in Brooklyn.

"I like you," she said at the end of the night. "But I don't think you like me the same way."

Oh no. Did he say something wrong?

"Uh— what makes you say that?"

"Well… you kept checking into your phone, and I noticed the one time you only smiled today was when you looked at it, maybe you received a text from someone?"

Bucky looked down at his phone. He received a text from you in the middle of the date.

How is it going? She seems promising! Also, I just saw a pigeon steal someone's sandwich and I thought of our conversation, they scary.

"It's not like that."

Amanda gave him a look like she knew better. "If you say so. But Bucky? Life's too short. If you already know you like someone, you should tell her… or him. It's the twenty first century, we don't judge anymore."

"Maybe fifth time will be the charm," you said as soon as he crossed your door. "I have another candidate that will be perfect for you, she's—"

"I think I'm done trying."

"What— why? You can't give up this easily, there are…"

"Before you say anything else, I would like to ask you… do you ever go out?"

"You mean dating?" You laughed, but it was a little self-deprecating. "Occupational hazard. I'm too busy setting everyone up that I don't have time for my own life. Besides, I'm picky."

"About what?"

"I don't know. I need someone who gets me, I guess. Someone who I can just be myself around without feeling like I'm working." You shrugged. "Someone who doesn't think it's weird that I'm scared of pigeons and I can tall about my interests like my postcard collection and all of that."

The words hung in the air between you.

"Someone like that exists," Bucky said quietly.

"Maybe," you set down the files. "Why do you ask?"

Bucky braced himself, this was harder than any mission briefing. "Because I keep coming here—"

"Well, yeah, that's kind of how this works."

"No, I mean—" He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. "I show up even when I don't have an appointments. I texted you three times this week about nothing important, and last Tuesday I walked twenty blocks out of my way just to grab coffee near your office."

You were very still. "Bucky…"

"And during that date with Amanda? I was checking my phone because you sent me a text about a pigeon stealing somebody's sandwich and I smiled because of that, not because of the date." He met your eyes. "She told me I should probably tell 'her' how I feel."

"Tell who—" You stopped for a second and your eyes widened slightly. "Oh."

"Yeah." You seemed wordless for a minute, so he continued. "Look, you don't have to— I know this is your job, and I'm probably breaking some sort of professional code or something but—"

"You're not breaking anything," your voice was softer now. "It's just that I didn't think…"

"That someone like me—"

"No!" You stood up, moving around your desk. "That someone I was helping setting up would—I'm supposed to be a professional. I'm not supposed to look forward to our meetings, or text you random stuff that make me think of you, or…" You trailed off.

"Or?"

"Or hope that this dates were failing for a reason."

The relief he felt was immediate. "So I'm not completely crazy."

"Oh, you're definitely crazy." But you were smiling. "Coming to a matchmaker to find a date, and then asking out the matchmaker? That makes you complete insane."

"To be fair, I came in here because my teammates thought it would be funny to make me go through all of this… so it's that a no?"

"You're lucky I find your insanity charming, but I would have to refund your friends."

"Why?"

"Professional ethics, I can't charge for matchmaking services If I'm the match."

Bucky felt himself smiling. "Pretty sure finding me someone would count as a success. So… dinner? This Friday."

"Wouldn't miss it for anything."

You met him at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. Nothing fancy, just good food and dim lighting and tables far enough that conversation felt private.

"Hi," you said, suddenly nervous.

"Hi." He was nervous too, you realized. It was oddly comforting.

"So," you said as you sat down when he pulled the chair for you. "Do we have a rule about not talking about your failed dates?"

"Let's not talk about work at all."

"Deal, so… what do we talk about?"

"Tell me something nobody knows about you."

You thought about it for a while while the waiter poured water. "Well… I wanted to be a teacher, specifically a kindergarten teacher."

"Why didn't you?"

"I did, for two years. I loved the kids, loved the work but suddenly I realized I was spending all my time trying to help the parents more than the kids. One day one of my kid's father came for a parent-teacher night and spent the whole night talking about his divorce and how he didn't know how to date anymore…"

"He probably was trying to hit on you."

You laughed at that. "Well, I don't know about that, but I gave him advice for twenty minutes, then set him up with one of my friends."

"And then you became a matchmaker?"

"Yup."

The food came—pasta for you, chicken for him. You talked about books and movies and the best pizza in Brooklyn; you had strong opinions, he was amused by them. You talked to him about the pigeon accident when you were a child, and he talked to you about his short time trying to figure out how online dating worked.

Somewhere between dinner and dessert, his hand found yours across the table.

"This is nice," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I don't feel like I have to be anyone other than myself."

"Bucky, that's the whole point of dating someone." You squeezed his hand. "You should never have to be anyone else."

"Even when I'm grumpy?"

"Even then, although I have to say, you've been less grumpy than advertised."

"That's because I'm here with you."

"Smooth, Barnes."

Later, walking you back to your apartment, he said. "So, what's your verdict on this?"

"On what?"

"The date. Do we forget it happened or…"

"Are you kidding?" You stopped walking and turned to face him. "Bucky, this was the best date I've had in years."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You stepped closer. "So, here's the thing. Professionally, I should probably refer you to another matchmaker because I'm completely biased now."

"And unprofessionally?"

"Unprofessionally, I'm hoping you'll want to do this again."

"Tomorrow?"

You laughed. "Wow, eager much?"

"I've wasted enough time," he said simply. "I don't want to waste more."

"Tomorrow works." You reached up and kissed his cheek.

Two weeks into dating, you showed up at the New Avengers tower with a bag of plums and a soft smile you only reserved for Bucky.

"You can't just bring me fruit every time you visit," Bucky said, but he was smiling as he let you into the quarters.

"Watch me." You set the bag on the kitchen counter. "Besides, you texted me that you had a rough morning briefing, and since I still don't have your mom's pot roast recipe… plums should make it for now. They make everything better."

"That's not scientifically proven."

"It is now, I'm declaring it." You hopped up to sit on the counter. "So, rough briefing?"

"Walker wanted to charge into a situation without waiting for backup… again."

"And you told him that was a terrible idea?"

"I may have used a strong language."

"But did you yell?"

He took a pause. "No, actually. I just told him why it wouldn't work and suggested an alternative."

You reached out and tugged him closer by his shirt. "Look at you, personal growth."

"Don't make it a thing."

"Too late, it's a thing." You wrapped your arms around his neck. "I'm proud of you."

"For not yelling at Walker?"

"For being you, not the grumpy armor you wear around everyone else."

He settled between your knees, hands on your waist. "I'm still grumpy."

"You're smiling right now."

"That's your fault."

"I'll take the credit." You kissed him softly. "So, what's the plan? Movie? Food? I'm thinking we could order from that Thai place you liked—"

"I have a better idea." He kissed you again, deeper this time, and you made a happy sound against his mouth.

"Oh, I like this plan."

You were laughing—actually giggling, as he kissed along your jaw. "Bucky Barnes, are you trying to seduce me in your kitchen?"

"Is it working?"

"Absolutely." You were leaning in to kiss him again when you heard it.

"—telling you, he's been different. Less— HOLY SHIT."

You and Bucky froze. Then slowly, very slowly turned toward the door… where the entire team stood in the door. Walker's jaw could've been on the floor, Ava looked delighted, Bob seemed mortified at interrupting. Yelena was smiling like Christmas had come early.

"Hi," you said weakly, still perched on the counter with Bucky between your knees.

"Barnes is… smiling," Walker said, like he was announcing a natural disaster. "He's actually smiling, his face is doing the thing!"

"And giggling!" Ava added. "She was giggling and he looked—"

"Happy," Bob finished quietly. "He looked happy."

Bucky's entire demeanor shifted, not back to grumpy, but protective. He didn't move away from you, but his posture straightened. "This is— this is my girlfriend. And you're gonna be respectful about it."

"It's nice to meet you," you said. Then because you could feel Bucky's tension you added. "All of you. Sorry you had to find out like… this." You gestured vaguely at your position on the counter."

"Are you kidding?" Ava said. "This is the best thing that's happened all week. Barnes was practically glowing."

"I don't glow," Bucky groaned.

"You were!" Walker insisted. "You were all smiley and you were giggling."

"No."

"You did!" Yelena looked thrilled. "I heard it! Barnes giggled!"

"I'm going to kick all of you out," Bucky said, but there was no real heat in it.

"You can't kick us out," Walker said. "This is the common area."

You slid off the counter, squeezing Bucky's hand. "It's okay. They were going to meet me eventually, right?"

He looked down at you, and you watched his expression soften again. "Yeah, I just wanted it to be on our terms."

"Well, now it's on chaotic terms, but that seems to be how things work around here." You turned to the team with a smile. "Hi, I'm the matchmaker… the one you all hired to prank Bucky."

"Best prank we ever pulled." Yelena said. "Although, we expected him to get mad, and storm out so we could all laugh."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Bucky murmured.

Bob cleared his throat softly. "I think it's really nice, you both seem very happy."

"We are," you said warmly. "Thank you."

"Okay, so now that we've all crashed your date," Ava said, "are we leaving, or…?"

"Yes," Bucky said immediately.

"But—"

"Yes, you're leaving. Now."

"But I have so many questions!" Yelena protested.

"Ask them later."

"When?"

"When I decide to answer them." Bucky was already steering you back toward the kitchen, away from the door. "Which might be never."

You were trying to not laugh as the team reluctantly filed back toward the door. Bob was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway.

"Bucky… Is good to see you happy. Really good."

Then he was gone, pulling the door closed behind him. You and Bucky stood in the kitchen for a moment, listening to the team's voices fade down the hallway.

"Well," you said finally. "That happened."

"Yeah," he pulled you closer. "Sorry they're—"

"They're wonderful," you interrupted. "Chaotic and nosy and a little overwhelming, but wonderful. They love you."

"They're a pain in my ass."

"That too." You wrapped your arms around him. "But you love them back, I can tell."

He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, I do. But don't tell them that."

"Your secret's safe with me." You kissed his jaw. "So, where were we."

"I think I was trying to seduce you in my kitchen."

"Right, was it working?"

"You tell me." He lifted you back onto the counter, settling between your knees again.

"Definitely," you said, then laughed as he kissed you back.

He stopped to look at you and smiled while brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. "How did I get this lucky?"

"Well, your team paid eight hundred dollars to prank you into meeting me, so technically you have them to thank."

"I'm never thanking them for this."

"No?"

"No, because then they will never let me hear the end of it."

taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wintersoldier-gal @globetrotter28 +comment here if you want to be added to my general taglist.

[adumbgirlinloove]

Golden Jealousy - Lyonel x Mallister!Reader - Smut!

Summary : You've always loved Lyonel's earring. That is, until you learned where it came from.

This story has entirely been inspired by @cestpasfaux24601 gifs of Lyonel's earring . I've been obsessed with them. It’s also heavily inspired by the BG3 community’s hatred of Gale’s earring. Iykyk.

Also, I know there is this interview where Daniel ings explains Lyonel got it on a corpse during one of his travel. I don't care.

It takes place after they got married btw.

Taglist : @yikes-buddy @purple-1995 @scarletwolfxox @liliac-dreamer

You've always loved Lyonel's earring. You loved seeing it catch the sunlight. You loved watching it sway when he danced or laughed. You loved feeling it brush against your teeth every time you leaned in to nibble his ear. You loved playing with it when he fell asleep.

Now? Now you cannot stand the sight of it. To think it touched your lips. To think he got the nerve to smile at you while wearing it, knowing that it had been given to him more than ten years ago by none other than a woman. A woman with whom you know he had shared more than a single night.

In fact, you know she stayed on his boat for nearly a year. At least that’s what you learned a few days ago from the drunken ramblings of Ser Harlan, one of Lyonel’s oldest companion.

You know he’s been with women before—and with men, too, for that matter. It had never bothered you before. Not until this revelation.

It hurts your pride to admit it, but that stupid, ugly earring has sparked a feeling of jealousy in you that you’ve never felt before. Enough to kill your appetite and make you lose all desire to take part in the feast you and your husband were currently hosting. You can't quite remember what you were celebrating anyway, nor do you care.

Part of you didn’t want him to realise that you knew, or that it was affecting you. No. You know better than anyone how much fun he’d have teasing you about it. Another part of you was being petty — especially as it was the first time you’d ever felt this way over a man.

This other aspect mainly manifested itself in being way less affectionate with him. Not quite cold, but somewhat detached.

He noticed it almost immediatly. Of course he did. Mainly because he always had this bad habit of not being able to keep his hands to himself, and they have felt terribly empty over the last few days.

At first he thought he was reading too much into all of it. He even comforted himself in this idea once you you had told him you wanted new jewelry for yourself—gold pieces.

You’d brought your own with you when you came to Storm’s End. All silver to match your house’s emblem and you’d exclusively worn them since then. So when he heard you say that you wanted, at last, to adopt his own colors, he made sure his jeweler was at the castle gates in no time.

You commissioned a ridiculous number of them just to spite him. Wrong strategy. That’s the kind of behavior that would have drawn the wrath of your late husband. Not Lyonel, though. It only served to reinforce his feeling of accomplishment in knowing that he was the one providing for you. Spoiling you even.

His hopes were dashed, however, when you stopped wearing your usual yellow dresses, opting instead to return to indigo. The colour traditionally associated with your house.

The issue is, he has no idea what had prompted this behaviour from you, and he knows full well that it is best not to ask a woman what he’d done wrong. He should know. Unfortunately, he doesn’t, and it is eating away at him.

All these concerns had no place at such a lively celebration, and yet he couldn’t help but dwell on them. He fixes his gaze on you, as if, by watching you hard enough, the answer would eventually fall into his lap. It never once occurred to him to take a look at himself.

Instead he observes you, sitting beside him in your pretty dress. Your gaze lost in the crowd of guests, hands resting on your knees. The embodiment of a distinguished lady.

He knows better. He knows that you either played with the rings on his fingers, hidden under the table, or once tipsy enough to ignore any lingering stares , you started playing with his dark curls, tugging at them whenever you fancied riling him up in front of all his guests.

Attempting an approach, he rests his hand on the back of your neck, taking the liberty to play with your necklace.

“Look at them eating, drinking, and dancing at our expense while we stay here. ” He shakes his head, his dark curls swaying with the movement. “That’s not acceptable, I have a reputation to uphold.”

He leans in just enough to meet your gaze.

“Dance with me ? For the sake of my reputation” he asks, hopeful.

“Not today.”

“That’s the same answer you gave me yesterday,” he points out. "Why not ?"

"I’m simply tired. You might recall that I was the one handling all the preparations while you were out hunting wild boars,” you remark coolly.

“I offered you to come with me. You know I wouldn’t miss a chance to see you in your riding leathers.” he flirts.

He manages to coax a smile out of you. He really never stops. He could almost melt your heart with his sweet talk. Almost.

"It was raining too hard.” you offer as an excuse.

"Wet in you riding leathers ? Even better." he grins as he leans in, his lips brushing against your neck. “ Beside, this is Storm’s End : the land and its lord are bound to get you wet.”

You roll your eyes at his crude remarks. On any other day, you would have let yourself get drawn into his game. But the touch of his earring on your skin only serves to dampen you humor.

"Not now, Lyonel."

You watch him step back as you asked, and you can’t help but notice the pain in his warm brown eyes. Still, he masks it with another smile.

" As my lady wife wishes"

He doesn't know how to react to your repeated rejections. So, for once in his life, he retreats. He climbs onto his chair, grabs his glass, then stormily steps over the table.

“Move!” he orders in a voice that almost drowns out the music. “I want to dance.”

You would have thought Lyonel had threatened the old man with his sword, considering how quickly the jewellery you’d ordered appeared before you, laid out on your dressing table before you went to bed.

