#the sarcasm is off the charts

[phantom-of-the-501st]

Rewatching The Clone Wars and I just got to Rookies

It's so fun because I'm just like "ah yes, this man right here is my favourite Star Wars character ever"

And it's literally just a dude

[untimelyambition]

jeff blim as the narrator is so cunty hes having the time of his life!! he makes the whole thing so fun!! if theres one thing that man will do it’s serve physicality EVERY TIME

[frederikvesti]

nolan’s radio from the lap 1 accident at st. pete 2025

[captainrufflebanger]

@sparklingnight02 your ask is too long to scroll thru normally so I'm doing this

Which brings me to my next point which is: I'm too tired to coherently share my theories and headcanons on Miranda and Eva (and why there is zero mention of a man ever) so have this certificate instead 🌟

[missdynamighttt]

↳ ❝ THERE'S NO ONE LIKE YOU, SWEETS. ❞

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ synopsis: in which, you make what feels like the worst decision of your life—getting into a hot tub with your fake boyfriend, katsuki bakugou.

starring: fake boyfriend! katsuki bakugou x oblivious! reader ⍣ ೋ

disclaimers!: fake established relationship, prefers ass, humping/ grinding, a little degradation, fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), sexual stuff in water

note: pro hero! katsuki drabble, usage of "woman", "sweets" "baby", "slut", fem reader, fake relationship trope, inspired by to all the boys ive loved before hot tub/ jacuzzi scene. I KNOW I HAVE A POLL, I PROMISE ILL GET TO THAT, JUST NEEDED TO GET THIS OFF OF MY CHEST💜💜

╰┈➤ ❝ [this is so stupid...] ❞ you mumble, walking down the hallway to the pool area, your arms crossed as the cold winter breeze hits your skin.

somehow, kirishima talked you into confronting your 'boyfriend', katsuki bakugou, after he started ignoring you in the class 1A ski-trip/christmas party this year.

"c'mon, girl, hes probably waiting for you in the hot tub 'nyway. get in there, and get him!"

it was only supposed to be a fake arrangement between you two. to be honest, you're not even sure why hes mad. but he was.

the hand-holding, hugs and kisses started to feel too real, the closeness felt too intimate. it was all getting in your head so you distanced yourself from him, sitting next to ochako in the bus instead of katsuki.

katsuki needed to get his ranks up in the charts and you needed publicity. that was all there was to it. supposed to be, anyway.

you reach the pool area and thats when you see him. katsuki bakugo. in the hot tub. shirtless. and in swimming trunks. he's lounging with his eyes shut and eyebrows furrowed, letting the heat and jets of the tub ease his muscles.

you catch your bottom lip between your teeth. you draw closer to the hot tub, perching yourself on the ledge across from katsuki, not getting in the water because you had a night gown on. for now.

though his eyes are closed, a slight shift in his demeanor reveals that he's aware of your presence. even in his attempt to maintain a façade of calm, the subtle tension in his shoulders and the tightening of his jaw betray his awareness of you.

"katsuki?" you tilt your head, trying to get his attention.

when he doesn't respond, you scoff, crossing your arms.

"wow, katsuki, real mature."

his eyebrow twitches at the comment on his maturity, his eyes flutter open. he looks at you with an unimpressed stare, his expression a mix of annoyance and... something else.

"oh, because you're a real shinin' example of maturity," he retorts, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

you frown at him. "seriously, why are you mad at me? and don't go yappin' about how you're not mad, i can tell."

"why do you think?" he grumbles, unable to meet your eyes as his cheeks tinged pink.

"...you've been hangin' around with round cheeks all fuckin' day."

that was all he was mad about? is he.. no. he couldn't be jealous. he had no reason to.

"that... that shouldn't matter."

"well, it does matter, goddamn it," he mutters angrily as his scowl deepens, his jaw clenching in frustration.

"you don't get it, do you? you're my girlfriend, you were supposed to sit with me."

"fake girlfriend-"

"i don't give a flyin' fuck. you're still my girlfriend, woman, fake or not. i expected you to sit with me. and instead, what do i see? you hangin' out with fuckin..."

he lets out an exasperated sigh, raking a hand through his wet hair. he looks like he's trying to find the right words to express his feelings without coming across as too jealous or vulnerable.

"fuck. fuck, i'm... i'm not tryna control you, okay? but it bugs the shit out of me. it bugs me that you were hanging with round face. it bugs me that you sat next to her instead of me."

katsuki's gaze softens at your quiet, conflicted expression. he sighs again, his eyes briefly darting away from you before he continues.

