#something like that. lovely person to work with!

[lauraneedstochill]

mad about you

pairing: Jack Abbot x lawyer!reader summary: it was supposed to be a one-night stand but Jack can’t stop thinking about you. what he expects the least is for you to arrive at his ER — and not as a patient. (or, alternatively: Jack meets the right person at the right time. and he lets love in)

warnings: 🔞 descriptions of injuries / smut (some teasing, fingering, p in v), Jack being touch-starved and a little rusty (or so he thinks ;). an unexpected amount of domestic fluff, mentions of Jack losing his wife and being shy about his prosthesis / words: 17K / author’s note: I love me a bossy reader but most importantly, I wanted to write someone who can appreciate Jack for the hot man that he is (yes, I got carried away with smut and softness... OH WELL) ♡ {read on AO3}

There is a feeling that’s been growing roots in Jack — it’s agitation that’s akin to premonition. His recent shifts have been too quiet, uneventful, downright boring. With hands trained to save lives, Jack has to spend his nights treating mild burns and accidental cuts, a few drunkards with bruises and concussions, appendicitis being the most exciting diagnosis he made this week. Any sane doctor would be glad to get a break, but Jack finds it annoying.

Because he needs work to keep his head busy, to have something else occupy his thoughts. He wants his hands sweating in gloves, covered in blood — so he’d have an excuse to wash them clean, so he’d get a chance to scrub off the feeling of your body under his fingers—

Jack shakes his head, a movement barely visible, quick like a flinch. He tries shaking off the memories of you — and he keeps failing. Because it feels like they are tucked away in every corner of his flat, and even when exhaustion manages to drag him into sleep, you are the only thing he dreams of. He always wakes up hard. His bedcovers all wet, breath heavy, mind clouded, heart pounding. And what he brims with is not lust but yearning, so strong that he’d go to the other side of town on foot if he could get another chance to see you.

But he’s got no address he can come to, and no phone number he can dial just to hear your voice.

So Jack saddles himself with work — however temporary this fix is, he’s got no other in the meantime. He picks up extra hours, covers extra patients. It isn’t nearly enough. And he is mildly annoyed at this predicament he’s stuck in, at the repeating cycle of the same bland days — nothing to challenge him or bring a speckle of relief. Or keep his mind from wandering back to that moment with you — it’s not the filthiest he can remember but the one he wishes to relive the most:

the hair around your face is damp, and you’re a little breathless — he feels your chest heaving, still pressed to his, arms wrapped around his neck, a tight embrace neither of you wants to break. The bedroom’s dark but he forgot to draw the curtains, and the gloaming light traces your curves and sparkles on your skin that’s glistening with sweat, still heated in every place he touched it. And Jack’s completely spent but something’s kindling in his ribcage — a fire breathed into the embers, the warmth he thought he’d never feel again — it’s growing every time he looks at you — and every time you glance right back at him, and smile at him, and kiss him, and—

“Will you stop fidgeting?” Dana snaps at him mid-yawn. “It’s 7 am, and just looking at you gives me a headache.”

“Then look somewhere else,” Jack flings back. He instantly feels guilty and puts the tablet down. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, fingers unwittingly tapping on the table.

“Oh, someone’s snappy,” but she doesn’t take offence — instead she turns her chair to him, eyes slightly narrowed. “You’ve been walking around all tense and brooding these past few weeks, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Wanna talk about it?”

“It’s nothing,” Jack mumbles. He almost grimaces at his own lie, at how far from reality it is. So he grudgingly sprinkles some truth in: “I guess I’m just bored. Haven’t got much to do. It’s been too qui—”

Dana springs out of her chair and covers his mouth with her palm. “Nope. My shift just started and you already want to jinx it? How about you save that enthusiasm until the night rolls in, and then you can have planes falling from the skies for all I care.”

“I see you finally took matters into your own hands,” Robby strides in with his backpack and takes off the sunglasses, his brown eyes on Dana. “Was he trying to pass on his existential crisis?”

“Can we muzzle him?”

“And put him on a leash? I thought about it. But he will probably escape, and we’ll have an angry dog on the loose and barking,” he grins, gaze darting to Abbot, and Dana laughs.

“You think you’re so fucking funny,” Jack mumbles.

His agitation ebbs a little — enough for him to take a breath as he stretches his back. But your touches must be etched into his muscles because he’s momentarily reminded of your fingertips ghosting his shoulder blades, of your lips trailing for the pulse point on his neck — and what was once a bliss is now a torment he is powerless against. Abbot exhales with exasperation.

The phone rings. Dana loses her smile and gives Jack a glare. “This better not be a mass casualty event,” she whispers before picking it up. But her concerns aren’t brought into existence — her face is only half-focused, mostly apathetic as she informs:

“A shooting at the county court. One victim, GSW to the chest and —” her brows knit together at whatever details she’s receiving. “So it’s two?... Well, it ain’t nuclear physics, just count them. I’d like to know how many people we’re getting... Alrighty, we’ll do the counting ourselves,” she hangs up and clicks her tongue.

McKay runs by to say hi before resuming the heated conversation she is having on the phone. Langdon comes in unhurriedly, hands in his pockets, his eyes drawn to the board. Santos is next, Whitaker trailing after her — he’s always half-asleep, she’s never not excited to get to work.

“Any interesting cases this morning?”

“Waiting for a GSW. Apparently, the main witness on some case — shot in the chest and leg, it’s not looking good. Said they couldn’t use a D-fib on him because he’s coming with a company.”

Robby sends Dana an inquiring glance. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Fuck if I know. I haven’t even gotten my first cup of coffee yet,” she looks at Jack — pensive, stiff, barely listening to her — and snaps her fingers in his face. “Hey, midnight ranger, isn’t it time for you to clock out? We’ve got a whole team, we’ll manage. Go home.”

“I plan on doing that once I finish the paperwork,” he replies flatly, tapping on the screen.

“If that’s what you are into, you can do mine too. Wanna also file my taxes while you’re at it?”

“I’ll gladly tell the IRS to lock you up for tax fraud to get you off my back,” Abbot deadpans, earning a dry laugh from her.

“Gunshot is boring,” Langdon muses.

Dana’s laugh turns into a groan. “Not this again. Why can’t you guys enjoy the peace and quiet?”

“I mean, if he doesn’t die, he’ll go straight to the OR, not much for us to do. I was hoping for something more—” he suddenly stops talking. There is a sound of wheels gliding across the floor, and a pause sweeps over the hall — the conversations die down, the movements halted — and then Jack hears Frank muttering: “What the hell?”

So Abbot absentmindedly follows his gaze. And just like everyone around him, he is left speechless.

The gunshot victim is a man: mid-sixty, stubby-looking, pale-faced and breathing only by some miracle. But he isn’t wheeled in alone — there is a woman sitting right on top of him, her stark white blouse doused with blood, one of her hands pressed to his chest, three of her fingers shoved into his wound. The crimson droplets glisten in her hair, the same color smeared over her hands up to the wrists, but she’s not scared or appalled. There’s not a single crack in her composure, no quiver in her body or her face —

Jack recognizes you in barely a heartbeat.

And he is frozen not out of surprise. He’s marveling at you like you’re under a spotlight and he’s in a daze, and there is no one else left in the hall. Because you look the exact same you did all these days back, the first time that he saw you. The one time he’ll never forget.

Jack met you over three weeks ago (24 days to be exact, not that he’s been counting). It was supposed to be a one-night stand—

No, actually, scratch that.

It was an evening Abbot didn’t plan on spending with anyone but a glass of whiskey. It was the only remedy that he could think of after the shift he had.

A couple was brought in at 4 am: in their early thirties, newlywed — their car swerved off the road, rolled over four times before hitting a tree. The guy died at the scene, his wife crashed twice on the way to the ER. She was three months pregnant. Jack spent oven an hour coding her; she spent twice as much time in the OR. Two blood transfusions, one kidney out, three broken ribs, dozen of stitches on her stomach and her head. He watched her being transferred to the ICU, then he made calls to notify both families: there were heartbreaking cries, prayers he feared would be left unanswered. Jack came up to the roof to catch his breath — the air outside was moist and stifling, the sky draped with the clouds the sun couldn’t plough through. It was his day off but he didn’t leave — instead Jack walked the stairs and halls until his legs ached, until he could do nothing else but pass out in the call room.

He wakes up in the evening, hardly rested — the female patient still hasn’t woken up. And there is a chance she never will. But if she does, he knows that the reality will hurt her worse than broken ribs and bruises.

When he walks out of the ER, the rain is pouring and his head is pounding, and he thinks if he just goes home, the silence would feel too suffocating to let him fall asleep. He’s too distraught to change out of scrubs, he cares not about the cold droplets hitting his face like needles. He wipes them off and runs into the closest bar — he’s met with semi-darkness and cool air, no blaring music and no flashing neon signs. The quiet is comforting, veiled with the faint sounds of jazz, the place smelling of wood and orange peel and liquor. It’s too early for the crowds to swarm it, but Jack pays no attention to the few people that came in. He strides straight to the counter and orders whiskey — double with no ice, then picks a small table in the farthest corner. He’s a few steps away from reaching it when his eye catches on your blouse — silk, silvery, fitted so well around your waist. But he doesn’t allow his gaze to linger. That’s not what he came for, that’s not what he is interested in.

He sits down with a heavy sigh and a heavy heart. He takes the first sip, then the second one. The alcohol spreads slowly through him, wicks up the bitterness of disappointment threatening to clot his blood like poison. Jack breathes a little easier by the time he drinks half of his glass. His gaze sweeps over his surroundings — distractedly, uncaring — before it’s drawn to you again.

You’re sitting on a bar stool with your back to him. You brought your work with you — a small black laptop on the counter, the keyboard soundless under your fingers, eyes on the screen. Occasionally, you reach for the same lowball glass — with ice and lemon, half-full — he guesses it’s a gin tonic. You are too locked in to take notice of what’s going on around you. With each new minute Jack finds it harder to look away.

He tells himself the lighting is to blame — it scatters all over your blouse, drips over every crinkle, making the fabric look like molten metal, like white gold. It’s neatly tucked into the waistband of your pants: dark blue, formal, perfectly tight around your thighs. His eyes snag on them — he feels a flash of hunger, a heat that swiftly spills into his bloodstream.

On the periphery of his vision, Jack sees a guy coming your way. He wears a smirk, eyes roaming over you — he takes a moment to appreciate your curves too, before his gaze lazily moves higher, to your face and to whatever you’re working on —

And then he yelps.

A few heads turn in his direction, but you don’t move a muscle, don’t even send him a half-glance. The guy abruptly loses all his feigned determination. But Jack’s determined like no other.

Because now he is curious. Now he has a better reason to keep looking.

Jack straightens on his seat. He searches eagerly for clues — but you don’t give them out easily: no badge, no uniform, no logo of the company you work for. And there’s confidence in your relaxed pose and posture, a hint of cockiness in the slight curve of your back. Two more guys try to hit on you: the first peeks through your shoulder and retreats with a horrified grimace, the second one manages a word or two before you cut him off, and he has to leave with nothing.

And Jack doesn’t even try to rationalize his actions — the pull he feels is the mere reason he stands up, glass in his hand, eyes fixed on you.

He gets the explanation for everyone’s dismay when your laptop’s screen comes into his view. It’s crime scene photos — bright, brutal, bloody: a dead body, deep and frantic wounds left by a knife. Jack’s seen enough of those in real life to not be bothered. But he thinks it’s impressive how unbothered you are.

He leans on the counter, one stool in between you, his voice nonchalant. “That looks like someone’s getting buried in a closed casket.”

“Yes, 17 stab wounds do that to a person,” you reply curtly, fingers flying over the keys.

His eyes flick down your profile and over every feature of your face — your cool demeanor invites no conversation. His gaze darts back at the stained flesh and scattering of cuts.

“It’s not the stabbing that killed her though.”

“Correct,” you still refuse to spare him a glance.

But Jack’s not used to giving up so fast. And maybe he is champing at the bit to glimpse a part of you no one in here was in luck to see.

“Most wounds are in her stomach area. Was she pregnant?”

Your fingers pause at his remark — for just a moment, yet he notices. A corner of his mouth curls. You keep typing but your voice loses a layer of indifference.

“Careful, you already sound smarter than the entire defense team.”

“Now I am tempted to continue. The suspect is a male, I reckon? A boyfriend or a husband?”

You huff a laugh at his insistence. Jack takes half a step closer. And then you turn to get a look at him, at that man who dared to move into your space.

Your gaze is direct, dissecting — like he is on the operation table, and you’re about to masterfully cut him into parts. It is a gaze that doesn’t make apologies for bluntness, it can effortlessly give warnings and make treats. But you choose to show him mercy.

“She wanted to get married. Naively hoped a baby would encourage him to.”

“And he never wanted kids,” Abbot deduces, not hiding his disapproval. “Did he try an impromptu mix of pills for an abortion?”

“That would require some research and also him having more than one brain cell,” your disapproval sounds like dislike. “He just emptied half a bag of heroin into her tea. She, unsurprisingly, OD’ed. Instead of calling 911, he tried to cover it up.”

“So his one brain cell wasn’t present,” Jack gives a snort of disgust. “And what’s his lawyer’s take?”

“He claims she took the drugs herself, then caused a fight. While being on the brink of death, yes,” there is a furrow in your brow, your tone sharp, simmering. “He wants it classified as a third-degree murder, so in a decade his asshole client can walk out on the promise of good behavior. I want him charged with two counts of first-degree murder. Life sentence with no parole.”

You take your cocktail and finish it in barely two sips, then ask the bartender for a third one. You catch Jack’s gaze, and he notes incredulously: “You seem stone-cold sober.”

“Can say the same about you.”

He looks down at his whiskey like he almost forgot he had it. “It’s actually my first.”

You look at him like you are making an incision and carefully assessing his internal damage. When you get your drink — poured over lemon slices and crushed ice — you swiftly move the glass to him. “You should give mine a try.”

“I’m not sure mixing drinks is a good idea—”

“Trust me on this,” you insist, eyes darting to the badge on his black scrubs, the syllables of his last name softly rolling off your tongue. “Dr. Abbot.”

The sound ripples through his chest, like you just pulled a heartstring that no one’s touched in years. “Jack,” he corrects. “Less formal.”

He asks for your name in return and takes your cocktail, gives it a swirl then has a sip. Jack raises his eyebrow at the taste. He tries some more to get a confirmation.

“This is... plain water?”

You nod with a small smile, without a hint of shame. “I don’t enjoy being drunk. But if I sit here with a bottle of Perrier, that would raise questions.”

“So you ask to make it look fancy, like a cocktail,” Jack figures out, then chuckles. “And you suggest that I stop drinking.”

“You haven’t touched your glass in the last 10 minutes. My guess is that you don’t really want to.”

When your eyes meet, he feels like you can see right through, bypassing all the locks he’s been meticulously putting over his emotions. It’s strange, it’s very new to him. It’s also somewhat thrilling.

Jack finally sits on the bar stool next to you. There is a small space between his legs and yours — he doesn’t cross it. You don’t move away. His hand stays clasped around his glass.

“The first half of it felt nice. Like maybe it could dull things down a little. But I don’t like getting drunk, too.”

“Having trouble at work?” you ask simply, with no pity and no pressure.

He thinks it over like he is looking at the baggage — of his past and present, bad and worse, deciding what bag he can open first. Which one’s less scary. “I work night shifts. The last one was pretty rough.”

But you prefer to start with the worst one — eyes trained on the ring he’s wearing. “So you came here to blow off some steam instead of coming home to your wife?”

The words hit him — not like a punch but like a stream of ice-cold water. He isn’t hurt, he’s startled — by how fast you notice things, how straightforward you are with voicing them. Nothing escapes your eye, no matter how deep it’s been buried. And it’s the grave that he almost laid himself in.

The ring was once a promise, then a wound — after his wife’s death, the metal band only reminded of the pain, of how impossible it seemed to ever heal. He knew the exact time she passed, he counted days and hours he managed to survive alone. It was unbearable and crushing, it felt hopeless. Now he only thinks about her once a year.

Jack doesn’t ponder over his answer for too long. He shares the truth as if he’s offering his palms — so you can read the lines and see the scars he usually keeps hidden.

“I’m a widower. This is just...” he twists the ring slowly with his thumb. “Out of a habit, I suppose.”

You turn your whole body to him, your back straight and hands locked together. Like you are about to interrogate him. “And how long you’ve been a widower?”

Jack doesn’t break eye contact. “Five years.”

“What happened?” you hold his gaze with ease.

“Glioblastoma. She was gone in seven months.”

He sees it flicker across your face — the ache of sympathy for him after what he’s been through. The unexpected understanding of what it feels like.

“That is a tough one. It doesn’t leave much at the end,” your voice softens and so does your gaze. “It’s hard to watch someone die like that. I’m really sorry.”

“Someone you knew also had it?” he takes another guess.

He’s on a lucky streak — you drop your gaze because he’s right again. He wishes that he wasn’t.

“My mentor, the first man I worked for. The best one, I think,” your finger traces the cold rim of your glass. Jack almost reaches out to take your hand. “He was too busy to take care of himself, got diagnosed when it was too late for any treatments. He made it to eight months.”

Jack moves his whiskey to your water, clinks his glass with yours. The look you give him offers an apology. He doesn’t need it — the words he gives you only offer kindness:

“I’m sorry you had to see that too.”

There is a lull in your conversation but it’s not awkward, isn’t heavy. It feels like clearing up the space the grief used to take up. It feels a little bit like hope.

Jack clears his throat and points at the gruesome photos on your screen. “Are you even allowed to open these in public?”

You chuckle dryly and roll your eyes. “The case’s been all over the news because his daddy is some pop music producer. You can find the photos on TMZ.” Then you consider him — a night-shift doctor, a tired man, a stranger who tasted the same pain you did. “Although you are probably too busy for stuff like that.”

You close your laptop with one hand, your sharp attention now all on him. Your knees brush his, and you don’t seem uncomfortable with it.

“What happened to you at work?”

Jack lets out a sigh, twiddles with the black band of his watch. “Got a car crash victim. Not sure she will pull through. She also lost her husband and her baby so waking up won’t be much of a relief either.”

“Was there anything you didn’t do? That could’ve saved any of them?”

“No,” he says without a doubt, although with sadness. “He died on impact. She was three months pregnant, so the baby didn’t have a chance.”

“Which means that none of it is your fault. You didn’t kill anyone, you are actually the reason she did get a chance to live,” you tell him calmly.

Jack shakes his head. “Maybe she won’t.”

“Maybe she will.”

“You are being optimistic,” he argues, a tad glum.

“I’m being rational. Give it a try,” you retort.

“Yes, I’m sure that some good-old rationalizing will make me feel a lot better,” his words don’t bite, but there’s frustration in his gaze, in how he rubs the back of his neck.

“Okay, I’ll do it for you,” and then you lean to him, one knee sliding in between his two, your perfume redolent of bergamot and jasmine, fresh and a tad sweet. Jack is dumbfounded by how close you are, how casually you do it. He makes an effort not to follow the streak of light that sneaks down your neckline. Your eyes are set firmly on him like you’re dead set on changing his whole world. He lets you.

“How many patients did you treat this week? I don’t need the exact number, an approximate will do.”

“I don’t know, over 40. Maybe 50.”

“Let’s say it’s 45. How many of them died? Just those two?” — he gives you a short nod. You move an inch closer so he can hear you over the other voices that already fill the bar. “How many of them were women of fertile age?”

“What?” he blinks with pure puzzlement, his hand going from his neck back to the counter, bumping into yours. “How would I know that, I don’t really—”

“In the US, females outnumber males by less than 1%, and about one-third of them are over 65. Which means around 16 women you treated probably can have kids,” the space between you is shortened by another inch. “Let’s say 10 of them want to and they will. That’s at least 10 babies that will be born because you didn’t fuck up. 10 babies after just one week of you being a good doctor. 40 babies after a month and 480 in one year.”

He doesn’t bother with the counting — instead, he notices: the fragrance you’re wearing also has notes of peach and lilies. And your close presence and your voice make all the noise around him disappear.

“You’re good with numbers,” Jack says with quiet fascination.

“I’m good at recognizing shitty people,” you tell him plainly, your thumb brushing his wrist — on accident, he thinks, but his whole arm warms up. “I’ve dealt with doctors who maimed their patients like it meant nothing. I’ve seen them make the stupidest mistakes they didn’t think twice about. But if you care too much, you need to rewire your brain to make it easier to function,” and when your palm covers his hand — it’s unmistakably intentional, it is a feeling he forgot existed: the comfort of a simple touch. “So next time things don’t work out — not even because of something you did, but because shit happens, — instead of wearing sackcloth and ashes, think of the dozens of chubby babies and dozens of families you gave a chance at happiness because you did everything right.”

You tell it to him like it’s indisputable, the truth that’s carved in stone. Deep down, he is aware that he’s good at what he does and bad at taking credit for it, sometimes downright refusing. But he couldn’t argue with you even if he wanted. Because Jack’s struggling to get his head together — the struggle comes from your hand still being pressed to his. And now that he knows the feeling of your skin, it’s hard to act like just one touch will be enough. Like he isn’t in dire need of more.

“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Jack manages, and it isn’t a lie. The truth lies deeper: he never thought he’d want someone like that, never imagined feeling so touch-starved.

“You should. Maybe you’re single-handedly responsible for keeping this city’s population up,” you smile at him, and it’s sincere. But you’re looking at him like he’s an open book and his feelings are as clear as ink on paper.

And you don’t take your hand away, and Jack can feel the pull again. He welcomes it.

“You keep saying things like that, and it will get to my head,” his voice gets low too — and it’s him who is leaning forward.

Your gaze isn’t wavering from his. “And what’s the worst thing that can happen?”

He doesn’t waver when he says: “I’ll dare to take more risks.”

“What will the first one be?”

“Asking if I can take you home.”

You aren’t surprised and aren’t scandalized. You don’t even take time to think. “Are you suggesting I should wrap up my work session?”

“I think you already did,” a smile ghosts Jack’s lips.

The effect whiskey had on him was fleeting. You are way more intoxicating. Your palm is at his elbow, and his pulse is racing, and for how rational and logic-driven he usually is, this time he doesn’t want to be: he thinks of taking you away from prying eyes, he thinks of kissing you, he thinks he can give one-night stands a go —

There is a sound of sottish laughter, then something splashing and someone cursing. Not much liquid gets on your blouse but Jack gets on his foot like he’s about to get into a fight. The guy who spilled his cocktail on you is too slow-witted to access the threat. You quickly put yourself between them, your hand blindly finding Jack’s, your fingers on his wrist. And instantly his anger goes down by half.

The clumsy partygoer sends you a smirk. “Your man looks like he wants to say somethin'.”

“And you look like someone who doesn’t want to be thrown out of the bar on a random Thursday. Keep walking,” you tell him in a tone so cold, he sobers up, losing his smirk. The guy apologizes incoherently and darts away to blend into the crowd.

When you turn to Jack, he is already looking at you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m pretty sure it was a Mojito, and he mostly spilled the ice. It won’t even leave a stain. I’m just gonna pay a visit to the hand dryer in the bathroom,” you put the laptop in its slim black bag and leave a few bills on the counter. “You probably should wait outside,” and then your hand glides lightly over his chest, like you’re smoothing out his shirt. “Wouldn’t want any drinks spilled on you.”

And as Jack watches you walk — each step with purpose, hips swaying — he surely feels like he needs some air.