You pick them up one by one, studying and examining each piece carefully. The craftsmanship surpassed anything you’d ever seen, and you find yourself increasingly drawn to their golden hue.

You hold a necklace against your chest, watching your reflection in the mirror. Lyonel does the same behind you.

He moves closer and, as soon as you could feel the warmth of his body against your back, he gently brushed your hair away from your neck to get a better look.

“It suits you,” he compliments.“Do you like it?”

Your eyes meet as you look at your reflection in the mirror, then you nod in response to his question.

“I’m glad you do. I just hope you’ll wear it.”

“I will, but only if you wear yours too.” you offer.

He narrows his eyes, looking puzzled.

“I had something made for you too,” you admit.

“Really? For me?” he asks, his voice tinged with childlike curiosity.

“A ring?” he wonders aloud, already reaching into the box.

“No,” you snap his hand away. “An earring,” you clarify, handing him the piece in question.

“Just one?” he asks, picking it up. A smile spreads across his lips when he notices it’s shaped like a wing.

“You usually only wear one, but I could always ask for a pair.”

“No, this is fine, but a wing?” he teases you.

“Yes. You dislike it ?” you ask, a trace of uncertainty in your voice.

“Of course not” He makes you look up at him, hand on you chin, and leans in to kiss you. “I love it. I did not realize I had such a possesive wife however." Another kiss, on the crown of your head. "I confess, it pleases me more than it ought.”

You let out a little sigh of discontent and push him away as he laughs, but your gesture carries no real meaning.

“Just try it on, please. ”

He complies, his lips still streteched into a smile, but you immediately notice that he’s about to put it in his other ear.

“You’re not really going to wear mismatched earrings, are you?” you point out.

“ I don't mind it.” he replies with a shrug.

The words slip out before you can stop them, and you deliver them in a curt tone.

“I do.”

You let out a long sigh, trying to regain your composure.

“Can't you just take the other off?”

This unexpected outburst surprises him. He realises straight away that something’s not quite right.

"Pray, what fault do you find with it?" he asks

You cross your arms, your irritation getting the better of you.

"I wonder, would you like it if I went about wearing jewellery that my late husband gave me?"

Oh, oh. He finally gets it. Finally puts two and two together.

“So that is what has had you sulking all this time?” he drawls, amused.

You jump to your feet, your chair scraping across the floor. His amused expression sends you into a rage and an unwarranted sense of shame overwhelms you. You feel stupid for having reacted that way you did, but you remain firmly convinced that your feelings are legitimate.

“Do you find it amusing ?”

“Certainly. Flattering, even. Jealousy becomes you." he retort, his eyes gleaming with quiet mirth.

You cross the room and snatch the shawl from the bed, draping it around your shoulders, ready to leave the room.

"I've had enough of you making a fool of me. " you snap, heading for the door.

Two long strides are all it takes him to catch up with you, His arms encircle your waist with effortless certainty, drawing you back against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your skin.

"Not this time. " he murmurs "You won't get away from me."

You know there’s no point in trying to struggle: once he’s got you in his clutches, there’s no escaping him. Instead, your shoulders sag, and you surrender your weight against him.

"How endearing. Jealous over a mere trinket"

“If it were just a mere trinket, you wouldn’t have kept it for so long.”

He gently nibbles at the small patch of skin within his reach.

“Oh, but yes, it is.” he insists. “Besides, I think a wedding band holds more meaning.”

You retreat into silence. He’s not entirely wrong. But you simply don’t like it.

“I cannot have Lady Baratheon sulking. It sems I have no choice. ”

You can feel him humming against your throat, satisfaction radiating off him before he lifts you effortlessly and tosses you unceremoniously onto your bed.

He kneels down in front of you with a thud, his whole weight crashing heavily against the stone. He sprinkles your calf with kisses all the way to your knee, before looking up at you.

“Will you forgive me if I make you sing, Songbird ?”

"You’re not getting anywhere near me as long as you’re wearing that ugly thing." you state firmly, legs stiff on the bed.

"I’m fairly certain you told me you liked it before." he teases.

"Lyonel." you call his name warningly

He snorts softly and immediately sets about removing it, tossing it over his shoulder.

"Here. Now open these legs. Can't have the stag starving, can we?"

His large hands rest on your knees before he spreads them apart to settle between your legs. His eyes, darker than usual, rest on your glistening folds with a hungry gaze.

" Missed me too, eh ?" he jests, and you're not sure to who he is talking to.

He leans towards you, and with a swift, deft movement, he brushes his tongue against your clit, drawing a sigh from you and causing you to melt back against the bed.

He licks, kisses , sucks and occasionally bites, his mouth moving eagerly, yet always with a mastery of your body honed by hours spent between your legs.

His whole world now revolves solely around the taste of you, your musky scent and the comforting warmth of your thighs cradling his head. He would die happy right there, at this very moment, but ever the perfectionist, he would rather succeeded in bringing you to climax before that.

With this goal mind, he takes your clit into his mouth, he explores it with his tongue before gently nibbling on it. Your hips instinctively buck towards his mouth, your back arches as you cry out his name.

Out of habit, your hand reaches towards him, only to end up hidden beneath his greying hair, whilst his hands grip your thighs to hold you still.

He hums with satisfaction, and the vibration travels along your body, prompting you to grip his hair even tighter.

“Ah. Yes, there’s my little songbird. Carry on singing for me, won’t you?” he rasps

He resumes his ministrations with even greater eagerness than before, slowly building the knot in your stomach until you are nothing more than a writhing mess against him, torn between pleasure and the frustration of it not being enough.

"By the gods, Lyonel, use your damn fingers" you whine.

Never one to disapoint, he slides two of his fingers inside you , their stretch being the only answer to your frustration. They even take you right to the brink of orgasm as they curve upwards, finally finding that spot inside you that makes you roll your eyes.

You feel your body begin to tremble; your thighs instinctively tighten around him in response, until the knot that had formed in the pit of your stomach suddenly unravels, allowing the warmth to spread from deep within you, rising through your stomach, your chest and your thighs before coursing through your limbs.

He guides you through it, his fingers slowing down to let his mouth take over, until you could take no more.

During what felt like an eternity in your dazed state, you heard nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the occasional sound of a wet kiss being planted on your thigh.

Once sure you’d come back to your senses, he pressed a kiss to your lips.

“Am I forgiven ?” he asks, his lips brushing yours.

You pretend to consider it before a smile tugs at your lips.

“No. I think I’ll have you do that as a punishement a few more times before I even consider it.”

“Is that so? And how many times?” he asks, a grin spreading across his face.

“You kept it for ten years. I believe that earns you ten years of punishment.”

His smile deepens, eyes glinting with a mix of affection and desire.

“Then I find myself looking forward to serving my sentence.”

[midnightgardentales]

Could you do Jack Abbot x wife reader? She is clumsy, bumping into thing, tripping over thin air and just make him feel like wrapping her in bubble wrap🤣 Imagine him carrying her everywhere because he can’t even trust her her to walk straight 😭😭😭 Idk how it goes, it’s up to you. Thanksss :)))

💞Tags/Warnings💞: slight age gap marriage, fluff, AttentiveHusband!Jack Abbot, hurt/comfort, AccidentProneWife!Reader so talks of injuries

💞Plot💞: Jack Abbot absolutely adores his wife. But sometimes he wonders how the hell she made it this far..

💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

💞Title💞: Oops

💞A/N💞: This is such a funny idea. I really hope you like it 🤭

((Requests are ALWAYS open))

Masterlist

Jack Abbot loves his wife.

Any moment spent with her is another moment where he knows true happiness. Any moment spent away from her is another moment where he knows true longing..

The two had met one early morning in spring. Jack was walking back to his building after a long night shift and stumbled upon the most beautiful woman he’d ever met..-

Now here’s where Y/N would interrupt his retelling of events with the truth.

Because in reality, she was a sweaty mess.

Hair tied sloppily to keep it away from her face, no makeup on, and in the most low effort outfit she could manage. It was moving day after all. There was no need to look put together. But to Jack, she looked effortlessly gorgeous..

She sat at the steps of his apartment building, cradling her ankle with a pout playing on her lips. Jack stopped to check in on her and she explained that her friends were supposed to help her move, yet they were running late. She had begun moving things on her own but had stepped wrong on the steps while exiting the building.

Now, one thing about Jack Abbot should be made clear here. This man… Loved playing hero.

It’s what pushed him into medicine. It’s what got him through the military. It’s what made him perfect for SWAT. And it was his favorite thing to do for pretty women. Maybe it was his age showing, but Jack truly believed the best compliment a guy could receive from his woman was a cheesy ‘you’re my hero!’ line.

So without much hesitation, Jack offered up his services. Even while exhausted, even while sore. And when receiving permission, he scooped Y/N up and carried her to her apartment. Setting her carefully on her couch, Jack worked first as her doctor. Then, he worked as her personal mover.

To thank him officially, Y/N would surprise him a few days later with a bottle of white wine, he’d let it be known that that was his favorite drink, and some playing cards since he’d joked with her that, as a veteran, he knew all the best card games.

The two were meant to be from that night on..

But for as much as Y/N was his dream girl, there were just a few times where he’d look at her, shake his head, and wonder how the hell she had survived so long without being in a giant bubble of protection..

These are those times..

{ Number One: The Kitchen Incident.. }

Y/N had been trying to help Jack make dinner one night, when she somehow managed to knock over his spice rack instead.

Trying to help clean it up only resulted in her cutting herself on the broken glass.

Jack, with a sigh and a fond smile, just scooped her up and placed her on his kitchen counter top.

He tended to her injury and then, with a quick kiss to her temple, handed her a bowl to stir.

“Wha… I can still help!” She tries bashfully as he softly chuckles.

“Baby. Just.. Supervise from up there." He says with a slight tease to his voice before pressing another kiss to her forehead.

“It’s safer for everyone." He continues jokingly, making her playfully pout.

{ Number Two: The Morning Mishap }

Y/N was still half-asleep when she rolled out of bed.

Trying to get ready for the day, she ended up blindly bumping into the bathroom doorframe, stubbing her toe.

“Ah! Fuck!”

Jack was up fast, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He had just gotten home about an hour ago. Looking over, he’s met with his gorgeous wife on the bedroom floor, holding her foot as she tries to stay quiet with her angry grunts of pain. It’s as if she truly was trying not to wake him up right now..

He eyes her with slight amusement before getting out of bed with no words exchanged. She didn’t need to ask for his help, he’d always provide it.

Turning on the bedside lamp in order to fill the room with some soft lighting, Jack walks over, scoops Y/N up, and carries her into the bathroom. Just to make sure she doesn’t encounter anymore obstacles.

Setting her on the bathroom sink, Y/N sheepishly mumbles a thank you while he moves to turn on the shower. He then goes back to her, resting his forehead against hers with a soft sigh of content.

“Don’t mention it, beautiful..” He whispers softly with a small smile.

{ Number Three: The Romantic Picnic Situation }

Jack had planned a beautiful picnic in the local park after a very long week of just work and responsibilities.

It was supposed to be a day to just relax and take in the sun.

As Y/N is walking to their spot by the lake, basket in hand, she stumbles on a perfectly flat patch of grass.

Luckily, Jack had been holding her other hand, and quickly yanked her towards him before she could fall flat on her face.

He can’t help but laugh in slight disbelief as he softly pulls her closer to his body. “How does that even happen?” He asks, smiling down at her when she begins fussing sheepishly that there must be a rock there that she’d tripped over.

There wasn’t..

{ Number Four: The Garden Emergency }

Jack Abbot was a man of many hobbies.

One of which happened to be gardening.

In order to spend more time together, Y/N decided one morning to help him, despite his reservations.

“Jackie, please. I can be real helpful..” She gives her best puppy dog look. He grumbles softly.

Those damn eyes would always work on him.

Within five minutes though, Y/N had managed to somehow prick her finger on the rose bush she’d been tasked with caring for.

She tried hiding it, but Jack had already heard her soft yelp when it happened. He gives her a knowing glance, holding out his hand for hers. With a dramatic sigh, Y/N sets her hand in his and he hums, leaning down to kiss it better..

{ Number Five: The Christmas Debacle }

It was Christmas time.

More specifically, it was Y/N and Jack’s first Christmas living together, and Y/N wanted to make sure the house was perfect.

Jack had taken the day off in order to help fully decorate the house, and also because he had a hunch he’d need to watch over Y/N..

She was trying to hang some tinsel on their tree, but the step stool had begun to feel wobbly. Maybe it was her determination, or her faith that Jack would be watching out for her, but either way, she wasn’t fazed by the constant teetering.

Sure enough, she starts to sway a bit as she gets on her tip-toes, so close to the perfect spot on the tree for the pink tinsel. Jack, who had been watching her with a fondness, immediately rushes over, catching her by her hips and gently tugging her off the stool.

“I’m not even gonna risk that..” He jokes as he carries her to the sofa.

“I could do it!” She complains lightheartedly, knowing with her luck she would’ve just ended up in the tree or on the floor..

“I got a better job for you, my love. Hm? Chief Decorator..” He jokingly presents the title like it’s massive. “How’s that sound, hm?” He gently tucks her hair away from her face as she playfully glares up at him.

“Sounds like a made up title..” She plays along as he smirks.

“Nah. It’s the most important job, baby. I'll handle the physical work. You just point where.." He assures softly as she bites back a smile, acting as if she’s begrudgingly taking the ‘job’..

!!The End!!

[0nlyangelxx]

Hooking up - J. Abbot

pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!reader

summary: Hooking up with Jack, but there's love blooming. Also, a lot of Mckay in this lol.

Warnings: Sexual explicit content

a/n: I like this one, it's so cute...

Any ideas or requests, don't be shy to let me know!

Thanks for all the love,

you guys are the best <3

────────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────────

“I need to get fucking laid,” Mckay sighs as she’s in the middle of what seems like an endless amount of charting she has to do.

“Huh?” you turn your head, stopping yourself from typing away on the computer.

“I need sex,” Cassie tells you, fully turning on her stool so she faces you. “It’s been too damn long.”

“Oh.. yeah,” you give her a quick nod. “Me too.”

That's a lie.

You’ve been having sex nearly every day for the last few months. Not regular old sex.. great, mind-blowing, hot, steamy sex. That with no other than the attending of the night shift, Jack Abbot.

A flashback of the two of you from last night pops into your head.

Jack is holding onto your legs, pushing them back against your chest as he’s thrusting inside of you, balls deep. His grunting mixes together with your whimpering, the only other sound to be heard is the soft creaking of the bed.

“You’re taking me so well, sweetheart.” Jack praises you, hips moving faster against you as your nails dig into his shoulders where you’re holding onto him. “Such a good girl for me.”

“Feels.. so.. fuck-” you cry out softly, back arching as he keeps hitting that sweet spot inside of you.

“Yeah?” Jack leans down to brush his lips against yours. “That good, huh?” he whispers and watches you nod at him before capturing your lips in a heated kiss.

Mckay smacks her hand down on the desk you’re seated at, snapping you back to reality. You look over at Cassie and watch a scoff leave her mouth as she shakes her head softly.

“You’re so full of shit,” she says.

“What?” you furrow your brows, not following.

“You lied,” Cassie states. “You’re lying to me.”

It’s not like you want to lie to Mckay, besides being your colleague she has also become one of your best friends. The two of you share everything with one another, you’ve never not told her about the men you were sharing a bed with.

However.. this time, it’s more complicated.

Jack is a colleague, more than that.. he technically is one of your superiors. You and him have therefore decided that it’s best to keep things quiet, not tell anybody about what’s going on between the two of you.