"i... i even brought your damn favorite snacks in case you got hungry," he mutters, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "i thought, we could have sat together and, you know..."

you look up at him, a hint of surprise widening your eyes. you contemplate how to continue, trying to lighten the mood with a soft smile. "do you... still have some left over?"

katsuki scoffs at the attempt to change the mood, but can't help the brief spark of amusement that flickers in his eyes.

"no, obviously," he replies with a roll of his eyes. "i ate some and gave kirishima the rest after you decided to ditch me."

"rude."

"damn right, it was rude. tch, ditchin' me like that."

you let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head, looking at him with a soft gaze. "i'm.. i'm sorry i didn't sit next to you."

katsuki's ears turned slightly pink as he hears your apology. he glances at you hesitantly before looking away again, trying to maintain his aloof demeanor.

"yeah, well, apology accepted, i guess," he mutters, his voice lacking its usual sharpness.

you nod, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement. after a brief moment of silence, you gather your courage and shed your nightgown, revealing your bare skin as you slowly step into the warm embrace of the hot tub.

katsuki's eyes widen as you stripped, his heart rate speeding up at the sight of you in just a pair of black bra and panties. his eyes roam over your body greedily, taking in every curve and contour.

he clears his throat, his gaze is fixed on your figure as you step into the hot tub, the warm water enveloping you. he tries to keep his thoughts in check, but the sight of you like this, almost naked, is making it incredibly hard (like his dick).

"damn..." he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "what are you doing to me, sweets?"

you look at him with eyebrows raised, a soft smile formed on your lips. "hm?"

he takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. the water laps around you two, creating a sense of intimacy, and it only adds to the tension.

"seriously, do you have to look like that right now?"

"like what?"

"like... that," his voice is hoarse, gesturing vaguely at your form. "like you're tryna drive me crazy."

katsuki reaches out, his hand hovering just above your torso before finally making contact, his fingers gently carressing the curve of your waist. his hand felt so warm, almost competing with the heat in his eyes now mixed with his raw desire for you.

"damn it, woman. you're killin' me here..."

"can i apologize for that too?"

"i'll forgive you... under one condition," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. his hand slowly roams over your bare skin, exploring your body with a newfound confidence.

he pulls you closer, the water sloshing around you as he guides you onto his lap. his arms encircle your waist firmly, every contour and dip of your bodies fitting perfectly against each other. the corners of his mouth tug to a grin."sit here for me."

your eyes widen in surprise as you feel a rush of heat across your cheeks. you could feel his hot, raging boner, pressing up against your cunt through the thin, pathetic fabric you call panties.

a cheeky grin spreads across your face. "katsuki, is that...?"

he groans, his voice low and gruff with frustrated desire. "just shut the fuck up, sweets."

his hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you nearer, his lips crashing against yours in a heated, hungry kiss. his tongue dances with yours, greedy and demanding.

the kiss was intense, filled with pent-up longing and need and so much words both of you couldn't say.

he keeps you trapped against his body with his arms in the hot tub, his touch both tender and possessive.

"such a nice fuckin' ass.." he whispers, groping and massaging your doughy ass before pulling you back in for a deeper kiss.

your arms are wrapped around his neck, your fingers tangled in his hair as you grind on his hard-on, a little embarassed as you feel your panties dampen more from the water and your slick but can't help but want him. need him.

"fuck," he groans, feeling his cock get so painfully hard just from you humping him. "you little.."

your breath hitches when you felt his hand slide down your inner thigh, tugging the pathetic g-string to the side. he enters a finger inside of you, seperating your folds, feeling your warm pussy and your wet slick in the midst of the water. "k-katsuki-"

"aww, this all for me, sweets?" he coos, watching you whimper as he rubs your aching clit.

you pout as you grind against his hand, desperate for friction. your teeth sink into your lip as he put a second finger, your eyes glistening with a mixture of desire and greed. "so what if it is..?"

"that fucking eager for me, huh?" he chuckles darkly, his fingers enveloped by the warmth of your pussy as he curls them inside of you. "gonna take it all for me, yeah?"

you nodded, clinging onto him like a lifeline, whimpering and mewling choked versions of his name. "fuck, fuck.. kat- katsu.. katsuki..."

katsuki groans at the sound of his name on your lips, his hand your hips grip you tighter, pulling you closer, while curling his thick digits against your sensitive spots, the sound of your lewd noises music to his ears.

"see my fingers fuckin' you, baby?" he mutters, his lips find your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your tender skin. "only i can make your pretty pussy feel this good, yeah?"

"mhm," you manage. despite the embarrassment, you can't help but give in to the heat building between you.

his eyes lock onto yours, his voice sultry and mean. "you know, you're such a fuckin' slut. lettin' me finger you like this where anyone can see us."

a loud moan escapes your lips as your pussy clenches around his fingers at the name. you couldn't help it. fuck, he was so, so mean. and you fucking loved it.

a cocky grin spreads across his face, letting out a low chuckle. "oh? you like it when i call you a slut?" he taunts, bringing a grin to his face at your reaction. "can't believe you're into that shit, sweets."