By now, the rain has eased, and through the thinned-out clouds he can see wisps of sunset, beads of pink and yellow. And in the chill of the approaching night, his confidence wanes just a little. Isn’t he too old for this? Aren’t you too good for him? How long has it been since he had someone in his bed? The last one he actually knows a clear answer to. It’s hardly reassuring.

Jack catches the sound of your heeled boots before you come out — with no stain on the blouse, no hesitation in your gaze. He knows the more he waits, the less likely he is to go through with it. So he says it — quickly, like ripping off a bandaid:

“My apartment is just around the corner.”

And he thinks you are about to decline. His misperception lasts for barely five seconds — and then your face splits into a smile: not pitying, not forced, but bright like the sunlight he’s been missing. Your words come out a tad pensive:

“You know, I was having such a bad day when I came to the bar.”

“Was?” Jack echoes, eyes on you, all his uncertainty replaced by skin-prickling excitement. He will have you, even if only once. Because you want this, too.

“I think my night might be way better,” you come closer as you give him confirmation: it’s in your mellow gaze, in fingers raring to touch him — they graze his arm, shoulder, base of his neck. The smile never leaves your face. “Your apartment sounds like a good start.”

And Jack wants to kiss you so fucking badly. But not on the steps of some overcrowded bar.

Not while you’re rushing through the drizzle, and your hand catches his, and he holds onto it without thinking. Not at the bus stop where you take a break, and you soak up the fading sunshine with your eyes closed, your skin glowing, his heart skipping a beat, twice. Not in the lobby of his building you walk through hand in hand. Not in the elevator — not even when you press the top button without asking.

“How did you guess?” he wonders, his gaze focused on your lips. He catches you looking at his before you give a reply.

“I just prefer the top floor, too.”

Jack lets you in first and locks the door behind him, not in a hurry but a little bit on edge. He’s trying not to be self-conscious about every part of his apartment. You take your shoes off, your laptop and your phone left on the hinged shelf at the entrance. And then you take it all in, but you aren’t scrutinizing or perplexed or judging. You look around like it’s exactly how you pictured it, like everything about his place makes sense.

The contrast of light walls and dark parquet, a small amount of furniture — minimalistic, spotless, simple. But there is a scattering of things that catch your gaze. A stack of old CDs and a small Sony player, the plastic case already rubbed off at the corners. A tier of books with countless bookmarks tucked between the pages. A pile of med journals and printouts of studies with his jotting in the margins, a dozen multi-colored pens stacked into a whiskey glass. A coffee table that you can tell was made by hand — black walnut wood, coarse-grained, a few tool marks around the apron. You delicately trace them with your finger in silent appreciation of his dedication and his skill. Jack barely can remember why he was even worried.

And then you step into his bedroom, and he can think of nothing else.

It’s half-dark, the floor windows left uncovered because he was in a rush to leave. You keep the lights off. You walk to where the twilight is bleeding through the glass, the hues of red and violet covering the floor. The dim light contours the collar of your blouse, the specks of silver shimmering like moonlight on the water. Jack is so mesmerized, he doesn’t catch it right away — the way your fingers move down to the row of buttons. You turn to face him with the first one carelessly undone.

“I thought you’d want to take this off yourself,” you then unbutton the second one — and look him in the eye. “Do you?”

“You can’t seriously have doubts,” he rasps, his pupils blown wide, mouth craving yours — or any part of you that you can give him.

Your hands stop. And then your voice drops, beckoning. “What are you waiting for?”

Jack crosses the distance in a heartbeat.

It’s not a crash — it feels like it’s a fusion, your body molding perfectly against his as soon as he pulls you closer by the hips. You meet him not with hesitation but with need, your lips sure, soft, searing — he kisses you back so fervently, it makes his head dizzy. It makes him want you more. Your every move sets fire in him, and you tend to it with skill: you grip his shirt with one hand, the other tracing up his spine — until it settles at his nape, your fingers threading through his hair, and his breath hitches. You only pull away to give him air and guide both of his hands up to your blouse. His frail composure barely lasts another minute while he works the buttons — until he sees your bra: thin black lace.

“You wear this on a random Thursday?” Jack groans, then dips his head to leave hot open-mouth kisses down your chest. He tugs at the lace slightly with his teeth, and you tug at his hair.

“Try not to tear it apart,” you tell him, half a joke and half a warning; but your tone suggests that you won’t mind.

His lips find yours again because he can’t stop craving them, hands wandering under your blouse as he walks you blindly to the bed. You’re a step away, and his imagination already paints the picture — your body naked and writhing under his mouth — but then you grab into his clothes, maneuvering him to turn — and in a second he is pushed onto the mattress. Time freezes for the shortest moment as you look him over, your lips parted, your fingertips skating up his cheek, and Jack leans instantly into your touch. With the same hand you bring his mouth back to yours, and now you share the same hunger: you straddle him and tug at the black scrubs and the white t-shirt he wears under, and Jack is fumbling with your bra clasp, too eager and too lost in you —

The pain’s not sharp but sudden. It shoots from his knee up to the hip, and Jack flinches with a hiss, breaking the kiss.

“What’s wrong?” you instantly pull back, studying his face.

Jack feels blood rushing to his cheeks. He shifts uncomfortably in place. “It’s my leg.”

You look down. “Which one?”

He stifles an embarrassed sigh and grudgingly hitches up his right pant leg, revealing the prosthesis. “My muscles cramp up sometimes when I bend the knee,” Jack moves one hand down to help stretch his leg forward, the metal frame catching the light.

You keep your eyes on it as you say musingly: “Oh, you are full of surprises, Dr. Abbot.”

You make a face he can’t match to an emotion — is it regret? Are you disappointed? Will you leave now? But then you reach your hand to where the prosthesis meets the limb and carefully trace the scarred tissue. Your touch is light at first, but slowly you apply more pressure, your thumb and middle finger massaging the sides of his leg.

“Do you need to remove it?” you ask, not bothered in the slightest.

“Not yet,” Jack breathes out in relief, feeling the pain and tension fading — as is his shame.

And when he meets your gaze, you read him once again: his fears, his insecurities, everything he’s used to hide and overthink. And your eyes sparkle with an intent to prove him wrong. You move your fingers up his leg, unhurriedly, unwavering, making a teasing stop to dip your thumb under the waistband of his pants. He almost bucks up his hips. You hitch his shirts up and drag over his head, then throw aside with one quick motion — and when your fingertips skim under his navel, Jack lets out a quivering exhale. Your hands slide up his chest, his every muscle tensing under your touch, your body leaning closer inch by inch, until he feels your breath fanning his face.

Your words are quiet but they burn his mouth: “There isn’t a part of you I don’t find hot.”

Jack can’t think of a time he ever felt so wanted. He also can’t do much thinking when you are kissing him, your tongue darting between his lips, your hips grinding against him, and he is getting harder with each second, with each movement.

“Sorry, should’ve told you sooner,” he mumbles when you break apart. “Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

Your laughter tickles in the crook between his neck and shoulder, your lips mapping a route to the hollow of his throat. And then your kisses travel higher — the slope of his jaw, the spot behind his ear — and he is aching to get more, and he can never get enough.

“You can’t possibly ruin this,” your eyes are locked on him again so he knows that you mean it. “You barely touched me, and I’m already soaked.”

Jack sucks in a breath. His palm moves to lay flat against your stomach, then glides behind your waistband, to where you’re waiting for his touch. He feels the wetness through the lace — you spread your legs wider — and he pushes the black material aside to find you slick, warm, already throbbing.

His eyes look a shade darker in the amber of the dusk. “This all for me?” Jack asks dazedly, his finger teasing at your entrance.

“Wanna do something about it?” you murmur.

He slips a finger in, drawing a moan from your lips — the sound goes straight to his cock. His other hand moves to your hip, presses you into him so you can feel the bulge beneath his pants. And then Jack starts thrusting into you, precise and fast, his tentativeness melting away like ice on fire.

“How am I doing?” his tone teases.

And he already has his answer — it’s in the sounds you make, in how your hips are moving eagerly to meet his finger. He adds a second one and hears you gasp.

“Good, s-so— fucking good,” you babble. “Didn’t expect— o-ooh anything less.”

It fuels his confidence like nothing else. He leans to you a little, his voice is thick with lust. “Take the blouse off. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Although he sounds pretty ruined himself. And you aren’t shy about reveling in it. Slowly, you let the silver fabric fall halfway down your back — and then your fingers run over your bra and tug roughly at your nipples. Jack watches, spellbound, not blinking, as they harden under the lace.

At last, he yields to his desire since it can no longer be contained. And Jack is nothing if not ravenous for you.

He pulls your bra straps down with his teeth — one then the other — and then his lips are on your skin, leaving a wet trail between your breasts; he pumps his fingers in and out, and they go knuckles-deep. He adds a third, his tongue flickering over your nipple before he gives it a light bite — and you are withering, and struggling for breath, and pleading — yes, please, Jack, d-don’t stop — and he can cum just from you gasping out his name. It doesn’t take much longer: he hits the right spot, not randomly but expertly, his thumb pressed to your clit, his every stroke commanding you to let go — and you do. Your mouth falls slack and your whole body stills, like you are struck by lightning, electric currents rippling through your veins until your blood is sweltering like you’re caught on fire.

Your thighs tremble when he pulls his fingers out. And through the half-closed eyes, you watch as his tongue darts to taste your wetness that his hand is drenched in. You reach for it without warning and lick his fingers clean. Jack groans at the sight — and then you’re swallowing that sound with your mouth. The kiss is messy, tongues and teeth — your blouse and bra join his clothes on the floor before Jack lifts you off him and drops on onto the bed. He gets your pants and panties off, tosses aside and spreads your legs — you are left fully naked, and he drinks you up: your skin the heat is rising off, the parts of you he is desperate to put his mouth on. He readily bends towards you, his kisses climbing higher — from your calf to your knee to the inside of your thigh —

“Come up,” you whisper like an order, and he obeys with bated breath.

Your lips collide, and there is intensity that makes the world around him fade, the vestiges of his old doubts reduced to ashes. You don’t feel like a blaze that scorches and leaves marks — no scratches on his back, no bruises where you touch him — instead, your hands are tender. And he is melting all the same. So when you push him on his side, then on his back, and sit on top of him, Jack voices no complaints.

You aren’t hasty with his remaining clothes — you drag the pants down first, careful around his prosthesis, curios about the traces of his past: your fingers run over the scar on his left knee, over the other on his thigh. And then your eyes move to his briefs, to the sharp outline of his cock. You pull the fabric down to free him — thick, leaking, reddened at the tip. It takes you one — two — three slow strokes — and Jack is trembling all over, his quiet exhale breaking into a low moan.

He points at the bedside table, stumbling over the words. “I forgot to— You should— Top drawer.”

You find them in the bottom one — a couple of condoms shoved into the corner like he thought they’d never be of use. You pick one, sit back on the bed, and tear the wrapper open. And then you put the condom in between your lips and teeth. You purposefully keep eye contact as you get lower — and take him in your mouth, pushing the condom slowly over his cock. Jack flinches, and his head falls back, a loud gasp ripped from his throat.

“F-fucking hell.”

You hollow your cheeks on your way up, then pull off and use your fingers to roll the condom down to the base. He stays still, hands clutching the sheets so hard, the lines of veins pop on his arms, his stomach muscles tense — as is his voice. “Don’t,” Jack pleads through gritted teeth, “I won’t last a minute.”

A grin touches your lips like you already knew he wouldn’t. Your hands go higher so he can take a breath. Your fingertips ghost across his chest, unspooling stiffness from his body and waiting for his reticence to vanish like dew in heat. And when it does, Jack pulls you closer by the arm, pulls you into a kiss that steals the air from your lungs and tastes like pure need. And it’s a need you share.

You promptly grind your hips against his, coating his cock in your arousal, only a few quick moves before you lift your thighs and slip him inside. A shudder travels through your body as he stretches you, as he finally fills you, the pleasure so intense it stuns you both. It takes you a good minute to regain your senses. You roll your hips a couple of times and then start riding him — and almost effortlessly, you find the rhythm that leaves Jack in raptures. It feels electrifying, all-consuming, desire flaring up his every cell, spreading down to his bones. And then you’re both aflame.

Jack sits up, hands roaming over you — his fingers on your hips to help you move, then toying with your nipples to make you gasp. His lips are on your throat where your rugged breath mixes with moans. You try to find the words for it — this feels s-so — fuck, Jack, you are sooo — but you are too overwhelmed to speak, and he is too transfixed on you to care. He feels that you’re getting close — your pace quickens and your voice quavers, hands clinging to his shoulders for support. And he is barrelling toward his orgasm just as fast. He breathes you in and holds you tight, heat trapped between your skin and his as you are arching into him, so soft and pliant and cock-drunk.

It is the friction of your body against his that throws you over the edge — you cry out, face buried in the curve of his neck like you are seeking shelter, unraveling so helplessly and willingly like he’s the only one allowed to have you like this. And in a second the orgasm rips through Jack — euphoric, blinding, emptying, the closest that he’s ever been to ecstasy and to losing his mind.

You are both panting, limbs entangled, your chest still pressed to his.

“I think I need a moment,” you mumble, your fingertips grazing his shoulder blades.

“Yeah, same,” Jack breathes out. “Feeling a little rusty after all these years.”

He doesn’t register the meaning of his words until you slightly pull away. The room is slipping into darkness, but he can see emotions in your eyes, like glints of the sun setting: amazement first, too obvious to hide — was he alone for five whole years? But then there is empathy and an unspoken gratitude — for you being the one that he decided to let in.

You move your hand to cup his face, a smile pulling at the edges of your mouth. “You are very far from rusty, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack leans in first, like he can’t help it — your lips meet his like you want nothing else. And you kiss him so softly, so unhurriedly, it is the kind of fondness that soothes wounds. When he draws back, he is suffused with peace, like all the damage he’s been carrying no longer weighs on him.

Jack puts the blanket over you, up to the very shoulders, and pecks your lips. “Stay right here.”

Begrudgingly, he slides out of you and snaps off the condom, then pulls up his briefs and staggers to his feet. He finds your panties and helps you put them on, his palms following the contours of your thighs like he’s appreciating art. Jack chugs some water in the kitchen, then pours you a glass — and on his way back, he rummages through his wardrobe and drags out a clean t-shirt.

“In case you want something to sleep in,” he offers as you empty the glass. “I don’t know if—”

You take the shirt without question and put it on — and then you take his hand and pull him into bed. He lies down on his back and takes off the prosthesis, letting it slide down to the floor. You drape your arm over his chest and snuggle up to him, already heavy-eyed. You trace his shoulder with your finger, then press a small kiss on it.

“I really like your arms,” you murmur sleepily.

He really likes holding you in these arms, Jack realizes. He is amazed at how easy it comes, of how much he doesn’t want to let you go.

And it feels ridiculous to ask but he can’t help it. “What about my arms?”

He can tell by your slowing breath that you are dozing off. Still, you manage in a whisper: “They are very... steady.”

He thinks about asking for your phone number. And then his mind is flooded by the faded fantasies that promptly take on color: tables for two at restaurants, fresh flowers wrapped in kraft paper, your hands that fit so well in his. Jack gently brushes a stray hair from your forehead when his eye catches on his wedding ring. He looks at it for a few seconds — but the metal band has long lost its meaning. So Jack takes the ring off and carefully turns in bed to put it in the top drawer. And then he tugs you closer, your body warm against his as he falls into the comforting embrace of sleep.

When he wakes up, the warmth’s still there.

His legs are humming, but he isn’t weary, like all the tension’s been unweaved from his sore muscles. Like he’s just had the best sleep in months. But when his hand moves to the side, he finds the bed empty — and instantly he’s overcome with what feels like loss, although he knows it shouldn’t. Because one-night stands aren’t supposed to last. Your scent still lingers on the pillowcase — crisp, clean, raindrops caught in the petals at the sunrise. He turns his head to breathe it in, eyes slowly falling shut —

And then Jack hears it.

The clinking.

The sound usually made by forks, knives, plates. The sound that’s coming from his kitchen.

Jack rubs his eyes and sits up, the remnants of his sleep dissolving in the air. He notices his clothes left neatly folded on the dresser, the prosthesis propped against his side of the bed. And his heart rushes at the thought: you did this for him. And you didn’t leave.

He gets up and gets dressed — but his every move is quiet. Quieter than usual. It is anxiety that turns into anticipation with every step he takes to where the small noises come from. And then he walks into the kitchen like he is walking into a dream he never thought would come to life.

The place is sunlit, the bright rays sprinkling specks of gold on every surface: the metal handles of the cupboards, the scuffed edges of the chairs, the glass table, and the plates on it. And then there’s you, bathing in sunlight, legs bare and hair loose — and his breath catches at the sight. You move around like you’ve already been here, like it’s a habit you just naturally follow: preparing a breakfast for him, in his kitchen, in his clothes. You are still wearing the t-shirt — it hangs loosely around your shoulders but sits tighter at your hips. Jack thinks he’d like to see all of his shirts on you.

“Did I wake you up?” you ask without turning to him, still stirring something in the pan.

“No,” his voice is hoarse from sleep. His nose picks up the smells of sizzling bacon, of something frying, sweet and spicy. “I see, you found the spatula. I genuinely thought I lost it.”

Jack hears the smile in your voice. “It’s not too complicated of a system you’ve got in here.”

Is there a system? He wasn’t aware. He unintentionally says it out loud, and you laugh softly.

“I mean, I see the logic behind it. Knives in the top drawer because you use them the most. Sometimes instead of forks, I’m guessing, because the forks were pushed so deep into the second drawer, like they hadn’t seen the light in weeks. Teaspoons stored in one of your three mugs since you only use them to stir coffee. Two tablespoons were probably left there by accident — and these are all you have, so I suspect you are no fan of soups,” you turn the stove off and move the pan onto the metal trivet, the sun beams skimming up your legs. “I do appreciate that you store all plates and bowls in one place. Although that is the only cupboard that doesn’t creak, so I am a little bit concerned by how often you actually use your dishes. The spatula was in the frying pan, by the way.”

Jack feels his heart swell with a feeling he is yet to name. You look at him over your shoulder as if you didn’t sort through his decades of chaos in a minute. “Come here, try this.”

And you don’t have to ask him twice because he’s always eager to cross the distance.

Jack walks closer, his chest brushing your back, arm circling around your waist. You scoop some food and bring it into his mouth. And almost instantly, involuntarily, he can’t hold back a hum of satisfaction.

“Wait, what is this?”

He sees your lips curling into a smile. “Food, Jack. Eggs and bacon and the two tomatoes that looked edible.”

“That’s not how they usually taste.”

You fully turn to him, another spoonful disappearing into his mouth. “Ever heard of the word flavor? You do know spices exist, right?”

He is a little torn between wanting to kiss you and stealing yet another bite. “I just use salt.”

“I figured. Your salt container is almost empty,” your smile grows wider. You wipe the corner of his mouth with your finger. “But I found a jar of Taco Seasoning in your top cupboard, so I guess you have your moments of enlightenment.”

“Got it for free when I bought a new frying pan. Half a year ago,” and you two move as if you share an instinct: he takes you by the hips, and you step back, ass pressed against the counter — and then you swiftly sit on it, and he stands in between your legs.

You pick a crispy bacon strip — he bites off a half and you eat the rest. His hands stay on your thighs as you give him two more.

“What did you do with the bacon?”

“I baked it,” your phone buzzes nearby but you ignore it, instead reaching for the pan. Jack takes it, and he doesn’t bother with the plates: he feeds you scrambled eggs himself with the utmost diligence. On the fourth spoon you lean to peck his lips, and a smile breaks across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. And suddenly he is so palpably aware of how much he wants more mornings spent like this. With you.

You give him more bacon, and he can’t refuse it, your fingertips brushing his lips as he takes hungry bites. “It feels less greasy. In a good way.”

“Because I didn’t add too much oil. There is already fat in bacon,” you take the spoon from him and scrape the leftovers off the pan, maneuvering the food into his mouth before he can protest. “Just so you know, I think that not having toasted bread at breakfast is a crime. I’m only cutting you some slack because you had a tough shift.”

He’s struggling to hide a grin. Jack drops the dishes in the sink, then moves closer to you, hands clasped around your waist. He leaves a light kiss on your shoulder.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“A lot of my clients are immigrants. They often bring me meals as a thank you, and I always ask what they put in,” you gently comb your fingers through the grey curls framing his forehead. Jack leans in, and you bump your nose into his. “Now, I’m not gonna open a Mexican restaurant anytime soon... But I do know my spices.”

Your phone buzzes again, and when Jack’s gaze falls on the screen, he reads the words out loud without a second thought.

“You just received a file called SA (identified 14/01–20),” and then his smile fades. “Does that mean sexual assault?”

Immediately, your face changes — from relaxed to focused: you quickly get off the counter and grab your phone. Jack manages to catch the names of two more files: 10/21–40, 18/41–60.

“That’s classified,” you don’t sound angry but your tone loses its warmth.

You get another notification, your face tensing with concentration. Jack doesn’t want to interrupt but there’s an inkling tugging at his chest.

“It must be something bad,” he remarks.

“It is,” you tell him matter-of-factly, eyes on the screen. It takes a long moment for you to add. “Involves sex trafficking. That’s all I can say.”

A bad feeling creeps over him like frost. He’s got no explanation for it, no real reason to ask questions. So he keeps them to himself. “Sounds like a difficult case.”

Jack isn’t sure you can hear him, your finger sliding over the screen as you keep reading, mindless of the minutes flying by. In about ten you finally look up, gaze distant, wheels in your head turning, some kind of critical decision taking shape. And then it’s not exactly a relief — but clarity that he sees in your eyes, courage and sharp resolve.

“For almost a year it was an impossible case. Now I think I’ve got a real chance at it,” you share with him, half a confession, half a hope. “I have to go,” you sigh, then put the phone down and move to take the clean plates left forgotten on the table.

Jack catches your hand. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll do it.”

He watches you run toward the bedroom, then he pensively takes the plates away. And the unnerving questions keep swarming his head: how dangerous exactly is your job? Are there any safety measures you should take? Do you? It’s probably not his place to ask. It doesn’t make him any less concerned.

He looks at the jar of Taco Seasoning. He thinks of you folding his clothes, easing his fears. Of your laugh brushing his shoulder. Of how easily you fit everywhere in his life, like you are the only part that he’s been missing. He really should ask for your number.

You run back fully dressed — the pants you look sinfully good in, the blouse glistening like liquid silver. Your collarbones peek through, and Jack wants to place a kiss on each.

“You’re now out of mouthwash, so here’s a reminder,” you place a post-it note on his fridge, a few words you wrote in cursive. “And I almost forgot my phone.”

You rush to take it, you are just about to leave. But then you turn on your heels and quickly walk back to Jack, eyes on his mouth — until your lips are too. The kiss is soft for barely a second — and then it’s hot and deep, and Jack’s mind instantly goes blank.

“Don’t forget you’re the best doctor in town,” you smile against his mouth.

You walk out, and he’s left standing in the kitchen, wrapped up in pure bliss. His lips still tingle from the kiss, his body warm all over, the time melting away under the bright sunlight. But soon the realization cuts through his oblivion like a knife through cotton:

he didn’t get your number.

He has no clue where to find you.