“You are having sex.” Mckay states, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why haven’t you told me about it?”

“M’not having sex..” you shake your head softly.

“Liar!” she calls you out once more, a shocked look on her face as she can’t believe you just lied to her again.

You look down at your hands in your lap and sigh. It’s an internal struggle, there’s nothing more that you want than to be able to talk to Cassie about what’s going on between you and Jack. It’s just that.. you promised Jack that you wouldn’t tell anybody about it.

“What are we talking about?” Santos wheels her desk chair over to the two of you, in need of a break from her charting.

Mckay turns her head to look at the brunette. “Sex.”

“Oh..” Trinity looks from Cassie back to you before sighing out. “It’s honestly something so good yet it can curse you at the same time.” she says. “I can’t even function around Garcia anymore.”

“Yeah.. well, that’s what happens when you hook up with a co-worker.” Mckay tells her. “Always a bad idea, makes you unable to focus on work anymore.”

She’s not wrong.

You’re lucky that Jack is working on the night shift so you don’t need to treat patients with him. Whenever you see the man during shift changes, you are a mess. Just a look of him is enough to make you weak in the knees. You find yourself a real capable doctor but whenever he’s around, you turn into a lovesick fool.

“Oh my god.. that’s it,” Mckay’s words bring you back to the moment. “That’s why you’re not telling me,” she realizes. “You’re sleeping with a co-worker.”

Color drains out of your face as you hear her words. Santos is all ears, loving the hot gossip, but you can’t get yourself out of this situation fast enough.

“That’s not what it is.” you tell Cassie before getting up. “Excuse me, I need to check up on a patient.” you announce before walking away.

Mckay is quick to stand up and follow you, not believing you one bit. You can hear her walking behind you but choose to ignore it, not knowing how much longer you can keep up with all the lying.

Cassie calls out to you as she notices how you’re pretending not to hear her follow you. There’s no patient for you to go and check up on so you decide to walk straight into the break room, not knowing where else to go.

Mckay walks inside and closes the door behind her by leaning against it. The break room is occupied by only the two of you.

Cassie crosses her arms over her chest and watches you run your hands through your hair, trying to stay strong but easily breaking once you lock eyes with her.

“I’m sleeping with Abbot.” you spill out the truth.

Cassie’s lips part slightly as she takes in your words, still shocked by your admission even though she knew she was right about her hunch.

“Doctor, Jack Abbot?” she questions.

“You know any other Abbot’s that work here?” you glare at her.

“Oh my..” she mumbles, still in shock.

A sigh leaves your lips as you let yourself fall down on one of the chairs around the table. You move a hand over your face, feeling the disappointment settle in as you realize you broke your promise to Jack.

Mckay moves closer towards the table you’re sitting at and ends up placing herself on a chair as well. A loaded silence fills up the room, making the both of you sit back and just give one another a look.

“M’sorry for dragging it out of you,” Cassie is the first to speak up. “Couldn’t help myself,”

“I’d do the same to you,” you tell her, a soft smile spreading on your lips which she mirrors onto hers.

The silence moves back in, your mind racing with a sort of panic. You know Mckay won’t tell a soul but still.. It's somebody who knows, a person that can easily make a mistake and tell someone by accident.

“Didn’t know you liked 'em’ that old.” Cassie says, holding back a smirk as you lock eyes with her again.

“Yeah.. got a thing for older, authority figures with issues.” you tell her. “So, it was either gonna be him or Robby.”

A chuckle leaves her at your words, causing you to laugh as well.

“How is the sex?” Mckay asks, ever so curious.

You look over at her and hold back a smirk. “Amazing.” you tell her. “Like mind-blowing each time.” Your words get Cassie all excited for you. “He makes me come multiple times, every time we have sex.”

“Oh my god,” Mckay’s eyes widen in shock before she starts smirking. “Damn, grandpa still’s got it.”

Laughter leaves your lips at her words before giving her arm a nudge. “Don’t be mean.”

“M’not,” she’s quick to say. “I’m really happy for you.” Cassie sends you a smile. “You deserve to have great sex.”

“Thank you,” you give her a smile back.

Silence falls back over the two of you and that’s when your phone buzzes, you furrow your brows before reaching into the pocket of your scrubs. When your eyes land on the screen, you see how it’s Jack who texted you.

Talk about the devil..

Jack: Can’t sleep.

Jack: How’s your shift going?

This is what’s been happening more and more lately, it’s becoming less about the sex. Not that the two of you are any less physical, but he’s not only reaching out anymore to be intimate. Yesterday, you actually went on a date. He took you out to dinner in a fancy restaurant before you ended up in his bed.

“Is that him?” Cassie speaks up, seeing how you’re smiling bright as you’re staring down at your phone.

“Oh,” you put your phone down and focus back on her. “Uhm.. yeah,”

Mckay gives you a look, a knowing smirk tugging on her lips. It’s like she can see it escaping your body in a cloud of pink smoke, you’re in love.

“It’s not just about sex anymore.. is it?” she asks you.

“Well,” you give her a soft shake of your head before smiling. “I really like him.”

“That’s adorable,” Cassie smiles back at you before growing more serious. “Jack better treats you right.. I don’t care if he's an old vet, I’ll kick his ass.”

Her words make you chuckle out before standing up so you could get closer to Mckay and pull her up into a hug. She’s surprised at first but quick to wrap her arms around you, giving you a good squeeze.

“You’re a really good friend,” you say softly. “M’feeling like I don’t tell you that enough.”

Cassie smiles brightly and holds onto you a little tighter. “I love you, weirdo.”

“Love you too,” you smile before pulling back and looking into her eyes.

“I won’t tell anyone about the Abbot thing,” she is quick to say. “Promise.”

“I know,” you smile even brighter. “And I promise to make it my personal mission to get you laid.”

A chuckle leaves Mckay. “Thanks,” she gives your shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe one of Abbot’s friends?”

“The only real friend he has is Robby,” you say, which makes Cassie pull up her nose in disgust.

“And be one of his many residents on the list he slept with? No thanks.” she is quick to say. “I won’t be one of ‘run-through Robby’s’ women.”

Laughter leaves your lips at his words, leaning into her a bit which makes her chuckle as well as she holds onto you. God.. you’ve missed this, missed being able to talk shit with her.

Like you’ve summoned the man, the door of the break room is being opened and reveals Dr. Robby in the door opening. You and Mckay are quick to stop your laughter, giving one another a look before moving your gaze back to Robby.

“Are you two just hiding in here to chat and giggle?” Robby questions, one hand on the door to keep it open as the other settles on his hip. “We don’t have time for any of this. Patients are pouring in and awaiting care.”

“It was a short break, we had to talk about something.” Cassie says.

“Talk after your shift,” Robby is quick to fire back. “Now, I need you with me in central eleven.” he says while looking at you, this before turning to look at Mckay. “You are needed in north five to supervise Javadi who’s about to get a nail out of a patient’s thumb.”

“Aye, Aye captain.” Cassie salutes Robby but it doesn’t make him laugh, he sends her a glare before letting go of the door and walking away.

“No matter how much he gets laid, it won’t solve any of his problems.” you say which makes Mckay break into laughter.

⊱✫⊰

Another buzz on your phone makes you stop in your tracks. First, you catch the time as you look down at your screen.. seeing how there are only two hours left on your shift. You’ve been non-stop working after Robby caught you and Mckay, the two of you didn’t dare to take another quick break.

Jack: Ignoring me?

Jack: That’s not how you usually are..

Jack: Are you alright? Shift that heavy?

You feel your heart drop as you realize how you haven’t answered Jack’s earlier texts. Cassie distracted you with her questions.

You: Sorry..

You: Things have been really busy around here

You: See you at shift change?

Before you can put your phone back in your pocket, you feel it buzz again. He answered you immediately, probably awaiting your answer.

Jack: You know it.

A smile tugs on your lips as you read his words. You put your phone away and turn around to find Dana calling out to you, holding onto a tablet.

“Lab report on your patient’s bloodwork is back.” she tells you.

“Thanks,” you take the tablet out of her hand and send the charge nurse a smile before switching your brain back into work mode. Yet.. Jack stays on your mind, he always does.

⊱✫⊰

Once your shift is over, you go and find Jack where he usually awaits you.

The roof.

You open the door that leads outside and feel the cold air of the night blow in your face. Jack’s standing on the edge, leaning against the railing as he looks out to the city.

As you close in to where he’s standing, you let your eyes travel over his broad shoulders and back. Even his silhouette from behind is attractive.. uhg, the man was truly sculpted by the gods.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say as you come to stand besides him.

A soft smile tugs on Jack’s lips as he hears your voice, feels your arm brush against his. Your proximity makes his heart flutter. He turns his head and locks eyes with you.

“My favorite resident,” Jack says.

“Careful,” a soft smirk tugs on your lips. “You’re not supposed to have a favorite as an attending.” you tell him.

Jack shakes his head softly, lips curling into a small smirk. “I don’t give a damn.” he says. “You're by far my favorite,” he turns to face you some more as you feel your heart beating fast in your chest. “I think you’re my favorite person, ever.”

Now that makes your heart skip a beat, a blush growing on your cheeks.

“You mean that?” you ask him, so soft as you hardly believe he just told you that.

“Do I?” Jack takes a step closer and moves his hand up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “M’crazy about you..” he admits.

A smile grows onto your lips as your cheeks burn an even deeper shade of red. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Jack chuckles softly before he wraps his arms around your waist, like he has done so many times before. “Does that surprise you?”

“I-” a soft shrug leaves you. “I just thought you liked me most for my body.”

“Well.. I do really like your body,” he tells you, teasing lightly. “But that’s not the only thing I like about you.”

“It’s not?” a smile tugs on your lips.

“No..” Jack chuckles and shakes his head. “I like how you remember the little things I tell you. I like the way you get soft around animals, old people, children..” a smile grows onto his lips. “I like how you have to bake something whenever you’re sad and how you dance around to music like nobody’s watching even if they are.” he tells you. “I like how you can make me smile with just a glance and I like how cuddly you get after sex.”

“I just.. I like you,” he says, moving a hand up to cup your cheek. “I like everything about you.”

Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest as he speaks, his words making you weak in the knees. You’ve never had someone talk about you like that before..

“However, it frightens me as well." Jack speaks up again, making you look back in his eyes. “You’re young.. I’m old,” he says. “You’ve got your whole life still ahead of you and I lived most of mine.”

“Jack-”

“No.. I,” he let his thumb brush against your cheek. “It’s true,” he says. “I’m an old vet with one leg, lots of trauma and a dead wife.” Jack sighs for a moment. “I’m not a catch, sweetheart.”

Instead of saying anything, you lean in and press your lips against his. A surprised hum leaves him before he melts into your touch, hand moving to the back of your head so he could keep you in place.

You pull back to catch some air and look into his eyes, his breathing heavier from kissing you.

“I’ve never felt so alive before.” you tell him. “You make me feel alive,” your words make something soften in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me that you’re older.. that you got baggage, I’ve got baggage too.” you say.

A smile grows on Jack’s lips as he leans in and rests his forehead against yours, holding onto your cheek again.

“I won’t force you into anything.. I know you haven’t dated anyone since losing your wife,” you tell him. “I don’t want to overstep.”

“No,” he’s quick to speak up. “You’re not.”

Jack pulls you into him, your head resting in the crook of his neck as he holds you close. “It feels right.. it does,” he says. “I want nothing else than you to be mine.. only mine,” he presses a kiss against the side of your head.

“I’m yours,” you tell him before leaning back to look in his eyes again. “Been yours since the start.”

A smile grows on Jack’s lips before he leans back in for a kiss. Your eyes flutter close, arms wrapping around his neck as you let yourself melt away under his touch. He kisses you softly, tenderly.. It's like he wants to show through his actions as well that he’s serious about this, about you.

As you pull back, looking into his eyes, a smile is resting on your lips. “Does this mean I’m your girlfriend now?” you ask.

“Hell yeah, you are.” Jack answers, pulling you a bit closer to him as he holds onto your hips.

“Alright.. just so we start this relationship off without any secrets. I need to tell you something.” you tell him which makes the smile on his face fade away.

“What?” he asks, suddenly concerned you’re about to drop a bomb of new information on him.

“I told Mckay.. that we’re hooking up,” you admit, pulling a guilty face as you look at him.

Jack feels a weight lift off his shoulders, the smile growing back on his face. “Thought you were about to tell me something way worse,” he chuckles.

“You’re not mad?” you ask, relieved to see him smile.

“No.. ‘course not,” he tells you. “I told Robby.”

“Robby?!” you nudge him on his chest and send him a shocked look. “As in my attending, Robby?”

“I- well.. yeah,” Jack says. “The guy noticed I was way happier lately and when I didn’t want to tell him the source of my happiness, he thought I was on drugs.”

A chuckle escapes your lips at his words, both finding it endearing that he seemed happier to his friend as terrifying that your superior knows you’re getting down and dirty with Jack.

“God.. he’ll never look at me the same,” you sigh, pulling a face that makes Jack laugh.

“Probably not.. but hey,” he shrugs. “You’ll be seeing him a lot more anyways now that we’re together.” Jack explains. “The man is like a virus I can’t get rid off.”

A laugh escapes your lips at his choice of words, shaking your head softly before looking back into his eyes.

“Like you don’t absolutely adore, Robby.” you give him a look.

“Not as much as I adore you,” he’s quick to say, leaning in some more as your heart skips a beat in your chest.

“You’re really scoring points here,” you tease lightly, looking up into his eyes.

“Am I?” he smirks.

“Yeah..” you say softly before a smile grows back onto your lips. “Who knew Jack Abbot was such a romantic, huh?”

It makes a chuckle escape him before he leans in and presses a soft kiss against your lips. Your hands rest against his chest as your eyes flutter close, humming before kissing him back.

The sound of his work phone going off makes the two of you pull back. Jack curses under his breath before picking up, telling Lena who’s on the other side of the line that he’s on his way.

“They need you,” you say and give a small pout.

“Unfortunately..” Jack nods softly, putting his phone back in his pocket. “Tomorrow’s your day off, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you give him a soft nod, a spark in your chest as you realize he memorized your schedule.

“Why don’t you sleep at mine?” Jack asks you while reaching into his back pocket. “That way when I get home tomorrow morning, I can come home to you.” he smiles as he dangles the key in front of your face.

A smile grows onto your lips and you’re quick to nod, taking the key out of his hand. “Alright,”

“It’s the spare key,” Jack adds. “Keep it.” he says, moving his hands in his pockets and taking on a nonchalant facade, to hide the fact that on the inside he’s dying with nerves about the move he just made.

A blush forms back on your cheeks as your heart is nearly beating out of your chest. This is serious. It makes you realize once more how serious he’s being about this relationship with you.

“Alright,” you tell him again. “I will be putting the most ridiculous keychain on it, just so you know..” you tease, knowing how he always makes fun of your keychains.

“No,” Jack groans out playfully. “Definitely not the pink fluffy heart with googly eyes, that thing creeps me out.”

“Oh Gary?” you arch a brow. “Oh.. he’ll definitely be the one.”

“Fuck..” Jack sighs out, playfully, which makes you chuckle.

The sound of your laughter makes his eyes light up with amusement. He gives you a playful poke in your stomach before taking hold of you again, pulling you closer and pressing kisses onto your cheek and into your neck. It leaves you in an even worse fit of chuckles as you hold onto his arms.

The playful moment is once again interrupted by his phone going off, making Jack groan out. “I need to go.. Lena’s going to kill me otherwise,” he tells you, pressing a quick kiss onto your lips before walking over towards the exit of the roof.

