#and like! I think he WOULD have stood firm and been like ‘no I’m not cutting you open that’s crazy you’ll die’ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

danysdaughter · 2 months ago

Text

Hold Your Breath

pairing | civil!war!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.6k words (whoopsie)

summary I After a panic attack triggers something raw and vulnerable in Bucky, a desperate kiss turns into a night of urgent, clothed intimacy where he clings to you for grounding, connection, and humanity.

tags | 18+, (MDNI!), p in v sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, emotional sex, desperate sex, riding, dry humping, titty sucking, begging, subby!bucky, soft!reader, angst, soft dom!reader, vulnerable!bucky, slow burn to sudden burn, hurt/comfort, PANIC ATTACK! platonic!steve x reader, oh and PLOT! but premises: Fuck His Pain Away

a/n | THIS MIGHT BE THE FILTHIEST THING IVE EVER WRITTEN. uh, Matt Murdock cameo. and Steve and reader lowkey act romantic but they're purely platonic. inspired by THE Stiles and Lydia. ENJOY!

likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

divider by @cafekitsune

The warehouse looked like it had been forgotten by time. Rust flaked off corrugated walls, the windows long since caked in grime and dust. Faint light filtered in through the cracks in the ceiling, catching on floating particles like a snowstorm of ash.

You stepped through the open door slowly, your heeled boots echoing softly against the concrete floor. The weight of silence sat thick in the air—one broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional creak of aging steel. Sam stood off to the side, posted up by a boarded window, his eyes scanning the outside world like a hawk. Ironic.

He gave you a short nod in greeting, then jerked his chin toward the stairwell.

“He’s upstairs. With him.”

You nodded silently, then started climbing. Each step was slow, heavy with things unsaid. You reached the upper landing and paused at the threshold of a dim corridor, where you finally saw him.

Steve Rogers.

He was leaning against the doorframe to a room that looked like it had once been an office, now stripped bare. His arms were folded, his head slightly bowed, lost in thought. The sharp angles of his jaw were drawn tight, his eyes shadowed with more than fatigue.

He looked tired—drawn in a way you rarely saw. Shoulders too tight. Worry clinging to him like a second skin.

And yet the moment he looked up and saw you, something in his face unspooled.

“You came,” he said, voice low, thick.

You smiled softly, stepping closer. “Where else would I be?”

Steve gave a dry little exhale. “I don’t know. Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” you said.

He nodded once, but didn’t move from the door. The weight of the air between you stretched.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

You straightened, gaze steady. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. You don’t have to ask.”

“I do.” His jaw flexed, eyes flicking away. “Because I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. We’re stretched thin. And Bucky… he’s not in a good place.”

“I know,” you said, voice gentler now. “Steve, I know. I’m not scared of him.”

He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face, tension radiating from every inch of him. “I’m not either. That’s not it. It’s just—he’s been through so much. He barely speaks. Sometimes I think he’s back—my Bucky—but then I see that look in his eyes and I don’t even know who I’m looking at.”

You took a step forward, heart aching.

“You’re worried he’ll hurt someone.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. His mouth pressed into a tight line.

Then, almost too softly: “I’m worried he’ll hurt himself.”

That cracked something inside you. You reached out, fingers curling gently around his arm.

“Then I’ll be here,” you said, firm and calm. “I’ll sit with him through it. However long it takes.”

Steve looked at you, truly looked, and you could see it then—how much weight he was carrying. And how close he was to shattering under it.

“There’s more,” he said after a moment, voice even lower.

You nodded. “Tell me.”

He hesitated, like he didn’t know if he should. Then—quietly, brokenly—he said, “I don’t know what’s happening to us. The Avengers. The world. It used to feel like we were fighting for something good. Something that meant something. Now… it just feels like we’re tearing apart.”

You let his words hang in the air. Let him breathe. Then you stepped closer.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whispered.

But Steve shook his head. Slowly. Distantly.

“I don’t think it will be.”

There was something so human about him in that moment. Not the Captain. Not the soldier. Just a man who’d lived too long, lost too much, and still hadn’t learned how to stop hoping—even when it hurt.

He looked at you—really looked at you. The intensity in his eyes bordered on overwhelming. But what you saw there wasn’t fear. It was trust. Worn, heavy, aching trust.

“You can back out at any point,” he said, voice rough. “If it’s too much. If he—”

“I’m here,” you interrupted softly, a small smile blooming. “And I’m here to stay.”

Steve stared at you for a moment longer, then—without warning—you stepped in and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He folded into you immediately, arms winding tightly around your waist like the weight of the world was something he could put down, just for a second, if he held onto you.

His breath was warm against your hair.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. “For being here. For me.”

Your fingers curled at his nape, anchoring him. “Always.”

When he finally pulled back, his hands lingered on your waist. The kind of touch that said, I can’t ask for more, but I’d be lost without this.

You gave his hand a final squeeze, then watched as he turned and opened the door to where Bucky waited.

The door clicked shut behind Steve with a soft finality.

Bucky sat on the edge of the mattress, shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His hair was damp from where he’d splashed water on his face earlier. There was still blood crusted in his hairline from the fight in Bucharest. He hadn’t spoken in hours—not really. Just a grunt here and there when Steve checked on him.

The room was dark and cold, lit only by a single bulb hanging overhead, flickering just enough to be annoying. Dust danced in the light. The walls were bare. There was a thin mattress pushed into the corner and not much else.

He could hear someone talking outside. A familiar voice. And a softer one.

Then footsteps. Boots against concrete.

He didn’t look up when Steve entered.

Steve took a breath and crossed the floor slowly. He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t try to force conversation.

He just sat, giving Bucky space to choose.

"You holding up?" Steve finally asked.

Bucky shrugged. His metal fingers flexed slightly. “Still breathing.”

It took another minute before Bucky spoke again, voice hoarse, low.

“You’re leaving.”

Steve nodded. “Not for long.”

Bucky lifted his head, the shadows under his eyes deeper than ever. “Where?”

“Sam and I need to pull some others in. It’s moving fast.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”

Bucky’s mouth tightened slightly. “You’re not?”

“No.” Steve gave him a look. “She’s staying.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “The woman outside.”

Steve smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Bucky paused, then asked—carefully, cautiously—“That your girl?”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at the floor. “No. God, no. She’s… she’s just a friend.”

“Doesn’t sound like ‘just a friend,’” Bucky muttered.

“She’s just my friend,” Steve said again.

Bucky studied him for a long moment, the gears clearly turning behind his tired eyes. “You trust her.”

“With my life.”

“And you’re leaving her with me.” That wasn’t a question. That was Bucky quietly testing the weight of what Steve was asking.

“I’m not leaving her with you like she’s a babysitter,” Steve said, voice firm but warm. “She offered. Because she cares. Because she’s kind. And because she’s not afraid of you.”

Bucky’s head dropped slightly. “That’s a mistake.”

“No,” Steve said firmly. “It’s not. You’re not the man Hydra turned you into.”

“You sure?”

Steve stood slowly, walking over to the window, eyes scanning the alleyway below. “Yes and she’ll be here when you need her. Whether you like it or not.”

Bucky grunted. “Sounds annoying.”

Steve chuckled. “You’ll get used to her.”

He moved to the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Bucky?”

He looked up.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve said again, softer this time. “But I do care about her. She’ll look after you. Let her.”

Bucky stayed quiet for a long moment, watching his friend’s back. The silence stretched.

Then, quietly, “She got a name?”

Steve turned back to him with a small, knowing smile. “Ask her yourself.”

Silence stretched. The tension in Bucky’s shoulders didn’t ease, but something in his eyes flickered. Not quite trust. But maybe curiosity.

────────────────────────

Outside, you were waiting patiently, arms folded, gaze flicking down the hallway as he approached. You gave him a questioning look.

“How’d it go?”

“He asked if you were my girl.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “That’s a first.”

“I told him no. Just a loyal, stubborn friend.”

You nudged his arm. “Stubborn’s a little rude.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

He gave you a final, grateful look—the kind that carried years of friendship in one glance—then disappeared down the stairwell, leaving you standing in the dim hallway outside Bucky’s room.

You inhaled slowly, squared your shoulders, and turned toward the door.

The door creaked softly as you stepped inside.

The air inside was still—almost unnaturally so. Dim light filtered through the cracked blinds, casting lines of gold across the worn floorboards. The mattress sat low to the ground, old and bare, and on it sat a man who looked more like a memory than a presence.

Bucky didn’t look up right away.

He was perched on the edge of the mattress like he didn’t know what to do with his body. Shoulders squared. Hands resting on his knees. The metal one glinting faintly under the weak light. He didn’t move as you entered, didn’t speak—just turned and looked at you as if you might explode if he blinked.

His face was as unreadable as you'd expected. Blank. Cold. Not hostile, just... emptied out.

Still, you offered him the softest smile you could manage.

“Hi,” you said softly, introducing yourself.

No reaction. Not even a flinch.

You took a step forward, slow and steady, keeping your voice warm. “Steve asked me to check in on you.”

Still nothing. But he hadn’t asked you to leave either

“I’m not here to watch you,” you spoke, stepping forward slowly, palms open, posture relaxed. “Not like that. I’m just here if you need anything.”

Silence.

But his eyes followed you, blue and unreadable.

“I’m not an agent or anything,” you added. “But I figured a quiet face wouldn’t hurt.”

His gaze dropped back to the floor.

Your eyes drifted to the gash above his eyebrow again. The skin around it looked irritated. Dry blood had trailed down his temple, now flaked and cracking.

“You’re bleeding,” you murmured. “Your forehead.”

He blinked once. No acknowledgment. Just the same blank stare.

You nodded slightly to yourself, then crossed to the nearby table where Steve had left a bottle of water, some basic medical supplies. You grabbed a cloth and dampened it gently.

When you returned, you paused beside him.

“Can I…?” you asked gently, holding up the cloth just slightly. “Take care of that?”

There was a long pause. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—suspicion, uncertainty, maybe even something like confusion.

Then he gave a small, stiff nod.

You didn’t sit on the mattress beside him. That felt too close. Instead, you knelt down on the floor, leveling yourself just enough to reach him, and held the cloth delicately in your fingers.

“Okay,” you said, mostly to fill the silence. “This might be a little cold.”

You dabbed gently at the gash on his forehead, careful not to apply too much pressure. The dried blood flaked away slowly under your touch. You worked in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of the cloth against his skin and the hush of your own breath.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

But he watched you.

Close. Unblinking.

Like he was trying to find the trick in your movements. Waiting for the shift—when the care would curdle into expectation. Or interrogation. Or pity.

But you just kept working, your touch steady, your face calm.

After a long moment, he finally spoke—voice low and rough, like unused gravel.

“You an Avenger?”

It caught you a little off guard, but you smiled faintly, not stopping your work.

“Not at all,” you said. “Maybe honorary. I just help Steve out. Here and there.”

You wiped the last of the blood from his temple, then lowered the cloth.

“But mostly,” you added with a small shrug, “I stick to New York.”

He was still staring at you. His brow twitched slightly. “Doing what?”

You chuckled, folding the cloth neatly in your lap. “I’m a lawyer.”

The expression on his face shifted for the first time—just a flicker, but there. His eyes narrowed slightly. Disbelieving, “A lawyer?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

His look said it before his lips did.

What the hell are you doing here?

You didn’t need him to ask.

You met his gaze—steady, warm, sure.

“A lawyer that knows right from wrong,” you said simply.

The room fell quiet again.

He stared at you like he was trying to see the catch—trying to spot where the kindness ended and the judgment began.

It didn’t come.

“I’m just here to help,” you said, barely above a whisper.

You stayed kneeling for a few more moments, wringing the bloodied cloth between your fingers, giving him space even while sitting right in front of him.

Bucky still hadn’t moved.

He just watched you. Not with suspicion exactly—more like quiet observation, like he was still figuring out what you were.

You gave him a moment, then sat back on your heels and rested your arms on your knees.

“So,” you started gently, as if you were just catching up with someone over coffee, “Steve said you were from Brooklyn.”

His eyes didn’t move.

You waited a beat. Nothing.

“I’m from Hell’s Kitchen,” you added, offering a half-smile.

Still nothing. But something in his eyes flickered. Just barely.

“Grew up around a lot of noise,” you went on, your voice soft but casual. “Corner bodegas. Fire escapes. People yelling out their windows at four in the morning.”

Another pause. You risked glancing at him again.

Still no words. But his gaze lingered now. Slightly more engaged.

“I used to go up on the roof with a book and just... tune it all out,” you said, smiling faintly at the memory. “Never worked. Some jackass was always blasting Sinatra or arguing about Mets scores.”

You caught a flicker at that—almost a breath of amusement in his expression. Almost.

“Guess Brooklyn wasn’t so different back then, huh?”

Still silence.

But now, he was looking at you—not through you.

You shrugged, eyes gentle. “Anyway. Just figured I’d try to talk. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

His eyes finally dropped to the floor again, but his shoulders had eased. A fraction.

You added, “And if it helps at all… I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

That got you a flicker of eye contact again.

You smiled, soft and unbothered. “And you, from the looks of it, don’t talk unless you absolutely have to. So, we make a solid pair.”

No reaction.

You let out a small sigh.

The room had settled into a quiet sort of calm by late evening.

Bucky hadn’t spoken much—if at all—but he hadn’t pulled away when you refilled his water or dropped off a spare blanket either. A win in your book.

You hadn’t meant to take the call in front of him.

But you also couldn’t afford to ignore it—not when Matt Murdock’s name lit up your screen with its usual stubborn persistence.

You shifted where you sat on the edge of the room’s lone table, pressing the phone to your ear while still keeping Bucky in the corner of your eye. He sat on the mattress, back against the wall, arms folded stiffly over his chest. Watching. Always watching.

“Good evening,” you greeted softly, careful to keep your voice low.

There was a pause. Then, sharp and unmistakably annoyed, “Where the hell are you?”

You smiled. “Hi to you too, Matty.”

“I came by your loft, you weren't there.”

“No, because I’m in Germany.”

There was a long pause.

“…Germany?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize international borders exist, right? And that we’re not technically allowed to cross them at will?”

“You do realize you’re blind and still have better spatial awareness than the TSA, right?”

“You were just in New York yesterday,” he said, exasperated. “You can’t keep dropping everything the second Steve Rogers snaps his fingers.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Jealousy and judgment in one breath. Impressive.”

“I’m not jealous,” he bit out. “I’m concerned. You didn’t even tell anyone you were leaving the country.”

You sighed, leaning back against the wall. “I didn’t plan to. Things moved fast. It’s not like I’m on vacation, Matt.”

“You think I don’t know what fast looks like?” he shot back. “This is the kind of fast that gets people killed. You’re not a soldier. You’re not—”

“I’m not you,” you snapped, before immediately softening your tone. “I’m not you, Matt. But you don’t get to lecture me about dropping everything for a ghost from your past when you've barely been present since yours came back.”

The line went still.

You exhaled. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“I know,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “I just… I worry. You matter to people, you know?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you promised. “Just keeping someone safe until Steve gets back.”

There was a beat.

“…Is that someone dangerous?”

You glanced across the room. Bucky’s eyes were still on you, narrowed faintly in curiosity.

“No,” you said. “Not to me.”

Matt didn’t sound convinced. “Call me when you land.”

“I will.”

You ended the call with a gentle sigh, letting your head rest back against the wall.

Across the room, Bucky was watching you.

Not glaring. Not tense. Just watching—with that unreadable look he wore like armor.

You raised the phone slightly. “Work colleague.“

His brow lifted, slightly skeptical.

You tilted your head. “Okay, close work colleague.”

He didn’t respond. But you swore you caught the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something almost like amusement.

You didn’t press.

You just leaned your head back and closed your eyes.

And that’s when you heard it.

Footsteps.

A faint but steady rhythm outside, boots against gravel, echoing just enough through the warehouse walls to mimic something far more sinister.

The blood drained from Bucky’s face in an instant.

His body snapped upright, rigid. His eyes locked on the door.

And his breathing changed.

Subtle at first. A slight hitch. A break in rhythm. The kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

And you weren’t.

You were halfway to the window already, your phone still in hand, distracted by the soft scrape of boots on gravel outside. You weren’t even looking at him when you said, “I’ll be right back. Just want to check it out.”

You moved with ease, brushing aside the edge of the tarp covering the glass. From where you stood, you caught a glimpse—just a guy with a backpack, head down, walking briskly down the alley. Civilian. No uniform. No earpiece.

Harmless.

You turned back toward the room, already ready to reassure—

And stopped cold.

Bucky hadn’t moved from the bed.

But everything about him had changed.

He was still seated, but his hands were clenched into fists, white-knuckled. His shoulders were drawn in tight, and his head was tipped down, jaw locked, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid bursts.

“Bucky?”

His eyes snapped up.

Wide. Unfocused. Wild.

Your heart dropped.

You took a step closer. “Hey. You’re okay, it was just someone walking past. No one’s coming.”

But he didn’t hear you. Not really.

His breath hitched again, sharper this time. A low sound escaped his throat—almost a growl, almost a sob—and his metal hand twitched violently on his knee.

“I can’t—” he choked, fingers clawing at the edge of the mattress. “I can’t—breathe—”

You froze for half a second, then rushed forward, dropping into a crouch in front of him, palms out, voice gentle but firm.

“Okay. Okay, Bucky. You’re having a panic attack. I know it feels like you can’t breathe, but you are. I promise, you are. You need to try to slow it down, or your body’s going to lock up on you.”

His chest was rising in harsh, ragged gasps now, every breath shallow and frantic. His eyes were darting around the room like he was trapped, like every wall was closing in.

You hovered your hands near his knees, not touching, just there. “I’m not gonna grab you. You’re safe. You’re in control. You’re not back there.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, body trembling. “I can’t—I can’t get out—I can’t—”

“Hey. Hey.” Your voice broke on the word. “You’re not trapped. I’m right here. You’re with me, remember?”

No response.

His breathing was worsening. He wasn’t inhaling fully anymore. Just choking down gulps of air like they weren’t sticking. His fingers curled against the mattress, his body rocking slightly.