Jack literally facepalms himself. And unsurprisingly, he doesn’t find you outside when he runs out of his flat, out of the building. And there are no crumbs that he can follow. Of course, he goes back to the bar — you paid in cash, no card info, they didn’t even ask for your ID. The bartender assures that you’ve never visited before. When Jack learns there are over 7000 lawyers in Pittsburgh, it feels like a lost cause. But he’s not used to giving up so fast. So he spends his free time searching the web: he googles law firms in the area, looks through the countless photos on their sites. And every time he’s in his kitchen, he stares at the blue note left on the fridge:

Buy a mouthwash (and some bread. Carbs are good for you!)

He buys both. One of his pillows smells like you, and he sleeps on the other; your perfume fades in 11 days. And in two weeks his hope starts fading too. He does attempt to look for the bright side of things — now he has something to remember, a reassurance that he isn’t too old for trying something new — but all the memories inevitably lead to one conclusion: he doesn’t want to try again. He just wants you.

And maybe there is a slim chance that you will come back to the bar, Jack tells himself. He goes there in his free evenings, his order boringly the same: just water, but throw some ice and lemon in. The bartender takes pity on him and doesn’t charge him half the time. And Jack keeps looking through the faces on the streets, in the ER, even while he’s driving down the road.

But never in a million years he expected this.

The people he’s surrounded with also find your current situation unexpected. You look up at them, gaze filled with the same unswerving perseverance. Your tone carries just the right amount of sharpness:

“Doesn’t E in the ER stand for emergency? Can we move?”

You don’t see him yet. Jack still can’t look away.

Langdon comes to his senses first. He grabs fresh gloves and rushes to you. “Okay, what am I looking at?”

You glance at him like he is looking stupid.

“Gunshot wounds. We stopped the bleeding from his leg, about 30 minutes ago. But the other one was worse, blood started spurting everywhere. And you can’t put a tourniquet over the chest. So I improvised.”

Frank quirks a brow. “And your first instinct was to stick your fingers in him?”

“You want me to remove them?”

“Do not!” Robby firmly cuts in. “Dr. Langdon just poorly phrased his appreciation for your quick thinking,” he glowers at him. Then finally, they wheel away the gurney you are on. “Let’s take you to trauma#1.”

Your shoulders fall a little — just enough for Jack to notice, your free hand holding tight to one of the side rails. He reads it in your body language: the tension from the inconvenient position, the stress of not knowing what happens next. As you pass by, for only a brief moment your eyes meet. And it’s pathetic how much he cares what you think. If you remember him. If you’ve been reliving that one night too. He discerns glimmers in your gaze — of recognition and surprise, of what he dares to believe is joy —

but then you break eye contact. And Jack follows you with zero hesitation.

The man’s blood pressure plummets on your way to the room. When you are all in, Robby does his best to navigate the turmoil:

“The bullet must’ve nicked an artery. We might need to open him up.”

“They’ll do that in the OR. If he lives for that long,” Frank says while intubating.

“Shouldn’t you take the bullet out?” Jesse is putting an IV line in.

“What are his chances?” you ask quietly. They don’t hear it, but Jack does. He’s standing at the doors, eyes darting from the patient’s vitals back to you. The one person that he cares for is not the injured man.

“We don’t have time to look for a bullet. Once she takes her hand out, he’ll bleed out within 5 minutes,” Frank notes grimly.

Robby is looking at the ultrasound image on the screen: heart and lungs miraculously unharmed. “Then we have 5 minutes to clamp the artery.”

“It can also be 2. We don’t know how much blood he lost,” Frank glances at the gurney doused with crimson. “My guess is that it’s a lot.”

“Do you have anything to offer apart from your pessimism? We’ll clamp the artery and hook him to another blood bag, that’s the plan.”

“And if he goes into cardiac arrest?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“We can’t use a D-fib while her hand is in.”

“Then she’ll take it out, that’s not exactly a complicated process.”

“Do we know if he’s a donor? Because chances are that —”

“He can’t die!” you snap, and there’s so much emotion in your voice, the room goes quiet for a moment.

Jack steps closer, then grabs a gown and gloves on autopilot, but his gaze is riveted to you. You’re only looking at the man who very much is on the verge of dying.

“He’s got a family. He’s been married since 22, she is the love of his life, they have two kids — both miracle babies, a boy and a girl, and they love them to pieces. And he knew that testifying publicly would be dangerous — but he still agreed. He said what if that was my baby, what if someone did that to her? How can I stay silent?” you recollect ruefully but your words are measured. “He can’t die. Not just because I have my whole case built on his testimony but because he was brave enough to do the right thing when no one else wanted to. I can’t let him die for that. Please, you have to do something.”

“Damn, I wish you were my lawyer,” Frank blurts out.

And you answer in an instant, not even looking at him. “Deal.”

“... Really?”

“Save him, and I’ll help any of you, doesn’t matter what’s it about. I take cases pro bono, so it will be one of those.”

Langdon narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t buy it, his voice a mix of skeptical and wry. “Can I have that in writing?”

If looks could cut, Frank would’ve been hemorrhaging on the floor. You glance at him from under your brows, your stare is withering and sharp, a blade that’s glowing red. His face changes like he’s regretting everything he said. And Jack can’t stop the thought: you can be drenched in blood and fuming — and he still won’t look at anybody else.

“My hands are a little busy at the moment,” you tell Frank dryly. “But you have my word. Now the ball is in your field.”

Jack makes a step to you. “You are into soccer?”

When your gaze darts to him, it isn’t cutting — but more so daring. “I’m into winning.”

“Makes two of us,” Abbot notes smoothly.

Robby’s eyes move from you to Jack, like he can glimpse something he doesn’t know what he should call. Frank looks between you like he’s connecting two big dots barely an inch apart. He bites back a smirk.

The monitors get loud as the man goes into cardiac arrest. Robby immediately pushes the ultrasound machine away. “You need to remove your hand now.”

“I’ll help her down,” Jack rushes up to you, and you watch as the others cut off the man’s clothes, preparing defibrillator pads, an intubation tube, clean cloths.

When they’re ready, Robby grabs a hemostat — and steps close. “Okay, move.”

You take your fingers out — Jack hooks his arm around your waist and swiftly drags you backward. Your legs tingle from the rush of blood, your feet a little bit unsteady when you stand. Jack’s palm lays firmly at your lower back, his voice quiet.

“You alright?”

You freeze for a few seconds, staring straight ahead — at the blood pouring, staining the skin, the metal pads, the gurney — the D-fib is charged once — twice — electric shocks sent to the heart. Then Jesse charges the machine again — and on the third attempt the loud beeping gives way to a more measured sound. The intricacies of dealing with a bleed are left to your imagination because you can’t see anything from behind the doctors' backs.

You slowly turn to Jack, as if you’re still thinking over the answer to his question. You can’t come up with a reply concise enough to fit all of your feelings in. You just nod — he doesn’t push for more, his hand on you drawing small circles.

“The bathroom is down the hall to your left. You can hang out at the nurse station while he’s in here.”

You look down at your blooded shirt, then at your palms. “Do you think he’ll make it?” you ask him in a whisper, unprompted, knowing full well that he won’t lie.

And Jack doesn’t.

“At his age and with how much blood he lost, it is a miracle he’s still alive. Which I think means he’s actually got a chance. If they manage to stabilize him—”

Robby half-turns to look at him. “Jack, we really need an extra pair of hands here!” and there’s an urging in his voice, a red splatter on his gown.

“Guess now I’m a part of the saving team,” Abbot mumbles, changing gloves again, wishing he could give you more — if not a promise then at least some hope.

Surely, Jack’s had his fair share of cases more unhopeful — he’s usually good at keeping a cool head, he’s skilled enough to keep his nerves in check. And yet, he feels a pinprick of anxiety: this case is different because he can’t allow himself to fail you.

But when Jack glances at you, the look you give him is not expectant — it’s encouraging. “Seems like his chances just got better,” you manage a small smile. “I’ll let you get to work.”

Him being able to shift focus to the patient is actually another miracle. And work he does: there is more blood because the artery’s too fragile — they change the clamps, they try the wound packing; it’s equally unhelpful. Jack ends up sticking his own fingers in while Robby calls Garcia. She shows up not only quickly but also uncharacteristically excited.

Yolanda flips open an instrument container she brought in. “Aortic hydragrip clamps, they’re gentler. Should work,” then she sees Jack and chuckles. “Of course, you’d be the one to clamp it with your hand. Just like in the good old military days?”

“Can’t say I’ve missed those,” Abbot remarks, and he is void of bitterness: the military did give him plenty of experience so it’s not something he regrets. But he is honest when he says he doesn’t want to go back.

And neither does he want any memories to pop up, so Jack’s mind hooks on the task that calls for his attention. They move with coordination honed over the years: he takes his hand out — Robby goes in with the clamp — Jack takes the second one — the ruptured artery is occluded in barely 20 seconds. They watch it for 10 more to make sure no more blood is coming out.

Robby allows himself a sigh of relief while Jesse suctions the excessive blood. Langdon inspects the leg wound: the bullet went right through, the bone’s intact. He checks the tourniquet — good placement, tight enough, so he just leaves it on.

Garcia comes closer, with an unbothered kind of curiosity, like a cat’s. “I heard the man made quite an entrance.”

Frank huffs. “You should’ve seen his lawyer.”

“The one in the blooded shirt? Oh, yeah, she’s hard to miss,” Yolanda smirks, dark eyes darting to you.

Jack can’t stop himself from looking in the same direction. You’re in the hall talking to Dana, your hands folded over your chest. The blood on you dried up; still, it strikes the eye — a big splotch of dark maroon on the white fabric, and every time Jack looks at you, it startles him a little.

“What now?” he asks. Mostly to make Garcia stop staring at you.

She does, her gaze on the unconscious man again. And her decision-making process is rather quick. “Suture the origin of the artery with pledgets on the aortic wall, then do a bypass between the ascending aorta and the subclavian. For the anastomosis, I’m thinking a termino-lateral type would do the job.”

It’s rare for Frank to be impressed by someone, yet his tone suggests that he most definitely is. “You can do all that?”

She stares him down silently. Then she looks at Robby. “You shocked him how many times? Twice?”

“Three times. 11 units of blood used so far.”

“This is one hell of a lucky man if I’ve ever seen one,” she notes, then looks down at her pager. “The OR will be ready in 5. Check the clamps again, I don’t want him to bleed out in the elevator. I’ll go talk to the lawyer and bring her up in the ICU. We’ve got a room for him so she can wait there.”

She turns to leave, and Langdon glances after her, then mutters, mostly to himself. “Why does everyone keep giving me weird looks today? Like I’m saying something stupid.”

“It’s because you are,” Garcia snickers before going through the doors.

Robby and Jesse check the vitals and the instruments' position, but Jack only catches bits of their conversation — because he’s watching you again: you listen carefully to Garcia’s explanation, the concern on your face dissolving slowly. But not entirely — it would be too soon for that. Garcia walks you to the elevators and out of Jack’s sight; still, his eyes stay on the spot you stood at.

He wishes that he was the one to talk to you. And he wishes he could do much more.

Jack comes back to reality when he catches movement — the gurney being wheeled out of the room.

“Wait, I can —”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll ride up with him,” Robby assures. “Your shift ended hours ago, just go get some rest, man.”

Jack needs no persuasion — he all but runs out, removes the gown and gloves, then goes to the staff’s kitchen. He’s out in five minutes but he stops at the stairs as an idea lits up in his head. Jack walks back to the lockers, unlocks his and takes out a spare clean shirt. He has to slow down then, imagining the likely steps: it takes a minute to get to the upper floor and get you to the right room; a few more minutes for you to ask more questions while the man is being prepped. The surgery will take at least 2 hours — he doesn’t want to waste a second of that time.

Jack finds you sitting in the hall, typing away at your smartphone, fidgeting slightly in your chair. And his determination is diluted with unease — should he interrupt you? Would you even want to chat? He tells himself that he can manage some small talk, that it’s not a big deal. He’s good at this.

Jack walks toward you, trying not to give away his haste. “So, do you stick your fingers into all of your clients?”

You turn to him, your face swept with confusion.

Oh no. He isn’t good at this at all.

“Fuck, sorry. I don’t why I said that, it was —”

And then you laugh. It’s quiet, more so a sound of relief, a little bit amused by him. But you aren’t irritated or displeased.

“Believe it or not, that was my first time. And hopefully, the last.”

Jack takes your calm voice as a good sign. Almost instinctively, he sits right next to you, as if the very thought of putting any distance in between you is downright absurd.

“Coffee. Figured you’d need it,” he hands you a plastic cup, and your fingers brush his when you take it.

And Jack is painfully aware that the brown-colored drink hardly tastes great. But you take sips with zero fuss.

“A caffeine IV would’ve been great, but this is the next best thing. Thank you so much,” your gaze warms up. Then it drops to the piece of clothing he is holding.

“I thought maybe you’d like to change into something that isn’t drenched in blood? I keep a clean t-shirt in case I get some fluids on me. It’s not the most fashionable choice, I know—”

You take it before he even finishes the sentence — your thumb gently brushing the folded cotton fabric, your face breaking into a grateful smile. Jack’s eyes are drawn to it, and he remembers so distinctly how your lips taste. And you look like you know he does.

“Wish I could put it on right now. But I’m counting on my blooded shirt to make me look more intimidating to the DA. Once he wakes up and deigns to text me back.”

Jack moves closer, lowering his voice like he’s protective of a secret you are about to let him in on. “What do you need the DA for?”

Your smile widens as if you find his curiosity endearing. “I need to get Bruno into witness protection. DA’s recommendation will help speed up the process.”

“Will the prosecutor back you up on this?”

“He passed out in the court at the sight of blood. He’ll back me up just fine.”

“So what’s the overall plan?” he drapes an arm across the back of your chair. You don’t mind.

“I’m Bruno’s legal representative, I can apply for the program on his behalf. They’ll also need his family to complete an application form. So once the DA gives me the green light, I have to make a beeline for the closest police station, then dash to their apartment, deal with the paperwork, and help his wife pack. Maybe she can visit him once he’s out of surgery.”

“She must be pretty shaken up,” Jack muses.

You reign your feelings well but he still catches hints of them: sadness, disappointment. Guilt. “The worst part is, she didn’t even sound surprised when I called her. Wasn’t upset with me either. She just asked, Will he pull through? And I had to make her believe that he would.”

He moves his hand up, his palm grazing your back, words sitting on the tip of his tongue: it’s not your fault, you aren’t the one to blame. You helped to save his life. But you shake off your misery, so easily like it’s a long-established habit.

“How’s your tough case, by the way? Did she wake up?”

You are deflecting, he can tell. He also has no wish to make you more upset so Jack holds back his consolations.

“She did, got her discharged a week ago. And the rehabilitation seems to be going well.”

Your grin very clearly says I told you so but you don’t say the words out loud. Instead, you place your hand above his knee — the right one, your touch not fleeting but reassuring and warm. The smile leaps out of him before he can stop it. “How’s the asshole with no brain cells?”

You let out a long-drawn sigh. “He fled the state. Which was a violation of the bail conditions. Then his attorney tried to flee, got wasted on the flight to Cincinnati — one of the CBP officers clocked him at the airport because he kept dropping his carry-on. Turns out, he snuck in a hunting knife, a whole-ass 6-inch blade. And then he got into a fight with them. Mind you, he is 5’3 and had a half-bottle of whiskey in him. I can’t even begin to comprehend that level of dumbassery. I had to visit him in jail four times before the court assigned a new lawyer to replace him. I don’t want to board another plane for at least a month.”

Jack doesn’t say anything at first, but his mouth twitches like he’s suppressing laughter. And then he can discern something unlooked-for in your face — the very evident abashment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to vent.”

He leans to you and caresses your back. He wishes he could kiss you — on your forehead and cheeks and corners of your mouth, to smooth out every line of worry on your face. So that you don’t hesitate to open up again.

“Wasn’t a vent,” Jack argues. “I am actually very invested now. How did he manage to bring a knife on board?”

“Bribed a couple of nut heads from the PIT security,” you share gladly. “I asked him, Man, ever heard about checked baggage? Who in their right mind puts knives in a carry-on? And he told me — dead serious — that TSA is infiltrated by a gang of international smugglers, so he can’t trust them.”

“Of course you asked,” Jack notes warmly.

“I mean, he’s absolutely useless as a lawyer, at least I had something to laugh at. Besides, the Boone county jail can easily rank first in the list of the dullest places in the States.”

“So it’s the lack of brightness that’s the main problem, not that it’s packed with criminals,” Jack shakes his head in disbelief. “Worrying about you must be someone’s part-time job.”

You are startled for a moment. And then you’re beaming. “Is this you casually trying to find out if I have a boyfriend?”

“Guilty as charged,” Jack’s hand stops at your back, his gaze a cautious revelation. “But I don’t do casual.”

“Neither do I,” you tell him quietly, resting your chin on his shoulder. “And I would’ve never come to your apartment if I had anyone waiting for me at home.”

Your faces are separated by some minuscule inches. This is your second meeting — and yet, to Jack it comes as second nature: holding you close and leaning in, settling into your space as easily as you do in his, like two stars that fall into each other’s orbit. His hand is on your waist and yours moved to his shoulder; he can smell blood on you but then your scent cuts through — jasmine and bergamot and peaches, things they don’t have in hospitals, the fresh sweetness that makes him think of spring and sun. And everywhere you touch him, he feels lighter. In just a second his lips will be on yours—

Someone blows into the hall — very decisive and walking toward you, by the sound of it — but stops midway, so suddenly you hear screeching of the rubber soles against the floor. Then the footsteps retreat, and everything is quiet again, no other visitors or interferences. And yet, the moment’s gone. Jack can’t hold back a groan. You bring your fingers to his face, your thumb skating over his jaw, your body still so close to his. But your watchful eyes dart behind his back.

“The redhead keeps coming back like she’s looking for an excuse to start a conversation. What does she need a lawyer for?”

“That’s Cassie. She’s in the middle of a custody battle over her son. Her ex-husband is a douchebag with a douchebag girlfriend, so it’s messy.”

You look at Jack again. “And what’s the deal with that other doctor? Dark-haired, overly confident. Mildly annoying.”

“Frank,” he chuckles, his index finger drawing numbers on your lower back. “His marriage is in shambles, been like that for a while. But Abby loves him, and he’s not a bad dad. If it ever gets to a divorce, I don’t think she’ll take the kid away from him.”

You ruminate on this but not for long. “Can you please tell Cassie that I won’t bite her head off?”

Jack doesn’t want to move away from you so he only tilts his head back, not in disbelief but in careful wonder. “You’ll help her?”

And he can tell from your firm gaze that you aren’t doing this to please him — you want that case, you are already going through the strategies and options in your head, you grab at every chance to help people like hungry dogs grab bones. “I have about half an hour before the DA gets out of bed. Plenty of time for her to give me the details. Besides, I really enjoy going against douchebag exes.”

“Why is that?” Jack asks with a grin.

You shamelessly grin back at him. “They usually come with douchebag lawyers. It’s always fun to kick their ass in court.”

And as on cue, there are footsteps again — your face confirms it’s the same visitor, and Jack gives in: it’s for a good cause, after all, and he will get more time with you later today. His palm brushes the side of your waist, one touch replacing all the words he is afraid to say too soon: I’ve missed you, I want to spend many more days with you. He has to get up, holding back a sigh, before his feelings burst out. Jack turns around — and, unsurprisingly, Cassie is standing sheepishly at the end of the hall.

“Sorry, did I interrupt you guys?” she asks him with an awkward smile when he comes closer. “Cause it seemed like—”

“Just go talk to her,” he grumbles. When she doesn’t move, Jack softens his approach. “She’ll be happy to help you out, McKay.”

Cassie’s smile turns grateful, and then she strides across the hall to you. Jack offers you some privacy and takes the stairs to the ER. And even though exhaustion is already nipping at him, he’s in no hurry to go home, he doesn’t even feel the weight of it. He also doesn’t notice Dana’s gaze that lands on him when he comes in. He’s blithely unaware for about 15 minutes — Jack gets himself a cup of coffee, relaxes in the quiet of the empty kitchen, stretches his legs and arms.

Dana walks up to him the second he comes back to the nurse station.

“Now, will look at that. A smile on your face? I must be dreamin',” she teases, always astute in her assumptions. “It’s the hot lawyer, isn’t it?”

He’s battling a smile, indeed. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Well, you see how my mouth’s moving? This means I’m talking, and you are giving me replies. Which does sound like a conversation to me,” Dana playfully bumps his shoulder. “Hey, she ticks all the boxes: smart, brave, stubborn. Did I mention that she’s hot?”

Jack doesn’t meet her gaze as his face gets warm. “Can’t argue with any of that.”

Princess peeks curiously at them from behind the monitor. Dana cackles. “Jesus, are you blushing? That’s so cute. I’m marking this day in my calendar.”

“What are we celebrating?” Perlah swings by.

“Dr. Abbot apparently got himself a date,” Princess reveals, wiggling her brows.

“With the lawyer? And she agreed?” Perlah asks in a doubtful tone.

“Frank said they were flirting in the trauma room,” Dana informs them conspiratorially, earning two hums of approval — and one groan from Jack.

“Are you aware I’m still here? Langdon has no clue what he’s talking about,” but his voice doesn’t sound angry — he’s in too good of a mood for that.

“I hear someone spreading slander behind my back,” Frank stops by.

“It’s hardly slander when you’re an asshole,” Princess glares at him. “Only a senile patient would flirt with you.”

“Is this open hostility at a workplace?” he fakes a gasp. “I don’t need anyone to flirt with me, I’m married. And if you’re talking about the lawyer, she surely seemed thrilled to leave this place.”

Both Jack and Dana look at him. She is the one who asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just saw her at the parking lot. She ran out and got into a cab so fast, like someone’s chasing her. Or maybe she is chasing someone? Wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Well, no chasing needed for our cowboy,” Dana chuckles with her gaze on Abbot. “Did you choose where you’ll take her? Want me to ask around for recommendations so you can text her a couple of options?”

Jack wants someone to smack him in the head, hard. Because he surely needs to straighten up his mind. Not asking for your number the first time could be blamed on a lapse of sanity, but two times in a row? That’s what you would call a rare level of dumbassery.

As Dana sees his face fall, her own gets visibly confused — then shocked upon realization. “What, you don’t have her number?”

And everyone instantly mirrors her concern.

“You didn’t take it?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Jack is flabbergasted for a second. “Why is this a public discussion?!”

“Man, we were rooting for you!” Langdon throws up his hands.

“They were placing bets on how long it’d take you to get her number,” Dana snorts.

“They,” Frank mimics her. “As if you weren’t!”

Jack wearily covers his face with both palms, not in despair but with disappointment. In himself. There’s still some hope for him to cling to — they’ve got Bruno up in the OR, and you will probably come back to visit him. That was your plan, right? And what will his be if you never show up?

“What are we mourning over?” Robby nonchalantly comes by.

“My loss of 100 bucks,” Frank walks away, disgruntled.

“I only bet 15, you’re real bad at counting!” Dana shouts after him. Then she gives a joyless explanation. “No one won, though.”

Jack looks at Robby through his fingers. “Were you involved in this too?”

“Nah. I said you’d probably need a third chance.”

Abbot lowers his hands, brows furrowed in incomprehension.

“One of the ICU nurses saw you two getting all cozy with each other,” Robby keeps his voice down but still elicits a few giggles. He stares at Perlah and Princess, and they pretend to get back to work. “I figured you wouldn’t do that on day one. So there must be some history between you. And you know what they say, third time’s the charm,” he pats Jack’s shoulder reassuringly. “Do you at least know the name of her law firm?”