“See you when I get home,” Jack tells you, eyeing you for a moment as he holds onto the metal door.

“Yeah,” you give him a soft smile as your heart is full of love. “See you.”

[shadeofpeach]

The prettiest in the room

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader

Warnings: friends/coworkers to lovers, established mutual feelings, fluff, drunk reader, whipped Jack.

Summary: Jack decides he’s done hiding exactly how whipped he is for you.

After a brutal week of work, your shift crew was letting loose, trading complaints about management and downing cheap drinks.

​But Jack wasn't paying attention to any of them.

​He was leaning against the table, a half empty beer in his hand, with his gaze entirely on you. You were sitting across the table, throwing your head back as you laughed at a joke someone just made. The warm ambient lighting of the pub caught the edge of your smile, and right then, something shifted heavily in Jack’s chest.

​God, she’s easily the most beautiful person in this room, he thought, a sudden clarity hitting him.

​It wasn't just a fleeting work crush anymore, and he knew it.

Watching the way you effortlessly commanded the space around you, he realized he was completely done for.

He found himself thinking past the walls of the bar, imagining what it would be like to be the one walking you to your front door tonight. He’d willingly play the perfect gentleman, do whatever it took, even charm your mom if he ever got the chance to meet her; anything just to ensure he got to stay in your life.

The mere thought of a future with you, spoken out loud or just kept in his head, made his heart race.

​As if feeling the weight of his stare, you turned your head. Your eyes met his, and your smile softened into something private, just for him.

​Jack didn’t look away. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

The music in the bar shifted to something with a pulsing beat, and a few people from the shift immediately dragged you out toward the cramped dance floor.

Jack stayed at the table, but he didn't join the conversation around him. His eyes followed you through the lights. He watched the way you moved, the unbothered laugh on your lips, and the way you completely shook off the stress of the past week.

Every second he spent watching you only hammered the realization deeper into his chest.

When a song ended, you made your way back, flushed and laughing. The drinks had fully caught up to you by now, leaving your mind pleasantly fuzzy and your movements a little loose.

Instead of reclaiming your original seat, you slid straight into the tight space right next to Jack.

The moment your hip met his, his hand slid effortlessly around your waist, his palm warm as he pulled you against his side. The warmth of your body radiated through his clothes, and because of the alcohol blurring your usual boundaries, you happily let yourself sink heavily into him, leaning your head back against his shoulder and looking up with slightly unfocused eyes.

"Too much dancing?" he murmured, dropping hus voice so only you could hear him over the bar’s bass.

"Maybe a little," you hummed, a smile playing on your lips. "Or maybe it's the drinks."

"You're a lightweight," he teased softly. As the words left his mouth, he leaned his head down and pressed a kiss right against the bare skin of your shoulder, his lips were warm against your skin.

A shiver ran down your spine, and you let out a soft giggle, shifting even closer until there was absolutely no space left between you. You reached up, your fingers playfully tugging at the lapel of his jacket. "Are you being sweet to me, Jack?"

"I can be whatever you want me to be," he replied without a hint of hesitation, his hand at your waist gently squeezing. He was completely dialed into you, entirely forgetting that you two weren't alone.

Across the table, a few looks were traded. A couple of eyebrows went up. One of the paramedics cleared their throat loudly, a massive smirk spreading across their face.

"Uh, Jack? You want us to leave you two alone?"

Jack blinked, fucking finally remembering the rest of the world existed. He looked up, catching the knowing grins of the entire shift crew staring.

Anyone could see it: the way he was holding you, the softness in his eyes, the absolute focus he had on you. He was totally whipped, and there was absolutely no denying it anymore.

Instead of pulling away or getting defensive, Jack just looked down at you, seeing the faint, beautiful flush on your cheeks. He chuckled, his arm adjusting around your waist.

"Mind your business," Jack said to the table, not a single bit of shame in his voice. "I'm minding mine."

Before anyone could even process his words, Jack turned his head down toward you. His hand slid from your waist up to the nape of your neck, his fingers gently tangling in your hair as he tilted your face up and captured your lips in a deep kiss.

The kiss was deep, slow, and full of all the unspoken words he’d been keeping to himself for months. It was a warm claim that left you completely breathless. He tasted faintly of the beer he’d been sipping, his lips incredibly soft but firm as they molded against yours, demanding a response you were more than ready to give.

The shift went absolutely wild around, cheers and loud whistles erupting from everyone, but Jack didn’t pull back. Instead, he only deepened the kiss.

The sheer excitement of the crew brought a shy heat to your cheeks, and a breathless smile broke across your lips right in the middle of the kiss. Jack let out a chuckle against your mouth, loving the feel of your lips curving against his.

Yielding completely to the fuzzy rush of the alcohol and his touch, you wrapped your arms tighter around his neck, burying your fingers in the collar of his shirt. You tilted your head and kissed him back softly, your smile pressing directly into his as you let him completely steal your breath away.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

(urgently need Jack to kiss me)

the pitt masterlist

[travelinblues]

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’re pretty sure Hotch hates you. Either that, or he thinks you’re a shitty profiler. Or it’s both. But when you volunteer to be bait for New York’s latest serial killer, the dynamic between you shifts, and you find yourself realizing that Aaron Hotchner might just care about you after all.

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Aaron Hotchner x F! Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit content, violence, smut, oral sex, public sex, drinking, firearms, bladed weapons, bondage (non-sexual), sexism, toxic masculinity, death & injury detail, dead dove: do not eat.

no mention of Y/N · present tense · second person POV

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Protective Hotch, you have awakened something inside of me. This is my first ever fic request !! Thank you SO much to the anon who asked for this. I loved writing it and really hope I get more requests soon ❤ 

masterlist | requests

The briefing room is for very serious conversations about very serious shit. You know that, but it doesn’t stop you and JJ from relentlessly teasing Spencer before Hotch arrives.

“Look, all I’m saying Spence is if you’re looking for a little more experience, I’d be happy to help. I’m curious what’s under the hood.”

Morgan chokes on his coffee at that last part.

“You sound like a pervert.” Spencer frowns.

A dirty giggle escapes your lips, the expression on his face reminiscent of shell-shock.

“This conversation is so inappropriate.”

JJ falls for the wounded innocence on Spencer’s face and apologizes. You’re not that easily fooled. He smirks at you.

“Besides, statistically speaking, it’s unlikely you could handle what’s under the hood.”

That makes you cackle in the least feminine way imaginable, which is unfortunate because Hotch happens to enter the room right as the sound comes out of you.

Fearing a scolding from the World’s Most Serious Boss™, you clear your throat and sit up straight. Garcia shuffles some paperwork on the desk, handing out files to each of you. Rossi hits several buttons on a remote with great force until the screen finally turns on.

Unable to look away, you find yourself fixated on the images of the three young women. Their throats have been cut deeper than you’ve ever seen before. It’s grotesque and unimaginable, but that’s not what unsettles you the most. Each of the women is wearing a 1950s swing dress, their hair has been styled, and they look alarmingly like you.

Reading your mind, Prentiss mutters under her breath.

“Freaky.”

Everyone settles down as Hotch addresses the room.

“We’ve been invited to New York to help with an unsub targeting high-class, career women. Garcia.”

Garcia nods, oversized pink kitten earrings jiggling a little as she does.

“Yep. Um, all three of these women were badass business babes, and it looks like this slimy bastard didn’t like that so he took them, uh- did- that to them, and dressed them up like Stepford Wives after.”

JJ taps a pen against her lips, deep in thought.

Prentiss takes the floor first.

“Well obviously this can’t be someone who was in their prime in the 50s. He’d be dead or at the very least ancient and completely immobile by now. There has to be some connection to, or nostalgia for, that era.”

Morgan nods, leaning back in his chair.

“Pretty safe bet our unsub’s a white male.”

It’s your turn to float a theory now. You avoid Hotch’s intimidating glare as you speak.

“What if we’ve got someone lashing out at the shift in women’s place in the world?”

Rossi’s lip quirks up in a subtle proud smile.

“Go on.”

“They’re all modern, high power businesswomen. Probably quite outspoken, and they sure as shit wouldn’t dress like that voluntarily. Plus there’s the obvious overkill with the wound.”

Hotch’s eyes bore into you.

“Elaborate.”

“If you’re a weak man that can’t live up to today’s societal ideals of masculinity, you’d want to bring back what you perceive as better times. When women were well-behaved, controllable, stayed at home, dressed like this — kept quiet.”

He nods, expression unreadable. You don’t let it throw you off.

“The depth of each laceration is vicious, and unnecessary for the kill alone. That amount of force is pure rage. He’s silencing these women in the most aggressive way possible.”

Hotch places his file back on the desk and heads toward the door.

“Good. Garcia, start with powerful women in New York who have recently divorced their inferior husbands. That’s likely our trigger. Wheels up in 30.”

---

Curled up in your seat on the jet, you scrutinize the case files for the seventh time today.

Prentiss and Rossi are busy trying to figure out Spencer’s latest card trick, JJ is having some alone time with her beloved cheetos, and Hotch is staring at his computer screen with such intensity you wonder if he’s hoping it will explode.

Morgan, on the other hand, is in the seat opposite you, blatantly profiling you.

“Could you stop that? Is there not some sort of unwritten rule that we don’t do that to each other?”

He feigns innocence.

“No idea what you’re talking about, baby girl.”

The sound of a throat clearing though the speaker of Morgan’s macbook puts a wide grin on his face.

“Come on Garcia, you’ll always be baby girl number 1, but you know I’m a sucker for a woman in uniform too.”

Garcia’s grumbled protest fades into the background as the realization slowly hits you.

“Holy shit.”

Morgan leans forward, laser focused now.

“What is it?”

“A woman in uniform. Garcia, the women all attended fundraisers on the week of their deaths right?”

Frantic keyboard clicking down the line draws the attention of the rest of the team.

“Correct. Gimme two ticks.”

A beat. More keyboard clicking.

“Looks like two were veteran benefit dinners and one was an NYPD gala. Does that mean something?”

“I think our victimology is more complex than just successful business women. We thought they went to these events in a business capacity, but what if that’s not the case? Did any of them serve?”

Garcia continues working her magic down the line. Hotch is clearly listening to what’s happening, eyes still fixed on his screen.

“Lemme see, uh, yeah vics number one and two were marines and our third girl was a sheriff’s deputy in Atlanta.”

You grin, thrilled the noose around this bastard is tightening a little.

“Great, that narrows it down.”

Hotch chimes in next, always waiting in the wings to piss in your cheerios.

“Hardly.”

You focus all your efforts on not groaning at his response. Luckily though, it’s Spencer to the rescue — your favourite nerd puts in his two cents.

“Actually, that does help. We know he’s escalating, so he’s likely to kill again in a matter of days. If we can pinpoint the next event that fits his victimology, we could have a shot at catching him there.”

Hotch shakes his head, eyes scanning the case files on the table.

“His hunting ground’s too vast. There’s thousands of guests there, hundreds of whom could fit his victimology. It’s an impossible operation to control, let alone find the right victim in all the chaos.”

You catch Prentiss’s eye, she tilts her head in silent suggestion. You nod in agreement. 

Hotch is more likely to listen to her, so she speaks up.

“Unless we plant one.”

She waits until he looks at her, then gestures her coffee cup in your direction. You sit completely still, anxiously awaiting his decision.

“No.”

You huff out a frustrated laugh.

“With all due respect sir, I could be sisters with each of these women. We have the same hair color, eye color, and body type, I was a detective before the FBI recruited me, and I’m also classy as fuck.”

Prentiss scoffs at that comment. You stick your tongue out in retaliation. 

Hotch’s eyes search for Rossi’s, silently pleading with him to be the voice of reason. Unfortunately for him, Rossi knows you’re right.

“Kid’s got a point, Hotch.”

“There’s no guarantee he’ll choose you.”

You recoil dramatically at that, slamming a closed fist to your chest mimicking a knife to the heart.

“First off, ouch — way to bruise a girl’s ego. Second, I’ll make sure he chooses me.”

JJ pokes her head round, eager to hear what’s coming next.

“How’re you gonna do that?”

You shrug.

“He wants a tough, loud, woman that needs taming. So I’ll talk loudly about my time as a detective, how much I love to make money, and how I’m the man of the house. He’ll hate me so much he’ll be compelled to kill me.”

“No. We’re not doing this.” Hotch barks out.

Rossi’s eyes narrow from across the jet, intrigued by the outburst.

“It’s our best shot and you know it.”

---

Several hours of being dragged around high-end stores later, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia via video call have successfully helped you find the perfect dress for the gala this evening.

You step out onto the streets of New York in a slinky black number that makes you feel like the hottest woman on earth.

Spotting the team huddled behind the SUVs for a final briefing, you scan the lot to check it’s safe to join them. 

The plunging neckline of your dress flusters Spencer, who doesn’t know where to look. Morgan, ever the professional, knows exactly where he shouldn’t look, but drinks you in anyway. 

“Damn, woman.”

You flash him your cutest smile and twirl, giving the dress its moment.

Hotch glares at you. The heat of his gaze would normally make you feel exposed, but you’re feeling brave tonight so you look him up and down. It feels more suggestive than it should. Now there’s a line you’d love to cross.

He shifts uncomfortably for a second.

“It’s a bit much, no?”

You wonder how on earth Hotch ever came to have a son with his clear aversion to women and sex. Or maybe it’s just you? a voice in your head teases.

Prentiss laughs, brushing him off.

“Absolutely not. Our unsub wants to tame a wild animal, and he’s a sexually motivated killer. This is the perfect dress.”

That shuts him up.

---

One hour of mingling is all it takes to remind you why you never come to these things. 

They’re boring, half the people attending have no right to be there, and heels really hurt your feet. 

Hotch has been hovering at the end of the bar like an angry wasp, watching your every move. You’re not sure what you did to make him hate you, but you’ll unpack that another day.

As you throw back the last drop of your champagne in a minor act of defiance, a man who can only be described as short and pathetic looking sidles up to the bar behind you.

Right where you want him, you ignore his presence and continue your insufferable conversation with the CEO of nobodygivesafuck-incorporated.

“I mean, that’s exactly why I left my ex-husband. Forgive me for being so crass, but the man was a total pussy.” 

Tossing your head back so you invade the unsub’s space slightly, you let out a bitter laugh, going in for the kill.

You can tell instantly that your plan has worked. It’s almost as though the temperature in the room has dropped five degrees. The unsub’s icy stare burns a hole in your back.

Ready to finally catch the fucker, you mumble some excuse to your conversation partner and push off the bar, ready to disappear off somewhere alone looking deliciously abductable.

Unfortunately, Hotch has other ideas. A hand grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the bar, dragging you across the ballroom until you’re out of site behind a pillar.

“What the fuck, Hotch? I had him!” you hiss.

Still holding your wrist, Hotch clocks a waiter approaching from behind. Needing a diversion, he leans in close and drops his gaze to your lips. His free hand lightly traces your curves.

Frozen in place, you watch as the waiter disappears, oblivious to the pair of you.

“He’s gone.”

As though he’s repelled by you, Hotch jolts backwards, creating some distance and leaving you feeling somewhat needy — though you’d never admit that, of course.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna scare him off.”

“Good.” he grits out.

“Good? We have him.”

Hotch’s gaze drops back to your lips for a split second. It happens so fast, you wonder if you’re imagining it.

“I’m calling this off. It’s too dangerous.”

Now you really lose your cool.

“Oh. My. God. What is your problem? I’m just as capable as everyone else on the team. Do you seriously not trust me to get this done?”

Hotch almost looks hurt by the implication. He exhales, eyes flicking up at the ceiling.

“It’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“What if he makes his move tonight? He’s escalating. I can’t guarantee your safety and you’re unarmed.”