He’s going to pass out.

You forced yourself to stay calm, to keep your voice steady even as panic rose in your own chest.

“Okay. Listen to me. We’re going to ground, alright? Just do what you can.” You reached up, hovering your fingers closer to his arm. “Five things you can see. Look around, just five.”

He blinked rapidly, lips parted, shaking.

“Five things,” you repeated. “Just name them. Anything.”

“I—I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t—I can’t see—fuck—”

Your gut twisted.

“Alright. It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whispered, watching his eyes roll slightly upward as if his mind was spinning off. “Bucky, please. Just hold onto something.”

But he couldn’t.

You could see the fight in him, but the grip of the attack had its claws in deep now, dragging him down. His hand jerked, metal fingers spasming like his nerves were short-circuiting.

He was slipping.

You didn’t think. You didn’t plan.

You just acted.

You surged forward and crushed your mouth to his.

Your hand cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the scruff of his cheek, your lips moving against his like your breath could anchor him, like your body could pull him back from wherever his mind had gone.

At first, he didn’t move.

His breath hitched hard in your mouth, his body rigid.

And then—

He breathed.

Not perfect. Not deep.

But something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders dipped slightly. His mouth softened just enough under yours. The rigid rock of his spine eased.

You pulled back after a beat, gasping softly, shocked at yourself, still close enough to feel the heat of his breath on your lips.

His eyes snapped open.

Blue. Wide. Raw.

You blinked, stammering. “I—I didn’t know what else to do. I read once—somewhere—that when you’re panicking, holding your breath can reset your lungs, and so—” You swallowed. “So, when I kissed you… you held your breath.”

His lips parted, still trembling.

Your hand was still lightly on his jaw. You started to pull it away, “I’m sorry—”

But then his hand—his metal hand—caught your wrist.

Gently.

He stared at you, breathing hard, but steadier now. Something wild still flickered behind his eyes—but it wasn’t panic anymore.

It was something else.

Something desperate.

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat.

Bucky’s hand—cold metal and trembling restraint—was still wrapped around your wrist, keeping your hand pressed to his jaw. His skin beneath your palm was warm, rough with stubble, tense with something unreadable.

You should’ve tried to pull away again.

You should’ve said something. But you couldn’t speak.

Not with the way he was looking at you. Like you weren’t real. Like he’d dreamed you up in some quiet corner of his broken mind and was terrified you might disappear if he blinked too long.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Your mind raced, caught between guilt and instinct.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,�� you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice. “I just didn’t know what else—”

And then you felt it.

His other hand.

You hadn’t even noticed it moving. But now, his warm, flesh hand was at the back of your head, fingers tangling through your hair, firm and certain.

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you in.

The kiss came fast.

No hesitation. No apology.

It collided with your mouth like a dam breaking—like a gasp swallowed between parted lips and bruised hearts. His hand on your wrist still held you in place, while the other tilted your head just enough to claim every inch of your mouth.

You made a startled sound—something between a breath and a gasp—and your hands moved instinctively finding his shoulders as you fell forward into his chest.

Your body hit his with more force than you meant, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he pulled you closer, like your weight grounded him.

His kiss deepened.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was hungry.

Like he needed this more than air. Like the feel of your mouth, the press of your body, was the only thing holding him in the present. His lips moved against yours with bruising pressure, desperate and hot, tongue flicking past your parted lips like he couldn’t stand not to taste you again.

And you melted.

Every thought, every question, every ounce of guilt evaporated the second his tongue touched yours.

Your fingers tightened on his shoulders. Your knees threatened to give out. His breath was ragged in your mouth, nose brushing yours, body trembling with barely leashed tension.

This wasn’t just comfort.

This was need.

Pure and primal.

His hands were on you now—both of them. The right still cradled the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair, holding you close. But the left… the left had found your waist, sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing along your side like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch but couldn’t help himself.

You felt the chill of metal and the heat of human skin, trembling and unsure.

He kissed you harder. Mouth moving against yours with clumsy, desperate hunger—no rhythm, no restraint. He wasn’t kissing to seduce.

He was kissing to feel.

When his lips broke from yours, they didn’t go far. They dropped to your jaw, then your throat, his breath hot and uneven as he murmured something unintelligible against your skin.

His tongue dragged along the side of your neck, followed by soft, open-mouthed kisses—rushed, messy, too fast. Like he didn’t know where to start. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you at once.

“God…” he breathed, mouth moving to your collarbone. “You’re so soft…”

His hands moved again, a little braver now—palming your waist, then your back, then your hips. He tugged at your shirt, his fingers grazing over the fabric like it was in his way, like he needed to touch more.

And that’s when your thoughts finally broke through the haze.

You gasped, blinking hard, fingers coming up to press gently against his chest.

“Bucky,” you said, breathless. “We should stop.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull back.

His lips paused just below your ear, trembling.

“This isn’t good for you,” you whispered. “You’re in a bad headspace, and I don’t want to take advantage—”

He pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes wide and pleading, voice cracking.

“Please,” he whispered.

Your heart shattered.

“Bucky—”

“Please,” he said again, more desperate now. “I—I need to feel you. I need to know I’m still here. That I’m not… that I’m not him.”

Your hands trembled where they rested on his chest.

His voice broke entirely. “Just… just let me touch you. Let me feel something that isn’t pain. Please…”

You stared at him for a long moment, his words still ringing in your ears, his hands trembling against your waist.

Let me feel something that isn’t pain.

The breath left your chest in a slow, trembling sigh.

And then you leaned in.

Your lips met his again—not rough this time, but slow, deep, deliberate. A promise.

Bucky responded like he’d been holding his breath.

His hands flew to your sides, tugging you closer until your knees straddled his thighs, until your chest was flush with his. He let out a broken, needy sound as you kissed him, fingers dragging up your spine, gripping, clutching, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper against his lips, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He moaned at that—actually moaned—his mouth crashing into yours again as his hands started moving, frantic and restless, skimming beneath your shirt, tugging at the fabric like it was an obstacle, not clothing.

Your fingers slid up into his hair, holding his face between your palms like he was something fragile. You kissed him deeper, letting him pour himself into it, letting him need you. And all the while, you rocked slowly in his lap, hips rolling in a subtle, steady rhythm that made both of you gasp.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered against your mouth. “You feel so good… I can’t—can’t get close enough.”

He pulled harder at your shirt, his hands shaking with how desperately he wanted more of you. You broke the kiss just long enough to fumble with the buttons, undoing only a few before he lost patience entirely.

His hands flew up to your chest, and in one frantic motion, he tugged your bra down beneath your breasts.

“Bucky—”

But then his mouth was on you, and the words dissolved.

He latched onto your breast with a groan so guttural it vibrated through your core. His tongue swirled around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth like he was starved for it—like this was the only thing tethering him to earth.

You gasped, eyes flying wide, one hand clinging to his shoulder as your hips jerked against him.

“Oh my—Bucky—”

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

His metal hand clutched your back, holding you in place as he lavished your breast with open-mouthed kisses, warm and wet and messy. His other hand palmed your waist, guiding your hips in time with his own.

You rutted against him harder now, both of you still fully clothed, the friction unbearable and perfect. His cock pressed thick and hard against you through his jeans, and the way he groaned into your skin when you ground down on him made your thighs tremble.

“Please,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please don’t stop.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him, anchoring him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathed. “I’ve got you.”

And he moaned again, mouth still on your skin, hips jerking upward into you like he was begging you to believe him.

Your breathing was ragged. His lips were still wet from your skin. And when you pulled back slightly—only just enough to break contact—Bucky let out a whine.

Not a word. A sound. Broken, instinctual.

“Don’t—” he gasped, trying to follow you. “Please, don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice barely stable as you pushed gently against his chest.

He let you guide him back, his body hitting the thin mattress with a soft thump, arms still reaching for you like he couldn’t stand a single inch of distance.

“I’ve got you,” you promised again, voice low and sure, even as your hands moved fast.

You didn’t fully undress—didn’t need to. You shoved your jeans down, just past your knees, the waistband biting into your thighs as you knelt between his legs. Bucky’s chest heaved as he watched you, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he was starving.

“God, you’re…” he breathed, voice hoarse. “You’re not real.”

You reached for his jeans, fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle, your own hands shaking now with the sheer pressure of what you were doing—what this was. You unzipped him, tugging his waistband down just far enough to free him.

And there he was.

Hard. Leaking. So fucking ready it made your mouth go dry.

He twitched when your hand wrapped around him—just once—and he gasped, hips jerking slightly off the mattress.

“Please,” he murmured again. “I—I need to be inside you. Please, I need—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You rose back up onto his thighs, grabbed his cock at the base, and positioned yourself with practiced urgency.

He held his breath.

And then—you sank down.

Slow, steady, deep.

Bucky cried out, head snapping back against the mattress, eyes fluttering shut as your heat wrapped around him. “Fuck,—Jesus—”

You couldn’t even breathe for a second. The stretch was intense, overwhelming—your thighs trembling as you adjusted, hands braced on his chest.

Beneath you, he was shaking.

Completely undone.

His hands flew to your hips, gripping tight, not to guide you—but just to hold on.

You stayed there a moment, full of him, pulsing around him, feeling every tremble in his frame.

Then you leaned down, lips brushing his cheek, and whispered, “You feel that?”

He nodded, frantic.

“That’s real. I’m real. And you’re not alone.”

And then you started to move.

You moved slowly at first—hips rolling, drawing his cock in deep, then easing back up, dragging every inch of him against your walls. Bucky’s head tipped back, a shudder ripping through him, his mouth slack, eyes blown wide as his hands dug into your waist like he was terrified you might stop.

“God,” he rasped, “you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your body wrapped around him, the rhythm building in your hips—it said everything.

You rode him harder, faster now, the tension rising like a fever. The denim of his jeans and the way your own clothes clung to sweat-slick skin made everything feel even messier, even more raw. The friction burned in the best way, every drag of your body against his driving him closer to the edge.

Bucky couldn’t stop touching you. His hands were on your waist, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where he needed you more. His voice was low and broken, a litany of groans and murmured please, please, please, even when you were already giving him everything.

When you leaned in and pressed your forehead to his, your fingers tangling in his hair, he was right there with you—breathing you in like oxygen.

His chest was rising fast now, the rhythm in your hips growing sloppy, desperate. You could feel him pulsing inside you, getting close.

Then—suddenly—he surged upward, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him as his mouth found yours again. The kiss was rough, needy, all tongue and teeth and shaky breath. He needed to be connected—to feel you pressed against him in every possible way as he unraveled.

And then he came.

You felt it—deep, hot, twitching inside you as he groaned into your mouth, burying his face in your shoulder, his entire body trembling as you held him through it. His arms clutched you tight, almost too tight, like if he let go you might vanish.

You didn’t.

You stayed with him. Arms wrapped around his shoulders. Lips at his temple. Your hips finally stilled.

You hadn’t come. You weren’t even thinking about it.

This—this—had never been about you.

It was for him.

To remind him that he was here. That he was human. That he was held.

You were still catching your breath, his body trembling in your arms, when it happened.

Without a word—without even looking up—Bucky shifted beneath you, tightening his arms around your waist. And before you could ask what he was doing, he flipped you.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and you barely had time to gasp before his body followed, pressing you down, caging you in.

“Bucky—” you started, surprised, dazed.

But the look in his eyes stole the words from your mouth.

Focused. Intense. Wild with a need you hadn’t seen before—but not for his own release this time.

For yours.

He was still hard inside you. Still there. And now, he began to move.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

He pounded into you—hips snapping forward with frantic rhythm, as if something had cracked open inside him and he couldn’t bear not to give you back everything you’d just given him. Every thrust was deep, hard, messy. His breath came in grunts and gasps, his forehead pressed to yours, his body slick with sweat.

You clutched at his shoulders, your own body struggling to keep up as pleasure started to crash over you like a wave.

“Let me,” he panted, voice low and wrecked. “Let me make you feel good. You—fuck, you were so good to me—I need—I need to make you come—please—”

Your breath hitched, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut as his cock drove into you again and again, hitting all the right angles now with dizzying precision. His hand slid down, slipping between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, desperate, trying to draw your pleasure up through every inch of you.

The pressure built fast. Too fast.

You were already so full, so overwhelmed—his voice in your ear, his fingers on your body, his cock so hard inside you—and the way he moved… God.

“You don’t have to—” you started, already trembling.

“I want to,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, like he couldn’t get close enough.

You whimpered, body jerking beneath his as the tension in your core snapped tighter, tighter, tighter—

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Please. I need to feel it.”

And then you did.

You came with a moan that tore out of your throat, back arching, hands clutching at his back as your body spasmed around him. Bucky groaned, dropping his head into your neck, hips still moving as he rode you through it, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Like giving you pleasure was what made him feel whole.

His body trembled as he came down, the last few ragged thrusts losing momentum until finally—finally—he stilled, buried deep inside you, heart pounding hard enough that you could feel it through his chest.

He hovered there for a moment, arms shaking, breath catching in his throat.

And then he collapsed.

Not all at once. Slowly, carefully. Like his strength gave out in stages. But even as he let himself fall into you, he caught his weight on his forearms, mindful, always mindful—never fully resting on you. He curled slightly, pressing his face into the crook of your neck like he needed to hide. Like the world was too bright again, too loud, and your skin was the only place left that felt quiet.

Your arms came around him without hesitation.

One hand slipped across his back, fingers splayed wide, gently grounding him with each stroke up and down his spine. The other cradled the back of his head, thumb sweeping slowly through his damp hair, cradling him like something precious.

His breath hitched once.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just held him.

He melted into it slowly, his metal arm resting against the mattress beside your head, his human hand fisting weakly in the blanket beneath you. You felt the tremble still in his muscles—aftershocks of everything he’d just released.

“Shh,” you murmured, soft against his ear. “You’re okay, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His forehead pressed tighter to your throat.

“You’re safe now,” you whispered, voice low and steady. “Right here with me.”

He exhaled, shaky and fragile.

“You’re not alone. You’re not him. You’re not broken.”

He didn’t answer—but he didn’t need to.

He let you hold him.

You kept going, voice like a lullaby, your fingers never stopping.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you murmured. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip on the blanket loosened, and he shifted just enough to finally let some of his weight settle into your body.

Not too much.

Just enough to trust.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x you #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #the avengers #captain america civil war #steve rogers #matt murdock #daredevil #team cap

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maskedbyghost · 3 months ago

Text

Part 3 of fuck buddies with Simon

You didn’t wear anything fancy. Just jeans, a sweater you didn’t have to think too hard about, and your hair pulled back because you didn’t have the energy to fight with it.

You weren’t even sure why you texted him. It was impulsive, sort of. A moment of weakness, maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t weak at all—maybe it was brave, letting him back in even just a little. You told yourself it was just coffee. Just a talk. Just two people who used to mean something meeting up like civil adults.

But your hands were shaking a little on the steering wheel the whole way there.

You parked down the block from the coffee shop, needing the walk to settle your nerves. It didn’t help. Your stomach was twisting up like it always used to when he’d come over—when you didn’t know if he was going to be gentle or cold, if he’d stay the night or leave without a word. You hated that the nerves felt the same now, even after everything.

When you pushed open the door to the café, the little bell overhead jingled like something out of a movie. And there he was—already sitting at a table near the window, back straight, fingers wrapped around a cup. He looked up as soon as you walked in, like he’d been watching for you, like he hadn’t taken his eyes off the door since he sat down.

And he smiled.

But something about it made your chest tighten. Your legs felt suddenly heavy, and you paused just inside the door, your fingers curling in the sleeves of your sweater like you needed something to hold onto. You stood there for maybe three seconds—maybe four—and then you turned around.

You couldn’t do this. You thought you could, but you couldn’t. Not when your heart felt like it was ready to give itself away again, not when your head was screaming that he could still break you with a single word.

Your phone was already in your hand as you pushed back out into the street, your fingers moving fast.

I’m sorry. I can’t do this.

You hit send, and at the exact moment, it started to rain.

Of course it did.

It wasn’t even dramatic rain—just that soaking kind that gets into your clothes and hair and makes your shoes squish with every step. You didn’t have an umbrella, nor have the presence of mind to pull your hood up. You just walked fast. Like if you could get far enough away, none of this would feel so raw.

And then you felt it—arms wrapping around you from behind, firm but not forceful. Strong, familiar, and warm, even through the wet fabric of your jacket.

“Don’t go,” Simon said, his voice low and right against your ear. “Please, just… don’t walk away again. Not like this.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t. Your whole body was tense, like you were stuck between wanting to lean back into him and wanting to shove him off.

“I get why you left,” he said, and his voice was a little shaky now. “I deserved it. I didn’t give you anything to hold onto. I made you feel like you were just... convenient. And I fucking hate that I did that to you.”

The rain kept coming, dripping down your face and clinging to your lashes, and still, he didn’t let go.

“I don’t want anything from you right now,” he said. “I’m not trying to push. I just wanted to see you. Talk to you. I miss hearing your voice. I miss the way you laugh when you’re annoyed and the way you go quiet when you're thinking too hard. I miss knowing that you were somewhere in the world thinking about me, even if I didn’t deserve it.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I’m scared,” you said, finally, voice soft and small in the rain.

“I know, love,” he whispered, arms still around you. “I’m scared too. Scared I already lost the best thing I ever had. But I’d rather take a thousand chances to show you I’ve changed than go back to pretending I don’t care.”

You didn’t answer; you didn’t have the words. But you turned slowly in his arms, your hands resting lightly on his chest, and he looked down at you like you were something fragile, something he was terrified of breaking again.

“Come on,” you said after a long moment. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

You brought him back to your place, not because everything was fixed, not because you’d forgiven him, but because you wanted to be warm and dry and maybe not alone tonight. You gave him a towel and made coffee the way you always used to—strong, with just a little bit of sugar because he never took milk.

You didn’t sit on opposite ends of the couch. You sat beside him. Close, but not touching. You talked for a while. About small things. Big things. He told you he started seeing a therapist. You told him about work. You both avoided talking about what would happen next.