He is already taking lungfuls of air for a heavy sigh — because of course he didn’t ask about the firm, he is the top contender for the dumbass of the month award — but then the elevator dings. And Cassie walks into the hall, cheery as she hasn’t been in months.

Abbot gets an idea. And now he has more than a delusive hope.

“I know where I can find it out.”

McKay doesn’t take much convincing. She tells him that you gave her your assistant’s number — it’s not the answer he expected, but Jack’s grasping for straws. He makes the call with no delays, and the assistant picks up almost instantly. She’s got a thick accent that isn’t American, the vowels in her speech sound a little shorter. But her English is pretty good and so are her manners — because no one before has told Jack to fuck off so courteously. Whatever arguments he brings to get your number, she just refuses to relent: yes, sir, I understand the urgency. But you must know it’s private information, and I cannot verify your identity over the phone. Yes-yes, I’ll check the hospital website. But your photo doesn’t come with a voice recording, does it? That is unfortunate. You see, we really value our attorneys' privacy and safety. And there’s been a disturbing accident... Which I can’t talk to you about. Yes, I will let her know you called. I promise, sir. Yes, I’ll tell her that you called four times, that is an important detail, indeed.

And Jack is back to square one — still no clue where to find you, no last name and no address he can look up on Google. Bruno stays in their ICU for just one afternoon, and then Jack comes to work to learn he was transported to the other hospital — by helicopter and with a police escort that was too tight-lipped and fast to bother. Which robs Jack of the only hope he had, and he is too worn out to drown himself in work. So he takes two days off, gets eight hours of sleep, gets busy with mundane chores that make for a poor distraction.

His doorbell rings around 6 pm. He’s not expecting anyone — Robby is still at work, and a few other friends he’s got would’ve announced their visit. So Jack thinks someone must’ve gotten the wrong door, and he opens it without even looking in the peephole.

Instead of seeing some unbidden stranger, he sees you.

You’re standing at the door of his apartment. Wearing his shirt. The dark material is tucked carefully into your jeans, your hair undone. You greet Jack with a smile, a little tired and leaning on his doorframe.

“You made a lasting impression on my secretary.”

He has to take a breath and blink — once, twice — to make sure this is happening. There is a trace of a smile already on his face, he just can’t stop it. “You mean she was planning on filing a police report because she thinks I’m stalking you?”

“Actually, she liked you from the moment she figured you’re a doctor. Keeps asking if you are married or not.”

Jack puts his right hand up to show you — readily, happily, like he removed the curse that’s been tormenting him for years. “I’m not.”

And you see that he isn’t wearing the ring. He never put it back on — by now, there’s no mark left where it used to be, the white line faded with no trace. You watch his face for any hints of doubt or regret but he has none. The hint he gives you suggests the opposite: Jack steps back in a silent invitation, makes space for you to come in. To come back to.

You don’t rush in although it does look like you want to. Instead, you’ve got a suggestion of your own.

“I feel like I know more about you than you know about me. So ask me something. Anything, whatever you want to know,” your gaze is locked with his. “Before I come in.”

Because after you do, there will not be much talking. Not for the first few hours, Jack thinks. And he will gladly take ten times as long as to find out everything there is to know about you — he’ll take days, weeks, months, years. He is already sure there is nothing that can scare him away.

So what he asks about is not a deal-breaker — more so a mystery Jack can’t wrap his head around.

“How the hell are you still single?”

It’s not a hard question, and it’s the truth that you don’t shy away from — as easily as he once did, you open up to him, with honesty that he can read in your voice, eyes, face.

“I work a lot. There are always extra hours, sleepless nights, late calls from my clients who have no one else to talk to. I’m bad at taking breaks. I am... not good at asking for help. And I guess I’m used to prioritizing work because that’s what I’m left with when people leave. Not everyone will have the patience for that,” you try for your smile not to look sad but it’s the first thing that you fail at. “So I’m a handful.”

He’s quiet for barely two seconds. Then his lips curl into a grin.

“Well, I’ve got two hands. And some say that my arms look very steady,” he takes a step to you, and now instead of sadness, there’s glee — in your soft laugh and in your eyes that stay on him. “I will need one thing from you, though. Before you come in,” another step, so that he’s standing right in front of you. “I need your number.”

“Give me your phone.”

He does — you add the number to his contacts, then dial it so you can have his too. You hand his phone back, still smiling. “There you have it.”

“I plan on memorizing it,” Jack takes a quick look at the screen and then puts the device away.

He needs his hands free, he has no other words to add. He cannot tear his gaze away from you.

“Any other questions or requests?” you ask him quietly.

Jack shakes his head. And then it’s you who finally crosses the distance.

He reaches out a hand behind your back to close the door. As soon as you hear the locker click, that same hand pulls you into him. And then he kisses you — so ardently and deeply like he’s famished, like in your absence he struggled to survive. You let him take the lead — it’s your quiet surrender, it’s his most rewarding win; he savors it until you’re out of breath. Then you kick off your shoes, and Jack yanks off your t-shirt — you stop his hands and fold the piece of clothing and leave it on the first flat surface you can find — you aren’t sure if it’s a table or a shelf because he’s kissing you again, all the while you are stumbling your way through his apartment.

Jack does pause when you reach the bedroom — the city skyline stretched out behind the windows, the light already darkening from gold to copper as the evening comes. The rays cascade across the floor and walls — you are admiring the view, and he’s admiring you. It’s soft before it’s sexual: he lowers his head and drags his lips over your collarbone, then over another one. Then he moves higher — your throat, your jaw, your cheek.

“You’re staying,” he murmurs.

And even though it’s not really a question, you nod, fingers grazing the back of his neck. “Sorry for coming empty-handed. I should’ve brought some take-out.”

Jack moves one of his hands down to the button on your jeans, undoes it, two of his fingers slipping in, tracing the line of your lace panties. He didn’t get a chance to taste you last time, and now he’s twice as eager. “You brought me dessert.”

You laugh against his mouth and take his shirt off, your touches gentle but leaving goosebumps on his skin, making his heart race. He lays you down on his bed to get rid of your jeans, his voice muffled when he leaves a kiss on your hipbone.

“And breakfast is on me this time. It’s non-negotiable.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows. “You are saying there’s actual food in your fridge?”

“A terribly big amount of food. Also picked a bunch of spices from the Mexican aisle, and I have no clue how to use half of them,” his mouth comes back to yours, back to his new favorite flavors: of your lips, your smile, your moans he knows how to draw out. And you are both left breathless and desirous of more.

“So you were counting on us meeting again?” you tease.

“I was hoping for it,” Jack says truthfully. “Got pretty close to praying, actually.”

Pads of your fingers glide across his cheekbone. “You don’t strike me as a religious type.”

He doesn’t answer right away — but not out of hesitation or the lack of words. He doesn’t need many. He’s known the answer ever since he saw you in his kitchen, he’s been carrying his feelings for so long that now he’s threaded with them like the night sky with bright stars.

Jack tells you with raw candor, with a faint smile. “I’m not. But I believe you are a godsend.”

You trace the freckles under his left eye, your whisper and your gaze are filled with tenderness. “I kept thinking of an excuse to show up at your apartment.”

He lowers his face closer to yours and turns to place a soft kiss on your wrist, his hazel eyes with hints of green spilling more of his secrets: they say that he’s been looking for you everywhere. Then Jack speaks with words.

“I kept thinking I was a fucking idiot for not getting your number,” and his mouth hovers over yours before he adds, his voice hushed as if he’s still not fully convinced he has you. “I want to take you out.”

Jack looks at the specks of gold caught in your lashes and your eyes, the sunlight streaming through the glass, your bodies and his bedroom bathing in it. He feels his heart pounding.

“Am I being too old-school for aski—”

You close the gap between you, and this kiss is better than a dream: it feels like finding gravity and oxygen, like summer coming after years of winter, like now instead of hope there’s certainty, a future that is bright with possibilities. When Jack opens his eyes, he finds you smiling, and you’re brimming with it — the undeterred fondness, the warmth that says that you’ve been looking for him too.

“I’d love to go on a date with you, Jack Abbot.”

And he knows it will be just the first of many.

you’d never be able to tell but this was supposed to be porn with no plot... which I am apparently fcking incapable of. I want to write part 2 because I love them!

two gifsets that inspired this fic: x, x ♡

I have a mini-series about Jack x resident!reader that is very dear to me (I’ll make a masterlist for my Jack’s fics soon. there aren’t many but it will be easier to just add a link instead of me yapping);

SHOCKINGLY, I’m almost done with another Jack one-shot, and oh my god, I love it to pieces. reading it feels like a gut punch but in the best way possible. I can’t wait to share it ♡

dividers by @/cafekitsune, @/saradika-graphics & me.

♡ English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me if you spot any mistakes. comments and reblogs are very appreciated! let me know if you want to be tagged ♡

[rosy-hollow]

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ╰┈➤ @ssstaryy ⦂ i saw this tiktok where this mom was talking to...uh....ehem....(bonnie blue) and she said her son was turning 18 and she was rage baiting saying stuff like "oh send him over to me" so..... bakugou with pro hero wife and she gets baited too and she just kinda.....gets really SCARY quiet. i just wanted to see bakugou kind of like "welp i tried to help you" kinda thing lmao

》 ✐ᝰ shortened the ask for all intents and purposes BUT THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD PROMPT I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING ITTT thank you for your contribution to the badass reader universe hehehe

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•

You swear your husband, Katsuki Bakugou, is rubbing off on you — for better or for worse.

It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes into this godforsaken interview for Tokyo’s Hottest and already, you feel the beginnings of a migraine clawing at the base of your skull

You had shown up expecting a conversation about your career — your rise to becoming the number four pro hero, the operations you’d led, the rescue missions, your combat stats, your innovative use of your quirk.

Instead?

All you’ve been fielding is a series of thinly veiled gossip questions about your marriage.

You try — multiple times — to shift the conversation back to your work. The meaningful things. But each time, the interviewer, this woman with teeth too white and a voice too shrill, giggles and steers it right back.

To him.

Now, let’s be clear — you love your husband. You’ve loved him since you were both dumb kids, and if it were Mina in front of you, you’d gush about him like you’re still twenty and head-over-heels (which, let’s face it, you are).

But this isn’t about love.

This is about respect.

And right now, you are very aware of the way it’s being chipped away with every loaded, invasive, disrespectful question this woman throws at you.

“So,” the interviewer purrs, crossing her legs slowly as if she were the one being filmed for a commercial, “we know you and your husband are totally head over heels — swoon — but come on, what’s one thing about him that just drives you crazy?”

You blink. “Uh… no? We’re pretty good.”

“Oh, come on~!” she coos, leaning forward like she’s your best friend at brunch. “Just a little thing. Don’t worry, we know you’re still obsessed with him.”

The frustration bubbles up like boiling water under your skin. But you rein it in. You always do.

“...I guess he leaves his gear everywhere?” you offer weakly. You hate yourself the moment the words leave your mouth, but in all honesty, you just wanted her to stop her nagging.

The interviewer grins like she’s won. Like you just handed her a headline wrapped in a bow.

“Ohhh, well if that’s the case,” she purrs, her voice dropping into something sultry and entirely unprofessional, “you could always send him over to me. I can handle a little mess~”

Silence.

Complete, thick, suffocating silence.

You still.

The rage is instant. Hot, electric. But you don't explode. No, you’ve learned from the best.

You don't throw a chair. You don't curse her out. You don't even blink.

You just stare.

Expression blank. Smile gone. A flicker of fire burning slow and deadly in your gaze.

She shifts in her seat. She knows.

Everyone in the room knows.

You don’t need to yell to be terrifying.

Still, she tries to recover with a nervous laugh, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

“Well, I’m just joking, obviously-!”

“Oi. Cut the fucking cameras.”

Your heart squeezes.

Katsuki.

You don’t even have to look to know where he is - somewhere just offscreen, barely holding back the urge to burn this studio to ash. But as much as you adore him for storming in like your personal hellfire…

This isn’t his fight.

This is yours.

You raise a hand toward the cameraman, who’s frozen like a deer in headlights.

“Keep rolling.”

The room stills.

You turn back to the woman, and you smile. Not sweetly. Not kindly. A slow, cold curl of your lips that spells nothing but trouble.

“Look,” you start, voice smooth like poison, “Hikari, was it?”

She nods once. Slowly. Carefully.

You lean in.

And twist the knife.

“I’ve worked my goddamn ass off to be the number four pro hero in Japan,” you say softly. “I’ve trained until my body broke. I’ve had to endure hours of torture and not say a word. I’ve walked out of burning buildings carrying children while my skin peeled off in strips.”

Her smile falters.

“But sure. Let’s talk about my husband domestic flaws”

You tilt your head, faux-friendly.

“I am not here so you can drool over the man I married like some thirsty little gremlin in red lipstick. My life? My work? My worth? None of it belongs to the man I’m married to - and treating him like a trophy on a shelf for you to paw at just shows how desperate and disgusting you really are.”

You lean back, letting the full weight of your fury settle into your words.

“He’s not for sale. I’m not here for your views. And you sure as hell aren’t getting anything from either of us.”

You sit up straighter, smile sharp.

“And that’s a wrap.”

The crew is frozen. The room? Silent. The air? Thick.

And the camera? Still rolling.

— You go to sleep that night thinking it’ll all blow over.

Spoiler: it does not.

When you wake up the next morning, your phone is vibrating so violently off your nightstand it might file for harassment.

You scroll. And scroll. And scroll.

You're viral.

Like, break-the-internet viral.

Screenshots of your face, lip curled, eyes burning; clips of your brutal monologue with remixes in the background. Edits of you walking out of the studio in slow motion with music that would make Endeavor himself flinch.

Comments flood every corner of the internet:

@ shotatochips13: mommy??? i mean- mommy?? @ kamijiroushipacc: dynamight’s definitely kicking his feet rn @ redriotinmybed: lowkey the interviewer is me but i’d flirt with HER instead @ ilovedekudotcom: book boyfriends could never.

You stare, open-mouthed. This is… a PR nightmare. But also? Kinda badass.

You wander into the kitchen in a daze, only to find Katsuki at the counter.

He's got his phone out.

And it is very clearly playing an edit of you - with some concerning angles that you don;t bother asking about.

He looks up, completely unbothered, smirking.

“What?” he shrugs. “Tried t’warn you, baby.”

You sigh.

You are never going to hear the end of this.

But when his arms slide around your waist, when he presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs, “Proud of you,” against your skin…

Yeah.

It was worth it.

A/N: badass reader is my roman empire now

[temiizpalace]

☆┊RESPOND TO MY TEXTS!

SUMMARY: how long do they take to respond to your messages?

CHARACTERS: all dorms + rsa, rollo & skully

GENRE: fluff

WARNINGS: none

NOTES: some of these come from personal experience 💔💔

reader gender is not mentioned

SUMMONED SPIRIT

as soon as you hit send, you get a response immediately in return. it’s as if he’s been waiting all day for your text, summoned by the ping of your message. no matter what kind of message it is, he replies in mere seconds. funny video? he’ll laugh on text as loud as he can. need something at the store? already there. need a hug? on his way. he loves receiving these messages from you, and he wants you to know that by spamming your phone with his little replies.

cater, ace, kalim, rook, idia, lilia, sebek, che’nya, skully

REPLIES AT A REASONABLE TIME

he responds within a few minutes to hours. it’s understandable, he’s a busy guy with a lot going on in his life. he does appreciate your texts, your messages of motivation. it does make him feel a little guilty for making you wait for his response, but he makes up for it in other ways. besides, he’d rather be with you in the moment rather than over the phone. not that he doesn’t want your messages! overall, he responds in a reasonable amount of time that’s not too late, but not too soon.

riddle, trey, jack, azul, jade, jamil, vil, neige

REPLIES WITHIN WEEKS

never responds until weeks later. his phone is probably on do not disturb all the time because you swear he never reacts until forever. you could’ve sent him a meme you found funny from months ago and he’ll respond on a random saturday night at 7:47pm with some dry ass response like “haha” nearly scaring the ever loving crap out of you. you love him, you do, but dear lord would you wish he checked his phone once in awhile.. he probably texts like a dry old woman too.

riddle, ruggie, silver, rollo

REPLIES IN PERSON

he knows he can say it over the phone. he knows he can just reply instead of showing up to your doorstep. but he doesn’t want to. it’s wayy more meaningful if he says it to you to your face, right? you open the door, a puzzled look on your face as you see your boyfriend at the door. “i thought the video you sent me was funny.” he says bluntly before stepping through the door and inviting himself in. he finds this as an excuse to see you, to visit you. “you could’ve just texted me.” you sigh, pinching his cheek. he doesn’t care. and honestly, neither do you.

deuce, leona, floyd, epel, malleus

A/N: within weeks one gives me flashbacks im afraid

date published: 06/29/25

© temiizpalace — do not copy, steal, or put my work into ai. thank you!

[dcxdpdabbles]

Can we have more Tim falls for Tucker's "spouse" Danny

I'm going to be honest with you: I originally intended this fic idea to be a comedy, but I couldn't figure out how to execute it when I attempted to write it, which is why it ended up in the 'From a fic I never wrote' pile. Now that I have attempted to write it out, it turned more into humor angst? Or, Tim being sad while in Danny's POV, it's him and Tucker committing marriage fraud. Hope the change isn't too bad!

Tim has to bite his tongue when Foley once again agrees to go out for drinks with the team, as everyone is heading out for the day. It was the third weekend in a row, and really, how could he leave his husband home alone on a Friday night so often?

If Tim were married to a man like Daniel Fenton, he would never miss dinner or a night in. He would certainly not waste it trying to kiss up to some higher up the way Foley was so blatantly doing.

Tim had half the mind to grab the mid-level employee by the shoulders and scream at him that a promotion wasn't worth his marriage failing. Make him realize what he had before it was all gone.

For all of Tim's jealousy that Tucker Foley was the one married to a man who literally walked out of Tim's dreams, he didn't dislike Foley at all.

The man was charming, eager to work, and excited to prove himself. He never slacked off; he always kept on top of his deadlines, was friendly with his coworkers, and was always on time. Really, the only trouble that Foley had caused was his rivalry with Tammy Johnson from Accounts.

Apparently, the two hated each other on sight, and there was no real reason for it. Tim had a personal theory that Foley's sarcasm clashed heavily with Johnson's no-nonsense way of work. Johnson was exceptionally good at her job, but she tended not to get along with her coworkers because she took everything too literally and often confused a joke for an insult.

Johnson also became incredibly defensive, building up a wall after a perceived offense was made, and spent the rest of her time working with the offender in a passive-aggressive manner.

She also made comments here and there that hinted at her less-than-accepting point of view of the LGBT+ community. Nothing that Tim could drag her to HR for, but certainly something to keep an eye on.

That's why he jumped in so quickly when he overheard Foley and her arguing over their disagreement about the stick tower design at the last all-staff training retreat. He had heard Johnson rip into Foley, taking apart every one of his suggestions, with complete condescension and a bit of mockery until Foley's tired voice rang out.

"Is it because I'm gay, Tammy?"

Tim thought he finally had a chance to get her in some kind of trouble, but Foley had shut that down quickly. After explaining that the question was more internet humor than anything Johnson could have said, Tim found that he couldn't make the guy stop talking. Foley, it seemed, tended to ramble when panicked or nervous.

Meeting and speaking with the CEO tended to make many employees nervous.

Foley babbled on and on about his husband, how they were childhood friends who turned into sweethearts and then married, living the dream in the big city of Gotham with such devotion and love. Tim couldn't help but extend an invitation to bring the man around the office. He did it mostly to watch Johnson's already tight lips press harder into a straight line.

Then he met Daniel Fenton, and he realized the rambles of Foley weren't told from the rose-colored lens of a man in love but a perfect description of his husband.

Fenton was gorgeous in a soft kind of way, like a first blooming, a lot quieter than his husband, but intelligence danced in his eyes just the same. He was quick with witty responses, sarcastic in a more teasing way than Foley's, and when he spoke of his passions, he all but seemed to glow.

The first time Tim spoke to Fenton, the man was lost in the hallway leading to Foley's old office. At the time, the entire IT department had been relocated three floors up due to a leaking pipe in the ceiling of the previous floor.

Foley had failed to inform his partner that the offices were in a temporary location, so he was more than happy to bring Fention to the correct location.

Fenton had gifted him with a dazzling smile once Tim offered to walk him in the elevator, and had easily chatted with Tim enough so that the young CEO had nearly burst a gut, laughing at the other man's jokes.

He told Foley to invite his husband to more company events, and the other must have taken that as permission to have Fenton around as much as possible. Tim had more encounters with Fenton when the man showed up with pastries for Foley's office, when the team would go out drinking, or even just seeing Danny hanging around the lobby waiting for Foley to finish.

Five months passed before Tim could not deny it any longer. He had fallen for Fenton, the husband of one of his employees.

It was torture how often Fenton was around, but it wasn't like he didn't have the time. Fenton didn't have a formal job.

Apparently, he lived off his inheritance from a distant uncle named Pariah Dark and was more than happy to be a house husband who did random hobbies. One of those hobbies included baking.

Tim thinks he had a crush on Fenton for a while up until then, but he might have actually fallen in love when he tried one of Fenton's homemade donuts. Like an idiot, he kept asking Foley to bring Fenton around, because in those few hours or minutes of networking (for that was what Foley was doing. The man was ambitious) Tim could admire him, could listen to his voice, and could pretend- in the darkest corners of his heart- that his love for Fenton wasn't wrong.

He knew it was. Foley may not be a friend, but Tim tried not to be too close to his employee, as that often caused more problems than not. However, Foley was someone he respected. He felt horrible having such thoughts about the man's husband, but his heart yearned for Fenton more than it had ever yearned for anyone else.

This was getting so bad that Tim was making up random events so that Foley would have a reason to bring Fenton to. He even had the team photo, from the last Wayne Enterprises fundraiser for charity, framed and placed on his desk because Fenton was in it, smiling at the camera.

Tim's pathetic excuse that the rest of the employees' families were also present for the fundraiser wasn't a good enough reason to spend hours upon hours wishing that his arm was thrown around Fenton's shoulders in that photo instead of Foley's.

Tim had to stop.

He chose to tell Steph about his feelings for Fenton on the request that she stop him from doing something stupid. As his friend, she vowed to help him out and slowly but surely held him to his word.

Tim hadn't seen Fenton in almost three months, since Steph had started camping out in his office, doing her online classes and keeping an eye on him so Tim couldn't run down the ten floors to IT just to check if Fenton was about. She reminded him that Foley didn't work directly under him and didn't need to have such a close relationship with him, so he limited his interactions with the man as well.

Steph was also the one who held him through his heartbreak. Tim was no cheater, but he was a fool in love with someone who was taken, and it hurt.

It hurt to know that he could never be the one Fenton smiled at, or the one that Fenton lay next to at night, or the one Fenton joked and laughed with, still friends in a marriage.

It hurt to know that a man like Foley, who was sending another "I'm going out with the team for drinks" text as he followed Rico to his car while Tim stood in the lobby watching them go, was the man that Fenton had chosen.

A few minutes go by of him just standing there, thinking of Fenton, all alone, waiting in some living room for a man who didn't even find the effort to call him.