You narrow your eyes, challenging Hotch more than you normally would. Maybe it’s the champagne.

“I am not.”

Hotch drags his eyes over your form slowly, studying every inch of you. You silently question whether someone has suddenly turned the thermostat up.

“Where are you keeping your gun? You’re practically naked.” he spits out.

Raising a brow at that word, you hold his eye. Hotch averts his gaze.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m calling it off.”

You search his face, forcing him to look at you. This time he doesn’t look away.

Unsure if it’s bravery or stupidity that takes over, you allow yourself to step out of line for a second.

“Is that an order as my boss, or something else?”

Eyes fixed firmly on your own, Hotch’s hands hover over your hips, fingertips lightly grazing your skin through the silky fabric.

With a little bit of trouble behind your eyes, you raise your chin closer to his. He leans into you, cautiously placing his hands on your waist.

Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to — the air is electric.

Before you even realize what’s happening, your hands are unbuttoning his pants. Then your hands are on him. He presses a desperate kiss to your lips as you stroke his hard length. 

Throwing his head back, one thing is crystal clear to you in this moment: Hotch has completely lost control.

Skin on fire, pulse hammering, you give in to your desires completely. 

Looking up at him doe-eyed and full of want, you study his face. He looks wildly turned on and furious simultaneously.

You’ve always felt something between you, but it’s only at this exact moment as you drop to your knees behind the pillar that you realize: it’s not hatred, it’s lust.

Already past the point of no return, Hotch tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your mouth onto him. He groans when you flick your tongue over his tip.

As he fucks your mouth, you slide your hands under his shirt, pleasantly surprised by the definition of his muscles.

The next few minutes are a complete blur. You’re a mess. Eyes watering, mascara running, hair unsalvageable. And yet, somehow, Hotch looks even worse. He swipes a thumb across your lip, tucking himself back in his pants.

Reaching a hand out to help you stand, he doesn’t say a word. He pulls you close and hovers over your mouth, tasting himself as he presses a final, searing kiss to your lips.

Nodding down the corridor behind you, he avoids eye contact.

“Bathroom.”

Understanding the instruction, you glide down the hall and disappear behind the oak door to clean up.

Hotch leaves in the opposite direction.

JJ startles you as you slip out of the bathroom, good as new. Looking around, she makes sure nobody’s watching before speaking in a hushed tone.

“Hey. Do you know where Hotch went?”

You top up your lipstick in the mirror behind her, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact.

“Nope, he chewed me out for drinking on the job, then he just disappeared.”

Her eyes scan the room, suspicious.

“Huh. That’s... out of character.”

---

Never before have you been so delighted to have a creep watching you. You breathe the biggest sigh of relief as you spot the unsub out the corner of your eye at the hotel breakfast buffet.

You may have ruined your professional relationship with your boss, and consequently quite possibly your whole career, but you haven’t ruined the case.

There is, however, one minor hiccup. You left your gun back in the room. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue and you’d simply sneak back up and grab it, but the predatory look in this man’s eyes tells you there won’t be a chance for that.

Gearing up for what’s to come, you inhale deeply and saunter toward the exit, making a beeline for the smoking area.

You’ve barely got one foot out the door before you hear a sickening crack, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of your skull. 

Your vision fades to black as a warmth spreads across your head. Your final thought before falling unconscious is that you wouldn’t have bothered washing your hair this morning if you’d known it was going to be covered in blood.

---

Stirring awake in a cloudy haze, you wince at the unwelcome combination of the mother of all headaches and a supremely unpleasant ringing sound in your ears.

Any plans you had to check your wound are swiftly ruined by the sudden realization that your hands are tied. 

Fully conscious now, you take in the scene before you. You’re in an abandoned 50s-themed diner, tied to a chair. Your knees are all fucked up and scraped too.

You feel a presence looming behind you.

“Did you seriously have to drag me across the ground? Are you too weak to lift a 130lb woman?”

With all the restraint of a petulant child, he kicks the chair leg closest to him. It does nothing other than move you a few inches across the floor.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

You bark out a laugh.

“Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Truly.”

Logically speaking, you know you should be buying time, not aggravating him further, but he’s so pathetic you genuinely can’t help yourself.

It’s a decision you come to regret pretty much instantly as he holds a chef’s knife to your throat.

“Women like you need to learn your place.”

Taking slow, shallow breaths and wriggling to avoid the blade biting into your skin, you run the numbers. 

One exit, one murderous asshole standing in the way of said exit. One big ass knife. Four chair legs. You could kick backwards, but your hands are tied behind your back, so you’ll probably land on them and get stuck. You could pretend someone’s at the door, but that buys you five seconds tops. Or you could try to talk your way out of it.

You open your mouth to give option three a shot, but there’s no need. A gunshot followed by the sound of the lock shattering forces the unsub to pull away from you. The knife draws blood as he retreats like a complete coward, but it’s just a superficial cut.

Hotch bursts into the door, and no matter how minor your injuries are, the second he lays eyes on you he sees red. 

Watching in shock, you sit helpless and hazy as Hotch lays into the unsub. You hear the unforgettable crack of the man’s nose breaking before Hotch slams him into the ground.

Standing over him, boot crushing the unsub’s throat, there’s venom in his words when he speaks.

“If you ever put your hands on her again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

The unsub chokes out a garbled sentence. You’re pretty sure you hear “whore” in there somewhere, but the rest is fuzzy.

Your vision starts to black out again, accompanied by the soundtrack of knuckles repeatedly making contact with bone. Agonised grunts come from both men as they engage in a violent scuffle you don't have the privilege of witnessing.

Hotch yells out in pain and the helplessness of being tied up stirs you once more. You're paralysed with the nauseating fear that he could be being killed just a few feet away from you right now.

Chaos descends upon the diner as the rest of the team bursts in, guns trained on the unsub. 

You’re not sure at what point it happened, but when you look back over at the unsub, he lies motionless on the floor with Hotch’s hands wrapped around his throat.

Rossi grips your face, checking for signs of life. You wince at the sudden reminder of the throbbing pain at the back of your head.

“You doing okay, kid?”

You manage to nod, still unsure what the hell happened across the room.

“How did you find me?”

Crouching down behind you, Morgan gets to work untying your hands.

“Garcia identified the unsub as the caterer. You’re sitting in the straw that broke the camel’s back. One post-divorce, failed business.”

Prentiss and Reid have successfully peeled Hotch away from the unsub. He stands opposite you, shirt spattered with blood, eyes dark and fixated on your own.

Taking it all in, you search Hotch’s face for a reassurance you know he can’t offer you right now. 

The team are all here and all eyes are on you, so instead he approaches you cautiously, inspecting the matted blood on the back of your head. 

“Rossi’s going to take you to the hospital.”

His eyes land on the body on the ground. A flicker of disgust crosses his face.

“I’ve got some paperwork to fill out.”

You sit unmoving, not sure what the right thing to say is. Bodies move around the room in a blur and you’re having trouble focusing on anything right now.

Hotch checks nobody is watching, then leans in close, lips grazing your ear.

“I’ll swing by the hospital later. Alone.” 

You hate yourself for it, but you have to ask the question, so you do.

“Is he dead?”

Hotch lets out a small sigh.

“Yes.”

You lower your voice.

“Did you do that for me?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

You don’t know what this means. Whether Hotch will get in trouble, whether you still even have a job, whether the team will look at you differently — whether Hotch will look at you differently. 

Sensing your impending downward spiral, Hotch lifts your hand feigning a wound-check, squeezing it lightly.

“Everything’s fine. I promise.”

And even though your head hurts like hell and a man is dead, you trust Hotch implicitly when he says those words.

[noonquiver]

𝗔 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘, 𝗔 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗦𝗬𝗠𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗬 — 𝗝𝗢𝗛𝗡 𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗡

✃ summary: john shen's first day as an attending goes a little something like this. or, 5 times you believe in him and the 1 time he believes in you. ✃ pairing: john shen x surgeon!f!reader ✃ wc: 6.0k ✃ notes: I AM FOR THE PEOPLE!! THE JOHN SHEN NATION!!! john n reader r the bestest duo ever and idc about anyone else ermmmm also can be read as stand-alone! but makes more sense given in universe context which u can find more of in the series masterlist! anyway this one is mainly for @rayveneyed my john shen girl.... ✃ tags: literally just fluff, some angsty touches, set pre-s1 of the pitt! medical inaccuraces sorry babes read on ao3 || series masterlist

1.

John's barely two minutes into his shift. His first shift as an attending, mind you, when he hears the fall of footsteps and someone leaning in next to him, but his shoulders still rest easy, his heart steady.

He already smells eucalyptus and catches the flash of your scrubcap before he turns, which is the only reason he doesn't incite a panic out of sheer boredom. A stretch of pale green, sprigs of leaves and flowers, pulls across your temple. Daisies, with white petals and golden centres, blooming all over your head.

Very spring-like, which is an antithesis of who you are. John classifies you as very much a winter person, though maybe it's because he met you during a blizzard after you'd been called in for an emergency craniotomy. The snow-chill was still melting from your fingers, and your toes were still thawing as you had walked in like a breath of fresh air.

Shen had been an intern then, and you were an R7, in between your attempts at publications and trying to figure out your footing after graduating. It felt like Godzilla stepping into the Pitt.

Now, he's technically your equal. Attending to attending.

He stifles a laugh as you forgo a greeting and start with, "Dr. Shen, I hear congratulations are in order." Your hands are clasped tight as you lean in beside him on the counter, but your expression is as it always is: neutral, a settled brow line and clear eyes catching the Pitt lights. "Attending Physician Dr. Shen, I should clarify."

"Attending Physician Spider, I thank you," he replies, "if we're going by our official titles."

"That's Attending Physician Dr. Spider," you correct. "Or, I mean, I still have a real name."

As if swatting a fly away: "Yeah, but no one calls you that." Biting on his coffee straw, he looks up at the board. "Any advice for the new guy?"

"Advice?" you echo. "It took two months for it to really sink in, and a year until I really felt normal about it all, if that's the right word for it. When the paperwork started piling up, I realized that it's not that different."

"Well, next year I'd like to request a check-up and see if that's a common diagnosis." John grins around his straw. Your expression flickers before settling into amusement. "Make it a routine thing, make sure I'm doing this whole 'attending' thing right."

"If you get to your desk and there's three stacks of papers needing to be signed," you intone smoothly, "you must be."

"I don't think we get private offices."

"Oh? Robby and Abbot share one. They must have some room they can empty out for you."

"You think?"

You shrug. "Maybe." Then, you add on, "By the way, a car versus pole arrived right before you came in. Not going too fast, airbags deployed. Bruising on the chest, closed radial fracture, no acute head injury. Ordered a CT to rule out anything that might've caused dizziness or confusion. He was awake and alert, but keep an eye out for decompensation for me, will you?"

"Did you let Abbot know?"

"I did, but I wanted to let the other attending on shift know," you remind him. "Just in case."

John is quick to mask his surprise. "One less patient for me to round on. God, you're so good to me and I'll do anything you want."

"Just don't be lazy on your first day of being an attending."

"Oh, I'd never dream of it. Hey, you gonna be around for the night?"

"Yeah." You cup the back of your neck and massage it thoroughly. Under your brow, you stare up at the board. As always, the air around you warps and undulates like a heartbeat—each pulse making something twinge as you shrug helplessly. "No one else would work July 4th weekend."

"Short end of the stick, then."

"No, I volunteered," you admit. "I'm not in a very patriotic mood." This, at his levelled gaze. "You know me."

"I'm still of the mind that you need friends," he drawls. "More friends, I mean. 'Cause that's what we are."

"Oh? I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, between dastardly saves and water cooler talk. Oh, and by the way, you're terribly in love with me." Your eyes crease in a smile, and John feels a relief pool in the bottom of his gut. "You know, I think we're friends. Like you could talk to me, because you can. If something's bothering you."

At last, a small, placid smile finds its way onto your face. "We are friends," you tell him quietly. "I'm not friends with people who aren't exceptional at their jobs."

"Then why're you so tight with Abbot?"

"Do you want to toe that line on your first day?"

Another heave of his shoulders. "You know me," he parrots. "I like to toe the line."

You draw away, and with it comes that tone you always take on whenever you decide to drop into his world. Finely trimmed in warmth and warning is your grin as you retreat to the elevator. "Be good, Shen."

"Y'know," he ventures, "technically, you can't boss me around anymore."

You spin on him, quick as a whip, tracking backwards down the hall. "When did you start biting back?"

"I'll never bite your hands. They're too expensive, and I haven't gotten my first attending paycheck yet," he promises solemnly, hand to his heart and fingers splayed as if you'll stitch each digit to his skin if you had the chance.

You don't laugh, or frown, or show any sign that you're angry, as you are wont to do. Your countenance softens, and then you jab your thumb into the button. Immediately, the sign above you lights up and the two heavy doors part.

"Don't let the R2s defer to Abbot when you stand in the room," you advise, stepping in, "Attending Physician Dr. Shen."

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2.

The sterile, cold air shifts with a gust of air that sweeps into the trauma room. A quick glance at the clock. Only barely past midnight.

Shen is craned over the woman on the gurney when you duck in and around the staff setting up stat monitors, your eyes dark and focused. You sidle in next to him, hand digging into your pocket to withdraw your penlight.

"Oh, I know you love me if you're here so fast," he sings as you take over the neurological exam.

"My gift for our new night shift attending. Dr. Shen—" lifting the woman's eyelids, you swing the light and watch the pupil dilate— "who've we got here?"

John shoots a finger gun over at the intern. "Phillips, go time."

"Anna Badriya, twenty-seven, GCS 12 en route. She called 911 before losing consciousness. Head ache, slurred speech, nausea for three hours."

You frown. "Do we know how long she's been complaining about the headache?"

"She said a few days?"

"We're setting up fluids, zofran, haloperidol," Shen cuts in cleanly. "No barf yet, but you know I hate to see aspiration." His hip bumps against yours as they rip open her front. "Alright, woah, stop. Looks like we've got someone fresh from cardiothoracic surgery. We need to pull up her EHR and be careful when we move her around."

Your gaze darts towards her chest. A surgery wound splits the patient's skin a part, and you clench your jaw, turning back to the woman. "Is it infected?"

"Nope. Looks clean. POCUS." With a generous slather of gel, Shen places the wand to the skin. "Bilateral lung sliding."

"Is it from a valve replacement? Like, could it have failed?" Phillips asks.

"Don't know yet… nope! Chest is clear. Upper quadrants are clear."

Lathered in sweat by pain, the woman lets out a soft moan as you press your hand to her forehead, using your thumb to draw back the other eyelid. "Anna? Anna, do you know where you are?" A soft moan comes out choked and out of the corner of your eye, you see gloved knuckles rub against the sternum.

"Responsive to pain," reports Phillips.

"Lower quadrants are good too. Spider?"

"Got a blown pupil. We need a head CT."

"She came in two weeks ago for an ascending aortic aneurysm. Discharged and lives at home with her mom." You whip your head over your shoulder at Olive standing by the computer. "Post-op DVT prophylaxis."

Straightening up, you step back and tuck your torch back into your breast pocket, ripping off your gloves with a rippling snap. "Alright, CT to OR."

"We'll need someone to call her mom."

"What is it?" asks Phillips.

Olive nods. "On it."

"A brain bleed caused by the blood thinners. Generally pretty rare," you explain, "but probable now." The harsh clang of the metal punctuates your words as the gurney rails lock into place. The ER staff become a procession, ushering the patient to the elevator and you cup your neck, lolling it under your palm and hearing the bones click. "We'll have her spick and span before you can say 'infundibulum.'"