For the next few weeks, it was like that. Texts. Calls. The occasional late night spent watching old movies without touching. He didn’t try to kiss you. Didn’t push. He just... showed up. And stayed.

And then one night, you were both laughing about something—some dumb story from years ago—and you turned to him, and he was already looking at you. Not with hunger or desperation, but with a much softer look.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

And he met you halfway.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t like before. It was slow, and warm, and full of everything he hadn’t said and everything you hadn’t asked for. Like a promise he didn’t know how to make out loud, but was trying to anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself kiss him back.

He pulled back just a little, like he was giving you the space to change your mind, like he was scared you’d vanish if he touched you for too long. But you didn’t move. You just looked at him—really looked at him—and felt your heart beat so hard it hurt a little.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nodded, even though everything inside you felt scrambled and upside-down. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He smiled—barely—and brushed a thumb across your cheek like he was memorizing the feel of your skin. Then he sat back, but not far, not like he was pulling away completely. Just enough to give you space again. And you knew right then he wasn’t going to ruin this by rushing. He was trying, really trying, and you felt it in your chest like a weight slowly lifting.

You both stayed on the couch for a while after that, talking about nothing and everything, voices soft and close.

Eventually, it got late. You stood up to stretch, and he watched you, his gaze lingering on your face, not your body. Like he was trying to read your mood before he made a move.

“I should head out,” he said, standing slowly.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to.”

He looked at you, eyes flickering with surprise. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… don’t make it weird.”

He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

So he stayed.

You handed him an old T-shirt and a pair of sweats you forgot he left behind once, and he changed in the bathroom while you got into bed. And when he climbed in beside you, he didn’t touch you right away. He laid on his side, just close enough that you could feel the warmth of him under the covers.

“Do you want me to—” he started.

You reached for his hand under the blanket. “No talking now. Just stay.”

And he did.

You fell asleep to the sound of his breathing. Not tangled up like you used to be, not desperate for skin or heat. Just… close. Like two people learning how to be near each other again without breaking apart.

In the morning, you woke up before him.

For a moment, you just watched him sleep—his brow still furrowed a little, like even in rest he was carrying something heavy. You could see the edge of an old scar near his temple, one you never asked about, and you wondered how many more there were now. On his skin, in his mind.

You weren’t sure what would happen next. But for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He shifted a little, eyes fluttering open, and when he saw you, he smiled. That same small, quiet smile.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

And when his lips found yours, it didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending—it just felt like finally coming home.

-------------------------------------------

my girl @daydreamerwoah gave me an idea about the rain scene <33

@kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @hiraethvita @scaleniusrm @cosmic-sleep-demon @roastyyytoastyyy @salfetkablog

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley

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drewswife · 21 days ago

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summary — your hot neighbor heard your baby screams, and he volunteered to help you while you shower

warnings — baby scream, fluff, you having throw up in your hair

a/n — i’m reading a book called “life to short” and the scene was so cute i got to write it

The shrill, insistent cries of a small human being ripped through the thin membrane of your sanity. It was 6:00 AM, though the pre-dawn gloom still clung stubbornly to the windows, mimicking the darkness that felt perpetually draped over your life these days.

Your baby, whose tiny lungs seemed to be powered by industrial-grade bellows, had decided that dawn was the perfect time for a full-throttle vocal performance.

You dragged a hand across your face, feeling the grit of exhaustion under your eyelids, then reached up, fingers finding something suspiciously damp and chunky tangled in your hair. God, was that carrot puree? Or worse. It was always worse.

Every single bone in your body screamed for respite, for silence, for just five minutes where no one needed anything from you. You’d been up all night, pacing, bouncing, whispering reassurances to a creature whose sole mission seemed to be the eradication of your sleep.

You smelled faintly of sour milk and desperation. Your clothes, a dubious combination of yesterday's leggings and a faded nursing tank, bore the faint but undeniable stains of recent skirmishes with baby bodily fluids. You were a walking, breathing monument to maternal disarray.

Just as you considered the profound comfort of simply sliding to the floor and joining your baby in a symphony of despair, a firm, rhythmic knock echoed through the apartment. You froze, heart thumping a bewildered rhythm against your ribs. Who, in the name of all that was holy, would be at your door at this hour? Your mother knew better. Your friends were still probably comatose.

Creeping to the peephole, you peered through the tiny lens. And there he was. Rafe Cameron.

He stood on your porch, leaning casually against the doorframe, looking unfairly put-together. His blonde hair, still slightly damp, hinted at a recent shower – a concept so foreign to your current existence it felt like a cruel joke. He was wearing a plain gray t-shirt that, frustratingly, hugged his shoulders and arms in a way that screamed "effortless perfection."

Even from this distorted angle, his sharp jawline and the lazy confidence in his posture were palpable. He was, objectively, your hot neighbor. And you, objectively, looked like you'd wrestled a badger and lost. Badly.

Taking a deep breath that did nothing to alleviate the pungent aroma clinging to you, you unlatched the door, opening it just a crack. "Hey, Rafe," you mumbled, trying to subtly tuck the clump of dubious hair behind your ear. It snagged, of course, and you winced.

He straightened, his blue eyes, usually sparking with mischief or a hint of recklessness, softened almost imperceptibly. "Morning," he said, his voice a low rumble. He tilted his head, a faint, sympathetic smirk playing on his lips as another ear-splitting shriek erupted from the nursery. "Sounds like someone's having a rough start."

You let out a humorless laugh, a dry, raspy sound. "That's one way to put it. My kid thinks they're auditioning for a touring heavy metal band. I'm pretty sure I have throw-up in my hair, and I haven't seen the inside of a shower in well, let's just say a long time." You gestured vaguely at your head, then at the baby monitor clutched in your hand, which was currently emitting the auditory equivalent of a smoke alarm.

Rafe's smirk faded, replaced by something genuinely concerned. He ran a hand through his own, immaculately styled hair. "Man, that sucks." He paused, his gaze drifting from your exhausted face to the monitor, where the baby's cries escalated into a full-blown roar. "Look," he began, his voice surprisingly gentle, "I was just about to make some coffee, head out for a surf. But, uh if you wanted to grab a quick shower or something, I could… you know, keep an eye on the little guy. Or girl."

You stared at him, jaw slack. A shower. A hot, uninterrupted shower. The very thought sent a dizzying wave of longing through you. It was a mythical luxury, whispered about in hushed tones by other beleaguered parents, a legend you’d long since given up on. And Rafe, the guy who usually seemed more concerned with his next adrenaline rush than childcare, was offering to stand sentinel over your screaming, possibly projectile-vomiting infant?

"Are you serious?" you croaked, the words barely escaping your throat. It felt like a test, like he was playing some elaborate prank.

He chuckled, a low, easy sound. "Yeah, I'm serious. I mean, how bad can it be? I've dealt with my cousin little monsters before. Pretty sure I'm immune to anything less than a full-on tantrum from a five-year-old." He gestured towards the nursery. "Besides, you look like you're about two minutes from falling over. Go get clean."

A wave of relief so profound it threatened to buckle your knees washed over you. The prospect of hot water, shampoo, and the blissful feeling of being truly, utterly clean, even for a mere ten minutes, was overwhelmingly tempting. All thoughts of propriety, of the sheer oddness of leaving your child with Rafe Cameron, vanished in a cloud of desperate anticipation.

"Oh my god, Rafe," you breathed, a tear pricking at the corner of your eye. "You would be an absolute lifesaver. I could kiss you."

He laughed outright then, a flash of his usual roguish charm returning. "Let's save that for after the shower, then," he teased, stepping past you into the living room, his eyes scanning the chaos with an almost clinical detachment. "Go on. I'll be right here."

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of parental guilt, then caught another whiff of yourself. And that was it. You practically sprinted for the bathroom, not daring to look back, not wanting to give yourself time to second-guess this wildly irresponsible, yet utterly necessary, decision.

The bathroom felt like a sanctuary, a quiet, steamy oasis. You locked the door behind you, a small, defiant act of reclaiming a sliver of personal space. The instant the hot water hit your skin, a sigh escaped your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss.

You scrubbed at your hair with frantic, grateful hands, working in shampoo until thick, luxurious suds replaced the sticky residue. The scent of coconut and vanilla, a smell you hadn’t truly registered in weeks, filled your nostrils, a small piece of normalcy in the chaos.

From the living room, through the closed door, the baby monitor offered a strange symphony. The piercing shrieks had indeed subsided. Instead, you heard a low rumble of Rafe's voice, surprisingly soothing, followed by gentle coos and gurgles from your baby.

You paused, a dripping hand suspended in mid-air. What was he doing? Was he a baby whisperer? The idea was almost comical, conjuring images of Rafe Cameron, charming an infant into submission. Yet, the relative quiet that had descended upon your apartment was undeniable proof of his success.

You washed the grime of sleepless nights and baby spit-up from your body, letting the hot water sluice away the tension in your shoulders. It wasn't a long shower – maybe seven minutes, max – but it felt like a spa day. You emerged feeling like a new human, albeit a slightly damp one.

You quickly wrapped your hair in a towel, then pulled on the cleanest, least-stained pair of sweats you could find and a fresh, blessedly unsullied t-shirt. The world already seemed a little less blurry around the edges.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the bathroom door and stepped back into the living room, half-expecting to find a scene of utter devastation – Rafe tied up with burp cloths, the baby covered in marker, the room turned upside down. Instead, you found peace.

Rafe was sitting on your worn armchair, the baby nestled securely against his chest, head tucked under his chin. Your little one was utterly, completely silent. Not just quiet, but content. her tiny hand was fisted around Rafe's finger, and their eyes, wide and curious, were fixed on his face.

Rafe himself looked bewildered, almost. He was gently rocking, a faint, surprised smile playing on his lips as he gazed down at the baby. He wasn't talking, just rocking, a soft, almost domestic hum filling the space between them.

He looked up as you entered, his blue eyes meeting yours. "Hey," he murmured, his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping (or at least, very quiet) infant. He looked genuinely intrigued by the small creature in his arms. "she, uh they just kinda stopped. After a minute or two."

You walked over, disbelief warring with profound gratitude. "I- I don't know what to say. You got her to calm down." It was less a question, more an awe-filled statement.

He shrugged, a small, self-conscious smile gracing his features. "Guess I've still got the touch. My niece used to pull this trick on me." He gently shifted the baby, who stirred slightly but remained blissfully silent. "What do you do now? Does she, like, nap? Or are they just recharging?"

You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the first one in days that didn't feel forced. "Hopefully nap. Thank you, Rafe. Seriously. That was I don't even have words."

He met your gaze, and for a moment, the usual guard in his eyes seemed to drop, replaced by something warm and almost vulnerable. "No problem," he said quietly, then cleared his throat. He carefully handed her back to you, his movements surprisingly gentle.

"Just glad I could help." He stood, stretching slightly. "Well, I should probably go get that coffee. And hit the waves before the tourists clog everything up." He glanced at your baby one last time, a strange, almost wistful expression on his face, before turning to leave.

🏷, @spencerreid66 @starrii-sturns @dsfault @vxncevis

#Rafe masterlist⭑.ᐟ #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe x you #rafe cameron smut #rafe fic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron outer banks #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n

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blank-potato · 2 months ago

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need that

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror. Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him. He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?” You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Or You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, implied smut, confessions, pining, yearning, all hours are yearning hours for reader

WC: 2.3K

A/N: Thank you @fire-joestar for this request and idea! I have another one for Bob with the same concept here. Hope you all enjoy it!

☆☆☆

You wanted John Walker so bad that it was becoming a problem. Friends weren’t supposed to be crazy in love with other friends, but here you were, heart racing every time he so much as looked your way.

It came to the point where he’d be standing still, and you’d just be absolutely losing your mind. The way his jaw clenched when he was focused, how his biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirts, it was enough to short-circuit your brain.

Like when he caught you staring and started talking to you about his guns, “This one is pretty good for close-quarters. Lightweight, easy trigger…”

You nod along and pretend to pay attention, but it’s hot the way he’d handle them, all casual and confident. The way his fingers curled around the grip, the intensity in his eyes when he explained the mechanics, you’d transform into a gun right now if you could, just for the chance to be held like that.

“You still with me?” John asks, raising an eyebrow and giving you that crooked half-smile that never failed to melt your brain.

You nod, maybe a little too eagerly, even though he’d lost you as soon as you saw the veins in his hand flex around the barrel. You’re not even sure what he’s talking about anymore. Tactical specs? Firing range? Who cares.

"Cool," he says, and goes right back to talking shop, completely unaware that you're about three seconds away from combusting.

It was an everyday occurrence. But during training, it was something else entirely. That’s when things really test your self-control.

Flipping you over like you weighed nothing during sparring sessions, he was strong and agile, all precision and power wrapped in that unfairly good-looking package. You found yourself on the mat more often than not, too distracted to fight properly.

Not to mention listening to him talk, helping direct you on how to angle your arms, how to keep your balance and improve your fighting stance. It was so distracting the way he’d give directions, voice low and focused.

“Right foot here, and I want you to put all your weight behind it when you punch,” he’d say, tapping the mat lightly where he wanted your foot to go.

“Alright,” you murmur, trying not to sound like you're dying inside, and you try again, not quite doing as he instructed. He observes you for a moment, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

“Can I?” he asks, hands hovering near your hips, asking for permission, like you wouldn’t let him do pretty much anything.

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly.

He moves your hips into place with a firm, steady grip that has no business being that gentle. “Now,” he continues, voice closer now, “shift forward and twist your hips, it has to be all one movement.”

He’d basically been manhandling you, guiding your arms, adjusting your hips until you were exactly where he wanted you. But still, he was gentle and patient, never getting frustrated, always calm, always in control.

And it was so unbelievably hot.

You could only imagine where else those firm instructions and steady hands would come in handy. The way he said, "twist your hips"? Yeah, you were already spiralling.

“I’ve lost you again,” John says, catching the faraway, glazed-over look on your face, one brow raised.

“No, no, I’m… I’m here,” you stammer, blinking hard and trying to pull yourself back into the moment, even though your brain had very much left the building five minutes ago. He smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And you’re not sure if that’s better or worse.

But you’re hopeless whether or not he’s interacting with you or not. Watching him work out in any capacity was a dangerous game. You were at risk of keeling over and dying on the spot every single time.

Watching him run on the treadmill, sweat glistening on his skin, shirt clinging to every sculpted line of muscle. Or when he boxed, the way his muscles rippled with every jab, every hook, every fluid, powerful movement. You were obsessed.

You put your head in your hands for a second, trying to cool down your spiralling thoughts, then looked back up at him.

He turned to you just then, wiping sweat from his neck with a towel, chest heaving slightly from exertion, and asked, “Did you need something?”

“N-nope,” You stutter out as you walk backwards out of the room, bumping into multiple walls, your eyes not once leaving his shirtless body.

Though you liked the little things too.

He offers to drive you wherever you need to go, because, well, after a few incidents of reckless driving, your license had been suspended.

In your defence, it was a matter of life and death. Several times. But try explaining that you were being hunted by sword-wielding assassins and not getting laughed out of the room.

You climb into the passenger seat, trying not to feel awkward about it.

“Thanks…” You mumble as you buckle your seatbelt. He glances over at you, mouth tugging into a faint smirk. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, teasing just enough to make your chest flutter.

He’s quiet at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. The windows are down, wind in his hair, sun in his eyes. Then once you reach your destination, he does the thing.

The thing where he puts his arm around the back of your seat as he reverses, his jawline sharp in the golden wash of afternoon light, the clean, strong line of his neck exposed beneath the collar of his shirt.

You don’t know why it has you holding your breath, but it does. Maybe it’s the casual way he does it, like he’s done it a hundred times. Or the fact that he’s so in control and completely unaware of how stupidly attractive what he’s doing is.

You’re gawking, and you know you’re gawking, but you’re only human. Gawking was your speciality, and you’re always putting yourself in situations to do it.

Like when he’d be on cooking duty and you’d jump at the opportunity to be his unofficial sous-chef, just to be near him. You’re currently struggling with this godforsaken onion. Eyes watering, grip awkward, and the knife refusing to cooperate.

“I can do that for you,” John offers gently, taking the onion from your hands with that same ease he handled everything. “The blade’s dull, that’s why you’re having such a hard time…”

You nod, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you watch him grab the knife-sharpening rod. He starts working the blade against it with practised movements.

John Walker is an acts of service king; you noticed it early on. One time, you had barely even acknowledged that you were thirsty. There was no glass of water in front of you, you barely even sighed, but before you could even stand, John had quietly placed one in your hand without a word.

Or when you fell asleep on the couch, and felt the weight of a blanket being placed on top of you, the warm, familiar scent of his cologne letting you know it was him. You didn’t even have to open your eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t wake you.

Just made sure you were comfortable and tucked the blanket around your shoulders. He could be loud, commanding, the centre of attention when he needed to be, but moments like that reminded you of how soft he could be when no one was looking.

You snap out of the memory, focusing back on him as he now dices the onion with mechanical precision, the knife gliding like it was an extension of his hand.

“See? Easy when your tools actually work,” he says with a half-smile, glancing your way.

A few days later, you were searching for him to get some insight on a mission you’d all be heading out on later that day.

You try not to swoon. Or stare. Or let him see how completely ridiculous it is that someone chopping onions could look that good.

But honestly? It’s a losing battle.

“John?” you called out from outside his door, your knuckles tapping lightly.

“Come in!” he called back casually.

You step inside. His room was as clean and precise as you’d expect. Neatly made bed, organised, everything in its place. You glance around, not seeing him at first, but the moment you step into the bathroom, your soul threatens to leave your body.

You’d seen him shirtless often enough that you should be used to it by now, but nope. Especially not like this. The room was steamy from the shower, and he stood there with only a towel slung low around his hips, v-line in full view, chest gleaming slightly in the light.

You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror.

Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him.

He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?”

You blinked, realising you’d been staring.

“Yeah,” you croaked. “Yeah, I… just came to ask about the mission.”

He turned slightly, not even trying to cover up. “Sure. Just give me a second to finish up. Unless you’re in a rush?”