This is stupid. You're being stupid. What does their marriage matter to you? Just go home, Tim. He thinks angrily to himself, opening his umbrella and walking out into the familiar Gotham rain.

The water splashes against the fabric with the same aggression as marbles falling onto concrete. One of Gotham's super storms. He grimaces, gripping the handle harder as he strides down to the dinner at the end of the street.

Despite Tim being able to drive nearly every form of transportation, he had failed to obtain a driver's license, partly due to his secret identity and partly because he was too lazy. As a result, Tim walked everywhere, took the train, or the bus to get around.

He didn't trust people to not kidnap him (attempt to at least), so he never hailed a taxi or used a ride app. Not after it happened five different times. The life of a Wayne could sometimes be too much.

Not that he was willing to walk to the train station or bus stop in this weather.

He'll have a coffee and some food to wait out the rain, but if the storm doesn't improve, he'll have to call the Manor and see if someone can come pick him up.

The door dings when he pushes it through, and a wave of warmth, chatter, and music passes over him. He stops at the stand holding up a sign that reads Please wait to be seated.

He folds his umbrella, shaking out some water, as a waitress comes rushing towards him.

Her hair is falling out a bit from her bun, and she seems a bit stressed, but he can clearly see why. Many people had the idea to hide from the storm in the dining room - not a single table or booth seemed to be free. Even the bar stools were all claimed.

"Hi there!" The waitress greeted with slightly apologetic eyes. "It's going to be a forty-minute wait."

"I don't mind. Can I wait in here?" He smiles, watching her shoulders relax. She must have had someone yell at her today about the wait time. He gets it.

Once he had to go under cover as a waiter himself, and it took every ounce of his Bat training to not throw a tray at some customers' faces. Especially the impatient ones.

"Yeah, of course." The waitress waves to a little area on the side of the door. There are no chairs, and there is barely enough room to stand, but it's better than nothing. "If you give me your name, I can let you know when a table opens up-"

"He can sit with me." A voice interrupts. A familiar voice. Tim's heart leaps in his chest before he can even turn his head in the direction of the man who had spoken.

Daniel Fenton waves at him from one of the tables, smiling widely, over a half-seated plate of pancakes. He's wearing a soft, white, woven sweater, which makes his eyes pop, and his hair is slightly damp, likely from being caught in the rain.

He looks like a painting come to life.

Tim's mouth goes dry.

"Are you okay with that, Sir?" The waitress asks him, but it's Fenton who answers.

"Yeah, of course. I don't think this storm is going to clear any time soon, so I may as well spend it with someone I know." Fenton laughs, and it kicks Tim's brain into action.

"It's fine," He mutters to the waitress who was frowning. "I would be totally fine with sharing that table."

More than fine. Far too fine in fact. The man is married. A voice that sounds a lot like Steph cautions in his head. He ignores it.

"Well, okay then." The waitress leads him to the table, pulling out his seat before handing him a menu she grabbed from the stand at the front. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Let me guess," Fenton grins, snapping a finger and pointing it at Tim, "A coffee, three creams, two sugars, and a bit of chocolate syrup?"

Surprised, Tim stammers, "Yes, that's right."

Fenton laughs gently before giving the waitress a cheeky little smirk that does horrible things to Tim's already buzzing heart. "He always takes his coffee like that. A creature of habit, you know?"

She flashes a dimple, writing down his drink order. "I'll be back in a few minutes to take the rest of your order."

Tim barely notices her walk away, too captivated by the way Fenton's hair seems to curl slightly when wet. "W-what are you doing here, Mr. Fenton?"

"Tuck and I were supposed to go out for dinner tonight, but he cancelled at the last minute. I got caught in the rain when leaving the lobby, so I figured I may as well have my own dinner." The man reveals casually, as if it were normal for a husband to bail on plans so carelessly.

Tim fights the urge to reach out his hand and place it on Fenton's, wanting to offer comfort in case he was hiding his hurt.

He couldn't stop the words that tumble out of his mouth, though. He winces at the offended tone in his voice. "Your husband cancelled plans on you last minute?"

"Tuck is forgetful. He probably forgot he made plans with me." Fenton shrugs, smile still in place. Tim's stomach flips as the man leans on one hand, attention trained entirely on Tim. "What about you? Why are you here?"

"Hiding from the rain, too. Too heavy to walk home in. "

Fenton frowns. "You don't have a car?"

"I don't have a license." Tim laughs, raising a brow at the disbelief on Fenton's face. "Never bothered to get one. Most people don't in a city, where you can walk or us a bus"

"That's crazy. Back home, everyone had a license. You never get anywhere without one." Fenton reveals.

"You and your husband are from Illinois, right?" Tim hopes Fenton didn't notice how his voice had turned slightly strained on the word' husband'.

"That's right. From the small in the middle of nowhere, Amity Park." Fenton picks up his fork, waving it around slightly. "We have like three restaurants, a small mall, and a park. That's the extent of entertainment, so you've got to drive to do anything. You're not planning on walking in that storm, are you?"

"No, I'll call someone to come pick me up later."

"Nah, that's okay. I'll give you a ride when we finish." Fenton replies easily, stuffing a piece of pancake in his mouth. "I won't take no for an answer. Got nothing better to do anyway."

Tim closes his mouth, having been in the process of denying the offer, and instead raises the menu to hide behind. A flutter goes through his stomach as he realizes that Fenton knows his coffee order because of how often he's seen Tim take it while visiting, and is willing to drive him home.

He doesn't think about Foley. It's a dangerous thing what he does think about, but by the time the waitress comes by to get Tim's order, Fenton has pulled him into a fascinating conversation of old cartoons, and Tim can't find it in himself to care.

Besides, he was only looking. There was nothing wrong with looking.

[lilifieldss]

ೀ The rising sign in the juno persona chart

In the juno pc, the rising sign can give us some clue about the situation of the first meeting with our future spouse, our destined lover, long-term partner. We can also get to know what our first impression of them will be like!

I had a love obsessive phase a while ago and I started researching my juno pc like crazy.. even tho I now became apathetic of the topic, I decided to share some of my finds, so please, enjoy!

disclaimer: these are my personal observations, nothing is set in stone! different planets, aspects can affect how things gonna play out! Entertainment purposes only, take it lightly!

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☁️ Aries 1°, 13°, 25°:

You will see in them someone who is youthful, energetic, adventurous and passionate! Someone who's independent, does not scare away from taking the lead, competitive. They're gonna appear strong, might look a bit tense, angry, impatient, gonna have a masculine energy. They're gonna be hot and not just because of their potentially hot headed nature, but because you probably gonna feel very attracted to them, like, you might even start sweating when around them because they're just so god them HOT!! They're gonna be direct, they could be the one who initiate the connection! You could meet them somewhere new ( for you ) where you haven't been before or where you start something new. Somewhere where is a lot of movment, activity, gym. Somewhere you have to defend yourself, fight for something, compete or at a point in life when you're the one who has to take the lead.

☁️ Taurus 2°, 14°, 26°:

They're gonna make you feel valued. You're first impression of them could be that they're someone down to earth, dependable, secure, very calm, might be stubborn, collected. They're not gonna rush things, and they will take their time, which will give you this feeling of reliability, you've being taken care of! They will pay much attention to you, not gonna be pushy just charming, sweet, romantic. Gonna be someone who looks well cared for, expensive even. They honestly gonna give teddy bear vibes. You gonna be comfortable with them around. You could meet them at somewhere beauty related, while shopping, they can provide you with a service, they can be a cashier, work at a bank, at a restaurant, spa, thrift store, antique shops, drug store, anywhere you can imagine that in some way connects to self care.

☁️ Gemini 3°, 15°, 27°:

A breathe of fresh air. A lot of giggles and an overall friendly atmosphere. You're mind is gonna be stimulated, you're gonna find you're partner someone who's very intelligent, flexible, curious, witty, a bit of a dork 🤓☝️ Either way, communication/ mental stimulation is something that it's very important here. They can appear to be a bit messy, in some cases you might find them pretty childish, a little bit too airy if that make sense. They could also be younger or atleast appear to be younger, so maybe that's another thing that you notice in them! You might have met them when YOU where younger, at school/highschool. You could meet them on a party, nothing serious going on, just something lighthearted. Online while learning about something, on a random course you take. Someone might introduce you to them, ( or vice versa ) they could be you're sibling's friend, while you take a small trip, they could be you're neighbors aswell at some point.

☁️ Cancer 4°, 16°, 28°:

They will feel like home, a nice big hug, a soft blanket and a mug of hot chocolate. They gonna put you at ease, relaxed, they will make you feel emotionally understood, seen. They're might heal your inner child with their words or with just their presence. You'll gonna see them someone who's emotionally mature, gentle, sensitive, welcoming. They could be shy at first, not so direct, they're not gonna jump at you and ask you out on a date right here and there ( not like aries ) They will need to feel secure enough with you to initiate. They can appear soft, feminine, protective, they gonna make you feel that everything is is gonna be all right. Tenderness is the vibe they're gonna give, in positive cases, in negative, they might appear a bit on guard yk, a hard cookie to get, like they're protecting themselves. You could meet them in a place where it's familiar. You could potentially meet them while you're at home, scrolling on tiktok or instagram. ( ha' who said that the only way you can meet the love of your life is to go outside and socialise? ) Somewhere, where you feel safe and relaxed, cozy. At the local market, garage sale or at a furniture store. Somewhere private and intimate.

☁️ Leo 5°, 17°, 29°

When I will tell you they're gonna be PRESENT. It's gonna be a lot of fun going on when you first encounter them, It could be at a party, a festival, somewhere loud and lively, a lot of excitement and creativity, where you can show of your talents or yourself. Somewhere public, lots of people can be present just having a good time. Could be at the cinema, theatre or somewhere relating to acting, watching a movie premier for example. Eye catching, magnetic, good sense of style. You gonna find your person very attractive and very sure of themself, they're gonna appear confident, authentic and charismatic. They're gonna know how to talk to the crowd and people will adore them, they might even be popular. You will see them as true performers, great storytellers, they will shine and take your breath away. They might also bring out you're inner child, so much joy will be felt. In negative cases, you might see them as an attention seeking peacock 😭 or like a bit dramatic for first, too much ego but later on its all smooths out, either way, It's gonna be memorable whatever you two will be doing or attending to.

☁️ Virgo 6°, 18°

You're gonna see them very organized, clean, handy, put together, detail oriented and well mannered. They will take their time to approach you romantically, will probably debate with themself. Because of that, they're might be reather distant. They sure gonna observe and analyse you a lot. They're gonna smell good, look perfect, they can look like a doll honestly. You can think they're younger or they might actually be younger then you. They're gonna be very helpful, they will pay a lot of attention to you and you're needs. There's a likelihood that you two will meet in a work space, office romance is possible, you two might be coworkers, work on something together. Other possible places you can meet them: literally everywhere lol while you mind your business, do you're daily routine, walk with you're dog at the park, while exercising, gym, grocery store, at the vet clinic or a pet shop, library, researching about something, showing up consistently at somewhere or in some way, while you better yourself health wise, gym, yoga, pilates ( they're lurking in the shadows waiting for the perfect time lol )

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☁️ Libra 7°, 19

You know when you look at a man and his not only handsome but just pretty. You will find them extremely gorgeous 100% no matter what gender they are. You're gonna like they're style,their aesthetic, vibe, like the way they're smile, the little shine in their eyes, they're gonna charm you with everything they got. There's definitely gonna be a flirty energy coming, depending on other aspects, it could be repressed ( still felt tho that something is going on ) will look at you, give you a cheeky smile and leave you with the "what are we now exactly?" feeling. You're first impression of them coul be that they're someone very charming, friendly, diplomatic, pleasant to be with, You gonna see them as fair, very romantic, cooperative, knows how to work as a team, someone who has good morals, well educated. In negative cases, you might think that they are a typical womanizer, might come off as a bit shallow, giving the vibe that they're only intrested in what's hiding in those underwear. You could meet them because of business, signing a contract, at court, in a art gallery, museum, library, somewhere fashion related, a fashion show, where creatives are gathering together or somewhere where you can do creative activities, pottery class or something. At a wedding, they might be in a relationship when you two first meet, or they can be your business partner aswell!

☁️ Scorpio 8°, 20°

You're not gonna understand what the hell is going on, but you just gonna feel this irresistible pull to them. They gonna leave you speechless, obsessed with the way they are. You're not gonna be able to get them out of your head once you meet them. They're gonna get you intrigued for sure, you will feel, that there's something so much deeper to them than what they show. They might appear to be closed off and cautious, quite, mysterious ( cough edgy cough who said that? ). They can also show to be sensitive, very intelligent, a bit of a sly, sneaky, overprotective, passionate, very seductive and an intense person in general. They will definitely observe you, try to figure your intentions out, pay close attention to every movment you take, you might start to feel like they're monitoring you. For the first time you two meet, it can be a taboo situation. You two could meet before/after a big change happening. Somewhere private, at the club, at night in the dark. It can be a private meeting, some type of money exchange could be possible, but also could be linked to the occult or spirituality. Somewhere spooky, can be at someone's funeral 😀 or in a life and death situation.

☁️ Sagittarius 9°, 21°

You could see them who's very optimistic, open to the world, curious, charismatic, funny, adventurous, almost like a teacher. You will definitely goof around with them, but at the same time, you gonna be able to talk about serious topic aswell. They can be very knowledgeable and intelligent, someone who has high morals, mature. You will feel abundant, extremely lucky that you have got the chance to meet them. Their smile gonna lighten up the room they step into, you will feel the urge to smile whenever they do. They could be different race or can come from a different ethnicity then you, or maybe they will just be different from you, the way you both grew up, the education and beliefs you were told can be opposite from one another. There's also a possibility that you might think that they're not available, like they're always growing and moving, it's hard to pin them down. You can meet them while traveling, exploring new cultures, while you're at uni, at campus, while looking for guidance, while studying something, at churches, temples, somewhere linked to religion.

☁️ Capricorn 10°, 22°

The first impression they will give to you is that they're someone respectful, serious, hard working, responsible, discipline, mature. They might keep you at arm's length when you first getting to know eachother, not gonna show much, could be because of the situation you two meet, got to keep it cool. It can be hard to see who they are with all those formalities, but the connection will become stronger and stronger as time passes by, and slowly, they will start to let their guards down and show how much they can actually feel ( this points for a delay of, not necessary meeting them but begin official dating, not every cases tho ofc.) They could be older then you or you two meet when the both of you have experienced life for a while now. They're gonna look like someone who commands respect, a boss. Speaking of boss, they might just be one! You could possibly meet them at work, even if they're not your boss directly, they could still be some type of authority. You could meet them at professional events, business meetings. Somewhere where's strick rules aply, at appointments, scheduled meeting.

☁️ Aquarius 11°, 23°

There's a big chance for you to meet them online, Someone could introduce you to them ( or vice versa ) a mutual friend, you could attend on an event, have a night out with friends, do charity work, be a part of a protest, movment, while fighting for humanitarian causes. You're union with them can be unexpected, weird timing. Friennnnnnnnndly energy, or very detached. It's definitely not gonna be a fast peaced relationship, you two will need to build a friendship first or atleast a decent amount of time must be spent together. There can be some type of frustration because of that ( especially if you're someone who likes to move fast ), like you or them ( or both ) could think "now, what the hell is going on, are we gonna get together or not??", and then out of the blue someone confesses ( always expect the unexpected with this one 😭 ) There's gonna be something unique about your destined one, something that might shock you. It could be the way they're dress, they way they're mind works, the way they are as a whole, like "wow, I have never met a person like them before" type of energy. You gonna see them as someone who's not afraid to dream big, to reach for the sky, not scared of standing out from the crowd, someone open, non-judgemental, rebellious and unusual, but in the best way possible. You're not gonna feel like you have to repress who you truly are when you're with them, just a pure feeling of freedom.

☁️ Pisces 12°, 24°

It's gonna feel fated that you two have crossed paths, like it was destiny, maybe you're subconscious will give signs before meeting them or you could have this feeling that they are the one when you first see eachother OR you will have absolutely no clue and everything just feels foggy lol. You probably gonna be on cloud 9 with them around. Your impression of them is like they're someone very creative, sensitive to the world around them, mesmerizing, a dreamer, they're might be always far away up in the clouds, not really present, hard to reach, might think that they're a bit too delulu? or like, very confusing. Highly intuitive and spiritual, you can even think that they're out of your league! You gonna feel like you're on another dimension with them around. You two can meet somewhere far away, in a magical place that almost feels otherworldly, where you can turn your focus what's inside, somewhere spiritual. While you just let yourself go with the flow, let your intuition to guide you ( like you book a flight to another country cus' you had a feeling to go there ), can be in a hospital or just somewhere where people go to heal and find inner peace.

────────────────────────────

thank you for making this far, have a lovely day! 🤍

[binmeister]

KPop Demon Hunters idea drabbles/one-shot

Male Bodyguard Reader who is the son of Celine. He's trained to protect Huntrix not only from crazy fans but serves as a standby hunter if one of the girls are injured.

He also has fans due to his handsome appearance. He is always spotted in photos. Even when he is focused on his job, fans swoon over his good looks. But most importantly how he takes care of the girls. Making sure their safety is top priority.

This was a bit inspired from the bodyguard of South Korea's former 12th president

Strong, dependable.. handsome?

Huntr/x x Bodyguard!Reader

Thank you for your request! Mostly drabbles and loose headcanons for this one - hope this is what you envisioned and maybe I’ll conjure up more for this in future (maybe)

CW: Masc! Pronouns used occasionally, mostly fluff - not proofread

Strong, dependable, hard-working and maybe even handsome. Those were what described you best according to the Huntr/x girls, what best explained the kind of person you were in their eyes and something their fans had to agree on. Being an idol sensation like Celine’s son was not an easy feat, you had a strict up-bringing and had grown up alongside Rumi and eventually getting to know the other Huntr/x members personally selected by your mother and you’d become a major pillar in their lives.

Admittedly you struggled to accept Rumi for what she was at first - everything your mother told you told her she was wrong, a mistake, shouldn’t of been allowed to live. But you watched her grow up, the insecurities that were instilled in her and it broke your heart the night you had caught her curled up in her room crying softly to herself as she questioned why she existed.. wondered why a cursed existence like her was alive. You were both only children at the time. It’s safe to say it was a known fact between the girls and the fans that you were attached to Rumi, a little more protective of her than the others but still professional on the surface.

You became Mira‘s favourite sparring partner, she knew she could go all out when you guys trained because you could take the hit. Take the beating. And then you started to match her height, bulked up over time with age as well - your hits when you sparred getting softer because you were worried about hurting her. She’d complained to you about it after one session but there was a flush to her face that you couldn’t tell was from embarrassment at being treated as weaker or if she was just out of breath from the last match you had.

Zoey loved to cling onto you like a little koala. She was full of energy most of the time but whenever she saw you standing guard, on duty at any of their events she couldn’t resist it and would come bounding over to you - jumping onto your back and giddily laughing like a kid when you chuckled and held her weight with one hand. Your other still occupied with calmly motioning for the fans to stand in line and not overcrowd the area. These moments often went viral online, shipping culture losing their MINDS over it. #Zo[Name]

You’d become rather popular with fans online, often being caught in the background of fan pictures of the girls and you’d tried your best to stay out of frame so your face was often blurred. But that only hyped people up online because who is that hot guy next to the girls? There was so much online discussion that sometimes you’d have to listen to Zoey and Mira read it aloud to you while travelling to their next location and you’d feel bashful as they read out comment, after comment, after comment, of fans gushing about how much they wished to have someone like you in their life.

Then Mira started losing it as she started to read out a few thirstier and raunchier comments, you pleaded with her to stop as Rumi covered Zoey’s ears and assisted you in getting Mira to please stop.  Safe to say you were a little shy when some fans were excited to see you at events, in mild concern on whether or not one of these unsuspecting fans were the type that were screaming about wanting you on top of them on social media.

You’re often their care taker, your mother had left that to you after you’d become an adult so half of the time if it wasn’t Bobby trying to be a girl dad to the girls - it was you trying to take care of them. Fix up the battle scars and make sure that they were well fed, with healthier alternatives to their ramyeon cravings all the time. You’d have to force them to bed some days, when they were too stubborn to move off the couch and fell asleep in horrendous positions and mess up their backs for the next day if you didn’t haul them up in a princess carry and tuck them into their respective beds.

The girls mentioned it on a live stream a few times, yourself caught in these livestreams too, but they’d gush about you. Fans asking them personal questions about you and how you treat them, Zoey would gleefully overshare about all the stuff you do for them and the comments would explode over how much of a ‘green flag’ you were. Mira would talk about how strong you are, trying to omit the fact that she knew first hand because she likes to fight you for fun and it left Rumi to mention that she’s glad she got to grow up with you. The older brother figure she needed in her life to help keep her sane.

There was a live stream that’s been archived and praised online as THE!!! live stream - you’d walked completely into frame without knowing they were live, just assumed the girls were freaking out about something and you’d hushed them down and they listened to you. Their voices getting softer as you gently reprimanded and reminded them that they have a show tomorrow that they shouldn’t risk their voices over, a bag filled with food in hand as they followed you into the kitchen as you continued your ramble and started to make food for them. #GreenFlagCook! was trending for a few weeks after that.

You honestly wouldn’t have known if you didn’t get a call from Celine the next day to poke fun at you, though she was a little concerned on why you weren’t doing a better job at keeping yourself hidden. She raised you better than that, her son should also have better posture and people might think you always slouch. You felt defeated after getting an earful from your mum but it had been a fun memory with the girls as they kept teasing you about it for a while as well.

The fans that you’d gained and interacted with were kind, most being respectful of your boundaries and there was another viral moment that happened. Sometimes the crowds would be rowdy, pushing and shoving each other to try and get a better angle for their picture or to push their way to the front to get an autograph from the girls as they pass by. You’d been there when a smaller fan was shoved to the ground, her voice a soft gasp as she landed on her hands and nearly got crushed by other aggressive fans if you hadn’t stepped in and shielded her with your body. “You okay?” You’d asked as you had picked her up by her waist, stepping over the barricade and letting her catch her breath away from the mass amounts of bodies and let’s just say she may have fell in love that day.

Sometimes the Huntr/x girls can’t resist taking secret photos of you and posting it to their socials, tagging it with something goofy because they just wanted to TALK about you! You always took such good care of them and they didn’t know how else to show their appreciation, you refused to accept gifts and it was hard to pinpoint if you liked anything in particular because you’d just accept anything they gave you with gratitude.

[zephyrchama]

You rubbed your eyes. You were seeing things. Strange, sparkly things floating in the air around Solomon. They appeared to radiate out of him, causing you to stare and making his surroundings look dull in comparison.

He was just sorting books, leafing through them one at a time before placing them in one of five piles. The books were not dazzling. In fact, they were rather dusty and some were starting to fall apart. None of them had the same strange shimmer as Solomon. He practically had his own personal limelight. Your eyes narrowed. The rays didn't seem physical, perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight.

Solomon noticed the staring. The corners of his mouth turned up into a bemused smile. "See something you like?"

"Did you... do something?" you asked. It was hard to put into words exactly what was wrong.

The walking glowstick only grinned more. "You mean, with my hair or clothes?" He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the side above his ear. A tiny wave of starlight flowed out like a swarm of fireflies and dissipated into the surrounding air. "I did try some new soap that Simeon recommended the other day. Funny enough, it markets itself as 'soap scented.'"

He was being way too casual about this.