"Still think mammillary bodies is weirder when we're talking about brains," Shen retorts, his fingers ghosting your elbow as you walk past him to follow. Side by side, they push their way out of the trauma room. The intern scurries ahead to help push the gurney.

Shen inclines his head towards yours. "Why do they call it that, by the way? Is it cause they look like a bunch of tiny nipples?"

"You just like boobs." You wrinkle your nose at him

With a huge, impish grin: "What guy doesn't like boobs?"

From where he leans on the counter by the arm, swiping mindlessly on the iPad to keep the screen active, Abbot interrupts whatever retort you had building up. "Hey, you need an extra set of hands?"

Shen pauses, fingers wrapping around the ends of his stethoscope. You continue onward, sending Jack a lazy wave, and as easy as breathing you say for him, "Relax, old man. Shen's got it handled."

You slip into the elevator just as the doors slide shut.

Turning on his heel, John walks a pace around the hub before pulling up Anna's chart on the computer, sitting down with a restrained groan. He stretches his arms high and back behind his head before flinging himself into the keyboard. Better to get started on his charting while he's ahead.

Yet as he settles his hands above the keyboard, he pauses for a moment. Then, he looks up at Abbot. The man doesn't even look phased as he works. John folds his arms on the desk, and says airily, "Don't know if you believe all that she's said."

"What? The part where she called me old, or where she said you had it handled?"

"Well, you're only, what—pushing seventy?"

"Alright."

"No, I mean, the other part."

Abbot doesn't bother even looking up from the iPad. Vaguely, he answers, "She's an excellent judge of character for everyone except herself."

"Which means to say she's good at holding people at a distance," John surmises under his breath, but he averts his gaze when Abbot sends him a well-meaning but hard warning glance. He tries to think of what little he can glean from you—your hobbies, what you like or dislike, even how old you are—and doesn't like at what he comes up with.

Which is to say, nothing.

"So, when's her birthday?" Abbot tells him, and he frowns. "How do you know that?"

"Ladies are attracted to a little experience." Shen pulls a face. Abbot snorts. "I mean, maybe she digs guys pushing seventy."

His boss pushes off the counter and walks over to the South wing. John's jaw drops, and Lena reaches over to manually hinge it shut.

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3.

John Shen isn't superstitious. He doesn't believe in saying the Q-word or the S-word or any word bringing bad luck, no matter how hard Ellis slugs him in the shoulder for it. Full moon madness isn't real. And he definitely doesn't think deaths come in threes. Good things, maybe, but not death.

Mostly, he believes good things should happen to good people.

"Dr. Shen?"

"That's me." He looks up, chin lifting from the cup of his hand to see a woman standing there. A surgical nurse, by the scrubs, stands there with shoulders pulled back as she stretches her arms. Her ID tag glints when her chest arches up towards the lights. CONNIE JOAN HUNTER. Crazy, he thinks idly, to have a name comprised entirely of first names. "Can I help you?"

"Spider sent me down. Said you would want to know that Ms. Badriya is well and in recovery."

"Oh." He stands, suddenly feeling very impolite sitting when someone is talking to him. In the back of his mind, he hears his mother chiding him. "Well, thank you. You didn't have to come all this way."

"She insisted," the nurse says with a shrug. She doesn't look at all bothered. "She told us that it was your first day as an attending, so you get to hear about all the wins you don't normally hear. Congratulations."

"Wow, is it a party up in neurosurg or something?"

"Always is." The nurse taps the counter with her fingers rhythmically before moving to glide off towards the stairs. She barely drags her hands away before coming back to stand in front of Shen. "Hey, are you close with Spider?"

"Decent friends," he says, pausing awkwardly between sitting and standing. "Have been for a while."

"Like outside of work," she clarifies.

"Those questions are directed to Dr. Abbot," he says. "Why?"

"We already asked him. We want to celebrate." She adds it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and his confused look is stupid. He straightens up again. "But we don't know what she'd like to do or get. If you have an idea, let any one of us know. We have, like, a group chat and everything, and we asked Abbot but he told us to ask Dr. Robby, and no one really wants to talk to Dr. Robby, so we're still in the middle of trying to convince Abbot to be a liaison." He frowns. Connie Joan Hunter slumps. "It's a whole thing."

John's still trying to wrap his head around the first half as he asks, "Celebrate? Did I miss a memo in the company emails or something?"

"You didn't hear?" At this, Conne Joan grows a little concerned. "Spider got her pick of fellowships next year. Neurotrauma at U-Dub, or UPMC, or Toronto. It's where she went for med school," she adds, although Shen somehow knows that. Fellow Canadian, and all that. "They're holding a spot."

"Can they do that?"

"Well," Connie Joan says, "I think they make exceptions for her."

She continues to prattle on about adding John to the group chat so that they can come up with some sort of celebration together. He opines that you wouldn't like a big party—even a simple gift would do—and ignores the strange, sinking sensation that floods him. An overwhelming wave of sadness, almost, if he gives it too much credence.

He clenches his jaw tight and tries to temper his thoughts on why you wouldn't tell him with other things, like genuinely, what gifts you'd like. How you'd react to a surprise party.

How much you hate it, how much you'd try to shimmy your way free from the room. Sure, you'll thank them all with a smile, but you'd try not to shrink in on yourself, attempt to sweep the entire thing under the rug with enough white lies to drown yourself in. Let's not make a big deal out of it. It's not like I'm dying. I'm really not worth all this. It's just U-dub. It's just U of T. It's just UPMC, and it's just neurosurgery. Anyone could do it—

A pager beeps. Connie Joan curses under her breath. She scurries out of the Pitt with a, "I'll text you!" and it's loud enough that Abbot frowns as he rounds the corner back from South.

"Were you hitting on her?" Appalled.

As petulant as a child who's lying but Shen really isn't lying: "No."

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4.

Somewhere between the lapse of hellish exhaustion and the second wind at 5 AM, Shen treks up to crit care with a half a sandwich, a banana, and goal in mind. That is to say, to find you and figure out what this whole fellowship business is about. He prides himself on knowing the general comings and goings. He also wants to know if he's about to lose one of his friends to U-Dub of all places.

He'd rather you go back to your alma mater of Temerty, across the border if you didn't want to stay in Pittsburgh. At least he'd stop by the Falls to visit. He himself graduated just up the St. Lawrence from McGill, so it's not like it would be too far if he ever decided to swing up there. Support a friend. Toronto winters aren't so different.

He'd rather you just tell him straight that you're leaving instead of playing along with routine yearly check-ups and all that bullshit.

A young man sits at the nurse's station when John gets there. Hair limp and oily under the pale light, he leans back into the most unergonomic, cheap, shit black office chair the hospital could scrounge up, and stares up at the screens mounted on the pillar. One for scheduling, another for stats.

Spooning yogurt robotically into his mouth, he just watches. John would think he's a statue, if not for the steady lifting and sinking of his chest. The few others are writing or typing away, and it's quiet. All around him are other staff, sweeping in and out of rooms for their hourly neuro checks, the shout of a particularly cantankerous patient complaining loudly about his sleep being disturbed, and John's shoulders rise, tense just a bit, eyes darting.

"Sorry." The nurse swivels, spoon pulled over his bottom lip. The ID has been tossed onto the desk as John leans over on his knuckles. Carter. "Is Spider around?"

"Could try her office. It's on the neurology floor, though. Not here."

"She got pulled into surgery," another one intones, not even bothering to turn around from where she leans onto the desk by her elbows. The nurse pushes her face into her hands, dragging the skin up and down as if wiping away a memory. "Jordan wanted the lesions out and the tumour biopsied as soon as possible and she said she could squeeze it in tonight by… I don't know, magic?"

"What the fuck?" the male nurse mumbles, then remembers Shen. "Sorry, man. Guess she's in surgery. Might be a while."

"Everything okay?"

"She's poking around in our friend's head. Like, nursing school and shit." With a daggered look over his shoulder: "He told me he was doing it tomorrow."

The woman holds her hands out in the air, shrugging. "Don't shoot the messenger."

The nurse, back to John: "You see how it is."

"Yeah. It gonna take another two or three hours, I'm guessing?"

Carter nods apologetically. "Do you need a consult? She's got some R1s tonight. They'll page her directly."

Everyone here is so nice, he thinks distantly. He sweeps his gaze around him. Then he realizes that there must be endless compassion or endless apathy to work in a place that dealt so cleanly with life and death and the meaning between the two.

John doesn't want to say it's any harder than the Pitt, but he remembers when he did a neurology rotation during his intern year. He shadowed a stroke team for weeks, watching as they brought back pieces of a person's identity—their speech, or the capacity to understand it, parts of the body that would jolt and twitch, and then go still.

"Maybe there's a small mercy here," Dr. Mehta once said to him, lacking his usual sense of joy and joke that he had gotten used to. He must've caught John's expression when a patient arrived too late for treatment, and died right in front of them. He remembers feeling sick. It wasn't the first person who died in front of him, but probably the first one where the doctors stepped back, and let the patient pass peacefully. "Not just to our patient, but to his doctors who don't have to weigh at what point the quality of life justifies living."

"No," he remembers to say presently. "Just tell her if she's free to page me. I wanted to talk to her about… Lance Burns. Car accident guy from earlier." He forks over his extension and the banana as thanks, and a little recognition flickers over the nurse's face.

"We'll have a room for him ready eventually," the nurse says apologetically, taking the food offering. He pauses. "Wait, you're the new EM attending."

"That's the story."

"Sweet. Congrats."

"Yeah, thank me when I keep sending up the guys that won't shut up," John teases, clutching onto his sandwich tighter. "Say, do you have a bathroom I could use?"

By the time he comes out and walks back to the nurse's station to retrieve his sandwich that he left for safekeeping and sanitary reasons, a few new figures roam the hub. One in particular is peering over Carter's shoulder. Your arms are planted on your hips, scrub cap still on your head as you dictate orders to the residents behind you.

"And make sure she doesn't try to roll out of bed again. Check the output every hour. I don't want to explain to her son why her EVD got dislodged or some other nonsensical thing," you mutter, fingers pulling down your cheek. The two residents nod and scatter, and you redirect your attention to Carter. "Next scan, please. See, right there. I knew it. He needs new scans. The lesions are way more invasive than these showed." You slide your hand to cup your neck, and roll it out. "I'll have to consult with Dr. Cheung and Dr. Conley. The good news is the biopsy results will be in by the end of the week, the bad news is I can't give you definitive answers." Your face twitches. "I'm sorry I can't do more right now."

"It's not your fault," Carter says, eyes empty as he clicks repeatedly. His voice is tight, and the other nurse from earlier has a hand tight on his shoulder, knuckles blanch, fingers rigid and digging. It looks painful. Carter doesn't even flinch.

"You can be there for him," you suggest quietly, pulling off your scrub cap. "Tired advice, but it's hard to be a patient." At his approach, you look up, exhausted, but still forcing yourself to blink and peer at him with as much energy as you can. "Shen?"

"Hey."

"Is something wrong? Lance; did he decompensate?"

"I just wanted to ask you about something." A meaningful look. You nod sharply down the hall, excusing yourself with your exhaustion. He follows after you and hands over the sandwich. "Just in case," he adds as you lead him through the twist and turns of the floor. You gesture to an on-call room after a quick peek inside to assure no one was already in there before slipping in.

John locks the door behind him, turning around just as you sink onto the bed, rest your elbows on your knees, and pry open the plastic encasing the sandwich. He pulls the chair from the desk and seats himself, arms lined along the worn armrests.

"What is it?" Your eyes warm in the gentle glow of the lamplight, and you look up from beneath your brow as you eat, cheeks full. You wipe at your lip, lowering your face at his expression, and your eyes widen, ducking your head even more into your hand when you realize he's still staring. Shen can't help the slight smile, the way his face heats as he turns his head away, pressing his jaw into the heel of his hand. "Sorry. I'm eating like a pig. I haven't eaten since… Sorry, what time is it?"

"Half past four."

"Probably since eight or nine," you confess. "Sorry."

"You just apologized three times in the last two sentences."

"Ah. Yeah. Habit." You eat slower. John watches out of the corner of his eye and wonders what that could mean. "Right. What happened to Lance?"

"Nothing."

"You're being weird." Your eyes are shadowed, a slight frown weighing down on your lips in concern. "Did something happen?"

John winces. "No. No, it's not that." He leans forward too, steepling his fingers. Their heads are inches apart. You cock aside, your brow wrinkling delicately. "We're… we're friends, right?"

"I think I recall saying that earlier tonight. Is the late night getting to you?" You clear your throat. "Shit, this sandwich is good."

"I think the late night's getting to you," he comments, and the tone holds more of an edge than he wants. He tempers it with a quick, "It's from the cart in the Pitt. Marginally better than the cafeteria."

You stare at him, gaze searching. Although you keep your tone light, it doesn't refract an inch in your face. "The cafeteria could kill people." Tone measured, every movement calculated. "I think it's what keeps us in business."

"Tell Gloria that."

"Hm." You chew the rest of the sandwich, dust your hands into the plastic container before setting it on the table, snapped shut. It's such a carelessly tidy sort of action that has John's throat going dry. He rubs his palms together. "So?"

"So what?"

"You clearly have something to say to me."

"No."

"Shen."

"I'm sure it was some baseless rumour, but you should know that your staff have loud mouths. Like... it could be a security breach, and if you were the president—" he whistles— "game over."

"Do you want me to have a talk with them?" The corner of your lips twist, displeased and a bolt of guilt strikes through John. He shakes his head violently, hands shooting out in front of him. Pitching forward at the hips, his feet shuffle and make his legs wider apart. You flinch.

"No! No, no, no, it's not like... bad or anything." He draws back, scratching at his brow. "It sounds bad in hindsight. No, what I mean to say is that I heard you were returning back to humble roots but instead of an R7 it's to fellowship. Should I be hurt that I wasn't in on the newsletter?"

Your shoulders fall, and your lips part, a soft breath coming out in the quietest of sighs before you utter, "I don't know. The only reason people know is because they keep eavesdropping."

He smiles wryly. "Do you think that maybe they eavesdrop because you don't tell anyone anything?"

"People need to mind their business. They spread all these rumours about fellowships, and I don't even know if I'm accepted into some of them. I don't want to get my hopes up in case they retract their offers and decide with a better candidate. Either way," you continue brusquely before John can cut you off, "don't be like me. Just enjoy the attending life. Maybe that's the advice I've got for you."

"Then why?"

"Competition. Interest. I was lucky to get a job without doing a fellowship. I need to be better to keep it. And it's either this or being a neuroscientist."

"So you're going to move to Canada."

"I don't know yet," you tell him smoothly.

"You're leaning to one over the other."

"I'm letting myself weigh the options. Measure twice. Cut once." Your eyes knife to him, under your brow, a butterfly's touch. Hair has slipped from your tight hairdo, ending like a swaying rope by your mouth. Over the past four years, he's seen your face—a passing ghost between doors and curtains, hidden behind a computer screen, translucent through a printed scan. Underneath Abbot's arm when you're too still and half the room thinks you're a cadaver and he's trying to shake some life into you. Over Olive's shoulder. In the break room, the line of your shoulders sloping downward as you press your forehead to the wall, and there it is again: that distinct puncture wound Shen gets between the ribs urging him to reach out, to tell you that he's sorry and that he's here—

It vanishes like smoke.

"The whole point of the brain is to adapt and survive," you tell him as you reach up and pull the elastic out of your hair. It tumbles all around your face, a wave of eucalyptus fragrancing the air as you rub at your scalp. Your words are a hand on his arm, squeezing him assuredly. "And to remember. In neuro, we gauge the humanity of a surgery by what will remain after."