You shook your head fast. “No rush. I can wait.”

So you stay there, doing your best to focus as he continues to shave.

You start going over the mission details to distract yourself, letting him know the objectives, listening to his responses, but it’s nearly impossible.

Thankfully, the next, next mission, you sat out with Bob, spending the day chilling and playing Mario Kart with him. It was easy and a perfect distraction from the John problem, as you started dubbing it. Until the rest of the team walked back in.

They looked rough. Bruised, dirty, clearly fresh off a firefight. John was at the front, jaw tight, a few shallow cuts on his arms and a particularly nasty one near his temple that definitely needed attention, yet he still somehow looked unfairly good.

You barely had time to blink before his eyes found yours. Then he was moving, across the room, straight to where you were still curled up on the couch.

Without a word, he jerked his head toward the hallway. “We need to talk.”

You blinked, glancing at the others like someone might tell you what the hell was happening, but no one seemed surprised. With a sigh, you stood and followed him down the hall to a quiet, empty corner. Why this was his number one priority after a mission was beyond you.

“We do?” you asked, arms crossing defensively.

“You’ve been looking at me weird for a while now,” he said, tone unreadable but eyes locked on yours.

You froze. “What?”

He stepped a little closer. “You have. In the kitchen. In the gym. In my car. You stare.”

Your mouth opened but closed just as fast. How on earth would you rebut any of his claims? You doubt you had been subtle in the slightest; if someone made a compilation of you staring at John, they’d have enough footage to make a movie.

“You’re imagining things,” you said, way too quickly.

He tilted his head, clearly not buying it. “Am I?”

You step back, but your back hits the wall, the space between the two of you impossibly small.

“You like me, don’t you?”

Hearing that you’re sure it’s over for you. You stand there waiting for the ground to swallow you whole. You look down, unable to meet his eyes, but then his fingers are under your chin, tipping your head up gently.

“It’s okay if you do,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye. “I like me too.”

You let out a breathy laugh and swat at his chest playfully. “Asshole…”

He laughs with you, but soon his expression softens, the teasing giving way to something deeper.

“I like you too,” he says quietly.

The words hit like fireworks going off in your chest. You mean that?” You ask to which John answers genuinely, “Yeah, I do.”

“Do you…” You start, heart racing, “Do you want to show me how much you like me?” you ask, voice dropping, the boldness rising in your chest before you can second-guess it.

He smirks at you, then he pulls you in, his hands cupping your face like you’re something fragile and precious. His lips meet yours gently, and you melt as you hold onto his arms. Without them, you’d be a puddle on the floor. The kiss slowly deepens, becoming more passionate, more desperate. Your fingers curl in his hair, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. He groans softly at the touch, one hand slipping from your cheek to your waist, then he slots his knee between your legs and…

“No, no, no. Not outside my room,” Yelena interrupts with a sigh, “Take that somewhere private.”

Alexei is grinning like a proud dad, arms folded, nodding approvingly. Bucky is concerned about how quickly you guys started making out against the wall.

Ava just throws up her hands in relief, muttering, “Finally,” under her breath, clearly thrilled that she no longer has to witness you making heart eyes at John during every single meal, briefing, and training session.

And Bob? Bob’s smiling, warm and supportive, genuinely happy for you both… though mildly overwhelmed, like he just walked into something he isn’t entirely sure how to exit.

John chuckles, slipping his hand into yours. “Well… you heard the lady.”

You groan into your hands, face burning.

Yelena’s already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “I’m ordering pizza for dinner. If you two are going to be gross again, do it behind a closed door.”

He pulls you towards his room, and the second you get inside, you shove him onto his bed, trying to peel his suit off.

“Eager, aren’t you?” John chuckles.

“Shut up.”

Masterlist

#john walker #thunderbolts #john walker x reader #x reader #fluff #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts x reader #gender neutral reader #implied smut #john walker fanfic #friends to lovers #thunderbolts*#the new avengers #new avengers #marvel fanfic #mcu fic #marvel fic

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yapithoughts · 3 months ago

Text

“Break up with her.”

You froze. The voice came from behind the office door—firm, cold, and far too close to your worst fear.

You had come to pick Jinwoo up. You were tired after a dungeon run and just wanted to go home, curl into his arms, and let the day melt away. But as your hand reached for the doorknob, you heard the words that made your blood run cold.

“She’s not fit to stand beside you, Sung Jinwoo. She’s not enough.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You stood there, motionless, the voices inside the Korean Hunters Association office cutting through you like a blade. You knew they were talking about you. They never liked you to begin with. You were a strong A-rank hunter, the second most powerful female hunter in Korea—but you weren’t Cha Hae-In. And worse… they knew your secret.

You stepped away, footsteps silent as you retreated.

Later that night, Jinwoo lay behind you, his arm draped over your waist, his warmth pressing against your back. His lips ghosted over your shoulder in lazy, affectionate kisses.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured into your skin. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, baby?”

You sighed, holding his hand where it rested on your stomach.

“It’s not important. Focus on what matters right now.”

“You are what matters to me,” he whispered, burying himself further into the crook of your neck. “If something’s wrong, talk to me.”

You turned slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “Have you met Hunter Cha Hae-In?”

He blinked, brushing your hair behind your ear with the gentlest touch.

“I’ve seen her. Once or twice. Why?”

“She’s beautiful. Strong. The directors talk about her a lot.” Your voice was quieter now. “I heard they’re looking for someone to pair her with.”

“I’ve heard the rumors too.”

His expression stiffened. You nodded, then turned your back to him again, pretending to fall asleep. He could feel your distress, but you weren’t ready to say it yet. You weren’t ready to let him go either.

You stared at the wall in silence, wishing time would stop—wishing this moment could stay a little longer before everything shattered.

“Hunter Sung, this is an important discussion. Please try to see reason—”

“I’m done listening.”

Jinwoo stood from the conference table, his voice laced with suppressed fury. His shadow flickered unnaturally beneath his feet.

“This is the third time this week you’ve told me to leave her. What makes you think my answer will change?”

“Because it’s not about love, Hunter Sung. It’s about responsibility. You have power no one else can even fathom. You need someone by your side who matches that. Someone who can create the next generation of protectors.”

Jinwoo’s aura exploded in the room. The lights flickered as shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls. Everyone went silent.

“Don’t speak to me about responsibilities when you’re the ones trying to manipulate my life like it’s a political chess game.”

He turned, grabbing the doorknob.

“I said no. And I mean it.”

That evening, he came home late. You were waiting for him at the door.

He didn’t speak at first. He just pulled you into his arms and kissed you—desperate, almost like he was trying to remind himself that you were still here, still his.

“I’m sorry I’m late… Did you eat anything yet?”

“No. I waited for you.”

His embrace felt like home—safe, familiar, everything you ever wanted. And that made it hurt even more… because while he held on like nothing was changing, you already knew everything was about to end.

The next day, you were called in.

A private meeting. One of the directors. You had a feeling you knew what it was about—but you still went.

You met at a discreet coffee shop, far from headquarters.

“Please, take a seat.”

You sat, heart hammering.

“What I’m about to say is in the best interest of everyone. Please understand this is bigger than you—or even Hunter Sung.”

You said nothing, your silence permission enough.

“Hunter Sung has a duty. He’s more than a person now—he’s a symbol. He needs someone equal to him. Someone who can support the next era of hunters. That person is not you.”

You stared blankly ahead, fists clenched beneath the table.

“You are infertile. You cannot bear a child. That already makes you incompatible. Hunter Cha is not only an S-rank—she’s a woman who can give him an heir. Someone who will inherit his strength. You… cannot.”

It felt like someone had taken a knife to your lungs.

“Break up with him. This week. That’s not a request. It’s an expectation. The safety of the world depends on it.”

And just like that, he stood and left you there—gutted.

‘We need to talk. I need you to come home right now.’ You texted him, heart pounding with the weight of what you were about to say.

You sat on the couch, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes locked on the packed suitcase by the door. You had already decided.

Jinwoo arrived, dropping his keys on the counter. He saw the bag. Then he saw your face.

“Baby… what’s wrong? You’re not okay, are you?”

He rushed to you, kneeling in front of the couch, cupping your face.

You didn’t kiss him back.

“I’ve heard everything, Jinwoo.”

His shoulders stiffened. His expression shifted from confusion to dread.

“No. Don’t say it.”

“Please…” you whispered. “Understand that this is for the best.”

“No.” He stood, pacing. “If you’re asking me to break up, I won’t. I love you, Y/N. I’ve fought everything to be with you. I won’t stop now.”

“I can’t give you what they want, Jinwoo.” Your voice cracked. “I can’t give you a future. I can’t give you a child.”

“We’ll adopt.” He was desperate now. “We’ll find a way. It doesn’t matter—”

“It does.” You stood, holding his hands. “They want a legacy. Someone who’ll inherit your strength. That can’t be me.”

“Then let them want! I only want you…” His voice broke, raw and ragged. “I don’t care about legacies. I care about you.”

“But I care about you enough to let you go.”

His grip on your hands tightened like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

“Please,” he said, his voice shaking. “Don’t do this. Don’t choose them over me.”

“It’s not about choosing. It’s about doing what’s right.”

He turned away, trembling, swallowing back tears. “You were the only thing in this world that made me feel human again.”

“And you were the only thing that made me feel loved.” Your voice cracked as you stepped closer.

“The world needs you, Jinwoo. I’m not the one you’re meant to be with.” You kissed his forehead one last time, a trembling, silent goodbye.

“Goodbye, Jinwoo.”

You opened the door, not daring to look back—because if you did, you knew you wouldn’t have the strength to walk away.

“Was my love not enough?” His voice cracked behind you, barely audible. “Wasn’t it enough for you?”

You paused at the threshold.

“It was more than enough. That’s why it hurts.”

And then the door closed.

And he collapsed to his knees.

You didn’t look back as the door clicked shut behind you. Outside, the air was colder than it should’ve been. Maybe because you left everything warm behind. Maybe because you left your heart on the floor next to him.

Inside, Jinwoo remained still, his knees digging into the floor, your scent lingering like a ghost. His fists trembled as he stared at the door, hoping—praying—you’d come back. But the silence answered him louder than any goodbye ever could.

He let out a broken laugh through the tears.

“You said it was for the world,” he whispered to no one. “But you were my world.”

#anime #fanfics #fanfiction #manga #I’M BACK AND BACK WITH SOME ANGST #JINWOO MY LOML #sung jinwoo #sung jinwoo x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo x reader #jinwoo x you #jinwoo angst #angst #solo leveling #solo leveling x reader

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hoondrop · 29 days ago

Text

LAWYER HUSBAND! HEESEUNG

warnings: f! reader, dirty talk (a lot), kinda mean heeseung but not much? he's more frustrated? sub! reader

The door slammed shut behind him. Heeseung loosened his tie like it had personally offended him, jaw tight, eyes stormy. His suit jacket hit the floor as he stalked toward you in the living room, where you sat curled on the couch in one of his old button-downs... barely buttoned at all.

His eyes flicked over you. Hair messy. Thighs bare. No bra.

He exhaled a harsh, guttural sound, voice rough. “You’re really sitting there like that… after the day I’ve had?”

You tilted your head, innocent. “Like what?”

“Like my fuckin’ reward. Like everything I need after arguing with idiots for ten goddamn hours.” He stood in front of you now, towering, eyes blazing as he dropped to his knees. “Get up.”

You blinked. “What—?”

He grabbed your hips, firm and guided you up, sitting where you’d been and pulling you forward to straddle his lap. His hands slid under the shirt, spreading over your thighs, your ass, squeezing like he was grounding himself.

The second your thighs straddled his lap, Heeseung’s big hands gripped your ass like he owned it—because he did. His tie hung loose around his neck, collar undone, dark eyes fixed on you with reverence that was anything but holy.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, kissing up your neck, “how many times I thought about you today. About this fucking body. About this mouth. About these perfect tits I’m about to ruin.”

He nipped at your collarbone, voice cracking slightly. “My pretty little wife. Sitting here soft and warm while I was out there being polite to assholes. D’you know how hard it was not to come home early and fuck you stupid?”

You gasped as he yanked the shirt open, buttons scattering. “H-Heeseung—”

“Say it again.” His eyes darkened. “Say my name when I worship you.”

He licked a hot stripe down the valley of your breasts, hands pressing your tits to his face like he needed it to breathe. “God, I missed these. My mouth’s been dry all day and I knew—I knew—nothing would fix it but a taste of you.”

“God, look at you,” he growled, dragging his nose across your collarbone, breathing you in like a man starved. “Sitting here all soft and fuckable, like you don’t even know what that pretty little body does to me.”

You whimpered when he shoved the shirt off your shoulders completely. He leaned back slightly just to get a better view, then slapped your ass hard.

“You really let me come home to this?” His tone was half worship, half punishment. “No panties. No bra. Just that tiny shirt and your thighs spread like a goddamn invitation? You trying to break me?”

He leaned in, bit your nipple, then licked the sting with a filthy moan. “I had a partner breathing down my neck all day, talking shit I couldn’t care less about, and all I could fucking think about was bending you over my desk and making you cry on my cock.”

His fingers slipped between your legs, groaning as he felt how wet you were. “Fucking hell, baby… you’re soaking. So needy. You like it when I come home mad, huh?”

You moaned something incoherent, grinding down into his hand. He chuckled darkly.

“Of course you do. My perfect little cockdrunk wife. Say it... say who all this is for.”

“You, Hee—fuck, it’s yours. It’s all yours—”

“Damn right it is.” His fingers moved faster. “This pussy? Fuckin’ made for me. No one’s ever gonna know how filthy you are under this sweet face, huh? No one but me.”

He shoved two fingers deep inside, curling them just right while he sucked hard at the swell of your breast, and you almost screamed. “Shit—yes, yes, fuck!”

“Yeah, that’s right. Cum for me, baby. Right on my fingers. So when I finally fuck you.... when I split you open on this cock? you’ll be shaking.”

You gasped, trembling, and he kissed you hard, tongue filthy and demanding. “That’s it. I want this pretty cunt clenching around me all night. I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t even walk to the door tomorrow.”

He kissed down your chest, wet and messy, fingers still working you. “You don’t need sleep. You need to be filled. Stuffed full of my cum ‘til it leaks down your thighs. You want that, baby? Want my load dripping out of you while I fuck it back in?”

You nodded frantically, completely undone.

He grinned, slow and wicked, lips glistening. “Then get on your knees. And be a good girl for your husband... he’s had a long fuckin’ day.”

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whosashan · 5 months ago

Text

OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader

SYNOPSIS: You notice their distance, the subtle avoidance, and decide it’s time to confront them.

A/N: Hope you enjoy!

Lately, you had noticed a shift—subtle at first, but impossible to ignore. He had grown distant. Plans that once came effortlessly were now met with half-hearted excuses, and more often than not, you found yourself alone, wondering what had changed.

At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just busy. Maybe it was stress. But as the days stretched on, it became painfully clear—he was avoiding you.

And you had finally had enough.

Determination settled in your chest like a steady flame as you sought him out, your heart pounding with unspoken questions. Whatever was going on, you refused to let it linger in silence any longer.

Xavier

You knocked on your neighbor’s door.

Once. No answer. Twice. Silence.

By the third time, you were seconds away from kicking it down when, at last, the door creaked open.

Xavier stood there, disheveled—his light hair an untamed mess, eyes barely open, their usual sharpness dulled by sleep. He squinted at you, his brows furrowing in groggy confusion.

“Y/N?” His voice was thick with sleep, raspy and low. “What are you doing here?”

There was something in his expression—surprise, yes, but beneath it, something else. Panic?

Your gaze hardened, arms crossing over your chest in silent declaration of your resolve. You weren’t here for small talk.

“I want answers, Xavier.” Your voice was steady, unwavering. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

A tense silence settled between you. He shifted his weight, eyes darting away. The longer he hesitated, the deeper your suspicions grew.

And then, you noticed it—his cheeks. A soft flush of color dusted his skin. Was he blushing?

“I wasn't avoiding you,” he muttered sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as though the motion would ground him. The question seemed to shake off the remnants of sleep, but it didn’t make him any more willing to meet your gaze.

“Don’t lie to me.” You stepped closer, narrowing your eyes. Your finger jabbed against his chest, and instinctively, he took a step back—giving you the perfect opportunity to slip past him and into his apartment.

“Suddenly, you’re always busy or conveniently not home everytime I want to spend time with you.” Your frustration bubbled over, arms flailing as you spoke. “I’m not stupid, Xavier.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Maybe I have been avoiding you a little.” His voice was more controlled now, but his gaze remained fixed on the floor.

You took another step forward, closing the space between you. “Care to explain why?”

He still didn’t answer, lips parting as if he wanted to speak, yet no words came.

Your shoulders sagged, irritation giving way to something softer—concern. You sighed, tone gentler this time. “Xavier… if I did something to upset you—”

“No.” His reply was immediate, cutting off your words. “You didn’t do anything.”

He finally met your eyes, and the sincerity in his gaze made your breath hitch. “You’re… amazing. And I guess that’s the problem.”

Your pulse quickened.

“I’ve caught myself thinking about you more than I should. Feeling things I shouldn’t be feeling—not for a friend.” His voice was quieter now, laced with something unspoken, something fragile.

For once, it was you who was speechless.

Then, a slow smirk tugged at your lips. “Xavier… is that a confession?”

His eyes flickered with something between exasperation and amusement as he shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, but he didn’t deny it.

You hesitated for only a second before reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. His skin was warm, his grip hesitant but firm.

“Good thing you’ve been on my mind a lot, too.” Your voice was softer now, sincerity replacing the teasing edge.

But then, the memory of the past few days resurfaced, and you frowned, tightening your hold. “That still doesn’t mean you should’ve avoided me.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the back of your hand. “I know… I’m sorry.” He tilted his head slightly, lips curving into a small smile. “I’ll make it up to you?”

“You better.”

And before he could respond, you pulled him into a tight embrace, arms wrapping around him like you never wanted to let go. You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your touch, the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

He didn’t complain. Instead, he melted into you, arms circling around your waist, holding you just as tightly.