"That's not it. Something is different." You shut your eyes really hard, then opened and closed them in rapid succession. The weird lights were still there, and still only on Solomon.

"Did you enchant yourself?" you blurted out in accusation.

"Is that what it looks like?" The sorcerer looked highly amused. It made the radiant glitter shine brighter in contrast to his seasoned old books.

"Yeah. You're all sparkly. You look like the love interest in a shoujo manga." When you closed your eyes, you could still see Solomon's afterimage.

"Is that how you see me? Well, I'm flattered."

You knew Solomon, and you knew him well. If this wasn't planned, he'd take it more seriously. He'd ask questions, diagnose your vision, and check himself over for charms or curses at the very least. He'd probe for information. He'd express more than a vague entertainment over the issue.

You pooled your magic and, to the best of your ability, dispelled whatever Solomon had going on. It was a trick he'd taught you months ago that you only used once in a blue moon, but it worked. A little gust of power crossed the room from you to him. The glitzy sparkles faded away and Solomon stopped glowing.

"I knew it!" you shouted, pointing your finger at your mentor. "You did enchant yourself!"

"Well, I always want to look my best in front of you." Solomon was chuckling as the last of his magical effect evaporated. "What do you think, did it work?"

With silver-gray hair that sparkled like stars in the right light and a bright glossy cloak that looked like the universe, Solomon was plenty eye-catching on a normal day. He didn't need more. You frankly stated, "You looked like a human disco ball."

[hearts4hughes]

Drew being interviewed by a very touchy/ flirty interviewer and they even ask if he would date them if it wasn’t for you at the end (req btw lol)

the interview starts innocent enough. he’s in a soft black sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a thin gold ring on his right hand, turning slow circles as he listens. he nods and smiles smiles, says something about the script pulling him in, about working with good people. his voice is low, lazy—media trained mode.

and the interviewer? she’s eating it up. she’s laughing too hard, leaning in and pushing her plastic tits up. her eyes duck to his mouth a little too often. she asks about the movie and then his skincare routine and then, “okay, sorry, not to be that person, but…do you ever get tired of being so hot?”

drew blinks, raises his eyebrows, and tilts his head. he looks off to the side at his management team and they shrug with wide eyes. when he looks back to the interviewer, he merely laughs and says, “uh, i think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“nope,” she grins, one leg crossing over the other. her shoe brushes his ankle like it’s an accident—it’s not. “definitely the right guy. your girlfriend must be, like, spiritually enlightened to handle it.”

he smiles, but it’s smaller now. a light blush dusts his cheekbones at your mention. “she is.” just three words, but his voice dips. there’s weight to it—pure love and admiration.

you know that tone. it’s the one he uses when he slides your shirt off slow, kisses your hipbone like it’s holy. it’s the one he uses when he’s madly in love and trying not to give it away.

the interviewer shifts and tries again. “so what’s the secret? to making it work?”

“respect,” he says. “and trust. and she’s smarter than me, so i kind of have to keep up.” his smile turns sideways. “it’s a full time job.”

the girl laughs. the noise is a little sharper this time. “you talk about her like,” she pauses to pout her lips, “she’s your religion.”

drew shrugs. “maybe she is.”

that gets a pause. a beat of air where her flirty bravado slips. but she recovers. swings her hair over one shoulder and grins wide. “okay, so be honest,” she purrs, faux casual. “if she didn’t exist…would you date me?”

camera’s rolling but the crew goes still. drew leans back in his chair. eyebrows up and mouth twitching. there’s a pause. like he’s weighing the humor of it versus the disrespect. and then he says, lightly, almost sweet, “nah.”

“no?” her grin falls into a frown.

he smiles, all teeth this time. wolfish and fond and dangerous. “you couldn’t handle me.” the girl blinks again. red fills her cheeks and this time it’s not from how attractive he is. “i’m serious,” he says. “you like the version of me that sits pretty and says nice things. she likes all the other versions. the messy ones. the ones that don’t make the press junkets.”

he looks into the camera like it’s you. like you’re already watching this and rolling your eyes at home. “she likes the real me. and that’s kind of rare, isn’t it?” he shrugs again, and just like that, the camera stops.

~

later, in the car, his phone buzzes with your text.

you: you couldn’t handle me??

he grins, fingers already typing back.

rafe: you liked that and you know it.

rafe: home in twenty.

rafe: shirt off in twenty if you’re lucky.

you: 🙄

and then a selfie. you’re clad in a tank top and no bra—nipples peaking through like a tease of what’s to come. you’re smirking as you flip him off. his gold ring shimmers on your middle finger. he groans, one hand adjusting his pants, the other texting.

rafe: yeah. you’re definitely my religion.

you: i’ll worship however you want

you: just promise to blacklist that interviewer

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04

[harmoonix]

Sunset Boulevard 🩷🧡🏵

Astrology Observations

🏵 Leo Risings/Leo Venus/Leo in the 5th or 7th house like to show their partners off in big ways. Their partners can be their whole pride/world/attention

🩷 Lilith in the air signs has such a good vibe. You feel so close attached to them because their whole personality

🧡 Scorpio Venus/Rising/Scorpio in the 5th or 7th house has very intense eyes, their looks are full of passion/lust/magnetism

🏵 Capricorns Venus/Risings/Capricorn in the 5th or 7th house, something very attractive of them is that...they dont like to date immature ppl. They always know what they want. Idk i love them for that

🩷 Kristen Stewart has a PISCES VENUS?? OMG. Those who know me, know that I am obsessed with pisces Venus. SHES MESMERIZING...And she also has a Libra Moon??? SHE ENDED EVRYONE. It makes so much sense im in shock.

🧡 Usually natives with air signs in the 3rd/11th house tend to have really big dreams and a very open mindset. They can be known to be the creative mind of a group

🏵 Virgo and in general earth placements tend to have issues with their body in terms of eating. I know a Virgo Chiron who has a big appetite but is afraid to gain weight :/. They can go through body changes

🩷 This thing is practiced more by witches but womens menstrual cycle often tends to be linked with the lunar cycle and you can do different rituals or purifying baths to help with it. The body is really amazing

🧡 Neptune and Uranus in the 1st house tend to be sensitive to others energy. But also drained by it. Make sure to potect your energy so you dont feel like fainting at the end of the day

🏵 By the time i write this post is 11:11. I don't really know if is a sign or not. But i find it cute. We shall all be blessed

🩷 People with Venus in Fire signs know how to make a good first impression. You either get charmed or a blessing in disguise when youre with them

🧡 People with Jupiter in the 11th or 10th house can become lawyers or study law/having relatives in this profession

🏵 Saturn or Pluto in the 4th house natives might not wanna have kids. Sensitive topic but for sure family trauma too. Better to be safe than sorry (and i know it doesn't apply to everyone)

🩷 Mars in the 3rd house can be the type of person to scream in the traffic/traffic lights/others cars. Just having a roast time

🧡 Neptune in the 4th house and sometimes south node in tbe 4th house can indicate secrets in the family

🏵 If you have Saturn in the 2nd house and it happens to be a cardinal sign like aries/cancer/capricorn/libra, please make sure youre not in debt or you dont depend on anyone.

🩷 Natives with Pluto in the 6th house may live in a very chaotic world. Like the 6th house being the house of order and organizing but Pluto makes it so messy and it can happen if you have Pluto at 6° or 18° degrees too

🧡 Lilith in the 10th or 11th house can lie for attention or to gain attention. This placement plays a big role in someones reputation

🏵 Gemini Mercuries/Gemini Risings have it probably the easiest when it comes to expressing themselves and thats actually so important for their development

🩷 People with Mercury - Venus aspects...People love their voice. Their voice may sound pleasant or abundantly beautiful

🧡 Jupiter - Ascendant aspects are a blessing to your body/appearance even if you may doubt yourself. You're touched by Jupiter's abundance

🏵 People with Stellium in Scorpio (Stellium = 3 planets or more than 3 in one sign) these people study other people too well. They may know everything and all about someone

🩷 Love asteroids or planets in the 6th, 10th, or 11th house can lowkey indicate falling in love with co-workers or ppl at your work

🏵 Hope you have a good day! And stay safe please summer can be so dangerous with those heats 😭...I personally hate the heat waves....

[gukcnt]

01 | BOUND BY VOWS ⭒ JJK

your world crumbles when you're forced into a marriage with jeon jungkook, a man whose commanding presence terrifies you, reminding you of your father's cruelty. Yet beneath his coldness, jungkook’s unexpected kindness stirs a spark of hope, making you question everything you fear. Your life together starts—an emotional journey of two hearts seeking comfort, healing and a chance at love

pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre — arranged marriage au, forced marriage, marriage of convenience, age gap (13 years), reader is of age, forbidden love, forced proximity, enemies to friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, rich ceo!jungkook, shy!reader, virgin!reader, poor!reader, obsession and possessive love, pining, slow burn, contrast of worlds, romance, drama, lots of angst, smut, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, childhood trauma, emotional abuse, power dynamics, mentions of domestic violence, grief and loss, several crying scenes, panic attack, mental health struggles, hunger, illness, manipulation from readers father, several mentions of trauma and fear, isolation, betrayal and sacrifice

wc — 6.8k

a/n — this series was highly anticipated by many of you lovies, so i hope y'all enjoy it! this is just the first chapter—there's so much more to unfold hehe! <3

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

jungkook sat in his usual leather chair.

The chair creaking under his powerful frame as he looked at the laptop on his desk.

A half empty pack of cigarettes beside it.

At the age of 36, jungkook has built his empire with hardship, blood and sweat.

His muscular body straining against the black suit that hugged his broad shoulders and his dark, rugged hair was tied in a loose man bun, a few strands escaping it.

Those strands highlighted his sharp features even more.

His dark eyes held an intensity that was capable of even shaking the bravest people to the core with just a single glance of his.

The smell of his usual expensive cologne and cigarettes filled the office, a masculine scent that was his only.

The silence broken by jungkook's fingers tapping on his phone, each text of his was a command for his employees to get their job done.

His brows were drawn together, always with displeasure because all his workers were aware of how hard it is to satisfy the ceo.

His scowl felt almost natural to him now.

“Get me the reports by tonight.”

He'd snapped earlier that day, having no mercy at all.

When he spoke, his voice roughened with a growl, something that has evolved from years of barking orders.

“no excuses.”

The line went dead as he didn’t bother to hear what the person had to say, his lips twitched—not in satisfaction but from the weakness he’d sensed.

He hates weakness.

His office was something he was used to, like a second home to him, but it was also a prison.

There was nothing personal here, no photographs or memories because there was nothing valuable in his life to get priority.

A reminder of how cold his world was and how hard he worked to keep the outside at bay in order to maintain the grip he had on his life.

His name was whispered in fear, holding no challenges against him.

But behind the untouchable man was a past—orphaned at six, he'd been left with no one.

The memories still visible even though he tried his best to forget them—being left alone in the streets, the behavior of his foster parents who saw him as nothing but a paycheck and people betraying him.

Each wound had hardened him.

Turned his heart into stone.

Love was for the fools

He long since stopped believing in it. It was a trap he'd never fall into and so is trust.

The world saw a monster and jungkook never denied it.

His employees moved quickly in his presence, their eyes averted, and his rivals could never win under his strategies.

Even his handpicked men kept their distance in respect and fear.

“He’s not human,” they’d murmur in private.

“One look and you’re done.”

jungkook knew the rumors and he relished in them.

Yet in his quiet moments when he would be alone in his room, something stirred in him.

It wasn’t regret—jungkook had no use for that—but it was an ache.

An emptiness no amount of wealth could fill

He'd never known a gentle touch or had someone in his life and sometimes he just felt.

Lonely…

He would crush the thought as soon as it arises, lighting a cigarette instead and the smoke would ground him in the present.

His phone buzzed, a message from the secretary about another marriage proposal.

The third time this week.

jungkook's lips curled into a sneer.

“Tell them to fuck off.” he rumbles.

He leans back against the chair, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

Marriage was a contract.

Nothing more.

He had no interest in binding himself to a stranger that was so obviously going after his wealth.

Outside the sky darkened with the threat of a storm, his eyes drifting to the window.

His reflection can be seen on the glass—a man alone, unbreakable.

But that same feeling flicker once again, one he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray before returning to his work.

The only thing he enjoyed in a life that he built on control

The world could keep its love and its warmth along with its lies.

jeon jungkook needed none of it.

Or so he told himself because the void in his chest said otherwise.

۶ৎ

Your tiny apartment was heavy with resentment, every creak of the worn out floor was the proof of the life you were stuck in.

A life you couldn’t escape

The single rusted window in your room barely let any light in as you would sit and watch the world go on outside, so different than your despair.

At 21 you were a petite girl always wearing oversized clothes in order to hide your body, shielding yourself.

To cover your broken, delicate self

Anxiety always clung to you and your small hands, worn from hours of work, trembled when no one was watching, showing exactly how exhausted you were.

Your eyes held hopes and dreams that you never got the chance to voice but they were often filled with longing and sorrow from your life.

Your apartment was barely a place for survival, every piece of furniture seemed like it was close to breaking down.

Beside your bed on the table was a small piece of half eaten bread.

The only food you could afford today.

Your father was a constant threat in your life and his eyes held nothing but cruelty.

Always the smell of cheap liquors and cigarette smoke clung to the place because of him.

“Get up, you lazy thing.” he grunts.

The smell of his breath making you want to gag.

“You’re nothing and you think you’re different, huh? you’re just like her.”

The words barely brought out any emotions from you because they were repeated so often that you were used to it.

But every time his words left scars no one could see.

Your mother was your only anchor, the person who grounding you in this unbearable life of yours with love.

Her one smile was enough to light up your day.

Her hands warm and gentle as they tucked you into bed and in her presence you knew you could be anything you wanted.

“You’re my little girl.” she'd whisper.

“Don’t let this place, your father or any man tell you otherwise.”

But now she was barely alive in a hospital bed, her heart only beating with the help of machines, now even if you held her frail hand in yours, you could still sense the small bit of warmth.

That she was still there, she didn’t leave you

She was your reason to keep going.

The only person who'd ever seen you, truly seen you.

And her absence in your life was breaking you with each passing day.

Your father’s cruelty had shaped you in ways you couldn’t escape.

As a child you'd hide in the closet, your small body curled as you heard his fists meet your mother's body, hearing her muffled cries.

You'd press your hands to your ears, hoping to change the reality or stop it as tears streamed down your face, your heart pounding.

“Stop it, please.” you'd whisper to no one.

The memories were so vivid that even after so long they often came in your dreams—the smell of blood, broken things from your father's rage.

Those moments had transferred a deep fear into you, making you think that all men were the same heartless as your father.

That’s why you avoided them all the time, your introvert nature helping you.

At school, when boys tried to talk to you, their voices high with interest, you'd duck your head, cheeks burning and mumble excuses to flee.

Even friendships with men felt like a risk, their presence reminding you of the monster at home and the pain your mom endured for years.

Your job at the bookstore was your only escape, somewhere you could lose yourself in.

The shop was a cozy place full of books and you'd spent hours organizing shelves, placing the novels in their places.

Your coworkers, a small group of women who respected your quiet nature, were your only friends who never tried to pry further.

They'd tease you sometimes.

“You’re always scurrying away with a book, y/n.”

You'd smile slightly, but inside you felt trapped, wanting to scream.

You yearned for a life that wasn’t like this, where you had to tiptoe over everything so you wouldn’t mistakenly trigger your father’s anger.

And the only person who you loved was so close to death.

Your part time job barely covered your mother's medical bills and your father rarely gave any money for her.

You often lived with hunger, the growl in your stomach was something you'd learned to ignore and your father never paid you any attention to notice that.

Most of his money went for drinking or gambling but now that he needs to pay for your mother's expenses, his anger was always high.

Your energy was barely there, yet your dreams refused to die.

You still hoped to build a life where no one could cage you.

Always hoping.

The dreams you had were written in your notebook that you kept hidden—each paragraph a wish you had for everything that was a far cry from the reality you had.

The silence was broken one evening as your father came in, his face flushed with the drinks he had, your pen stopping at the notebook as soon as you saw him.

“What’s this nonsense?” he slurred

He snatched your notebook and a gasp left your lips, instantly reaching for it.

“Please give it back, dad.”

Your voice trembled.

He laughed, amused and tore a piece of paper.

Tears welled in your eyes.

“You think you’re some writer?”

“You’re nothing but a burden.” he spat.

Tossing the notebook to the floor, but you refused to cry—not in front of him.

You waited until he stumbled to his room, then gathered the torn pages, fingers shaking as you pressed them to your chest.

“I’ll make it out,” you breathe.

“For mom. For me.”

Your fear of marriage has grown larger with each passing year.

You'd seen your mother's life fade under your father's control.

The idea of binding yourself to a man and having the same fate as your mother often kept you up at night.

You'd lie in your small bed and stare at the cracked ceiling above, your mind imagining a faceless husband of yours whose hands were as cruel as your father's.

“I’ll never marry.”

You'd murmur the words like a mantra.

“I’ll never let anyone own me.”

But with your mother’s illness and the tight grip your father had on your life, it felt like the future wasn’t going to be yours any longer.

And you wondered how long you could hold onto your dreams.

Even though there was almost no light in your life, you refused to break completely.

Every day was a battle.

But you carried on.

Driven by the love for your mother and the stubborn hope that one day.

You'd find a way.

To be free.

۶ৎ

It was late at afternoon and you were in a diner. You sat alone at a small table by the window, fingers trembling as you unwrapped a burger.

The burger was a rare treat that you purchased from the last coins you'd saved after skipping breakfast and lunch.

Your hunger too much to ignore.

You were about to take a bite when your gaze drifted outside, noticing a movement on the pavement.

A puppy, small and tiny stood trembling beside a trashcan, its fur full of dirt, you could see his ribs from how skinny he was.

You froze, the forgotten burger as empathy crashed over you.

You'd always loved animals.

Their loyalty a big difference compared to humans in your life, but your father's rules never allowed you to own one.

Without hesitation you pushed through the door and walked to the pavement before kneeling in front of the puppy, ignoring the way the rough ground scraped your knees.

“Hello, sweet boy.” you coo.

You tore the burger into small pieces and the puppy stares at you hesitantly, his doe eyes glistening, but as you hold a piece in front of him, his nose twitches.

Then, without a warning he lunged forward and devoured the food in a way that was almost feral, making you giggle.

And you realized exactly how long it has been since you laughed.

The curve of your lips almost seemed foreign to you now.

Its tiny tongue lapped at the oil on your finger once he was done eating a piece, making you grin further.

Your heart warming as you stroked the puppys fur, petting him

Tears almost streamed down your face because in that moment the puppy was more than a stray—he was a moment of joy for you that you could still feel despite the weight of your life.

Your hunger was overshadowed by the puppy's grateful nuzzle, his wet nose pressing against your wrist.

“You’re not alone, okay? not today.”

You whispered, your words carrying meaning.

Across the street jungkook sat inside his expensive car, that was custom made by himself, eyes fixed on his phone screen, a frown in his brows.

He was immersed in emails of his work, the world outside irrelevant to him like always, until a flash of something caught his attention.

He glanced up, his dark eyes narrowing as they landed on you kneeling on the dirty pavement.

You looked very fragile to him.

Your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder revealing your skin and your face—was soft with lips parted in a tender smile, yet there was a sadness that he could see visibly.

jungkook's breath hitched, fingers tightening around his phone.

He watched, not blinking as you fed the puppy, your hands trembling not from the cold but from a hunger he could sense even from this distance.

Your movements were too slow like it was costing you to use up all your energy.

The sight of you giving away your meal—the only one of the day that he suspected—hit him.

“Foolish”

He mutters under his breath but the words felt like a lie.

There was something so human in your act, stirring a sensation in his chest that he hadn't felt in years.

A crack in the wall he'd built around his heart.

He saw the tears streaming down your cheeks and the way your lips trembled as you petted the puppy.

You were lonely.

Not the small loneliness of a moment but an isolation that he could relate to himself.

But he'd never admit it.

Your selflessness and your quiet strength—it unraveled him.

He didn’t understand why you matter, why this small glimpse of you seemed to shift something in him but he couldn’t look away.

His jaw clenches and he wanted to dismiss you to forget about this feeling under the pressure of his work.

But he can't, he can't just leave you in this state.

“Dammit.” he grunts.

He didn’t do this—didn’t care, didn’t let anyone in.

But you were different and that realization terrified him.

Before he could think otherwise, he was out of the car, the door slamming with a thud as he started walking towards the diner with intent.

He entered, and the room fell silent, his presence powerful enough to bring their attention to him.

The waiters froze mid step, the customers all quickly glancing away like they could sense the danger emitting from him.

His eyes scanned the room, landing on the counter where a waiter stood wide eyed and trembling.

"Get me the most expensive meal you have.”

jungkook ordered in his authoritative voice, leaving no space for argument.

“Everything—the best one you have. Now”

He slid a black credit card across the counter, the waiter fumbling to catch it.

“And give it to the girl outside.”

jungkook added, his gaze falling toward the window where you still knelt, unaware of what was happening.

The waiter nodded quickly.

“Y—yes sir, right away.”

jungkook didn’t wait any further, turning and walking back to his car.

He didn’t look back, didn’t dare to, but your image lingered—a small, sad girl who’d given him something he didn’t know he needed.

A glimpse of light in his endless dark life.

Inside the diner, you returned to your table, the puppy trailing behind, tail wagging.

You were about to leave, stomach still knotting with hunger and it was almost painful, but you'd manage.

That’s when the waiter approached.

His arms carried an entire feast that made your eyes widen.

Several grilled steaks, fries, salads and rice at the side, along with a tall glass of iced tea, were set before you.

The smell of such a rare meal made your head spin.

“I didn’t order this.” you said, shakily.

The waiter, still pale from jungkook's intensity, shook his head.

“Someone… someone paid for it.”

“For you, miss. They insisted”

Confusion filled you, but the scent of the food was too much to resist.

You ate slowly, each bite feeling like a luxury—you’ve never had such expensive, flavorful food in your life.

For the first time in weeks you felt sated, your hunger gone and the feeling was something you'd almost forgotten.

Tears welled again. not from sadness but from gratitude, though you had no one to thank.

You glanced outside, half expecting to see the mysterious person but the street was empty except for the puppy curled at the door.

You wrapped the leftovers in foil, you'd take them home for your father, a small gesture to please the man who made your life hell.

Because despite everything, you always treated him with respect, a kindness that maybe he didn’t deserve.

As you stepped outside, the puppy barked at you, rubbing himself on your leg and you smiled your heart feeling lighter.

“Stay safe, little one.”

You didn’t know who’d changed your day, didn’t know the man whose dark eyes had seen the hunger in your soul, but now you felt a small bit of happiness—and you’ll keep it tucked away.

Afraid it would break too soon.

۶ৎ

In jungkook's office papers lay in stacks on his desk as he tried focusing on them—until he couldn’t.

He leans back in his leather chair, calloused fingers gripping the armrest tightly, his veins visible.

He had too much pent up energy in him, a few strands of hair slipping out of his man bun, damp with sweat.

His tailored suit was open, revealing the white shirt beneath clinging to his muscled chest, showing the tension in his body.

His eyes were unfocused, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers for whatever chaos that was going through his mind.

You.

You were the chaos.

A girl he'd seen only for a few minutes, a fleeting figure, yet you'd gotten deep into his thoughts.

He could still see you—kneeling in the dirt, trembling hands offering food to a stray, eyes filled with sorrow.