He doesn't know why that sticks with him. You press a hand on his shoulder before you go, tell him you'll see him later.

John turns to watch you go, a lone shadow flooded by a pillar of light.

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5.

He doesn't see you again until his shift's over. Well, technically it ended fifty-seven minutes ago, but who was keeping count when he had charts to dictate and final discharges to go through?

You're talking to Langdon, which is a strange sight in itself, but the claws have been sheathed since March. Not gone completely, but the scratches glance off the skin rather than draw blood. You pass off an iPad, gesturing with your pinkie about levels and brain bleeds and shit he can't think of when he's tired off his ass from running everywhere.

But Langdon gets it. With every nod along to whatever medicine you're spewing, Shen wonders if the guy realizes he's staring more at the side of your face than at whatever you're talking about. He wouldn't be able to notice himself if he wasn't sitting at the hub right in front of the pair, double-checking to make sure his charts are fully uploaded.

"So, we hitting the diner?" he cut in cleanly when you pause in the midst of your conversation. You snap your jaw shut, pinning him with a look before muttering a dismissal to Langdon who hands back the iPad and disappears into the swirl of the Pitt without another word.

You turn to fully lean against the counter, setting down the iPad. "The diner?"

"Yeah."

"Don't really recall an invite."

"Well, consider this your invitation to the best congratulation dinnerfast in all of Pittsburgh. Who knows how much time I have left with you?"

"You mean how much you have to stick out before I'm out of your hair," you reply ruefully. "Besides, I have plans."

"What? A date?"

"No, of course not. Hey, give me your hand." Your fingers delicately steady his wrist as you slap something into his palm. "Come to the roof when you're done with your shift. Oh, and tell the DoorDash driver 2091 when he asks for the code."

He crumples up the twenty dollar bill in his hand, staring at it as if it were a baggie of paraphernalia. "What?"

"The DoorDash driver. That," you say, pointing at the money, "is his tip on top of the tip. Bring up the bags when he gets here."

"Why?"

The withering look you give him could've rotted a flower in the height of spring.

He's sure he's on the brink of asking another question you'd never call him stupid for when a nurse scrambles up to them, wide-eyed, flush-faced.

"Sorry!" she squeaks out, head swiveling from one doctor to the other. She seems to decide on you, fists clenched tight in front of her. "Ma'am, we need an attending in South 16 to oversee an intubation."

Without missing a beat: "Don't look at me. Talk to Shen."

The nurse firmly faces him with a determined nod. "Dr. Shen, we need you in South 16."

Shoving the money into his pocket, he shoots you a look. You smile innocently, and shrug your shoulders, head tilting towards the bed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way."

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1.

"Lemme know how much this was and I'll send back the money," John says around a mouthful of fries. You wave the notion away. They watch the sunrise as Piitsburgh begins to come to life under the growing sunlight reaching between the skyscrapers to brush along the filling roads and empty paved walkways.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. My treat, remember?" Whilst rifling through the bag: "Hey, don't forget your double-bacon."

"You got burgers too?" You withdraw your hand as he takes it from you, peering into the bag. Within indeed is a waxy bag of onion rings, and a neatly folded and huge lump that no doubt promised a greasy burger with crispy bacon and melted cheese. His stomach yawns and shudders at the idea of it and he pats himself through his shirt. "I knew I was your favourite."

"Right…"

The summer heat does not yet bog down their clothes, and you sit aside John, legs sprawled against the concrete as you saw a piece of waffle apart in the takeout container in your lap. The man himself stands, chin tilted to the wind the way a dog sticks his head out to feel the breeze. The night's exhaustion wears on him, but he knows if he sinks to the floor, it'll take you and a handful of nurses to haul him to his feet again.

He looks down at his packet of fries—near empty now—and his fingers crunch the paper. Just another thing you wouldn't be around to do in a year's time.

"How was your first day as an attending?"

Truthfully, he answers with a glance to where you sit by his feet, "Better with you in it."

You open your mouth to retort, but John doesn't hear it. A strange grief has wrapped around his heart in the hours since he's left the on-call room. It's a hard wire, tighter than it might've been if you had just left without warning. Like he's expecting to one day turn around and you won't be there.

"Sorry, I'm about to be real fuckin' annoying."

"Look, Shen—"

"Did UPMC say yes?" he interrupts. "Or are you just expecting a no?" Your lips press together, a small knot between your eyebrows and he jerks his stare away, a hard lump congealing in his throat. "Kill a guy for wondering if his friend's leaving the state."

Your eyes settle somewhere along the curve of his jaw. "Yes. I mean, no, they didn't say yes, and yes, I am expecting a no. I also don't know if staying here is the right choice. I've been here since my internship. Maybe a change of pace would be good. Maybe Pittsburgh saying no would be a sign."

"A sign for what?"

"A sign to move on." You throw a hand listless in the air in some vague expression. "If I don't have the medicine, I don't have much. I need to be somewhere where I at least have that."

John's heart drops. "They'd be ridiculous to reject you," he murmurs to the wind. You must hear him anyway, because the feeling of your arm disturbing the fabric of his scrub pants as you cut your food ceases. Forcing himself to speak louder, he looks over at the Pittsburgh skyline. "Especially since they know about your publications, case records, your work ethic. The fact that you already live here."

"My weaknesses."

"Your strength," he counters with an incredulous look down. "Your achievements. You. Spider, don't you know? Anyone would be lucky to have you." Your eyebrows rise at the heat in his tone and he turns back to his fries, fighting the tingling heat in his ears. "Besides, we'd miss you."

"We'd?" you echo, quirking an eyebrow at him. He nudges you with his foot, a grin flickering onto his face like a neon light, buzzing and bright. "You flatter me."

"Yeah, yeah, eat it up." You huff a laugh. After a moment of consideration, he remedies it. "I would miss you."

"…thanks, John."

He watches the sun your face into a bust of burnished copper when it tilts up to smile at him.

"Yeah, any time."

[faelinda]

All Over Me

AKOTSK: King Baelor Targaryen x Maekar Targaryen x Maekar's wife!reader

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

Word Count: 600+

Warnings: PWP, Pussy slapping, double penetration, verbal humiliation

A/n: It's my birthday, and so I'm celebrating with little blurbs for ideas I've had that I can't really flesh out into a full fic. Enjoy!

Baelor entered his private chambers, drinking in the sight of your naked body in Maekar's strong grip as you were braced against your husband's chest.

"Has she been a nuisance, brother?" Baelor smiled, his tone soft and gentle. You could not help but stare at the bejeweled crown on his dark head. The shimmering sapphires embedded in the curved dragons' eyes complemented the blue of one eye. How wonderful he looked in it.

"Been a pest all day, she needs to be dealt with," Maekar replied gruffily, his hands gripped tightly around your ankles, with your cunt on full display. "Mayhaps the firm hand of the King is what she requires."

Baelor clicked his tongue. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, sweetling?" he cooed. "To bother the king with such trivial matters is unbecoming."

His scolding made heat coil in your belly; somehow, even more desirable than the ones you received from your dear husband. Your bare body shivered with anticipation, but the stubbornness overtook. "No."

"What a shame, usually my brother can keep you under control," he hummed, those mismatched eyes glued on your glistening cunt.

You already bore the marks of your husband's hand upon your arse. Sore and nearly glowing ruby red. So Baelor must pick another target.

Maekar grunted, chest heaving against your naked back as your thighs began to ache from being twisted and held in such a vulnerable, embarrassing position. Yet a deep need and excitement palpitated through you. To be kept in your husband's firm grip and under the stern gaze of your brother in law was intoxicating, making you drown in lust.

"Do you enjoy being a nuisance, dear sister?" Baelor asked before his palm slapped agaisnt your dripping cunt.

You gnashed your teeth, biting back the needy sound you desperately wanted to make. Not ready to give them the satisfaction just yet. Baelor's hand slapped down thrice more, a sharp sting cascading across your delicate skin. Though it did nothing to soothe your swollen, aching pearl.

Maekar's grip tightened around your ankles, and you wondered if your bones might snap. "Your King asked you a question, girl."

The harsh fifth slap finally drew a yelp from your lips. "Yes, I enjoy it!" Letting the confession topple from your lips.

Maekar released you, allowing your legs to stretch out before you buried your face against his strong thigh. His hand gently stroked your hair. How kind he could be at times.

"Trying to play the meek little mouse, dear wife?" Maekar's fingers twisted in your hair.

"We are too wise to fall for that ruse," Baelor chuckled, stroking the curve of your hip before lowering his head to gently kiss your flushed, swollen cunt.

"Mayhaps you wish to behave for us now. Let your King and husband fuck you properly," Maekar growled.

"That is only what I've been begging for all day," you purred.

"I do not know how you handle her, brother," Baelor chuckled, taking hold of your chin and sliding his thumb between your lips and teeth.

"I can break the most willful of horses. I enjoy a challenge, and when she tests me too much, I send her to you."

"And I appreciate the gift you share with me." Your saliva leaked over Baelor's thumb as Maekar's mouth claimed your shoulder. Ravenous teeth sinking into willing, tender flesh. A lamb to the slaughter. How eagerly you offered your throat.

The two brothers pulled away from you briefly to exchange a fervent kiss of their own.

Enveloped between them, the Hammer and the Anvil. Maekar nestled against your back with Baelor wrapped around your front. How many desired this? Desired them? Yet they were all yours.

It always amazed you how easily your body could accommodate both men inside you. Cocks stretching you impossibly wide. Filled to the brim. Leaking seed. Whining and rutting like a common whore as they gave into your whims. They always did. You held all the power.

You wondered whose seed would quicken first.

[lostrealityr]

The Flirting Game

Maekar Targaryen x Wife Reader

synopsis: A jealous husband cannot handle a wife so welcoming to unwanted guests.

word count: 1,616

warnings: 18+ mdni, female reader, no use of Y/N, readers looks are un-described, SMUT, p in v, rough (ish) sex, being tied up during sex, slight slapping/hitting, orgasm denial, slight biting and blood, basically no plot just jealous sex.(reader is a legal adult) REMEMBER - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME

DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.

✴︎

“Would you rather I ignored our guests entirely, husband? Seeing as you are so callous I thought perhaps a little kindness to Lord Damon would do a service to our hospitality.” The tone of your voice was cold in itself, gazing at your shirtless husband as he tore his clothes from his own body. “He was supposed to leave three fucking days ago, yet due to your excellent hospitality he has extended his stay, and now you want me to be grateful, wife? Is that a jest?” He spat, grasping you by your upper arm and throwing you into the plush furs that lined the bed, your navy gown being stripped from you in a near instant- discarded on the floor like it was no more than a mere inconvenience. “It is not a jest husband, regardless of your personal views your Father sent him for the purposes of a political welcoming to ease the debt we owe house Lannister. Yet you have decided to make it your personal mission to double that debt.”

“Oh so I am the reason you were flaunting your breasts in that damned gown. Like a common whore you were, filling his cup as your breasts heaved to be free of the fucking fabric. Well now they are freed, but at my hand, not his.” He growled, taking one of your pebbled nipples between two of his scorned fingertips. “A little promiscuous persuasion can never hurt.” You smirked, digging your teeth into his bottom lip and pulling lightly, only causing his festering anger to seemingly blow. “Can never hurt? Can never fucking hurt? Have you always been plainly stupid or is this a newly adopted trait from too long in that prick’s presence? Hm? Tell me wife, did you desire his cock? Because your actions certainly presented as if I were not satisfying you in bed.” His hands were rough against your supple skin, bruising your hips and tearing at your thighs as he freed his cock. It sat taught in line with his navel, angry, red and leaking at the flushed tip. You reached gently to encase it in your palm only for your husband to grasp both of your wrists and pin them above your head against the bedcovers. He grunted, “Whores do not initiate, they take what is given to them and they act as if they like it. Given you seemed near enough doing that for your new boy-toy I do not doubt you will be able to satisfy me all the same.”

Your skin grew hotter as sweat encased you both, sticking your bodies together as if you were morphing into one. The belt that had hung undone against his hip bone was wound around your wrists and pulled tight before being clasped, causing a whimper to escape you, had you really angered him so? You were breathless as his chest now lay above your eyes, the speckled white hairs that adorned it tickled your nose as he secured the belt. Without hesitation you pressed a kiss to the hard plane of his pectoral, before circling your tongue around one of his aroused nipples.

He did not take kindly to your amusement at his discipline.

His hand came down to grasp your jaw, no care for the strength his body possessed as he wrenched your head to force your eyes to look up at his own. “Do not touch me.” He growled, his hand grasped your thigh before smacking it apart from the other, a red handprint lingering in its wake. A hiss escaped you involuntarily, a natural reaction to such careless rough-handling. Though you did not mind, you wanted his touch all the same. You parted your legs for him, baring all that you were openly to the cool air between the two of you. You propped your feet up on the mattress, knees bent. Usually you would have locked your ankles behind his waistline to draw him closer- yet seemingly he desired entire control tonight. However you expected his descent, you waited for him to lap at your folds, indulge you in where you clearly desired him most. Yet he did not. Rather he lined himself up with your folds, brushing the head of his cock through up to your clit and back down, gathering just enough of your slick to make it comfortable, yet still a lesson.

“Husband?” You questioned, voice low. Even on your wedding night and every night spent entangled with one another since, he had never not indulged in you. He would spend hours between your legs, tongue lapping at your entrance as his nose fought and knocked against your clit until you were writhing, begging for his cock. Yet seemingly tonight he had lost all patience and decided you would have to endure his way of order.

His entrance was brutal, stretching you raw as you fought to move up the bed to give yourself a moment longer to relax yourself for him. Yet he did not wait. “Where do you think you’re trying to go? Hm? Lord Damon won’t come to love you gently. He might hear you screaming my name, but he will not come.” Gods he hopes he does, if the walls had to shake just so all could hear how he fucked his wife then he hoped the entire castle crumbled. Never again would a man flirt with his own wife so blatantly, even if she was also partaking in the action. You may do as you pleased, but no man would reciprocate your nature, not whilst your husband was still breathing. “Don’t want him-” You whined, settling your hips into your husband’s hands, “Only you. Just you, Maekar.”

Only now just bottomed out and you were near cock-drunk and pliant. No Lannister could do that, not to a woman like you. Maekar smirked against the skin of your throat, teeth baring down until blood grew between them, coating his tongue as he lapped and sucked. Another sound escaped you, not quiet enough to be a whimper but definitely not loud enough for anyone but Maekar to hear. “You are being quiet wife. I suggest you let them all know who you belong to.” With the order spoken he thrusted, force so brutal your entire body shifted and you cried out, tears pooling at your lash-line as you clenched your eyes shut. “No no no.” He muttered, palm coming into softer contact against your cheek, “Keep them open. Let me see you. You will watch me fuck you. Claiming what is already mine. Maybe you will remember this for next time you try to play your little games.”

“You’ve been quiet for days.” You reasoned, voice breaking with every thrust as his cock near bulged out of your lower abdomen, he pressed down softly causing a breathless moan to escape you. “Haven’t touched- ngh- touched me. Left me wanting. What was I to do?”

“Ask instead of whoring yourself out to a fucking Lannister.”

Even now a giggle escaped you, watching his face harden as his other hand now clasped around your throat, squeezing at the sides just enough to give you what you craved. “And you just took it. You said nothing.” He pulled away without warning, grasping your hips and flipping you over as his hand forced you face down into the mattress, ass up for him to have full access to what he craved. “Would you have liked me to behead him at dinner? Gouge out his eyes for ogling at you? Wife?” He grunted, thrusts becoming unmeasurable as he delved impossibly deeper inside of you, moans and praises slipping from your own lips like succulent sin. “Mm- no. I’ll settle for this.”