And just like that, the distance between you was gone.

Zayne

Of course, Zayne was never the overly affectionate type, but even then you could tell he was deliberately avoiding you.

At first, you chalked it up to his demanding schedule—after all, he was saving lives. But even that excuse couldn’t justify his abrupt change in behavior.

Whenever you did manage to catch him in passing, he kept conversations brief, his responses clipped and impersonal. The once effortless exchanges between you had turned into distant formalities, as though you were nothing more than another name on his patient roster.

And frankly, you’d had enough.

Determined, you made your way to his office, having learned from Grayson that Zayne was on break. You knocked sharply on his door, only to be met with a detached “Come in.”

As you stepped inside, you caught the briefest flicker of something in his expression—surprise? Guilt? Whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual impassive demeanor.

“It’s not time for your monthly check-up yet,” he remarked, barely sparing you a glance as he returned his attention to his computer screen.

That made your blood boil. He was acting as if you were just another patient, as if the past weeks of tension between you didn’t exist.

“I’m not here for a check-up.” You sat down across from him, eyes fixed on his face, watching for any reaction. “I want to have lunch with you.”

His fingers paused momentarily over his keyboard before resuming their rhythm.

“Grayson told me you’re on break, so don’t even try to claim you’re busy.” You crossed your arms, already anticipating whatever excuse he was about to fabricate.

Zayne exhaled slowly, as if contemplating his next move.

“I need to prepare for surgery—”

“No, you don’t.” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on his desk, dangerously close to his face.

“Tell me, Dr. Zayne… this isn’t how a gentleman treats a lady, is it?” Your voice took on a teasing lilt, though there was an unmistakable edge to it.

He sighed, removing his glasses for a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose before sliding them back into place.

“You are no lady,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You are the devil incarnate.”

You laughed, the sound light and amused.

“Why are you avoiding me?” You dropped the playful tone, cutting straight to the point.

Zayne was silent for a long moment, then finally, he lifted his gaze to meet yours. With an air of finality, he stood from his chair, rounding the desk until he was standing directly in front of you.

“So, even after all my efforts, you still insist on tormenting me at work.” His voice was its usual measured calm, but there was something else beneath it, something unreadable.

“I suppose there’s no point in attempting to hide it any longer.” His gaze darkened, intense enough to send an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Avoiding you didn’t change anything. It didn’t stop my thoughts from straying to you, didn’t stop my eyes from seeking you out the moment you enter a room. You are peculiar, infuriatingly so… and yet, I find myself drawn to you in ways I cannot ignore.”

Your breath hitched slightly at his words, but you weren’t the only one affected. Though his face remained unreadable, the faintest hint of color dusted the tips of his ears.

“Do you…” You hesitated, swallowing the sudden nervousness rising in your throat. “Do you really feel that way about me?”

Zayne regarded you for a moment before giving a single, deliberate nod.

A slow smile crept onto your lips, the boldness you’d arrived with now tinged with a shy excitement. “Well then… how about we have lunch and talk about this?”

Something in his expression softened, and though he didn’t say it outright, his silence was answer enough.

Rafayel

There had always been a game between you and Rafayel—a never-ending dance of teasing and flirtation that neither of you ever seemed to tire of. It was effortless, a constant, something you had come to expect from him.

So when he suddenly became quiet, retreating from that familiar dynamic, it took you by surprise. It was unlike him—so unlike him. Instead of returning your playful remarks with an even more shamelessly flirtatious response, he simply looked away. Instead of seeking you out like he always had, he started keeping his distance. At first, you thought maybe he had met someone, that perhaps the easy banter had lost its charm for him. But then he didn’t just stop flirting—he started avoiding you altogether.

That was what finally pushed you to action.

The party was buzzing with music and laughter, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and expensive cologne. The warm glow of string lights cast flickering shadows across the walls, but you only had eyes for one person—the man who had been actively dodging you. Fueled by a mix of frustration and liquid courage, you found him lingering near the balcony, his back turned to you. Without hesitation, you strode over and cornered him against the wall, planting both hands beside him, effectively caging him in.

"Tell me, Raf," you demanded, voice slightly slurred but unwavering. "What have I done to make you avoid me?"

He blinked, clearly startled by your sudden boldness. For a moment, he was speechless, his gaze flickering across your face as if searching for something. Then, in a desperate attempt to regain his composure, he let out a low chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Now, cutie," he drawled, tilting his head with feigned nonchalance, "why would you think I’m avoiding you?"

You narrowed your eyes, unwilling to let him weasel his way out of this. "Is it because you met someone?" you pressed, frustration laced with something dangerously close to vulnerability. "You don’t have to avoid me, Raf. We don’t have to ‘joke around’ anymore, just… don’t act like I don’t exist."

The words felt heavier as they left your mouth, laced with an ache you hadn't meant to reveal.

Rafayel’s smirk faded. A quiet sigh escaped him before he reached up, his fingers grazing your cheek with uncharacteristic tenderness. The usual mischief in his eyes was gone, replaced by something softer—something real.

"You really are dense," he murmured, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin. "I tried to put space between us because it stopped being just flirting for me. It wasn’t just a game anymore." His voice was quieter now, steadier. "I was falling for you."

Your breath hitched. For a moment, all you could do was stare, his words settling over you, sinking in, unraveling everything you had assumed.

And then you acted on instinct.

Without a word, you leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. It was brief, but it said everything—everything you hadn't been able to say before. When you pulled away, his expression was unreadable for half a second, and then a slow, almost disbelieving smile curved his lips.

"You’re a big, big dummy," you murmured, grinning up at him, finally feeling like you had him back.

And this time, he didn’t pull away.

Sylus

Oh, you were furious.

You had always known the kind of man Sylus was—disappearing without a word, leaving messages unanswered, slipping in and out of your life as if bound by no one’s rules but his own. But never, not once, had his absence stretched beyond two days.

Now, an entire week had passed.

You had called, concern gnawing at your chest, only to be met with silence. But when you saw the twins posting nonchalantly on moments, realization settled over you like a cold weight.

You were being ignored.

And you hated how much it affected you.

Was his absence truly taking such a toll on you? Was the lack of his attention enough to make your world feel unsteady? The thought alone was infuriating.

Enough was enough.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you were already standing in front of his house, storming inside like you belonged there, your every step heavy with emotion.

"Where’s Sylus?" you demanded the moment you entered the kitchen, finding Luke and Kieran lost in quiet laughter over some inside joke.

They startled at your sudden entrance, but it was the scowl on your face that wiped the amusement from their expressions. Without hesitation, they told you exactly where to find their boss.

You didn’t bother knocking.

The door to Sylus’ study swung open, revealing him lounging in a chair, a glass of red wine in hand, his robe—also red, because of course it was—hanging loosely off his frame, exposing far too much skin. The dim lighting cast golden shadows across the sharp angles of his face, only adding to the effortless air of danger that always seemed to follow him.

But you refused to be distracted.

"You moron," you spat, striding toward him.

Sylus arched a dark brow, his lips curling in amusement.

"It’s wonderful to see you too, sweet thing," he drawled, his voice smooth and indulgent, like honeyed wine. He took another unbothered sip.

The nonchalance of it all only fueled your anger. You grabbed the glass from his hand and set it down—none too gently—on the nearby table.

"Don’t ‘sweet thing’ me right now. I thought you were dead!" Your voice wavered between frustration and something dangerously close to hurt.

He exhaled a soft chuckle, entirely unfazed. "Is it my fault you assume I can be taken down so easily?" His tone was rich with amusement, a teasing lilt behind every syllable.

"Oh, you’re about to be taken down if you don’t start explaining yourself," you shot back, eyes burning with a challenge.

That, at least, seemed to amuse him less.

"Explain what, exactly?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, though his gaze remained sharp. "Be specific, darling."

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "Explain why you’ve been ignoring me all week."

Silence.

It lasted only a moment, but in that pause, something in the air shifted.

When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its teasing edge. "What do you expect me to say? That every time I was near you, I was overwhelmed by emotions I have no business feeling? That you make me reckless? That I—" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. "I shouldn’t let myself feel this way. It makes me weak."

Your breath hitched.

His voice, once laced with quiet amusement, now carried something else entirely—something raw, something unguarded.

"And now," he continued, stepping closer, his voice quieter but no less intense, "I’ve said it out loud. There’s no going back. You have the upper hand, sweet thing. You’ve wrapped me around your little finger."

His proximity made heat rise to your cheeks, but you held your ground.

"So, what now?" His voice was softer now, laced with the barest hint of vulnerability. "Is your curiosity satisfied?"

You glanced away, unsure of how to answer, but he was quick to lift your chin with a single finger, forcing your eyes to meet his.

There, in the depths of his gaze, was something undeniable—something entirely, devastatingly real.

"Instead of a weakness," you murmured, your hand covering his, "why not let it be your strength?"

For a moment, Sylus said nothing. Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours.

And for the first time in his life, love didn’t feel like a liability. It felt like power.

Caleb

Your normally talkative, bubbly best friend had become a shadow of himself—distant, reserved, and frustratingly unreadable.

At first, you tried to ignore it, convincing yourself that maybe he just needed space. Everyone had their moments, after all. But when he started canceling plans—your plans—that was what truly hurt. He shut you out without explanation, leaving you to wonder what had changed.

And you hated not knowing.

So when you finally managed to get him alone, seated beside you on the couch in the familiar comfort of your living room, you weren’t about to waste the opportunity. You wanted answers, and this time, you weren’t leaving without them.

The air was thick with unspoken words as you turned to face him. The dim glow of the lamp cast warm shadows across his features, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the slight crease between his brows. He had been unusually quiet all evening, and you had reached your limit.

"What’s with the long face, Caleb?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, laced with quiet concern. "Tell me what’s wrong."

Your eyes searched his, willing him to let you in. His moods always affected you, but this… this silence was unbearable.

Caleb looked momentarily caught off guard, as if he hadn’t expected you to confront him so directly. He parted his lips to speak—probably to brush it off, to tell you it was nothing—but then he hesitated.

And instead of words, he took your hand.

Gently, he pressed your palm against his chest, right over his heart. You could feel it, the rapid beat beneath your fingertips.

"Did I do something wrong?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "You've been so distant lately…"

His grip on your hand tightened slightly. "Pipsqueak," he murmured, the nickname rolling off his tongue with quiet fondness. "You could never upset me."

There was something unreadable in his gaze—something raw.

"I've just been… confused," he admitted, his voice lower now, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to say the words aloud.

"Confused about what?" You instinctively moved closer, barely noticing the way your knees touched.

Caleb exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "It’s becoming harder to hide," he finally said. "To pretend I don’t feel something I’ve been trying to ignore for far longer than I should have."

Then, in a move so tender it sent a shiver down your spine, he lifted your hand to his cheek, closing his eyes for just a moment as he nuzzled against your palm.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"Caleb…" Your voice wavered, warmth creeping up your face. His touch was intoxicating, his puppy-eyed gaze making your heart weak. "What are you saying?"

His lips curled into the faintest smile, as if the answer had been obvious all along.

"What I’m saying," he murmured, eyes locked onto yours, "is that I’m hopelessly in love with you."

Your heart stuttered, warmth blooming in your chest like sunlight breaking through a storm.

And in that moment, nothing had ever felt more right.

You wrapped your arms tightly around Caleb, burying your face against his shoulder—partly to conceal the heat rising to your cheeks, partly to soak in the warmth of his embrace. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips felt grounding, reassuring, like an unspoken promise.

In that moment, you felt whole. As if a missing piece you hadn't even realized was absent had finally fallen into place, completing a puzzle you hadn't known you were solving.

#love and deepspace #caleb x mc #lads xavier #love and deepspace x reader #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #zayne x #lads zayne #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #love and deepspace headcanons #lads caleb #love and deepspace angst #lads sylus #lads x reader #loveanddeepspace

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hoe4hotchner · 6 months ago

Note

Heyyy, I have a request, for HotchxReader in a established relationship, and i don’t know if you have tiktok but there are these tiktoks I watch about scenarios with a healthy relationship after a toxic one, and I think it would be really cute if you did that with Hotch or reader!! If not I totally understand!!! I love your work and can’t wait for more!! 🫶🏻

Dirty Laundry | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | WC: 0.8k | CW: Hurt/comfort I guess, trauma response, previous toxic relationship, implied abuse i think it qualifies as. Hotch being the best man ever.

You stood by the dresser, carefully folding the last of the laundry, a rhythm you’d long since perfected. Each item was handled with accuracy, creases smoothed with your fingers before you folded and refolded until the edges were perfectly aligned. It was calming, in some way, a way to create order out of chaos, to make things look perfect like they’d just been pulled out of a bag.

Aaron appeared in the doorway, fresh from his shower, wearing a washed-out t-shirt from law school and sweatpants, his hair was still damp and slightly messy. He paused, leaning one shoulder against the frame, watching you silently for a moment. His gaze softened as he took in the way your hands moved, delicate but methodical, almost like folding laundry was some kind of sacred ritual to you.

His own instinct would’ve been to hang the shirt on a hanger or toss it in a drawer, where it’d wrinkle anyway. Besides, he would iron it in the morning before work anyway, so he didn't see the big deal in folding it as neatly as you did. But you folded everything with such care, as if giving even this small task your full attention.

“Do you always fold like that?” he asked, his voice soft and curious.

You froze.

Your breath hitched, your mind stumbling over itself to process his words. Was that judgment? Was I doing it wrong?

“I—” Your voice stuttered, and you turned around to face him, holding the neatly folded shirt against your chest like a shield. “I’m sorry,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to— I can stop doing it like this if you don’t like it. I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Aaron interrupted, his voice was low but firm, his hands already reaching out as he closed the distance between you. “Hey, sweetheart, slow down. It’s okay.”

You couldn’t stop, the spiral pulling you under as memories of sharp words and cold glares from someone else—someone from the past—filled your mind. “Why do you always do things like this? Can’t you just listen for once?” The panic bubbled up, it was hot and suffocating.

“I’ll change how I do it,” you promised, your voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“Stop,” he said, his hands gently but firmly finding your shoulders. The weight of his touch anchored you as his thumbs brushed soothing circles against your arms. Aaron moved his thumbs a little harder, putting pressure into his touch as he tried to ease the tension in your muscles. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

You blinked up at him, tears already pooling in your eyes, making his concerned face blur. “I thought—”

“I wasn’t criticizing you,” he said cutting you off before your thoughts took over completely, his voice was gentle yet steady, and his eyes locked onto yours with care. “I wasn’t upset. I was just curious. That’s all. I think it’s sweet how you fold everything so perfectly.”

Your lips trembled, and you felt yourself start to crumble under the overwhelming kindness in his tone. “I just— I didn’t want you to think I was doing it wrong,” you whispered, the words fragile, as if saying them aloud would somehow break the fragile peace you’d found with him.

Aaron’s chest ached at the raw vulnerability in your voice, at the way your shoulders had tensed till you were stiff board, as you had braced yourself for some imagined backlash. He hated that the scars from your past had you doubting yourself in the safety of his home, in his arms.

“You weren’t doing anything wrong,” he said softly, pulling you into him, wrapping you in his embrace. His hand smoothed over your hair as he kissed the top of your head, murmuring against it, “You don’t have to change anything, okay? You’re perfect just the way you are.”

You let out a shaky breath against his chest, the knot in your stomach loosening ever so slightly. “I don’t know why I reacted like that,” you admitted, your voice muffled by his shirt.

Aaron tilted his head to rest his cheek against the crown of your head. “I do,” he said simply, not explaining it further—you both knew what he meant—his voice carrying no judgment, only understanding. “And I wish I could take away all the hurt that made you feel like this. But you’re safe now, with me. I promise you that.”

His words cracked something open inside you, and the tears spilled freely now, soaking into the soft cotton of his shirt. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, only held you tighter, as if he could shield you from the echoes of your past with the strength of his embrace.

“Thank you. I love you,” you whispered after a moment, the words coming easier this time, carried by the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

Aaron pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. “You never have to thank me for loving you,” he said, his voice low and full of conviction. “But I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

His words settled into your chest, soothing the ache you’d carried for so long.

As he leaned in to kiss you, his lips soft and tender against yours, you finally felt the weight of your past ease just a little more.

"C'mon, let's go lay down a little." He smiled, dragging you towards the bed in an attempt to move your mind away from the chores that still needed to be done and relax for once. After all, you were two to take care of the house.

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kooffeecup · 4 months ago

Text

bridges we almost burned 𓇼 𓂂 ˚ ◌

when you see your boyfriend giving ride to the new intern frequently because he thinks it’s convenient, something snaps inside you.

genre : angst, romance

pairing : jungkook x reader

★ requested by a reader

banner made by me

picture credits to the rightful owners

You stood outside Jungkook’s house, your arms crossed as the cold evening breeze nipped at your skin. You had been waiting for him, eager to finally spend some time together after his long work hours.

But instead of his usual solo arrival, your eyes locked onto something that made your stomach twist, Jungkook’s car pulling up, and stepping out of the passenger seat was a woman.

Daun.

The new intern at his company. The one you had heard about in passing, the one he had casually mentioned before.

You watched as she smiled, thanking him before walking toward her house just a few doors down. Jungkook remained in the driver’s seat for a second, running a hand through his hair before finally stepping out. His eyes widened slightly when he noticed you standing there.

"Hey, baby," he greeted, his tone light, but there was something in his gaze,like he knew exactly what you had just seen. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. "You gave her a ride?"

Jungkook sighed, shutting his car door. "Yeah. She lives nearby, and I was heading this way anyway."

"Right," you nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. "And how many times have you done that?"

He hesitated for a second too long. "A few times," he admitted. "But it's not a big deal, baby. She’s just an intern, and I was just being nice."

Your stomach churned at his choice of words. "Not a big deal?" You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Jungkook, I’ve been waiting outside your house for an hour, and I found out you were out giving another woman a ride home? You never even mentioned this to me."

He stepped closer, his voice softer now. "I didn’t think it was something worth mentioning. You trust me, don’t you?"