"it's your fault- fuck.."

"oh? blamin' me now?" he taunts, a cocky expression on his face. "thought you were more.. mature than that."

katsuki flaps his fingers faster inside of you, abandoning the slow, careful pace of curling he did earlier. your slick and the hot tub water moistens his fingers, yet you can still smell the faint hit of your cunt.

"katsukiii! fuck, fuck, fuck. too much, too much..."

"just look at you, sweets. takin' my fingers like a champ, such a good fuckin' girl," he coos, his filthy praises making your pussy clench around his fingers.

"bet you wanted this as much as i did, did you?"

"n-no-"

"bullshit. if you don't, tell me to stop right now."

"sh-shit, no.. don't stop, please.. please, i need you.."

"that's what i thought," his grin widens, his hand that had been resting on your hip moves lower, tapping your leg gently. "lift your hips up for me."

with a nod, you comply, the water rippling around you as it drips out of your legs, katsuki finally seeing your sweet little cunt without the transluscent filter of the water. his grip on your thigh tightens slightly, letting out a shaky exhale as he rubs your clit.

"you close, sweets?" he glances up at you, his eyes meeting yours, feeling you nod before he leans in for a long, lingering kiss.

"cum on my face, 'kay?" he utters softly after pulling away, leaning down on your sweet cunt before lapping his tongue away at your aching slit while still pumping his fingers full of you.

his tongue felt so good. he felt so good, it hurts. all you could smell was the intoxicating scent of your cunt and katsuki's saliva sloshed together.

"katsuki..." you can't help but let out a lewd mewl, whimpering as wave after wave of pleasure courses through your body.

"there's no one like you, sweets," katsuki groans into your pussy, the loud sounds he was making as he ate you out while he fucked his fingers into you was just so lewd. when it felt so good. when anyone could catch you doing this. "cum on my face, baby, c'mon.."

you shudder from the pleasure from his touch as you feel your release, chest heaving up and down as you catch your breath. though, his tongue kept flicking at your clit, pumping his fingers in and out of you as you ride your high.

your post-nut clarity kicks in. fuck, you just.. let katsuki bakugo, your fake boyfriend, not only finger you but you let him eat you out. it doesn't matter you were into him. he was still your fake boyfriend.

and not just anywhere, no. but in the damn hot tub. where anyone could've seen you. the worst part? you enjoyed it to your core.

before you can think loudly again, you feel his lips brush gently against your cheek. you turn to look at him, a little surprised at the sudden show of tenderness after the heated moment as your eyes meet. you take in the disheveled sight of him, his hair damp and wet as he catches his breath, your mind still trying to catch up to the events of tonight.

"sweets... my room. now. please."

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ should i do part 2 guys lmaolmao hope you enjoyed 💜💜

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[fanficgirl429]

Sex, Dishes, and Emotional Damage

Prompt: Y/N walks into the kitchen where the rest of the Thunderbolts are and is in a very grouchy mood. She's mad at them for one reason and Bucky for another.

Pairing: Fem!reader x Bucky Barnes

---

The kitchen buzzed with the usual morning chaos: clattering mugs, half-hearted jokes, and a steady stream of sarcasm as the Thunderbolts tried to function on minimal sleep and questionable caffeine habits.

Y/N shuffled in like a storm cloud wrapped in fuzzy socks. Her hair was in a messy bun that looked moments from total collapse. She wore leggings and one of Bucky’s oversized sweatshirts—it nearly swallowed her whole, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the hem brushing her knees. She looked exhausted… and somehow still unfairly adorable.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Yelena chirped from her perch on the counter, legs swinging like a child’s as she sipped from a black coffee mug.

Y/N grunted. “Is it?” she muttered, making a beeline for the coffee pot like it held the meaning of life.

“Someone’s a little grumpy,” Ava sing-songed, lazily stirring her cereal.

“I’m just saying,” John added with a smirk, “this feels like one of those mornings where I pretend I didn’t see anything and slowly back out of the room.”

Bucky, leaning against the fridge, watched his girlfriend move around the kitchen like a very tired, very cute gremlin. He held a banana he’d long since stopped eating, more interested in how she looked in his sweatshirt. His voice was soft when he greeted her.

“Hey, doll.”

Y/N didn’t even look at him. “Don’t ‘doll’ me right now.”

Yelena’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooh. He’s in trouble.”

Y/N turned with her mug, scanned the room—and froze.

The dishes.

The fucking dishes.