He related too much with you and it was absurd.

Because someone so insignificant could distract him like that

He was jeon jungkook, who bent industries to his will but here he was undone for a stranger.

His jaw clenched, reaching for a cigarette to distract himself and the lighter flicked as he lit the cigarette.

His lips pressed into an angry line.

He inhaled the smoke deeply before exhaling.

“She’s nothing. Nobody”

He stood abruptly, the chair almost falling and paced to the window.

He wanted to protect you, possess you and shield you from the world.

He didn’t understand it—this pull.

It wasn’t lust, though your soft curves and innocent eyes had brought out something primal in him.

It was something deeper.

“Why you?” he breathes.

His breath fogging the glass, a vulnerability in him that he hadn’t shown in years.

He slammed his fist against the window, rattling it, the pain in his knuckles helped with the distraction.

He wasn’t a man who spent too much time on feelings.

He often forgot about them under the weight of his deals and deadlines.

He was filled with frustration and need.

He never let emotions control his actions.

Yet here he was pacing like a caged animal, control slipping.

Someone knocked at the door before it creaked open, his secretary stepping inside nervously.

“Sir, these came in today.”

Her voice trembling as she placed the items on his desk.

jungkook's gaze flicked at the files before his head snapped towards her, his glare enough to make her flinch.

“I told you.”

His tone dangerously low.

“No more of these fucking proposals. Do I need to fire you to explain myself?”

The secretary's face paled, her hands fidgeting.

“I—I thought this was work related sir. I’m so sorry, I didn’t check—”

“Out.” he barks, cutting her off.

She scurried away, shutting the door behind her, leaving him alone with the file.

He stared at it.

His chest heaving, he should’ve just torn it and thrown it into the garbage, but something stopped him.

A nagging feeling.

With a scowl, he snatched it up, ripping it open with annoyance.

A small photograph slipped out falling to the desk and he froze.

It was you.

Your face stared up at him, your eyes wide and lips parted slightly.

The photo was a bit blurry, clearly taken without your knowledge but it was unmistakably you.

His fingers hover over it hesitantly, finally grabbing it, your face sating a deep hunger in him that he didn’t know was there.

He sank back into his chair and stared at the photo, his cigarette forgotten as his heart raced.

“You.” he rasped, very close to awe.

He didn’t understand why this one image out of thousands of proposals mattered.

But it did.

It was as if the universe had somehow planned to bring you back to him, make you both cross paths again.

The letter accompanying the photo was written in a shaky hand and jungkook could understand the false sincerity just by looking at it.

It was from a man claiming to be your father, offering you—his daughter—as a bride.

“perfect match” he thought for jungkook

The audacity of it made his lips curl as he puts the effort into reading the letter that he would barely look at.

In any other circumstances he would have barked orders to his secretary to fire whoever let it through.

Marriage was a trap.

A contract he'd spent years dodging.

But this time his hand stilled, not tearing the letter, the photo held delicately.

He slipped the photo into his breast pocket with care, the action almost intimate, like he was tucking away his secret.

The paper pressed against his chest like a heartbeat he'd forgotten he had.

His fingers lingered there over the fabric as if he was protecting something precious.

He didn’t throw away the letter and didn’t yell for his secretary.

Instead, he sat in silence.

“Who are you?”

He whispers to the empty room, a longing present there.

“What are you doing to me?”

He didn’t believe in fate, love or in anything above his usual power and control, but you—you were like a mystery he needed to solve.

He closes his eyes, your image there as soon as he does.

And for the first time in years jungkook felt something close to hope—a feeling he both craved and feared.

That could either ruin him or burn him altogether.

۶ৎ

The cramped living room was suffocating, the walls were yellow from years of neglect and the couch squeaked under the weight of jungkook.

His hand rested on his knees, one hand holding a cigarette as his intense eyes roamed around the room, noting every detail.

The cracked photo frame and other broken furnitures, along with the bruise on your father's knuckles are proof of his temper.

And the air itself in the room sensed jungkook's dangerous presence.

Your father sat opposite him on a chair, a nervous energy in him, his face slick with sweat.

His eyes darting between jungkook and the floor.

In jungkook's presence he was no longer capable of showing his wrath, he was only a trembling mouse in front of jungkook.

His usual confidence that he used to control the women in this house had reduced to a shaky man wanting to please.

“Mr. Jeon”

He began, voice cracking.

“It’s an honor truly, to have you here.”

“My daughter y/n—she’s a good girl, quiet, obedient, perfect for a man… like you.”

The words seemed rehearsed.

jungkook's jaw tightened, this man with his yellowed teeth and coward eyes dared to think of you like a servant, a thing to be used for favor.

The audacity sparked an anger in him that was burning hotter with every word that came out of his filthy mouth.

jungkook's expression remained blank, remaining silent.

He enjoyed watching the pathetic man squirm under his gaze and how it was taking away his courage.

He leaned forward slightly, the couch squeaking again.

“Tell me about her.” he said, darkly.

The command was simple but to your father it held the need to satisfy, and he was already sweating his ass off from jungkook intensity.

How he looked like he could crack your father's skull open with just the use of one single hand.

“She’s… well, she’s always been a good daughter.” your father stammered.

“Works at a bookstore, mostly keeps to herself… never gets in trouble. M—Mr. Jeon.”

“Raised her to know her place.”

He forces a smile, revealing yellow teeth once again that soon disappeared under jungkook's glare.

“She’d make a good wife—someone who knows how to please.”

jungkook's eyes narrowed, the disgusting hitting him ever harder.

He hated this man—hated him from the moment he'd stepped inside this rotting house that smelled too much of cheap liquor.

The way your father talked about you was angering him too much and the need to hit him was increasing.

But he held back, clenching his fists, knuckles whitening.

He wonders how this man in front of him was even related to someone as soft as you.

He took a slow drag of his cigarette and tilted his head, studying your father.

“Is that so?” he hums.

Amusement and a rage in his voice that makes your father tremble further

“I’m not here for promises. I wanna see her.”

The demand caused your father's eyes to dart toward the hallway where you waited.

“y/n!” he barked, panic still present.

“Come in here now!”

The command made you freeze, heart thudding.

Your father had prepared you for this moment and you weren’t aware that all his words were a lie.

“One of my colleague is coming,” he’d said, leaving no space for further questions.

“Dress nicely, behave and don’t make me look bad, you hear me?”

The request caused goosebumps all over your skin—men, especially strangers in your home wasn’t something you were comfortable with, their presence always something you compared with your father.

But you couldn’t deny it, not when his temper could be on you or worse, affect your mother’s care.

So you'd nodded and spent the rest of the morning in dread, unaware of the true purpose of his visit.

You’d chosen a simple baby blue sundress with tiny white flower prints, and it wasn’t something you wore usually since it hugged your curves.

You often hid beneath oversized clothes.

But you didn’t want to piss your father off.

Your hair was down, hands trembling as you smoothed the dress and you had no idea of the man waiting in the living room.

The thought of facing him made your stomach knot.

Slowly you stepped into the doorway and the world seemed to stop because jungkook's presence alone dominated everything the room.

Power, wealth and danger—he was all in one.

But it was his eyes that stopped you—dark and intense, locking onto you in a way that made your knees weak, as if he could see the depths of your soul.

The sight of you—small, trembling—deepened his anger towards your father, his earlier words still echoing in his mind.

And the urge to protect you from your so called father was nearly overwhelming.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, he was unlike anyone you'd ever seen.

He was so… different in a good and bad way.

His gaze on you didn’t waver.

And you felt stripped bare, like every tremble of your body, every fear in your eyes was laid open for him

“y/n, this is Mr. jeon.” your father says.

You forced yourself to move your trembling legs as you stepped into the room.

You managed a small awkward bow, hair falling forward to cover your face.

“H—hello, sir.” you stutter.

You kept your eyes on the floor, anything to avoid his intense stare, your cheeks flushing pink.

jungkook's gaze on you was still there, almost like a physical touch, eyes tracing all over you—the way the dress clung to your body, the tremble in your small hands.

You were even more fragile than he'd thought, almost like a doll and the sight of you so vulnerable lit something fierce in his chest.

His cigarette burned between his fingers, stinging him but he didn’t flinch, too captivated by you to notice the pain.

Your shyness and refusal to meet his eyes turned him possessive in a way he didn’t know was possible and he wanted to claim you this instant.

Take you far away from this stinking man and this place because you deserved better.

You were like a puzzle to him and he wanted to understand to know why there was such deep sadness and fear in you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, y/n.” he said.

His voice softer than he intended, a deep rumble.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your body reacting before your mind could and you nodded, unable to form words.

Your father gestured to a chair and you went over before sitting down, hands still clasped tightly in your lap.

The room felt smaller with jungkook in it and there was too much heavy tension in the air.

The conversation followed between jungkook and your father, with jungkook barely responding because all his attention was on you.

“Always been a good girl.”

Your father forced a smile, eyes flicking to you.

“She keeps the house in order and is well behaved. She’ll make someone very happy one day.”

The words made your skin crawl, and you didn’t know why.

Unaware of what brought jungkook here.

jungkook's fingers tightened around his cigarette as he fought the urge to silence the man.

The repeated insistence on your “goodness” was further infuriating him, as if you were nothing but made to please others.

jungkook looked at you again.

“What do you do, y/n?” he asked, gently.

The question caught you off guard and you blinked, as you weren't used to someone being interested enough to ask such a question, especially about something you loved doing.

“I… I work at a bookstore.” you mumble.

Eyes still fixed on your hands

“It’s… nothing special.”

It felt like you were exposing yourself for judgement, but jungkook's expression didn’t change.

Instead, his eyes softened just a fraction.

“A bookstore,” he repeats.

“Do you like it?”

The question was simple as if he genuinely wanted to know you, not just the version your father was telling.

You nodded, throat tight.

“It’s quiet.”

“I like the books. They… they take me somewhere else.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them and the confession was a glimpse into the escape you wanted.

You regretted your words instantly, cheeks burning hotter.

jungkook's lips twitched, almost smiling but it was gone before you could be sure.

“Somewhere else.”

He says almost to himself.

He leans back and takes another drag of his cigarette as your father goes back to talking.

Your words, so innocent yet so revealing deepened jungkook's resolve. He saw the grip your father had around you and his disgust for the man grew into something more dangerous.

He didn’t know why he cared, but the need to free you, to burn this already broken house to the ground.

Was getting to him.

The encounter stretched on, each minute feeling like an eternity and the entire time you kept your eyes down, heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

jungkook's presence was too much and you wanted to flee from him.

But you were trapped.

When it was finally over, jungkook rose, his movements predatory.

He said nothing to your father, not even a goodbye.

His eyes flicks to you one last time, the look lingering like a promise or a threat, you weren’t sure.

He left without another word, footsteps fading.

You stood, legs still shaky and excused yourself before rushing back to your room.

Your heart raced and you were sweating.

You pressed your hands to your burning cheeks, trying to get back, but jungkook's presence stayed with you.

His dark eyes, deep voice, the way he’d looked at you—like you were something precious.

You didn’t understand the feeling in your chest, the mix of fear and fascination.

But you knew one thing.

This man was something else.

And you were already caught in it.

jungkook meanwhile, stepped into the cool air, the photo of you still burning a hole in his pocket.

He lit another cigarette, mind racing.

He'd come here to confirm a suspicion, but he was leaving with a need and a hunger he was going wild for.

He saw you, and he wasn’t sure he could let you go now.

Ever.

He'd see you again and when he did, that pathetic man, your father, would learn what it means to cross him.

۶ৎ

You sat in your bed, hunched over, knees drawn to your chest, your hands clutching the notebook—your only escape from reality.

You were scribbling there and hidden under your pillow there was your mother’s scarf that smelled so much like her nurturing smell, you clinged to it when you missed her so much and couldn’t see her.

Your only source of comfort

The door suddenly slammed open with a force and your father was there, his eyes filled with a menacing satisfaction that made your stomach churn.

“Get up,” he growls.

“You’re getting married. In a week. To jeon jungkook”

The words felt like a slap in your face and you gasped as the pen slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor.

A wave of nausea hitting you, you almost didn’t believe his words.

“What?” you breathe.

You couldn’t hear yourself over how hard your heart was pounding.

“No… no, I never agreed to this. You can't—”

Your voice breaks into a sob, leaving you with panic as your shaking hands grip the bedsheets.

Your father's lip curled into a sneer.

“It’s done.” he snapped.

He steps closer.

“You’ll marry him, or I’ll stop paying for your mother’s treatment.”

A mocking, bitter grin on his lips.

“You want her blood on your hands?”

You flinched, broken cries leaving you.

Your father knew exactly where to strike, and that was your weakness: your mother.

The only person you would do anything for, even give your life for.

Your father knew that too well and he was taking all advantage of it.

“Please dad.” you beg.

Tears streaming down your face as you shook your head repeatedly.

“Don’t do this. I’ll do anything—work more hours, sell my things, anything—but this.”

Your hands reached out and you hoped for the mercy that he'd never shown you.

“I can’t marry him. H—he’s cold and older and I don’t even know him.”

“I don’t want this life. I have dreams, I have—”

You pressed a hand to your chest as you were basically having a panic attack, sobbing and begging.

Your words a mix of pleas.

Your father’s face didn’t show a single bit of emotion, only anger present and his hand twitched as if he might strike you, like several times he had done before when he didn’t get things done his way.

“Dreams?” he spat.

He steps closer, his drunk breath hitting you.

“You think your pathetic dreams matter? you're nothing y/n, just a burden I've carried too long. jungkook’s money will fix everything and you’ll do as I say.”

His voice drops lower as he points a finger at you.

“You marry him, or your precious mother is gone.”

You were getting dizzy, the room spinning, your sobs grew louder in a way that left you gasping for air.

You couldn't breathe.

Your hands clawing at the blanket as if it could tether you in a world where this wasn’t happening.

“You can’t force me.” you cried, desperate.

“I won’t do it! I’ll run away.”

You started rocking back and forth as you gripped the scarf, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline—anything to keep you from losing your mind.

It was all you had left of her.

He laughed darkly, no pity, just amusement.

“Run? where to huh? you’ve got nothing, no one. You think you can survive without me? without my money keeping you and your mother alive?”

He gets closer to your face and you back away, whimpering.

“This is your place, y/n. You live off my money and now you'll belong to jungkook. Its final.”

He stood as he turned to leave, slamming the door shut behind him loudly.

You were alone again.

The silence was loud, only your broken cries could be heard, arms wrapping around your knees as you rocked once again.

The tears wouldn’t stop.

You hated your father and hated the life that had trapped you.

You especially hated jungkook, the man you barely knew and he was nothing but a monster who'd own you.

By forcefully marrying you.

You searched him up once he left and you'd seen several rumors—his ruthlessness, power and wealth.

All of it sums up into a man who'd cage you and break you just as your father had broken your mother.

Your greatest fear was gonna occur before you, all of your nightmares coming true.

But this time you couldn’t escape it.

A marriage to a man who'll turn your life worse than what it already was.

You thought of your mother and how she was barely hanging on with all the machines.

She adored you so much, always dreaming of a life for you that would be filled with happiness and love that she'd been denied.

The thought of her dying, of losing the only person who'd ever truly cared for you, made your chest hurt physically.

You couldn’t let her go, couldn’t bear the guilt of her death from a decision of yours.

So with a numbness, you made the choice that felt like betraying your own self.

You'd marry jungkook.

You'd sacrifice your dreams and freedom in order to keep her alive.

The thought was suffocating you and you pressed your nose into her scarf as if it would bring her back, help you out of this nightmare and fight your father for you.

Because she always did.

And now she wasn't here to do it anymore.

Your life will be destroyed right in front of your eyes.

And you could do nothing but watch.

The night stretched on like that as you lay there, your eyes ran out of tears, only leaving faint tear stains behind.

You didn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep.

Each day from today will be a step closer for the new cage that awaited you.

jungkook's face haunted you now, a man you'll be forced to obey.

You didn’t know him but you knew enough to fear him and the coldness that seemed to emit from his very being.

The notebook lay open beside you, its pages filled with short stories you’ve written from your imaginations about heroines who fought and won.

Who found love in a world that didn’t hurt them.

But you weren’t a heroine in a story.

You were always a small, miserable girl trapped in a story.

With no happy ending.

────

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[binmeister]

Some headcanons for Bodyguard!Reader

Huntr/x / Saja Boys x Bodyguard!Reader

A doodle from your author parent - i can't draw men well but for YOU!!! I attempted it.

I’ve decided that Bodyguard!Reader is now my son, I have adopted you and I want to shower you with love. Let me spoil you.

have some headcanons - maybe more in future maybe not

CW: not proofread, mostly fluff, potentially considered crackfic but mainly fluff and me rambling

What’re you like?

As said in a previous post Bodyguard!Reader is hardworking, upbringing thanks to your mother made you a stickler for rules but something that differs between your mother and you is that you’re willing to change your mindset - new information that contradicts something you’re so sure of? You’ll look into it and change how you think because you’d like to think you’re a fairly flexible person

You mentally take note of things for people, whether its their interests or likes and dislikes, if you can’t remember it off the top of your head you’ve written it down in a little notebook you keep at home or you have a notes app on your phone that keeps track of little tidbits of information of the people you work with because you wanna make sure that you can treat them to something they like - it’s a small little love language

What’re your fans like?

Have you guys ever seen the way people praise IU’s bodyguard? It’s like that - your fans gush over you frequently, wishing that they could get the princess treatment that you give the girls and that they wished more guys existed like you

You definitely have a few that are.. creepy.. a little overly invasive but you’ve never personally interacted with them - they’re usually lurking in live streams and asking cryptic questions that the girls will shut down and berate them about being polite and respectful of your privacy

You’ve unfortunately got a lot of aunties that looooove you a little too much but you’ve lucked out that they’ve never pestered you at events to meet their daughters or nieces because it’s evident to them as well that you’re clearly off the market - kinda crazy to offer up their niece when you literally work with idols right?

The fans that are on the spicier side of things are surprisingly respectful, being mindful to make it hard for you to easily find any thirst posts they might make of you and even have a nickname / pseudonym that makes it easy for fans to find but not for you to find - the girls found it easily though

How do the girls mess with you?

It was basically part of their unofficial contract with you: they had to mess with you and they sure as hell loved to do it

Out of all the girls I think Zoey is the most likely to kiss you - not on the lips, usually on the cheek or forehead and there’s even been an instance where she took a photo of it where you were caught off guard and she planted a big ol smooch on your temple during one of her infamous ‘koala Zoey!’ moments

That photo was trending for a while - she had an arm wrapped loosely round your neck, hand clutching onto the collar of your shirt, her legs wrapped tight around your waist and one of your hands had instinctively grabbed onto one of her thighs to hold her weight as her other hand was outstretched with her phone to take the photo while your other hand had grabbed hers on your collar

Mira is the one that posts thirst pics of you without you knowing, when you step out from a fresh shower and your shirt is in your hand because you were too lazy to put it on in the bathroom and you’re ruffling your hair down - towel obscuring your face - oh yeah. that’s getting posted.

I think Rumi is the one to post the least flattering pics of you - though scarcely on her public profile but there’s definitely a picture of where you’re covered in marker doodles and stickers, food coma on your birthday dinner because the girls’ had been so adamant that they’re gonna treat you to some CRAZY good food, where they’re posed over top of you - peace signs and all smiles as you’re completely knocked out on the couch with an arm covering your face

Dynamics with the girls?

As mentioned before - Zoey is probably the most physically affectionate with you; she’s just got so much love to give and likes to hug the people she cares about

Frequently likes to hug you from behind because she loves how safe it feels, the comfort from your sturdy back and it was definitely not because she gets to nuzzle her face into your back muscles without being swatted away - in reality it helps ground her when she’s anxious and a little too frazzled about if she was doing too much because you simply let her, voice low and soft to ask if she’s okay and she’d just nod into your back and you’d stand there for a while to let her recharge as she needed

Mira is the roughest out of the girls in terms of personality, so often you’ll argue but never enough that it gets heated and personal but there has been a time or two where it did get personal. The family insults came out and the tension in the apartment was palpable because you could be just as stubborn as she could. But then you had time to cool off after the argument, gone to the store to clear your head and came back with her favourite ramyeon and some snacks for the other girls too as you quietly cooked up some food to hand it to Mira as your little peace offering. 

You didn’t verbally apologise to each other - actions meaning more than words sometimes because you knew she struggled to express herself without sarcasm and you knew she wouldn’t hear you out if you tried to reason with her because sometimes your tendency to be passive or people please meant you were dishonest

There are times where she just wants to be in your space so occasionally there are nights where you hear your door click open and she’s just there, you nod to let her know she’s fine to come in and she’ll come in and crash on the foot of your bed or at your desk chair and just exist in your space - you two aren’t too physically affectionate with each other but this works best for you guys

When it comes to Rumi it’s a mixed bag. She’s affectionate with you and you tease her like the older brother you are, and then when you’re affectionate to her she’s complaining that you’re so gross and that eeewww why’re you so smelly?

You’re close though, there’d been many the time where you would argue back to your mother Celine in defence of Rumi - not the smartest thing you’ve ever done but it helped reassure her that you were in her corner, which means more than you’d really understand 

How do the guys mess with you?

Baby takes sweet twisted joy at making you his personal steed whenever you’re working an event for them, hovers around you and tends to lean on you when he’s not able to get a free piggy back ride - there’s been a few instances where he tries to cause trouble and you pick him up by the collar of his top and physically stop him before he can do anything stupid

Abby surprisingly doesn’t mess with you that much, not intentionally at least because he just kinda enjoys hanging out with you - the only one out of the guys willing to work out with him is maybe Jinu on a good day and those windows are rare - when he does mess with you it’s mostly because he’s trying to do too much fan service which makes your job stressful when you need to make sure no one acts up and does something that could harm themselves OR the idols you’re supposed to protect

Romance is such an attention seeker when you’re around, because its a double win - he gets your attention AND he gets to make the hunter girls mad! There’s no way he’d miss such a pristine opportunity

He really likes to play up whatever imaginary injury he’s got to get Mira in trouble (cry wolf kinda kid) and at first you’d be a little sceptical and then you catch on that he’s lying but sometimes you indulge him. Hold his hand where he’s saying he got a booboo and when you feel a little cheeky? You peck the tip of his finger and say ‘there there, all better sweetie.’ in a mockingly sweet tone but it just makes him want more attention in the end

Dynamics with some of the guys?