You met his gaze, searching for something, anything to ease the ache in your chest. You did trust him. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That didn’t mean the sight of them together, so casual, so comfortable, didn’t leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

"Did she ever ask you for these rides, or did you offer?" you asked. Jungkook’s jaw tensed. "She asked once when it was raining, and after that I just figured it was convenient since we were heading in the same direction."

Convenient. You hated that word.

"Would you be okay if I got rides from some guy at work regularly and never told you?" You tilted your head, watching his expression shift.

Jungkook exhaled sharply. "That’s not the same."

"It is the same," you cut in. "And you know it." Silence stretched between you both, heavy and suffocating.

"Are you jealous?" he finally asked, his voice gentle. Your lips pressed into a thin line. "I don’t know," you admitted. "Maybe I just don’t like feeling like I’m the last to know things about my own boyfriend."

Jungkook reached for your hands, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles. You exhaled, trying to sort through the emotions tangled in your chest. Jungkook’s grip on your hands tightened slightly, his brows furrowing. "I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll stop if it makes you uncomfortable."

You let out a slow breath, pulling your hands away. "Don’t stop just because you think I have a problem with it, Jungkook. Stop when you realize why it’s a problem."

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

"And no," you continued, your voice calm but firm, "I don’t get jealous." You took a step back, the weight in your chest slowly lifting as realization settled in. "I just lost interest."

Jungkook’s expression dropped. "What?" You shook your head, turning on your heel. "I’ll see you around."

You didn’t wait for his response. You didn’t care to hear whatever excuse he’d come up with next.

Because the truth was, the moment he hesitated, the moment he justified it instead of understanding, something inside you just… faded.

And you weren’t going to beg for clarity when he should have known better.

Jungkook stood there, frozen, watching as you walked away. His heart pounded against his ribs, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened.

"Wait " He took a step forward, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t hesitate.

For four years, you had loved him. You had trusted him. And yet, in that moment, as you walked away, it felt like you weren’t leaving in anger. You were leaving in indifference. And that scared him more than anything.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to chase after you, to explain, to make you understand that it had never meant anything. That Daun was just…nothing. But would that even matter now? Would you even believe him? Or worse… had he already lost you?

He clenched his jaw, fists tightening at his sides as he watched your figure disappear down the street.

For the first time in years, Jungkook felt a kind of fear he wasn’t sure he could fix. Jungkook stood in the same spot long after you disappeared, his breath uneven, his heart hammering in his chest. He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over your contact. He wanted to call. To text. To say something that would pull you back. But what would he even say? That he didn’t mean to keep things from you? That it was just a ride, just convenience? Would that even change anything?

The words echoed in his head like a haunting reminder of what he had just let slip through his fingers. A sudden rush of panic surged through him. He couldn’t let it end like this. So he ran.

His feet pounded against the pavement as he chased after you, his lungs burning, his mind screaming at him to do something, anything, before it was too late.

When he finally spotted you, you were about to get into your car. "Wait!" he called out, his voice breathless. You stilled but didn’t turn around. Jungkook swallowed hard. "Don’t just walk away like this."

You sighed, gripping the car door. His chest tightened. " Let me fix it."

You turned then, finally looking at him. And what he saw in your eyes made his stomach drop, emptiness. Not anger. Not sadness. Just… nothing.

"You don’t get it, Jungkook," you said quietly. "It’s not about Daun. It’s about you. About the fact that I had to stand there and watch you hesitate. Watch you defend something that you should’ve already known was wrong."

He shook his head. "I wasn’t thinking"

"Exactly," you cut in. "You weren’t. And I’m tired of waiting for you to start."

Jungkook felt something crack inside him. "Please," he murmured, taking a step closer. "Don’t do this. Don’t leave."

You exhaled, a slow, tired breath. Jungkook’s breath was uneven as he stood in front of you, desperation clear in his eyes. "Please, don’t just walk away like this."

You sighed, rubbing your temple. Your body was exhausted not just from standing outside his house for so long, but from the weight of this entire situation.

"I’m tired, Jungkook," you said, your voice calm but firm. "I waited outside for you for over an hour. I just want to go home and rest."

He opened his mouth, but you held up a hand before he could speak.

"We can talk later. When you finally get it."

Jungkook’s jaw tensed, frustration flashing in his eyes. "Get what?"

You exhaled sharply. "Exactly."

You didn’t wait for his response. You turned, got into your car, and shut the door.

Jungkook stood there, watching as you drove away, the sinking realization setting in.

You weren’t running away. You weren’t giving him an ultimatum. You were just… done waiting for him to understand something he should’ve known all along.

—

Jungkook sat at his desk, unable to focus. His fingers hovered over his phone, rereading the last message he had sent you late last night, one you never replied to.

His office felt colder today, quieter, even with the usual background noise of employees moving around. But all he could think about was you.

The door suddenly knocked, and before he could answer, it opened.

Daun.

"Good morning, sir," she greeted with a small smile. "I brought the reports you asked for."

Jungkook barely glanced up, his mind elsewhere. "Leave them on the desk."

She hesitated for a second before placing the files down. "Um… I just wanted to say thank you again for the rides. It really helped me out."

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. The rides. The same ones that led to the situation he was in now.

"Yeah," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Don’t worry about it."

She shifted slightly. "I hope your girlfriend wasn’t too upset about yesterday…"

Jungkook’s eyes snapped up to her, sharp and unreadable. "That’s none of your concern."

Daun’s smile faltered. "Oh right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep."

Jungkook exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "It’s fine. Just, just go." She nodded quickly and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He hated the way things felt right now, the way he didn’t even know if he’d see you today, if you’d even want to talk.

His phone buzzed suddenly, and his heart jumped. But when he looked at the screen, it wasn’t your name. It was a meeting reminder. Jungkook exhaled sharply, shoving his phone into his pocket.

You said you’d talk when he finally got it. And the truth was he did now. But was it too late?

—

Jungkook sat in his car, gripping the steering wheel, his mind heavy with thoughts of you. The whole day had been suffocating, meetings he couldn’t focus on, calls he ignored, and the weight of your absence pressing on his chest. He checked his phone for the hundredth time. Still nothing from you.

A knock on his window pulled him from his thoughts. He turned his head and saw Daun standing outside, smiling.

He rolled down the window, his expression unreadable. "What?"

Daun blinked at his cold tone but quickly recovered. "Oh, I was just wondering if I could get a ride home again."

Jungkook exhaled slowly, gripping the wheel tighter. This, this was the moment. The moment he could make the right choice. He didn’t hesitate this time.

"No."

Daun’s smile faltered. "Oh… are you heading somewhere else?"

"No," Jungkook said flatly. "I just don’t want to." Her face fell slightly, and she shifted awkwardly. "Did… something happen?"

Jungkook let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, Daun. Something did happen. And I should’ve realized it sooner."

Daun swallowed, sensing the shift. "I didn’t mean to cause any trouble between you and your girlfriend"

"You didn’t," Jungkook cut in, his voice firm. "I did." For the first time, he saw it clearly. You weren’t upset about the rides. You were upset that he never even considered how it would look. How it would feel. He had been blind, careless. And now, he might have lost you for it.

Jungkook sighed, rolling the window up without another word. Then, without sparing Daun another glance, he drove off. There was only one place he needed to be right now. With you.

Jungkook drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping his phone, debating whether to call you. But he knew words over the phone wouldn’t be enough. He needed to see you.

When he reached your apartment, he hesitated for only a second before stepping out of his car. His heart pounded as he rang your doorbell.

Seconds felt like hours. Then, finally, the door opened. You stood there, looking exhausted, your arms crossed as you leaned against the frame. Your expression was unreadable. "What do you want, Jungkook?"

He took a deep breath. "To talk. Properly this time."

You sighed, rubbing your temple. "I told you, I’d talk when you finally get it."

Jungkook nodded. "And I do now." His voice was quieter this time, more certain. "You were right."

You raised a brow, waiting. He exhaled sharply. "It was never about the rides. It was about me not realizing how it looked. How it felt. How I should’ve never made you feel like you had to stand outside waiting for me, watching me drop off another woman."

Your fingers tightened slightly against your arms, but you didn’t say anything.

Jungkook stepped closer. "I should’ve understood the second I saw your face last night. And I hate that it took you walking away for me to get it." His voice dropped. "But I do now. And I’m sorry."

You studied him for a long moment. "So what now?"

"I stopped giving her rides," Jungkook said instantly. "Not because you told me to. But because I finally understood why I should have stopped in the first place."

Your gaze softened just a little, but you didn’t let him off that easily. "And what if I never said anything? Would you have realized it?"

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, guilt flashing in his eyes. "Maybe not right away," he admitted. "But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That I was too blind to see it on my own." He swallowed hard. "But I see it now, and I swear, I’ll never make you feel that way again."

Silence filled the space between you. Then, finally, you let out a slow breath. "You really get it now?" Jungkook nodded. "Yeah. And I don’t want to lose you over my own stupidity."

You stared at him for a moment longer before finally stepping aside. "Come inside."

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He stepped in, knowing this wasn’t an instant fix but it was a start. And this time, he wouldn’t take it for granted.

Things weren’t instantly perfect, but there was progress. Jungkook had been more mindful, more present. He made sure to communicate, to show you not just with words but through his actions that he truly understood.

But there was still a lingering tension, a gap that hadn’t fully closed.

That evening, you sat on the couch scrolling through your phone when the doorbell rang. You sighed, standing up to answer it. When you opened the door, Jungkook stood there, holding a small bag in one hand and a guilty smile on his face.

"I know you’ve been tired lately," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, I brought dinner. Your favorite."

Your brows raised slightly. "You brought food?" He nodded. "And I swear I didn’t just order from anywhere I went all the way to that one place across town because I know you like it best from there."

You studied him for a second before stepping aside. "Come in."

Jungkook entered, placing the bag on the table. He glanced at you, hesitant. "How have you been?"

You sat down, opening the takeout containers. "Fine." It was a simple answer, but he could tell there was more beneath it. Jungkook sat across from you, watching as you took a bite. When you didn’t say anything else, he finally spoke.

"I know things still don’t feel the same," he admitted. "And I don’t expect one apology to fix everything. But I just want to know is there still a chance for us?"

You put your chopsticks down, looking at him seriously. "It’s not about whether there’s a chance, Jungkook. It’s about whether you’ll keep understanding even when I don’t have to explain things to you."

He nodded immediately. "I will." You sighed, leaning back slightly. "Then we’ll see." Jungkook didn’t push for more. He simply nodded, accepting that trust wasn’t rebuilt overnight.

But as he sat there, watching you eat, sharing quiet conversation, he felt something he hadn’t in days hope.

And he was willing to do whatever it took to make things right.

Jungkook had been consistent. He didn’t just say he understood he showed it. He made sure to be more present, to check in with you without making it feel forced. He was more aware of the little things, more careful with his actions, and most importantly, he didn’t let you feel like you had to spell things out for him.

You were at your apartment when your phone buzzed. Jungkook.

Jungkook: Can you come outside?

You frowned slightly but grabbed your jacket and stepped out. When you reached the parking lot, you found Jungkook leaning against his car, his hands tucked into his pockets.

"You’re acting mysterious," you said, eyeing him. "What’s going on?"

Jungkook pushed off the car, opening the passenger door. "Get in. I want to show you something."

You hesitated for a second before sighing and slipping into the car. He didn’t say much as he drove, but his hand reached for yours, squeezing it gently. It was the first time in days that he had done something so natural, without hesitation.

After about fifteen minutes, he pulled into a small, quiet spot overlooking the city skyline. The view was breathtaking, the soft glow of the city lights stretching far into the distance. You turned to him. "Why did you bring me here?"

Jungkook exhaled, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. "Because I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About how close I was to losing you." He turned to look at you, eyes serious. "And I don’t want to be that guy who just assumes things are fine now. I don’t want you to just settle for us being okay. I want you to feel secure. To know that I see you, Y/N."

Your chest tightened. "Jungkook "

"I love you," he said, his voice unwavering. "And I never want to make you feel like you have to question that again." The weight of his words hung in the air. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the sincerity in his eyes.

For the first time in weeks, you let out a small, genuine smile. "I love you too," you admitted softly.

Jungkook exhaled a breath. Slowly, he reached for your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. This time, you didn’t pull away. And in that quiet moment, with only the city lights as witnesses, you both knew this was the beginning of something stronger.

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highdramas · 3 months ago

Note

what about a jack abbot x reader where doctor!reader is assaulted by a patient and struggles with the ptsd after? reader doesn’t have family or many friends in the area for support so jack steps in and offers them comfort? idk i love how you write jack and i love some angsty hurt/comfort

sleeping with the lights on | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

warnings: description of violence (gunshot wound), language, age gap (reader is 29, abbot is 48), ptsd, reader really goes through it but jack is there!

word count: 3k

summary: the unspeakable happens to you, and jack is there through it all.

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. oooo anon, i loved this request! thank you! i hope i did it justice for you <3 this is not beta read so apologies for any typos! lmk if you'd be interested in a part two :)

you didn't intend to become an attending at PTMC once your residency was over. what you wanted was to find a position closer to home, but as fate would have it, the continual rejections wore you down. and with a junior attending position opening, it felt like it would be silly to let the opportunity pass you by. on the particularly bad nights, when you lay in bed with the lights on and hope that maybe nightmares won’t capture you that night, you ask yourself if you should’ve just held out for something else. but then you roll over and jack is there and you know you're where you should be.

the night it happened, you hadn’t slept well. you weren’t adjusting well to night shift but you were doing your best and you had so much caffeine in your system, your nerves already were fried. when you walked through the door before rounds, abbot took one look at you and said, “go home.”

“i’m fine,” you say without meeting his eye. if you weren’t fine, you would never forgive yourself. you didn’t put yourself through accelerated programs, didn’t pull countless all nighters, didn’t work your ass off to be an attending by twenty nine for nothing. no, you still had a chip on your shoulder. you wanted to prove that you could run with the big dogs.

“you look really fine,” dr. abbot says with a scoff, shaking his head, but not pressing further. you liked that about him. he was firm, but he knew when to back off and let you be.

but it’s only hours into your shift when it all changes– a rowdy patient. confused. you didn’t even have time to diagnose him before he went for the gun at his waist and blindly fired it, right at you. right into your arm, the bullet lodging within your muscle.

everything faded into a blur after that. the commotion. the pounding sound in your ears. you think you must have purposefully pushed it down. but you woke up slowly, with a wrapped arm, laying in an icu bed. with jack abbot in the seat beside you, his head hung, fingers laced in his lap.

when you started to move, he was up in an instant– not really sleeping, you figured. “hey, no quick movements. you’re okay.” you learned later that you were okay because jack sprang into action. you learned later just how bad it all could’ve been if jack wasn’t there, if jack wasn’t used to these kinds of wounds, if jack wasn’t your senior attending.

your throat was like sandpaper, and he passes you a water bottle from your bedside. a big bouquet of flowers sits on the table in your small room. “you got out of the OR couple hours ago,” he muses softly. as you awaken more, he divulges more details. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be alright. some nerve damage is the worst of it, but it’s not likely to be permanent. they got out all of the fragments from the bullet.”

jack sat with you until he had to go back on shift. you couldn’t ascertain why– you figured it must be his guilt. it had to be his guilt. but the days went on following the assault, and you were not perfectly alright.

and you didn’t know if you were ever going to be alright again.

when you were released to go home, you stood in the doorway of your apartment and you cried. not because you’d been shot at work. not because the use of your right arm was still spotty, at best. not because you didn’t know if this was something you could handle anymore.

you cried because being greeted with no one, nothing, rattled you. there was no one to fill your water bottle with the brita. there was no one to prop up your pillows. there was no one to make sure your pain meds were being taken at the appropriate times. no one to care for you.

you kept your injury from your friends and family back home. you didn’t know if it was wise, but it felt easier. if they didn’t know, then they couldn’t coax you back to the safe haven of familiarity. they couldn’t convince you to give up the thing that was your dream. you didn’t want to be living in what was once your childhood bedroom, which was now your dad’s office. you didn’t want to hear that you could find a great job locally. as much as you were unsure at first… you were glad that you stayed in pittsburgh. even with all of the difficulty that came with it.

the first day, you didn’t leave your bed. you kept your arm propped and you avoided answering any phone calls from home. you kept up with your friends through text the best you could– they’d notice if you weren’t responding. you watched all of the first season real housewives of salt lake city, and half of a season of survivor. you let your water bottle go empty. you let yourself wallow.

everyone from the hospital was being so lovely, but for some reason, you couldn’t find it within yourself to accept their charity. when they had asked if you had anyone to help you at home, you had assured them over and over again that, yes, you would be fine. jack had looked at you with a cocked head, but he didn’t push you.

on the second day, you mustered going to the couch. you propped your arm up and finished your season of survivor and doordashed the necessary provisions that you would need while you were still healing. you weren’t expecting anyone– when the door knock, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

when you checked through your peep hole, jack abbot was the last person that you were expecting to see.

his hands were full of reusable bags. his sunglasses were still on. his camouflage backpack was slung over one shoulder. he looked handsome, and strong.

opening your door for him, you don’t know what words to say, or what questions to ask. “will you let me in?” he asks.

you shift so that he can enter. he sets the bags down, takes his sunglasses and backpack off, and puts his warm hands on your arms. his right hand lives gently below your wrapped wound. he walks you back towards your couch. “what are you doing?” you finally find the competence to ask.

“from what i’ve gathered,” he says, gruff. “your family doesn’t live here. i don’t see you off gallivanting with friends. and when you lie, you chew on the inside of your cheek.” as he helps you settle back onto the couch, he adds, “i watched your tear your cheek up when dana asked if you have anyone to take care of you.”

despite everything he just said, how he stripped you down and saw you to the bone with minimal effort, all you could think of to ask was, “how do you know where i live?”

he smirks. “we do have an HR database, you know.”

“that has to violate my rights, somehow.”

jack huffs and stands up. “maybe. are you complaining?”

always the risk taker, you think. you give a meek shake of your head.