“Settle? You will settle for this will you? You ungrateful brat.” He yanked you up by your hair, ass now pressed into his pelvis as the backs of your thighs rested against his own as he fucked you erratically, a satisfied smirk lying on your lips “So good mm- Maekar.”

“I don’t even need to look at you to know you’re smirking. As if you’ve won this.” He came with a grunt inside of you, allowing his seed to spill deep before he pulled away and dropped you onto the mattress. Unfinished. You furrowed your eyebrows as he undid the belt that held your wrists. You turned onto your back, propping yourself up onto your elbows as he stood heaving at the end of the bed, belt now discarded onto the floor where his clothes also led. “I didn’t cum.” You complained, the satisfaction now present on his own features instead of yours, the coil that had been previously wound tight to near expulsion in your core now dissipating lowly. “I know.” He grinned, he had felt how close you were, waited until your walls contracted so much so he knew you were teetering on the edge of utter bliss. And he had taken it from you, with intent. Your lips parted yet no sound left them, your hair a mess, your body covered in the marks of brutal love he had gifted you, and he had not given in. You had not won tonight, and he knew it.

“I suggest you bathe, wife. Tomorrow will be long, with you having to entertain Lord Lannister and all.” He climbed into the bed, pulling it unmade and settling against the pillows. You did not move, you just blinked at him. “But-”

“Goodnight, wife.” He turned over away from you, into the pillows without hesitation. He did not hesitate. You didn’t know whether to be impressed by his restraint, or angry, angry that he had beat you at your own damn game.

A/N: guys i apologise i don’t know what this is or where it came from but maekar was on my mind and then this was what came out of that so do with that what you will.

as always: requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions at all are always always appreciated. take care everyone!!

general akotsk taglist:

@noone1233nobody @antobooh @mikariell95 @kravitzwhore @vanillafan6 @ae-gax @galactict3a @aleemendoza2425-blog @feral-postings @n3rdybirdee @mossthedevouring

maekar targaryen taglist:

@mimistimesblog @thorins-queen-of-erebor @erinceles @danaaa21 @nanamin-chan @maximuminfluencerstarlight @pearldaisy @bog-devil @icebearcucumber @la2luna-blog @somethingvicked

[mxtantrights]

there's a little bit of something me in everything, in you

a/n: got a request, needed to write it out because I do think Park would do a full 180 in that emergency room. listening to this while writing.

Surely you could finish the shadowing program without having Park see you in another hospital bed. The first time was a workplace incident and you knew he was at work so that really couldn't be helped. This?

Oh, no. The universe was seriously trying to push some sort of something. You don't know what though.

Hell you weren't even supposed to be in the hospital today its your day off! You're supposed to be having fun. Not thinking about the scrubs and the charting and the operating rooms and all that.

Having fun costs.

You were out with your friends just about an hour ago. Brunching it up with your favorite people. Laughing because you were on someone else's tab and even if the mimosas weren't bottomless, they sure felt like it.

You hadn't even begun working on your third when it happened.

Like clockwork your day turned into something sour. You can't quite remember because it all went so fast. First you were walking your friend the the bathroom. Then you where on the floor. Someone walking past had clipped your friend, she twisted and now here you are.

Your wrist looks fucking purple. You know its not that bad. You know you'll have function of it after this. But you don't know how long its going to take to heal.

In order to get your friends off your back about going to an urgent care, you said you'd just swing by the hospital and have them look at it. Urgent care to you was the first aid kit that sits in your apartment. You were never planning to not see someone you trusted.

Lupe saw you check in and bumped you up. Which you told her not to do because there were other people who could've been seen before you. Like the guy with the serious cough. Or the little boy with the beads stuck up his nose.

Still you were given the fast track. It of course had to be Dana who saw you first once you were in. She basically called the whole ED into your room. Whitaker came and checked out your wrist and told you everything you already know. Possible sprain or highly doubtful but a hairline fracture could've happened.

Page Ortho someone says in the room. Abbot. You recognize his voice.

Mohan pages whoever is on call. You have half a mind to think its going to be Park. Until Mohan tells you on the way out that she didn't ask for him specifically, but someone should be coming down for the consult soon.

Abbot, who was supposed to be on his way you but somehow magically stuck around to get a good look at you, makes a face. A face you know is saying 'I know more than the rest of them'. You silently wave him off with your good hand.

Dr. Meyer comes in. She recognizes you instantly. And dives head first. Does an ultra sound to make sure there's enough blood flow to your hand to get you in for a scan.

What you don't expect, fifteen minutes later Park comes walking though the door of your room. You had thought since Meyer was on it that he was busy. In a surgery or something.

"Why didn't you tell me my resident was the consult?" he asks.

Dr. Meyer says something to the affect of 'you were busy' as she turns your wrist over slowly. You grimace when she pulls it the wrong way. Even though you know she's only trying to get a better read on the injury.

Park though, he gets to your side faster than you can even fucking blink. He's on the side with your good hand. And he looks at your wrist from there.

"Any meds for the pain?" he asks.

"Can't, blood alcohol level is a bit high for it." Meyers answers.

Brendon turns to you with a look. You feel like he's scolding you a bit. Your day off and you're day drinking. It probably didn't look good but what you did outside of this hospital and off the clock was no one's business.

"My friends were treating me to brunch, I couldn't say no." you answer his unasked question with a pout.

He scoffs playfully, "What happened?"

"I got my hand twisted, was holding onto my friend who got body checked on our way to the bathroom."

He looks ticked off. To say the least. You're not sure why that bothers you so much. No, that's not completely honest. You know why it bothers you. You don't want to be a nuisance to the man that you like.

Fuck. What a great time to realize that.

"I'm thinking its a simple pop and pinch." Meyers says casually.

Your eyes widen, "Wait! I don't wanna to do that!"

Automatically your body shoots away from her. In order to do that you move closer to Park. So close that your back in resting against his front. You feel his hands rest your hips in an instant. Probably to get you to steady so you won't fall off the bed.

"I think we should wait for scans. Don't wanna play fast and loose with one of the best new hands in the OD." Park says.

You crane you head up to look at him. He doesn't look down. He starts straight ahead at his colleague. A woman that is maybe a few years older than him. He's going against her...for you.

Because you've seen him do a pop and pinch before. You remember the first time you saw it happen you went and threw up a few minutes later in the bathroom. You hate seeing it happen to patients.

You've gotten better and don't have to heave when you see it happen. It takes a little bit out of you every time but you have gotten better and watching it happen. There was no way you were getting that move pulled on you though.

So you look back at Meyer.

"I can't stand it anyway. Would probably pass out." you comment.

Meyers looks at Park, "Wait, how have you stayed on to shadow the man who basically perfected it?"

"Oh, Dr. Park doesn't do those as much."

You watch Meyer raise her eyebrow in disbelief. Something in you tells you you've may have said a bit too much. You're just not too sure what. Then you watch as she gets up and snaps her gloves off.

Park removes his hands from your hips. You move away from Park and sit up against the bed again. You notice how cold the bed is compared to him fairly quickly. You shouldn't notice that.

"When the scans come back, we'll take next steps." she says as she walks out the room.

The door closes and leaves you and Park alone. You watch with careful eyes as he brings over a rolling chair and plants himself by your side. He looks worried. He never looks worried.

"I'm not gonna lose my hand, Park. It's probably just a sprain." you try to soothe over his fears.

He shakes his head, "I won't have you get anything but the best care. Your hands are important."

You lift up your bad hand and wiggle your fingers in front of him. The faint sense of pain still there but not so much from moving your fingers.

Then you lift your good hand up and compare them. One wrist more swollen than the other. A purple color lining it like a bracelet that goes all the way around.

"Because I chart the way you like." you joke.

"Because you're going to be a brilliant doctor one day." he counters.

At that you put both of your hands down slowly. Trying not to aggravate your bad one. Once rested, you turn to face him. The man never has a problem saying how he truly feels. Even when it knocks the wind right out of you.

You clear your throat. Your fears getting the better of you now. After looking at his face for a few moments the worrying starts to settle in. Maybe this could be a hairline fracture. Or a muscle tear. How much PT would it take to get back to normal?

Would you even get back to normal?

"If its something bad, I'd like you to be the one to fix me." you say.

He nods once. Like you had barked an order at him or something. You had thought he would say something. Like thank you because you basically just called him a great doctor. Or that you were in good hands because he knows he's a great doctor.

"You don't need fixing, Pinkie, but I've got you."

And at that very moment you think that that universe is conspiring to put butterflies in your stomach. Because Brendon Park has never looked more human than when he says that he's got you. And you don't know what it feels like to have him 'get' you, but you wanna find out now.

[snoopysupe]

⭑.ᐟ Expectations (Day Two): Honeybee ── Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park

summary: you take park to the farmers market for day two of your ‘to do list’ (wc: 1.4k)

pairing: brendon park / f!reader

content: corny fluff. grumpy x sunshine duo. mutual crushing. park is down BAD. you guys are touchy feely in this. it’s just pure cheese. reader likes pink.

Park hadn’t ever taken time out of his elaborate schedule of reparations to the musculoskeletal system on the poor souls of Pittsburgh, to frolic between pop-up gazebos that had local grown produce and craft beer coming out of its ears. 

His downtime was, to be quite frank, still work. Park would allocate his free time to observing online lectures, assessments, case studies and then doing it all in reverse. If he wasn’t elbow-deep in work related things, he was taking a shot of dry protein powder and spending the rest of the sunlight hours lifting heavy weights in the gym—anything to prevent his brain from switching off. 

When he had read the note you inputted in his calendar app for the closest Saturday either of you had away from the doors of the PTMC, he turned his extensive research skills toward studying the ins and outs of a regular Farmers Market. 

The Bloomfield Saturday Market on Liberty Street. To be exact. 

Now, Park was well aware that he wasn’t just emptying out some short-term knowledge on bones and ligaments to replace it for Farmers Market wisdom; for his own personal interest. No, that was far from the category of Brendon Park’s interests. It was solely because you had expressed a keen interest in keeping the local community alive. 

It almost meant that Park was quick to catch on that he was satisfied with the idea of doing, well, anything for someone like you. (This including the Pilates class that had him limping around the Orthopaedics floor for a few days.) 

You met him at the entrance to the lot that the market was being held in on Liberty Street, in an outfit that conjured up a subtle expression out of Park in the form of a harsh gulp that made his adam’s apple bob. 

Park slow blinks at you, like some docile cat. “I could have picked you up,” he says as you approach him with a windswept look from the walk, “If I had your number. Which, I still don’t.” 

“Hello to you too, Shark.” you retort sarcastically, “Plus, what would lesson be learnt if I just handed my digits over?” 

“You spend ten hours on your feet at work, and you still prefer to walk to Liberty Street?” Park asks lowly, glazing over your jab, and walks at your leisurely pace. 

You chuckle lightly, “I don’t need you to take me for a ride, Sharky.” you spare him a glance, “I’m rather independent in that aspect of my life.” 

(He didn’t doubt that. Innuendo insinuated or not.) 

The two of you walk into the lot of the Farmers Market that had already begun a handful of hours earlier, where you give a handful of facts about the Bloomfield Market in its entirety, and Park listens intently—the softness he spares for you never extending past you to the smiley attendees on the friendlier side of the spectrum. 

Even with the stark contrast, between the PTMC, where Park felt the weight of being a renowned Ortho surgeon fall upon the expanse of his broad shoulders and the Farmers Market that replaced the high-paced clinical environment for a slow-tempo, sensory enriched stroll; it was you at the core of it all, that had Park’s whole, undivided attention. 

You spoke for the both of you, which Park liked, even if he was willing to dust off the conversational skills to engage with you. Hands waving with little regard to spacial awareness, you brought a newfound radiance to the already good-weathered day as you peered at each stall in passing. 

“Did you want something in particular?” Park asks when you pause at a stall that advertised their heirloom vegetables. 

“Actually, yes.” you smile politely at the owner of the stall, “I want to get some honey.” 

“Honey?” Park repeats as he scans the visible stalls for any sign of golden coloured mason jars. 

You straighten up with a glint in your eye, “It’s a little soon to be handing out terms of endearment, Sharky.” you painfully tease, “You don’t even know my favourite colour.” 

“It’s pink.” (The pink water bottle and pink crocs at work made that obvious.) 

“Cheat.” you respond.

Park lets a short breath of a laugh escape past his—usually—tight-lipped expression. That was also part of you that Brendon Park had grown fond of over the initial months of giving you the time of day, was the fact that you were so easy to disarm that exterior made up of concrete and bad moods.

You flash a bright smile at the sound of his low chuckle, your insides fluttering. Without much thought, you smooth the palm of your hand around his veiny forearm and curl your fingers around until you’ve latched onto him. 

Park doesn’t even flinch. His head still on a swivel to locate a honey stall, he gives a small tug to bring you closer to his side as you weave through the oncoming foot traffic. 

(So, physical touch was not off the menu!) 

Eventually, you find the stall of beekeepers selling honey that you had in mind set on—you even let Park take the victory of locating it, just to stroke his attentive ego. The stall is half empty due to popular demand of the variety of unprocessed comb honey, soft set or even honey mustard. 

As you greet the vendors, Park smooths a hand across the small of your back and bends to mumble in your ear that he will be back momentarily; his sights set far off in the distance. Which is great, you think, with Brendon Park’s reputation of being a razor-sharp toothed workaholic, taking an interest in a stall within a social event that was far from where anyone within the PTMC would plant him…it made your heart swell that something captures his interest. 

He returns a couple of minutes later as you’re wrapping up the process of buying some honey from the beekeeper passionate about his trade. Park stops your purse from leaving your tote bag, “I’ve got it.” 

“Don’t be silly.” you wave him off, which earns you a deadpan glare. “Alright, fine. Pay for my honey.” 

Park does exactly that, because that was part of intentions even coming on this recreational event with you. Amidst the fun of the fully booked calendar app, and the Cat and Mouse game you were enforcing in order for Park to syringe out your phone number; he was still in the mindset to impress you at any given moment. 

Brendon Park wanted you. Bad. 

A couple of inexpensive—to him, anyway—pots of honey was no skin off his nose, and he could see from his peripheral that you were smiling.

That was what it was all about. That fucking smile. 

“Thank you for that,” you turn to Park after taking the bag of honey from the vendor. “Did you find something to buy?” 

Park nods, “Yeah. Here—” he moves the arm that had been concealing a bouquet of vibrant flowers wrapped in brown paper. He gets a little nervous, which is a rarity. “—The lady helped me pick them. She said they’re zinnias, snapdragons and celosias, if you like any of them. All of them are in season right now. Colourful.” he adds at the end to tie up his flower fact-induced word vomit.

(Oh, boy. He was seriously exceeding all expectations.)  

You blink at the pink and orange bouquet, “You picked them?” your voice wavers with endearment. 

“Of course.” Park says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Part of you almost kisses his face silly in the middle of the Bloomfield Market. You go for the latter of pressing a kiss to his cheek—which you’re almost convinced Park moved a couple of inches so it captured the corner of his lips instead. Taking the bouquet from Park, you admire the flowers up close as he guides you towards more stalls with his hand planted against your back again.

For safety purposes, incase you lose each other. Not for the personal benefit of just…being able to touch you. Obviously. 

You let out a gasp, “Oh shit!” 

“What?” Park’s head snaps down to look at you. 

“There’s a honeybee in my flowers!” you point to it excitedly with your finger, as it collects pollen. “You know they’re a sign of good fortune?”

Park hums, “That would be correct.” he draws circles in your back with his thumb as he speaks, “I’m feeling pretty fortunate right now.”