Abby likes to wrestle with you - lives for it because FINALLY someone who doesn’t make him feel like he’s a schoolyard bully, yeah he can playfight with the other guys but it feels like he’s some jock picking on a random band geek... he feels bad about it sometimes

He’s the one that gets your number first out of the guys, but doesn’t tell anyone else that he has it, he managed to convince you to go to the gym with him and you’d both kinda just agreed to going together at least once a week - you’d become one anothers’ spotter and hype man for when you wanted to set a new PR

Jinu likes to joke around with you a lot, like a lot or just likes to strike up conversation with you. Whenever you’re at an event and he spots you he jogs over to have a chat, about what? No clue but you guys just talk about life - not even related to demons or hunters anymore just daily life and what you’re up to or what he’s up to when you’re done for the day

He judges the guys a lot when they’re being their chaotic selves and you both take turns reeling the chaotic kids together so they can behave and NOT break that piece of furniture because it’s going to come out of your paycheck and not theirs which isn’t cool

He’s the second to get your number because you both realised it’d make more sense if he could contact you directly for any schedules rather than go through Bobby and then to you, he’s respectful of not making things too personal and does mostly message you in regards to work but occasionally you’ll get a message from him asking if you just wanna hang out for a bit and go for a walk - works out pretty nicely

Baby is.. you don’t really know still. He likes to be held or carried, probably just doesn’t like having to stand if he is given the choice and it seems he really enjoys this odd power dynamic because of it. You don’t necessarily say no when he asks for a piggy back ride and he seems aware enough to not ask when you’re clearly busy or if it’s an inappropriate time - aside from the first time he jumped on without permission and no proper warning

It still happens now where he doesn’t talk to you and just goes through the motions of jumping up onto your back but usually he at least greets you first before doing so, he listens to you when you tell him off about his posture then when you turn your back he slowly starts to slouch again out of habit but it’s progress at least

Thank you guys for giving me motivation to write more for Bodyguard!Reader - it's been really fun

[xomintybreezexo]

So, this has barely anything to do with the above, but I'm seeing a lot of people in the comments saying they hate fics that are mostly fanon stuff, so let me say, I agree, to a certain extent.

I've watched the show at least 3 times by now, and I love a lot of fanon world-building! I will admit there are some things like abusive Fentons that I hate because, in canon, they seem to be, at most, neglectful parents. I love the fanon of ghost cores and ghost obsessions because it feels like things that were alluded to in canon that were either never expanded on or only brought up once, and I love to watch people go crazy with it!

But I do not like it when someone has clearly never watched any of the show, except maybe one or two episodes out of order. It's one thing to purposefully disregard canon if canon sucks, I see a lot of people say that for Phantom Planet because it felt like a very rushed and unsatisfying ending, and I'm inclined to agree. But in more fanon-oriented works, it's usually obvious which writings have seen enough of the show to have a baseline understanding of the characters they're writing, and again, it is okay to disregard canon characterization if you acknowledge it.

I guess my personal issue with fanon is when the characters are almost completely different from canon, mostly when the writer has a lack of understanding of the character(s) they are writing. Because it usually shows. I love when fanon builds on canon, especially for shows/series like Danny Phantom that were forced to end early for one reason or another. I don't like it when canon is mostly or completely disregarded for fanon.

But that's just my personal opinion lol. I still love reading fics where there are parts I have to suspend disbelief for because it can challenge my understanding and perception of a character or concept in the series. I hate it when the challenge to my perception and understanding of something is all a fic is. That's just me and myself, though, please don't take anything I've said to heart.

[midnite-c6]

WAIIT you should write namgyu and myunggi!! I love that broke bum baby daddy

i support this motion. first thing i thought of when i watched ep. 2

⊂⁠*⁠.⁠✧ you're myung-gi's "one and only", but oh no! looks like he's willing to do some teamwork on you...

warnings: 18+, DARK CONTENT, hate sex, double penetration, threesome, mysoginistic!nam-gyu & myung-gi x fem!reader, degradation, rough, noncon || ∆

⊂*⁠.⁠✧ myung-gi promises you, with all his heart, he'd find you. to compensate for whatever absence he had made you feel in the past, to compensate the love that he had neglected you of. but maybe you're the piece of shit one! for not accepting his apologies. for not forgiving him and letting him love you. for not letting him use you again.

it was cut-throat— two simple directions. he'd kill one person to pass, then he'd be running straight back to protect you. you said that he shouldn't, that he should fucking leave you alone because you can handle yourself. deep down, you are waiting for him. unbeknownst to you though, the drug addict offered up a proposal to team-up with myung-gi! two unstoppable forces. maybe this really shows what myung-gi's morality's truly like, he was destined to be partnered up with people like nam-gyu.

myung-gi was quiet most of the time, only breaking his silence by saying something useful. nam-gyu on the otherhand was unbearably talkative, "hey, man, you tryin' to find your girl?" myung-gi knows better than to respond. nam-gyu would nudge his shoulders, "you are. figures, she alone?" there's nothing meaningful to reply to that, nam-gyu doesn't care, he'll continue to talk and talk and talk, tilting his head to the side, curious-like...

"she's cute. really cute. perky tits, glossy eyes." myung-gi freezes, adjusting his knife to threaten nam-gyu's neck. "don't fucking dare," nam-gyu has no dignity left in him anymore, doesn't even show any sense of fear. "when's the last time you complimented her? maybe that's why ya’ two aren't gettin' along-" "i said fuck. off." the blade of his sword would touch the other guy's neck. nam-gyu pouts, whining in a mocking tone: "aww, but that's what's happening, right? i heard you two fightin', she doesn't wanna be with you, bro."

myung-gi stops walking, stops doing anything altogether, furrowed brows and a heart full of burden. was it wrong to think you were such a bitch? he was doing everything for you! "you're mad." nam-gyu snickers, "yeah, i am. fucking frustrated she won't get me."

"we can get her back, you know?" "what do you mean we?"

"we, take our anger out on her, works like a charm." he doesn't acknowledge myung-gi's question, "that bitch pisses me off too much, talks about how i'm crazy. she's crazy for not letting you help her— stupid, even." while myung-gi gives ideas for better teamwork ethic in hide and seek, nam-gyu gives the best ideas for shit like this. "i was kinda thinkin' of... hm... putting her in her place?"

"it wouldn't be that hard, i don't think... you've already gotten her knocked up!" he adds as he giggles to himself, like that was the most intellectual statement in the world. it takes everything not to shove the knife he was holding right through his chest, but myung-gi was easy to convince, to corrupt, maybe you do need to be put in your place.

when you hide by yourself, not looking to run into anyone but myung-gi, you find a small room with colorful drawings painted all over the walls. this was the best thing you could do, running constantly would only make you tired. though, after a few minutes, you hear nam-gyu's voice in the distance, player 124, someone you know you should stay away from. your breath hitches, hand covering your mouth so you wouldn't make a single sound, yet, you also hear myung-gi's voice. myung-gi! maybe he'd be able to save you from nam-gyu!

myung-gi pushes the door open, seeing you eye to eye. his expression softens for a second, before glaring at you, remembering what he wants to do. he slowly walks inside, looking down at you, with an unfamiliar look on his face. "i... myung-gi... careful, i heard nam-gyu's just right down-" nam-gyu would step in, ironically, speaking of the devil. "me? awh, she's thinking of me." myung-gi would grab the collar of your shirt, pulling you closer to him.

"what the- myung-gi." you call out, "you taking drugs too?" nam-gyu would take the hit from the comment, speaking just a few feet away from you, "that all you can say? you're so shallow... jeez... what a woman."

"shush, can you listen to me for once?" myung-gi reasons, but you were so stubborn! "what? what do you want from me again, myung-gi?" "you're fucking ungrateful." he pins you against the wall, two men who have knives were apparently teaming up on you, what else were you supposed to do???

"myung-gi- what are you doing-" he fake-pouts, like how you do whenever he asks for forgiveness. "oh? so now you wanna act weak? you've been tellin' me all this time that you can handle yourself." nam-gyu slides right behind you, "fuuck, tell her, bro!" hands immediately sliding underneath your shirt and on-top of your chest. you yelp. "myung-gi! he's—" he shushes you. "take off her clothes," nam-gyu would immediately do as he was told, he was also the one benefiting from it anyway. "you. don't say a word, unless i tell you to, copy that?" "what the fuck, myung-gi!" he'd grip your jaw, "can't your little brain follow orders? don't speak. simple." "or you die...!" the one behind you adds, you could only whine in response.

with your clothes lying on the floor, you feel filthy, for being sandwiched by the two men, one you barely even know, naked. "she likes this," he looks you in the eye, like he knows what you're going through and makes fun of you. "don't you?" myung-gi smiles, revelling in your defeat. you're not sure if you should respond to that or not. "she's making that face, means she's into this, disgusting shit like this." nam-gyu would gasp in amazement, smiling as he continues to grope your tits and occasionally flicking your clit. "really? told you. told you i'm an expert at what women like."

"myung-gi, please-" "you'll get what i can give you. no more special shit. i've been offering you everything and you're taking it all for granted. you should know by now you're gonna get what i choose to give you." it seems he was done, so genuinely pissed off at how you were treating him, despite how he was treating you just as bad and if not worse! you should stay away from self-absorbed men, but fuck, did a dick feel good. you'd probably get pregnant right now if you weren't already.

so there you were: the father of your child right infront of you, dick sliding in a rhythm inside your shamefully throbbing pussy, trying to match nam-gyu's pace. his left hand still gripping your jaw to look at him and only him. you whine with tears staining your cheeks, looking up at myung-gi like you were sorry. maybe occasionally looking at nam-gyu. "don't look at that jerk, or i'll make this harder for you." his other hand presses against your lower stomach, he knows you liked that. that's why he got you knocked up in the first place.

nam-gyu's warm breath would tickle against your skin, licking the back of your ear, "don't listen to him- he doesn't treat you right— ain't that correct?" nam-gyu's dick also filling up your other hole was too overstimulating, you weren't used to this at all, the way they coaxed you. both his hands were leaving prints on your ass and waist. "don't- fucking- mess with us, with your silly words," "the only thing sweet about you is your holes. sweetheart." that fucking lunatic's laugh ringing in your ear, you didn't wanna moan because a drug addict was fucking you senseless. or because a drug addict and your supposed husband was fucking you at the same time.

"please- i- myung-gi, forgive me...hn..!" it was so hard to speak without doing it though, moaning would mean they felt good, they felt amazing. that they'd be motivated to go on and on... "keep on begging, fuck, you- you're fucking heartless, for making me so stressed and worried about you-" they both continue to thrust and thrust, unstoppable, with all the adrenaline of murder and sex, they could go for hours if the game didn't have a time limit! "yeah... you shouldn't... treat your boyfriend like that- fuck, you're so tight-" "m'sorry- i'm really sorry.. myung-gi.. nam-gy-" myung-gi slaps your mouth, "not him. don't forget who you belong to." "i'm sorry!" you whimpered out. he's suddenly turned all strict on you... :(

you'd guess they had this all figured out, you don't know when they did. when you'd check the timer, there was still 20 minutes left! 20. long. minutes.

"for now on you're gonna be a good little tool for us until the finale..., we'll take it as an apology." "for- for us?" "me and him. i think two dicks’ just enough for a slut like you."

ts is sum freakshit . ✓✓✓ is it me or when myung-gi got meaner he got hotter. like THAT'S whats wrong with me. & dae-ho too... WHO SAID THAT

[kxsagi]

hey! can I request platonic bllk character x reader (any character/s you think works for this) who sees them as an older brother figure?

reader used to be close to her actual older bro, but their relationship has been quite cold & hostile for the past few years.

I kinda need this because I just met my brother yesterday after almost a year, & we already got into a fight 😭, I had to walk out of the house for it to end. he threw an open box cutter at me, idk whether it was intentional or not tho.

“𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞”

a/n: i’m sorry, he threw WHAT at you??? nah he’s going into the basement 

i'm so sorry to hear that your relationship with your brother is like that, but you deserve people in your life who reciprocate your love and good energy. even if they're family or blood-related, don't be afraid to cut them off if you feel it's necessary for you and your mental health <3

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, mikage reo, bachira meguru, karasu tabito, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

isagi becomes your “big bro” purely by accident. it starts with him walking you home after practice because it’s dark and “you shouldn’t be walking alone.” then he starts nagging you about hydration and warming up properly. 

you don’t tell him about your brother at first, but he picks up on how your voice goes tight whenever family’s brought up. one day, he hears you on the phone with your brother. short. curt. cold. and when you hang up, you look like you’ve aged ten years. 

“i’m not trying to pry,” he says, “but if you ever need someone to talk to or yell at or play mario kart with, i got you.” 

cue late night gaming sessions with convenience store snacks. he’s bad at comforting with words, but he’ll let you win rounds and then act shocked like “damn. how are you so cracked?” just to make you laugh. 

he never pushes. just shows up consistently. like a real older brother should’ve. 

itoshi rin

you? voluntarily clinging to rin of all people? it shocks him, too. 

but there's something steady about him. quiet, mature, not overbearing. you start trailing after him like a lost duckling. at first, he acts annoyed. but then one day someone bumps into you too hard in the hallway, and he straight up glares like he's about to throw hands. 

“you good?” he mutters, almost gruffly. 

you nod. and for the first time in years, you feel… protected. 

he never asks about your family, but when you call him “nii-san” as a joke, he doesn’t correct you. doesn’t say a word. but his ears go a little red. 

will silently share his umbrella with you when it rains. won’t say, “i care about you,” but if you’re missing for longer than ten minutes, he’s already searching. 

mikage reo

reo figures it out pretty quick. you flinch whenever he mentions siblings, and you change the topic fast. 

“you know,” he says one day while handing you a matcha latte, “i always wanted a little sister. someone to spoil.” 

and boy, does he mean it. he’s the “bought you this top because it looked cute and reminded me of you” kind of brother figure. wants to take you shopping. lets you sit on the counter while he cooks and talks your ear off. 

he’s also lowkey protective in a petty rich boy way. sees you texting someone and goes “who’s that? do i need to hire a personal investigator?” 

when you finally break down and talk about your real brother, reo listens. doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t tell you to forgive or forget. just goes, “he messed up. but you deserve people who don’t.” 

and then forces you to binge rom-coms and do face masks. 

bachira meguru

bachira’s warmth is something you didn't know you missed. he grabs your wrist and pulls you into situations like you're just meant to be there. 

he starts calling you “imouto-chan” (little sister) before you even tell him about your real brother. “it suits you,” he beams. 

he notices you get a bit quiet when people talk about siblings, though. one day, while you're doodling, he casually asks, “did you and your big bro used to draw together?” 

you nod. then go silent. he doesn’t push. instead, he starts handing you little paper cranes or doodles every day. “made this for you!” 

he gives the kind of love that asks for nothing back. and for someone who's been treated like an afterthought, that means everything. 

also, he’ll 100% bite anyone who makes you cry. just say the word. 

karasu tabito

at first, you thought karasu was just some cocky older guy who’d tease you endlessly, but you soon realize that behind the sarcasm is someone scarily perceptive. 

he notices you never bring up your brother, even though you talk about childhood memories a lot. 

“damn,” he says one day while tossing you a drink, “you got some repressed sibling drama, huh?” you blink. “how’d you–” “you do that thing. y’know, where you get all smiley talking about the past and then your face drops like someone punched you in the gut.” 

he says it so casually, but then follows up with a quiet, “if you ever want to talk about it, i can shut up and listen. i’m not just a pretty face, you know.” 

teasing older brother energy to the max. sends you cursed memes at 1 AM. calls you “kid” and “shrimp.” but if anyone else talks down to you? he goes full attack dog mode. 

“only i get to annoy her. get in line.” 

itoshi sae

you’d never guess sae would take on the big brother role. he doesn’t even seem to like people. 

but there’s something in the way he keeps showing up for you. like when he drives you home after you missed the last train. or when he slips you his jacket without a word. 

he never asks about your family, but he sees the way your eyes darken around the subject. and maybe, just maybe, he gets it. 

“you don’t owe anyone your love just because they’re family,” he says one night, voice low. it hits you like a slap. 

and it means more coming from him. someone who walked away from his own brother once. someone who understands estrangement not as a failure, but as survival. 

he’s not expressive, but he shows up. every time. and when he sees your hands shake during that one phone call with your brother, he quietly takes your phone and hangs up. 

“don’t let people who hurt you talk like they still have a right to.” 

from then on, he checks in more. sends dry texts like “did you eat.” or “bring a jacket. it’s cold.” 

the warmth is quiet, but it’s real. like a big brother who doesn't need to say “i care” for you to know it. 

shidou ryusei

the last person you expected to have older brother energy… and yet here we are. 

it starts with him teasing you for being a “baby” anytime you trip or yawn. “damn, do you need a stroller too?” 

but the moment someone talks down to you or you get upset? shidou’s feral. straight up throws his arm around your shoulder like “you got beef with my lil sis? 'cause i got time.” 

he pretends to be the worst role model ever – egging you on to do dumb stuff like throw grapes at people from the balcony – but will stop you from actually doing it at the last second. 

one time, you tell him you don’t really talk to your real brother anymore. he goes quiet for once. then shrugs. 

“his loss. you’re the only brat i’d tolerate yelling at me for finishing their fries.” 

shidou’s brand of care is chaotic protection. he’ll make you laugh until you cry, then beat up your sadness like it owes him money. 

nagi seishiro

nagi becomes your older brother figure completely by accident. it starts when you fall asleep on the couch next to him during a team meeting and he just… lets you. 

after that, it’s like you’re his little nap buddy. he starts dragging you into his lazy rituals. gaming, ramen, watching dumb videos on his phone while lying on the floor like sea creatures. 

you vent to him once about how you and your brother used to do that too, but now he barely speaks to you. nagi just stares at you for a second and goes, “that sucks.” 

then, a beat later, “guess you can do it with me instead.” 

from then on, if you’re ever feeling down, he’ll appear with a controller and snacks and go, “c’mon. let’s not think.” 

he’s the chill older brother who doesn’t ask many questions, but always gives you the space to just exist. and that’s sometimes even more comforting than words. 

kaiser michael

you are his self-proclaimed “baby gremlin,” and no, you don’t get a say in the nickname. 

at first, you thought he was too arrogant and loud to ever take anyone seriously. he also really struggled with his relationships due to past traumas. but when he noticed you spacing out during dinner, picking at your food, he actually... toned it down? 

“yo. what’s going on in that sad little head of yours?” 

when you finally mention your older brother and how cold things have gotten, he pauses mid-chew and just says, “older brothers suck. upgrade to a kaiser michael. zero emotional baggage, full sass package.” 

you roll your eyes, but the next day he shows up with a designer dress in your size like, “you didn’t ask for this, but i’m your brother now. suffer.” 

he overcompensates with sarcasm and expensive gifts. but underneath all that bravado is someone who genuinely wants to protect you from every ounce of rejection you’ve been through. 

“he may be blood, but i choose you. and i don’t choose easy, y'know?” 

ness alexis

ness is the kind of brother figure who is soft, thoughtful, and weirdly good at remembering little things. 

he sees you getting quiet one day after practice when someone talks about their sibling and casually offers you his water bottle. 

“you okay?” 

when you confess that your brother and you used to be close but now barely speak, ness goes: “so that’s why you give me those ‘i wish i could punch feelings’ eyes when people talk about family.” 

after that, he just kind of adopts you. he braids your hair during team travel, shares his spotify playlist with you (“sad girl certified”), and gives you the emotional validation you didn’t know you needed. 

if someone makes you cry, he’s the kind to drag kaiser with him like, “come on, we’re going to war.” 

he’ll randomly text you affirmations like “you deserve love, a full fridge, and someone who answers your texts within three minutes.” 

his protective older brother energy is underrated, but it runs deep. he won’t let you feel abandoned again, not on his watch. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[ariaste]

10000% this. And if I might add a corollary for readers: Step up and support authors making gruesome, horrifying, edgy, angry art. Read confidently; practice resilience with slightly uncomfortable topics so you can deprogram whatever cringing flinch response the purity-culture Internet has tried to impose on you. If you hear about some "scandalous" book that is "too problematic" for anyone to be allowed to read it, go read it on purpose just to see what all the fuss is about. Put edgy, difficult, bold books on your rec lists, praise them BECAUSE they're edgy and angry and bold, talk about those "dark" aspects that you love... And, crucially, find ways to do so without an apologetic disclaimer for the material the book contains.

Personally, I wish we could transition to saying something like "Contains depictions of {XYZ}" rather than "Content warning: {XYZ}" because the former is more neutral -- less of a value judgment. The latter, by use of the word "warning", quietly reinforces an idea (eagerly co-opted by the worst purity-culture antis and Christian fascists) that it is Wrong to write about those things, and that therefore the work is somehow Dangerous to the entire general public, even people who are not carrying {XYZ}-related trauma.

We HAVE to push back on the idea that serious topics make a piece of fiction inherently harmful, "sinful", or morally suspect -- and readers have to be as much a part of this conversation as authors are.

Can I just say something honestly and very seriously to all you writers?

With the Internet going down the "nothing adult, no death, no nothing. Make it kid friendly" route,

Please don't ever stop making art or writing wips that are gruesome, horror, other things like that. Don't let the Internet sanitize how you wanna tell a story. Channel your rage into your art and keep going and don't give up

[ao3commentoftheday]

I am having issues being nice to people in my ao3 comments. Most of the time people are perfectly lovely and I love having interactions with them. It's really important to me that when I'm on my writer tumblr instead of my main and on my ao3, I foster a kind and gentle community. I feel like that starts with me and that is the sort of environment I want to create.

Now, the problem is this fic I wrote. It's for a pretry big fandom and it got a lot of traction (like first page when sorting by hits while there are tens of thousands of fics) and it's been wild. Mostly great... except this one arc I wrote where character A, who is mentally ill and gets triggered into a spiral acts mentally ill, which negatively impacts people around him, including character B (it's a ship fic), who while not responsible is making it worse and making the active choice to stay, because he also has his own issues. The fic explores the aftermath of that as well, but for a few chapters it's just the downward spiral. And while it isn't all condoned, I give character A understanding due to the situation as well as a healing journey, wherein he apologizes and does better and makes up for it.

Sadly for me, character B is the fandom's favorite white boy, who is always the hurt victim in every situation and has no responsibility ever. So me also stating how character B is in part responsible forthe situation ending up getting as bad is a no go and people are very angry at me. On top of that, I based a lot of character A's struggles on my own, which makes it even less pleasant to get detailed comments about how he deserves to be beaten up for his actions and left by all his friends and family to stew in the guilt for the rest of forever all alone, less than fun.

I don't want to have to tell people about my own personal struggles and I am tired of explaining that it is a character arc and a nuanced and complex situation wherein multiple parties are at fault. And I have chronic have to reply even when I know ignoring it is better syndrome. At what point does it become acceptable to just be a fucking bitch to people?

First of all, lemme give you a hug 💗 It's never fun when people misunderstand your message and it's even worse when there's a personal element to it as well.

The way I see it, your comments section belongs to you. It's an extension of your fic and it's a place where every message left gets dropped into your inbox. If there's something you don't want to see in your comments section? Delete it. If there's someone who won't stop misinterpreting you/your characterization or someone who is being an asshat? Block them. Then delete their comment.

I know people get hung up on whether or not they should do that, but I'm here to tell you that if I didn't delete hate and block haters, this blog would have shut down in 2020, if not earlier. You need to take care of yourself, and if that means removing that part of your comments then so be it.

I also prefer to lead with empathy and understanding. I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt. I work very hard at taking the best interpretation possible of scenarios that people write me about. But that doesn't mean I need to put up with hate or with willful ignorance or with snarky "ironic" dystopian takes on my attempts to be sincere and helpful. Those things all make it harder for me to continue this hobby I love, and therefore I delete and I block and I move on in the direction I'm going.

I definitely understand the desire to be a heinous bitch in response. I've even given into it a few times. But I also remember those times because I'm not proud of myself for losing my temper. I look back on them and wish that I hadn't chosen a good burn over my principles.

Don't share anything that you don't actually want to share with strangers on the internet. Don't keep comments around that make you feel bad. Put an author's note at the bottom of the chapter explaining what you're going for and letting readers know that you don't want comments like the ones you describe here - and delete them if they come in despite that.

Sometimes you just have to clean house, anon, and get rid of some of the cruft.