“now,” he rubs his hands together and leans down so that he’s on your level. “what can i do to help you?”

“abbot,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “you don’t have to do all of this. i know you feel bad, i know you’re just trying to be nice, but i’m fine.” you chew on the inside of your cheek without even thinking twice about it. “go home. i appreciate you. but you got off, what– five hours ago?”

“today’s my day off,” he counters.

“even more reason to go, be home. catch up on your sleep.”

he sighs. you can tell that you’ve exasperated him. “how about this. i’m gonna clean up your place. get a real meal made for you. and by the time i’ve done that, maybe you’ll cook up some ideas for what else i can do. capisce?”

you roll your eyes, but don’t argue.

for awhile, you watch him work. he does everything with such precision and decisiveness. he figures out the rhyme and reason of your apartment quickly, and the way he moves around, you would think that he has been living in your space, your orbit, for years. he maneuvers your apartment like he knows exactly how your brain works. hell– maybe he does.

at some point, you drift off to sleep. when you wake up, the glittering pittsburgh skyline winks back at you through your big window. jack is approaching, two plates in his hand. he sets them both down on the coffee table and smirks at you. “hey, sleeping beauty.”

you try not to read too much into his comment. “hi,” you begin to stretch, but that shooting pain goes up your arm and you wince, bringing it back down. “how long was i out?”

“about…” he looks at his watch. “four hours?”

“four hours?” you repeat. you can’t remember the last time you napped, period, let alone for more than thirty minutes. you crane your neck around, and you think your apartment may be the cleanest it’s ever been. even the dishes from the immaculate meal, if the smell is any indication, that abbot made for you.

“yeah. you needed it.” jack motions with his fingers. “sit up, and i’ll help you get all set up.”

you reluctantly do as he says. he adjusts the pillows until you’re still reclined, but able to eat comfortably. he sets the plate into your hands. “oh–” he turns and grabs your water bottle. you watch him walk off to the kitchen, retrieve the now-full brita from the fridge, and fill your water bottle to the brim. he walks back and places it on the coffee table.

jack sits on the couch at the opposite end. your feet barely graze his thigh. he takes his plate and turns the tv back on, survivor starting, right where you left off.

disbelief settles into you. you stare at him and he’s staring back. and it’s hard to explain this feeling in your chest, but it takes over you, and you find yourself fighting back tears. “thank– thank you. thank you.” you look down at the food he prepared and laughed. spaghetti and meatballs. you look back up, still blinking the tears away. “thank you.”

jack’s hand rests on your ankle, and he gives it a squeeze. “you’re welcome.” he eyes your plate. “go on. eat.”

–

jack didn’t leave before giving you a thorough check up, making sure all of your vitals were still good. when he seemed satisfied, he left, and told you to text him if you needed anything else. leftovers were in the fridge. he stocked you up with easy things to prepare. he made life easier, when it felt like it was at its worst.

jack checked on you regularly– sometimes dropping by, other times with a text or a phone call. he even kept you abreast with the goings on of the office, who was whispering about who, because he knew that you found amusement in that sort of thing. everyone took turns visiting you, making sure you were well cared for. it felt like there was usually at least one person from the hospital checking in on you per day, but none more than jack. not even dana.

“you know– abbot has been really worried about you,” garcia says as you two sip on tea she’d brewed for you and munch on sandwiches from your favorite spot. “when i came down after it all happened, i don’t think i’ve ever seen him like that.”

“like what?” you ask around a bite.

she shrugs. “i don’t know. he just looked… frantic. determined.” she mulls it over. “scared. we all were, but he was different.” she pauses and furrows her gaze at you. “are you two…?”

“no!” you laugh, shaking your head. “no, god no. he doesn’t think of me like that.”

“but you think of him like that?” she asks with a smirk.

you suppose you were caught, at that point, but you glower and change the subject.

for as sad as you were on that first day, things seem to have turned around. if nothing else… it was a good reminder that you weren’t alone. not really.

–

you were able to return to work after a month. your stomach was in knots– you’d had to sleep with the lights on since everything happened because you felt so… scared. loud noises scared you. when you closed your eyes at night to sleep, you would see the man’s face under those fluorescent lights. the unbridled fear in his eyes. you didn’t know what happened to him other than that, apparently, abbot and robby took care of it. you didn’t want to know anything else.

once again, standing in front of PTMC, you were forced to ask yourself if you were cut out for this. who was to say that something like that couldn’t happen again? it was out of the norm, even for a patient on healthcare worker assault, but it wasn’t impossible. what if you weren’t so lucky this time?

you let out a shaky breath and hold onto your bag a bit tighter. you were only working half days for two more weeks, and everyone tried to get you to agree to day shift, but you were adamant that it was important that you be on night shift.

that you be with abbot.

he met you outside. when he looked at you, you felt frozen in place. your hands shake and you cover your mouth with one, despite your trembling. jack looks at you, not with pity, but with understanding. and he pulls you in, gently, by your elbow, until you’re leaning into his chest and crying, and he’s murmuring to, “let it all out, i have you.”

you don’t go inside that day. you don’t go inside the next day when you try, either. but on the third day, when abbot meets you outside, the two of you walk in together.

the feeling that you’re being coddled is one that you cannot live with. you make it clear that you can handle it, that you want to be in the thick of it with everyone. when a GSW to the chest comes in, you try to pretend that it’s okay. you focus on the work and what you can do and even when you lose him, you keep yourself together. you last the full six hours and, yeah, you’re proud of yourself. you really are.

jack finds you at the end, on the roof. you knew that was sort of his thing, but it felt right– there was clarity, being so high up, and you wanted a taste of it. the sunrise was a picture of pinks, and you smiled at it. it felt like a warm hug, from an old friend.

“you did good today.” you look over your shoulder to see him approaching you. you sit on the ground, legs crossed, and he sits next to you. “i’m proud of you, doc.”

looking down at your lap, you smile, before your gaze slowly trails over to him. “i’m slower than normal,” you say. “and i don’t think my brain is fully working again, yet. but… i’m proud, too.”

“you should be.” jack looks out at the sunrise and chews on his lip. “you really scared me.”

surprised by his words, you look at him. “you said it yourself. it was a superficial wound. the fragments were concerning, sure, but there was never going to be a serious–”

“i don’t mean the injury,” jack says. “i mean you.”

“oh.” looking back down, you pick at your cuticle. “i’m fine.”

“you always say that, but i never believe you.” jack’s hand reaches out, and he takes yours, preventing you from bloodying your fingers with your nerves. he splays your fingers out, and it feels good in its simplicity. “i want you to tell me when it gets bad. trust me– it’s going to get bad. but it doesn’t have to stay bad,” you look up at him and he smiles when you make eye contact. “and it doesn’t have to be bad, alone.”

with a light laugh, you lean forward until your forehead rests on his shoulder. his hand runs through your hair, pushing back to kiss the crown of your head. then, tilting your chin up, your forehead. and then, your eyes are fluttering open and his are nearly lulled shut, but you nod your head once, and that’s all the permission that he needs.

skillfully, his hand cups your jaw, his thumb traces the bone and you grip his wrist as an anchor. he takes this seriously, you can tell– there’s determination in his hold, and you want him to feel yours, too. and when he finally leans in and kisses you, it feels like a garden of wildflowers has just bloomed in your heart.

jack, it seems, is good at everything. he’s good at cleaning your apartment and figuring out where things go. he’s good at cooking. he’s good at knowing what it is you need without saying it. he’s good at sewing you back together– literally. he’s good at being just what you need.

and he’s really, really good at kissing you.

jack abbot kisses like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do. he kisses you like you’re slipping through his fingers, like you might fade away if he doesn’t. one moment, it’s just one tender hand on your jaw. the next, it’s both, cupping your face like you’re a precious jewel. he parts from you and examines your face carefully, his fingertips tracing your brow bone, down the bridge of your nose, the cupids bow of your lip.

you lean forward into him and he holds you. you feel your shoulders shake with a real, true cry. a full release. all of the fear, sorrow, grief, wanting, needing– you let it all out while jack holds you, nods his head, and says something so simple, but exactly what you need to hear– “i know, baby. i know.”

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbot imagine #jack abbott x reader #jack abbott imagine #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #sleeping with the lights on #my writing

884 notes · View notes

sloaneispunk · 18 days ago

Text

"will ye go, lassie go?"

vampire!remmick x you

summary -> when remmick comes knocking on the ‘jukebox’, a sweet young girl had answered the door. he was captivated by her, determined not to leave until he had gotten her, and he didn’t care who he would have to hurt to get what he wanted.

the loud blues music filled your ears as you stumbled towards the bar. “give me another.” you called out to the bartender, plopping down onto the stool as you discarded the bottle in your hand.

“whoa, y/n, slow down. what’re you doing?” you could hear mary’s concerned tone from a distance. “jesus, how much have ya drank?”

“not much.” you shrugged, a drunken smile on your face.

“c’mon now, let’s get’cha home, i’m getting stack.” she said, taking your arm but you yanked out of her grip.

“they barely even noticed that i’m here, why do you think they would care now? i-i mean you guys call me ‘family’ but the truth is you only call when you need me.” you said, frustrated, waving your hands in the air. “just go, i’ll be fine.”

mary sighed, truth is, she knew it too. it was hard to miss, but she had been feeling like an outcast too. more than she’d like to admit, she resonated with every word you said.

so you left, stumbling as you made your way to the front door. you dragged a chair near the threshold of the door, the legs scraping on the wooden planks. with a groan, you nestled yourself onto the seat, opening the door as you let the breeze blow through your hair.

you didn’t know how long you sat there, it could’ve been minutes? hours even.

but your peace was cut short when a group of people came, happily striding towards the entrance where you sat.

by now, you had sobered up a little, you narrowed your eyes to see them clearer. it was a man dressed in a baby blue button up with suspenders, accompanied with a woman and another man who stood behind him as if he was their leader.

“good evenin’, darlin’. how are ya?” the man spoke with enthusiasm, a warm grin on his face.

“can i help you?” you asked, straightening up as you kicked one leg over the other, arms crossed.

the man shot you a look, it was subtle but you caught it. his eyes flashed down and up once, smile growing wider.

“i sure hope you can. but before i start, can i say, darlin’, you sure do look absolutely breathtaking.”

you chuckled at his weak attempt at charming his way in. “what can i help you folks with?”

“well, ya see… we heard word of a party here and we just wanted to come play some music for ya guys, we sure do know our way around the blues.” he replied, his two henchmen nodding. “the name’s remmick, by the way. and whom do i own the pleasure to?”

“i’m y/n.” you introduced, placing your hand in his as he reached out, bringing it up to his lips.

“my word, miss y/n, ya sure it’s safe for you to stand guard at the door? might attract more people in than you think.” remmick joked, causing you to chuckle, shaking your head.

“i’m not their guard dog, i’m actually-”

“y/n, who are these people?”

you pulled back. standing behind you now was stack and the others with frowns on their faces as they looked the trio up and down. you got up from the chair, using your feet to kick it one side before the group pushed passed you as if they were protecting the jukebox, taking a stand firm at the door.

“hey, you okay?” mary asked as you made your way beside her behind stack.

“i’m fine.”

“whoa now, we don’t want any trouble, mister.” you heard remmick say, his arms held up as he took a few steps back.

“how’d you get here?”

“i-i was just tellin’ that pretty lady how we heard people speak of this place.” he defended, eyes locking with yours as he sent you a subtle wink, causing a blush to creep up on your cheeks as you looked down to hide a smile.

stack rolled his eyes at the sight. “sorry but this place isn’t open to the rest of’ya.”

“oh, i-is this because we’re-” he pointed to his arm. “then how’d they both get in?”

before you or mary could speak up, annie stepped in, “they’re family.”

remmick’s mouth fell into a silent ‘o’, nodding. “can we just play a lil somethin’ for ya? maybe you’d change your mind.”

there was no response, so remmick took the silence as his sign to continue.

the three of them took out their banjos and began to sing an old folk song.

it was catchy, you couldn’t lie, but there was something eerie about it at the same time.

you tapped your foot to the rhythm and you observed how no one seemed impressed except smoke.

“okay that’s enough.” stack interrupted as the three of them groaned.

“c’mon, it was just about to get good.”

“nah, i think it’s time for you to leave.”

you wanted to protest, but seeing how you didn’t really have a say, you kept quiet.

“i guess that’s fair, it’s a shame… i would’ve loved to serenate y’all with my music.” remmick let out a sigh of disappointment, eyes flickering to you once more for a brief second before looking away.

“have a good night.” stack said bluntly, turning around and slamming the door shut behind him as everyone went back to doing different things.

you stayed by the door for a few moments, the image of remmick not leaving your mind. he was so welcoming towards you, caring even. his smile gave you butterflies and you wanted nothing more but to have him stay.

“looks like you’ve got a fan, princess.” stack teased, shoving pass you, heading back to the party.

fuck it.

in a distance

“fuck! how are we supposed to get in?!” remmick cursed, throwing his banjo onto a tree log in the middle of the road, plumping down next to it.

“how about y/n?” the woman spoke up, “she seems like an easy target.”

remmick’s jaw tightened and his fists clenched, “we are not taking y/n.” he gritted, causing the woman to gulp.

he sighed with frustration as he buried his face in his hands.

remmick didn’t want to hurt you. it was like he was being held back, he couldn’t bring himself to turn you into one of them. the mere thought of sinking his teeth into your delicate skin made his blood boil and he didn’t know why.

up till that night, remmick didn’t even know who you were. but after that small interaction, something in him compelled him from putting you in harm’s way.

he felt attracted to you, like a magnet pull that he couldn’t resist. after being chased away by stack, he fought the urge to turn back just to sneak one last look at you.

you were just like honey to him, so sweet and he craved it like a bee attracted to nectar.

unbeknownst to him, you were walking by your lonesome down the road. you silently hoped that they hadn’t made it far.

then, in the mere distance, you heard singing. picking up the pace, you found remmick and his friends on the side of the road.

“grows around the blooming heather-”

your gaze softened, they were singing yet another folk song that held a special place in your heart. it was beautiful.

“-will ye go, lassie go?”

your eyes swelled with tears as you approached them. remmick’s eyes shot up upon sensing another presence, but his guard was immediately dropped as he laid eyes on you.

he smiled to himself, continuing the song as you made your way beside him, sitting down as he continued to enchant you with the lullaby.

“and we’ll all go together, to pull wild mountain thyme…”

“…all around the blooming heather,” you started to sing with him, “will ye go, lassie go?”

as the song came to an end, you chuckled, wiping away the tears and gave them a small applause.

remmick gave you a bow, “how’d you know that song?” he asked.

“my mother taught me, it’s very beautiful.”

“you have a siren’s voice, darlin’, i sure as hell would die a happy man if that was the last voice i ever heard.”

“thank you, remmick… i’m sorry about earlier. they’re not exactly a welcoming bunch.”

“it’s alright, sweetness. it ain’t your fault.”

“i just couldn’t help but notice you feeling just a lil out of place with them.” remmick pointed out his observation.

“wh-what?”

“it’s clear as day, y/n. these people don’t appreciate you.”

you stayed silent.

“i’d never make ya feel like a burden to me, y’know?” he continued, “unlike those fools, i know how to treasure a pretty girl like you.”

you blushed at his words. “i-”

“you just gotta give me a chance, darlin’. and i promise you, you’d be the happiest girl alive with me.”

you stiffened. “i-i think i should get back to the party, they’re probably wondering where i’ve run off to.” you excused yourself, as remmick watched helplessly as you began to walk away.

then, the woman too had gotten up, drooling as she took a step, following you but remmick’s hand held her back.

“no. not yet.” he warned, watching you disappear into the darkness of the night, his heart pounding in his chest.

oh, you were going to be his.

you staggered back into the party, but it was chaos. people were fleeing from the barn as high pitched screams rang all around.

you shoved and squeezed through everyone, making your way to one of the rooms where smoke, sammy and the others gathered.

“y/n! where have you been? oh, i was so worried!” annie gasped, pulling you into a hug the second you entered the room.

“what’s going on, why is everyone-” then you saw it. stack’s lifeless body on the floor laying in a pool of blood. “what the fuck?!”

you were in shock, your hand flying to your mouth as your chest heaved heavily.

“wh-what h-happened?” you asked as you knelt down beside smoke, taking stacks’ hand in yours as smoke sucked in a breath.

“mary.”

“mary?”

“we broke in, she was all messed up and shit. had blood all over her mouth…we had to pull her off of stack.” he explained.

suddenly, everyone was spooked by a knock on the door.

you shot up, smoke pushed you behind him as he carefully made his way to the front door, gun in hand. when he opened it, your eyes widened, it was remmick.

but this wasn’t the remmick that you had met earlier. cause right now, his eyes were bright orange, glowing in the moonlight, accompanied with that same grin but only now he had fangs.

“what the hell?” you heard smoke mutter under his breath.

“good evening, again.” remmick greeted, his eyes glued to you but you couldn’t look away. “i was wondering if y’all would let me in now.”

“get the fuck away from us.” smoke threatened, raising his gun.

you winced at the sight, looking away from the two men but you were immediately drawn back by remmick’s voice.

“y/n…”

for a moment, you stopped breathing. slowly, your eyes trailed up to remmick’s face, noticing now that his eyes were back to it’s soft, blue color.

“sweetheart, why don’t you come with me?” he asked, voice softer than ever.

you only stared, falling into a turmoil of emotions.

“what do you want with us?” annie asked with a trembling voice.

“i’ve told you before, i don’t want any trouble… i just want the girl.” remmick replied, tilting his head, never breaking the eye contact. “c’mon y/n, i know that you know you’re not happy here…with them. and you will never be unless you come with me.”

you opened your mouth, but no words came out. you felt safe just listening to the words he said, it was so comforting and geniune.

“you knew it from the moment you came to look for me…” remmick continued, extending his hand as you looked down. “…come with me, darlin’”

“y/n, don’t do it.” smoke warned, his grip tightening on the gun. “don’t listen to him, y/n.”

but you were too far gone. you closed your eyes, taking in a breath and taking his hand. before anyone could hold you back, remmick pulled you out of the barn where no one dared to step out of.

a devilish grin appeared on remmick’s face as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder and placed a kiss on your temple.

“attagirl.” he mumbled, taking you along as he started to walk away.

then he stopped in his tracks, whipping his head around. “oh, and i apologise. it seems like i’ve changed my mind.”

suddenly, a crowd of savage vampires appeared in the treeline, all sprinting towards the barn.

when you turned to see what was happening, remmick gently held your face in his hands, turning it back to him instead. “don’t worry about them, sweetheart. in fact, you ain’t gotta worry about a thing with me now.”

#remmick x you #remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick #sinners #sinners2025 #jack o’connell x you #jack o’connell x reader #jack o’connell

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 7 months ago

Text

For King and Kin

22/12: Party and Position Changes - Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 1.6k~ | Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, smut, prince regent aemond, doggy

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

“She is of a weak disposition, I heard. Perhaps she is with child.”

“The Prince Regent certainly needs an heir.”

“He has looked sour since his Lady Wife left the celebrations.”

Aemond scoffed from his spot at the high table, circling a finger over the rim of his cup, half-filled with wine. They spoke as if he did not hear them, whispering such gossip. It was infuriating.

It was true that his lady wife suffered from sickness, especially in the mornings, but not exclusively. The maesters had told him in quiet confidence that they suspected she was with child, but that it was sensible to wait until the quickening to confirm.

What an excruciating wait.

She had graced the court with her presence earlier in the evening, but when she began to feel her stomach churning, she need only pay him a furrow of her brows in pain and he was more than happy to allow her rest if she needed it.

He was willing to carry her even, excuse himself from the celebrations himself. But she reassured him she was still able to walk, with a small, amused smile.

Even with the conqueror's crown planted firmly upon his head, all he could think of was the sweet curve of his wife's body in his. How warm she is. How smooth her skin. How plush her thighs. How tight her—

“Your Grace.”

Aemond blinked, swallowing thickly as he felt his breeches tighten at the mere tangent his mind was about to embark upon. Nothing softened him faster than the sight of Ser Tyland Lannister though, smug and stood tall as if he himself had been crowned instead of him.

“I wish to congratulate you on your Regency. As always your council will remain steadfast and trustworthy. And should you ever desire a Hand—”

“Thank you, Ser Tyland,” Aemond half-smiled, half-grimaced, “your loyalty is appreciated.”

Aemond nodded curtly to Ser Tyland, signalling the conversation was over, though the Lannister lingered a moment too long for Aemond’s liking before finally bowing and stepping away.

His good eye drifted across the festivities. Everyone was drunk at best, smiles too wide, laughter too hollow, and he was overcome with the sudden desire to leave it all behind. He glanced in his mother’s direction as he pushed his chair out, her brown eyes wide with curiosity and judgement perhaps.

She had given him no other look since Rook’s Rest.

“I believe they’ve seen enough of me tonight,” Aemond said, his tone firm. “The realm will not crumble if its Regent retires an hour early.”

“Aemond–”

“Mother,” he interrupted, his voice low but final.

It was only in the hall where he felt he could finally breathe. Air flowed easily, no longer stifled by the pomp and proper of the evening he had just sought to leave. He opened the heavy door to their chambers and stepped inside. The fire had burned low and she was already in bed, lying on her side, her hair spilling over the pillow.

“You left early,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

Her eyes opened slowly, and a small smile curved her lips. “And yet you followed.”

As he reached the bed, she shifted to sit up, the blanket pooling around her waist. “I thought you’d stay longer. Your mother will have words, I’m sure.”

“She always does,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Her gaze dropped for a moment, her fingers grazing her stomach in that way that had haunted him all evening. “No,” she said softly. “Just…tired.”

He hummed, “when will the maesters give their opinion?”

She looked up at him then, her expression caught somewhere between apprehension and hope. “They said it would be unwise to speculate for a few more weeks,” she replied. “But I am aware patience is not your strong suit, is it?”

He smirked faintly. “It is not.”

“You’ve waited for so much, Aemond,” she said softly, her voice warm and soothing, eyes glancing up at the conqueror’s crown sat atop his head. “A little longer won’t harm you.”

“Hm,” he murmurs, crawling over the bed towards her delicate form, pressing his face to her stomach with his hands on her hips, “spare me, dear wife. Have the maesters forbade coupling? I do not think I can wait.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair as she let out a soft laugh. “No,” she said, “but we must be careful. They warned against anything too…strenuous. Until we know for certain.”

“I am no beast,” he muffled against her shift, bunching it up as if desperate to touch her flesh, “I know restraint.”

“I seem to recall differently,” she countered with a teasing lilt.

With a hand to his chest, she pushes him back, enough to be able to straddle his lap as he sits with his back against the bed frame. For a moment his pupil widened slightly and she relished in the warm pride that spread through her at his reaction.

She wasted no time. Unlacing his breeches was the simple part, but in this position, face to face, it was novel and intimate, more than usual. It was always Aemond on top, commanding her body to his. She wasn't sure how her husband was likely to cope with the change.

His breath hitched, eye closing as she pulled his cock free and worked him to full hardness, her slight palm massaging the ruddy tip, knowing what he liked. He was surely about to speak before she rose her hips, and the tip of him kissed her waiting slit, and slowly, slowly took her husband to the hilt.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, her hands braced against his chest as she guided them both into a steady rhythm. Aemond’s hands gripped her hips, his fingers pressing into her flesh as he resisted the urge to take control. He let her lead, his lips parting as a low groan escaped him.

“Ābrazȳrys” his voice caught, his eye blazing as he gazed up at her. “You are perfection.”

She leaned forward, her fingers threading through his silver hair, and pressed her lips to his. The dark crown brushed her fingertips, and in her annoyed breath, she slipped it from his head onto the bed. An action only the wife of the Prince Regent in this intimate moment would ever get away with.

Their breaths mingled, their shared movements growing more heated, more desperate. It felt good to roll her hips against him, each slide home was easy, aided by her unending desire to please him. But soon, she began to slow, the strain in her thighs becoming too much.

Her brows furrowed, her rhythm faltering as she let out a shaky breath. “Aemond.”

He must have felt the shake, as he was already moving her off his lap, “enough. Allow me.”

He guided her off him carefully, laying her down on her side before helping her onto her hands and knees. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide, and for a moment, uncertainty flickered across her face.

Her cheeks burned as he pulled the shift over her backside, pulling her legs apart so he might see the wetness that glazed her womanhood. She felt exposed and utterly at his mercy in such a compromising position.

Not to mention, this was uncharted territory.

“We’ve never…” she began, her voice trailing off.

Aemond smirked, his fingers trailing down her spine. “No,” he murmured, his tone low, “but we will now.”

He positioned himself behind her, and watched with curiosity and admiration, as for from this angle, he was able to watch himself disappear inside, swallowed by her silky walls. She gasped in turn, this was deeper than she had ever felt him, with her spine curved and backside held against him. Her fingers clutched the sheets as his pace began slow enough, before his restraint began to ebb away.

“Alright?” he rasped, leaning forward to press kisses along her shoulder, his voice rough with both pleasure and concern.

Her hips instinctively pushed back, “don't stop…”

Her approval shocked him, but ignited his confidence all the same as he began to push into her with renewed vigour. She was surprised at how much she liked it, the way he fit against her, the way his hands held her so firmly. It felt raw, intimate, and utterly consuming.

His hands slid up to her waist as he felt her peak quiver through her body, her walls spasming around him and in the force of it, her arms gave out and she pressed her front to the sheets. She swore she felt the palm of his hand on her lower stomach, stroking lovingly as he reached his, pushing hot, pearly ropes of his release so much inside her, that she felt it dribble down her thigh.

Aemond helped her shift onto her side, gathering her into his arms as they both caught their breath. His hand instinctively returned to her stomach, his thumb brushing over the soft skin in slow, soothing circles.

“You will let me know once the maesters give their opinion, won’t you?”

“Of course,” she replied, leaning into him. “But tonight, you are Prince Regent. Let us celebrate that.”

Aemond shook his head, his lips curling into a rare, genuine smile. His gaze softened as he looked at her, his wife, who had managed to calm the storm in him more times than he cared to admit.

“Tonight, I am your husband. Nothing else matters.”

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greengoblinswifey · 8 months ago

Note

hii ! could you write a story about like nicholas chavez as a doctor x fem patient smut, I've been trying to find a good story like this but I literally can't 😭😭

much love !!

summary— you’re referred to Dr. Chavez at the hospital due to a misdiagnosis. one of your symptoms include intense, unrelenting arousal and as your doctor, it’s his job to help make you better in any way he can.

warnings— female masturbation, voyeurism, abuse of power, fingering, body worship, oral, degrading kink, praise kink, public sex kinda(hospital), unprotected sex, sir kink, ass slapping, choking(with tie), erotic asphyxiation, use of doctor during sex, slight manipulation if you squint, aftercare.

a/n— i’d love if you guys send requests, reblog and comment☺️

After a recent misdiagnosis left you frustrated and your symptoms worsening, you were referred to Dr. Chavez. Though he seemed slightly irritated about having to “fix someone else's mess,” he introduced himself with a polite but distant professionalism. He stood before you, impeccably dressed in a white coat over a crisp suit and tie, every detail in place. He was calm, collected, and intensely focused as he started going over your symptoms.

When you finally mentioned the most embarrassing one, the constant, nearly unbearable arousal, you noticed his reaction, a slight widening of his eyes, and a pause in his typing. “And, uh, how often would you say this happens?” he asked, his voice steady but his gaze flickering with something unreadable.

“Constantly doctor,” you admitted, cheeks flushing. “I’m always horny, sometimes it’s painful. Like, I just can’t think straight, or focus on anything else.”

After ordering several tests, he told you they’d need to monitor you at the hospital. This only intensified your frustration, the more time you spent in his presence, the worse your symptoms felt, in particular your constant arousal. You tried to distract yourself by prying into his life, probing the doctor with questions. You noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, which made your mind spin even more.

Hours turned to days, and your symptoms didn’t let up. You felt more tired, the frustration mounting as medical staff came in and out of your room. Privacy was nearly impossible, leaving you with no room to release the growing arousal that only got worse.

One night, after another round of exhausting tests, the hallway was finally quiet. You were alone. You couldn’t help yourself, the relief you craved was all you could think about. Without any other means as your vibrator had long since been forgotten at home, you let your fingers slide down, imagining Dr. Chavez’s calm voice, his firm hands. You closed your eyes, stifling a moan, picturing him standing over you, his gaze intense.

You flipped the sheets off you and hiked up the hospital gown they draped you in. Still not satisfied, you ripped your underwear off and spread your legs, your fingers frantically rubbing your clit then slipping into your sloppy hole. Soft moans filled the room as your head was swarming with thoughts of Dr. Chavez being the one to make you feel good.

Just then, the door clicked open, and there he was, clipboard in hand, looking caught off guard. He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the way you quickly pulled your hand back. He cleared his throat. “I came to check on you,” he said, his tone layered with something more than just professional concern.

You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks. “Doctor, I—it's been so hard, I couldn’t help myself.”

For a moment, he lingered there, eyes locked on yours, before he shook himself slightly. “It’s part of my job to ensure you’re comfortable and to help you,” he replied, voice slightly rougher, eyes not quite meeting yours as he jotted something down on the clipboard.

You looked at him, unable to hold back the desperation any longer and you noticed the dent in his pants. “Well help me, doctor,” you whispered, voice thick with need. “Can you do something to make it go away? Please give me something, anything to make it stop.”

He stopped in his tracks, his already intense gaze darkening as he absorbed your words. “Beg,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Please, doctor,” you said, voice trembling, willing yourself to keep his attention. “Please help me, I need you to fix me, make me feel better.”

A dark chuckle slipped from him as he locked the door behind him, his fingers throwing off his tie and shrugging off his coat. He then stood right before you, his eyes sweeping over your form.

Without another word, he reached out, his fingertips barely grazing over your thigh as he leaned in close. “Needy, aren’t you?” he murmured with a smirk. His fingers teased, trailing down until they brushed against your pussy, his touch almost unbearably light.

“Please, Dr. Chavez,” you pleaded again, breath catching as his fingers lingered at the edges of your need. “Please, sir.”

His smile only widened as he took in your reaction, and without another moment’s hesitation, he knelt down before you. His hands were firm under your thighs and then his mouth was on your leaking pussy, a loud moan leaving you as he began. His focus was unrelenting, and you couldn’t contain your whimpers, each one drawing him in closer.

Every sound you made seemed to fuel him, his hands gripping you tighter, his touch sending you higher.

“Yes that’s it sir, don’t stop,” you whimpered, your hands going to his hair as you held him close and moved your pussy all over his mouth.

“Mm- you taste so fucking good, so fucking desperate for me aren’t you,” he hummed, in between licks.

He continued, now slipping a finger inside you and sucking on your clit, until, you arched your back off the bed and felt yourself let go, a sensation so intense you squirted and felt your pussy and your whole body quivering from it all.

His eyes met yours, a smirk on his lips. “You were so desperate, weren't you?” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Glad I could help.”

You leaned in and placed a sloppy kiss on his lips, savoring your own delectable taste.

“Hm,” Dr. Chavez paused, his lips still mere inches away from you, “based on my observations, I’ve come to the conclusion that you still need my help. You still need me to make you better, so I have to put my dick inside you sweetheart, I just have to.”

You nodded almost mindlessly, leaning into his touch, his mere presence was intoxicating. Though you got the relief you wanted, having him so close to you brought you back to square one. Your pussy was still leaking.

Breathlessly, he unbuckled his pants, the sight before you making you drool like a dog in heat. He slipped himself out, revealing a long, thick and rock hard cock you would do anything to feel inside you.

“God, look at you,” he said, licking his lips and pumping his cock, “tell me how bad you want me, how bad you want this dick.”

“Please sir, I want you so bad, I need you to fuck me. please help me,” you panted, desperation evident in your voice.

“That’s a good girl, my patients are always so obedient.” He grabbed your hair, bringing you down to his cock’s level and thrusted into your mouth.

“Worship this cock,” he demanded, his voice sounding strained as he tried to contain his moans.

“Fuck, I love your cock doctor, it tastes so good, I- mm, need it so fucking bad,” you said, in between having his dick brush your tonsil. You slurped and moaned as you continuously gagged on the feeling of him being so deep in your throat. Reaching down, you played with your clit, desperate for some sort of relief.

“Hey, hey, no,” Dr. Chavez bellowed, “stop touching yourself. I’m your doctor and I know what’s best, I’ll help you with my dick inside you, those tiny little fingers won’t satisfy you. They won’t make you better.”

You whimpered in response but listened. He was your doctor after all, he knew best. He would never tell you anything that wasn’t accurate.

His moans grew breathy and louder but as soon as you felt his balls tighten, he pulled you off his cock by the hair and in a swift motion, you fell flat on the bed.

“S’gonna be okay sweetheart, my cock inside you is gonna make it all better.”

Just as swiftly, his cock pierced your pussy, slipping inside you and stretching you slowly. The stretch was burning as he groaned and pushed deeper but the feeling was soon replaced by immense pleasure.

“Oh god, you’re so fucking wet, sloppy fucking pussy you’ve got huh,” he moaned, chuckling.

Your face was contorted in pleasure, looking up at your doctor as he pounded into you, the feeling better than anything else you’d ever experienced in your life. Your moans willed him on and his thrusts became more frantic as he felt your pussy grip and tighten around him.

“That’s it baby, this desperate little pussy can’t get enough of her doctor’s cock, gripping me so tight like she doesn’t wanna let me go.” A sob left your lips due to the intensity of it all and soon, you wrapped your legs around his waist, gripping on to him for dear life as you squirted on his cock.

“Good girl, that’s my needy fucking whore, let it all out.”

Small whimpers filled the hospital room as you slowly came down from your high, but you were still needy, your body grinding against him sending even more jolts of pleasure through you.

“M-more, please sir, just one more,” you begged tears in your eyes.

“Jesus Christ baby, you’re a fucking desperate whore aren’t you, God, you just can’t get enough of my cock.”

Your lips quivered and you knew you were being desperate but you didn’t care, all you cared about was your release just one more time. Just once and you’d be okay for the next few days. You needed it quick, the commotion was surely to make a nurse come wandering soon.

“I just— oh,” your sentence was cut short as he easily flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your ass up to him and slipped inside your wet pussy once more. You spread your legs and arched your back, needing him as deep inside you as he could go.

“That’s it baby, spread this fucking pussy.” He slapped your ass harshly and soon you felt something slip around your neck. It was his tie. He slipped the tie around your neck, not enough to restrict your airflow too much, but just enough to have your head spinning and only the thought of his cock in it.

“Take it, take this fucking dick. You were so desperate for it, now you have it.” A small cry left your lips as you felt him repeatedly hit your g spot.

“Oh you fucking love it, you love your doctor’s cock deep inside your wet fucking pussy don’t you, whore,” he inquired, pulling you back to his chest by the tie around your neck.

“Y- yes, I love it sir,” you managed to croak out.

“Good girl, because as long as you’re here and under my care, you’re gonna get this dick every fucking night. Every fucking time you’re needy and desperate my cock is gonna be here to fill this pussy.”

His words sent you over the edge and your body convulsed under his touch as you squirted. He continued fucking you through your high but you couldn’t take anymore. You squirmed away from him, your pussy somehow still gushing and he quickly pulled out, releasing his warm cum all over your back.

“Fucking hell, your pussy is just gushing,” he moaned, as he pumped his cock, milking himself of everything onto your back.

Your body was so weak you could barely form words as you tried to thank him for making you feel better.

“Shh, it’s okay baby, it’s my job to help you.” He shushed you then went to the bathroom, bringing back a cloth to clean you up and get you back into your underwear and fix your gown. He didn’t need anyone coming to check and seeing you in that state.

He kissed your forehead, caressing your body as you slowly drifted off to sleep.

“It’s okay baby, go to sleep, your doctor’s gonna always be here to make you feel better.”

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