The sink overflowed with food-streaked plates and smudged mugs. Greasy pans hadn’t moved in days. The garbage can was brimming. The counters were covered in crumbs, an empty energy drink, and a sticky mystery spot that might’ve been jelly.

“This kitchen,” she said, eerily calm, “is an actual war zone. Why do I even bother making a chore chart if no one reads it? Is it invisible? Am I being pranked?”

“Y/N, relax,” John said, raising both hands like she had a weapon.

“Don’t tell me to relax,” she snapped, spinning so fast coffee sloshed over her mug. “Last time someone said they’d clean it, guess who spent two hours on her hands and knees scrubbing dried oatmeal off the tile? Me!”

“Babe—” Bucky started gently.

She cut him off without turning. “Don’t even start with me, Barnes, because I’m mad at you too.”

A low whistle escaped Yelena. “Welp. I’m leaving before blood gets spilled.”

“I’m going with you,” Ava said, grabbing her toast as the three of them evacuated with zero shame.

Silence settled over the kitchen, save for the hum of the fridge.

Y/N let out a long sigh and leaned against the counter, arms folded tight, jaw clenched. But beneath the edge in her voice, her eyes looked tired—not furious, just worn down.

Bucky leaned against the counter opposite her, patient and calm.

“Alright,” he said gently. “Tell me what’s going on, sweetheart.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m tired. Not just tired-tired. Everything-tired. I feel like I’m doing all the little things no one else even notices. Cleaning. Organizing. Fixing. And the second I clean something, it’s a disaster again.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “You’re right. I haven’t been helping enough. And I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I promise.”

She blinked a few times. Her voice cracked when she finally whispered, “I just miss when it was simple. When it was just us. That shoebox apartment with no furniture and a toaster that shot bread like a missile.”

Bucky chuckled, stepping closer. “You mean the one-bedroom with the leaky faucet and neighbors who screamed at each other every night?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I miss it. Because it was ours.”

He reached for her hand, gently lacing their fingers. “This is ours too. We just forgot how to protect our peace.”

She let herself lean into his chest for a moment, melting into the quiet comfort of him. “Thank you.”

He rubbed slow circles on her back with his thumb, then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Okay. But why am I in the doghouse, exactly? I’ve been pretty well-behaved lately, haven’t I?”

She bit her lip, hesitating. Then, softly: “We haven’t had sex in, like… a week, Bucky.”

Bucky blinked. “Wait. That’s why you’re mad?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Don’t laugh.”

He laughed anyway. “You’re mad at me for not jumping your bones?”

“I said don’t laugh!” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“Babe, I didn’t know that was on the official ‘Reasons You’re Mad at Me’ list.”

“Well it is!” she insisted. “I’ve tried. But every time I make a move, you’re already passed out or talking mission strategy or patching someone up.”

Bucky stepped in closer, his voice low and sincere. “If you had said the word, I would’ve dropped everything. You know that, right?”

She looked away, but he could see the faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe I wanted you to notice first.”

“I always notice you,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Even when you’re mad at me. Especially then—you get all snappy and flushed. It’s hot.”

She rolled her eyes and swatted his arm. “Shut up.”

He grinned, tugging her into him again and pressing a kiss to her temple, then the corner of her mouth. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere with a lock. And a bed. And no dishes.”

She giggled as he led her toward the hallway. “We’re just leaving this mess?”

Bucky glanced back at the disaster zone. “We’ll clean it later. Or bribe Yelena.”

Y/N laughed as he guided her to the doorway, stealing one more kiss before guiding her out—her hand in his, her storm-cloud mood finally starting to clear.

[thekenobee]

@occasionallynotwatchingroger

TURИ moments (1/??) 3x09 blade on the feather

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Ok ok now flip the wrong husband idea. Intimidating/grumpy resident who’s close to and clearly Jack abbotts fav resident, the med students think they might be secretly together only for her to actually be Robby’s gf/wife 👀

Wrong Attending

Pairing: Dr Michael "Robby" Robinivich x Attending!Reader

She was terrifying. That’s what the med students whispered behind clipboards and in the corners of the nurse’s station.

Dr. (Y/N), third-year resident. Surgical precision in her tone, her incisions, and her sarcasm. Always serious, always focused, always somehow two steps ahead of the attending she was assisting. If she barked an order, you followed it. If she gave you a look, you apologized before even figuring out what you’d done.

Jack Abbott adored her.

He never said it, but it was obvious. She was his golden resident. She scrubbed in with him more than anyone else. He taught her the most complex techniques with the kind of softness he didn’t extend to anyone else. He even brought her coffee when she had a long case ahead — Jack Abbott bringing someone else coffee. It was enough to start rumors.

“She’s totally his girlfriend,” one of the med students said as they wheeled a post-op patient back to recovery.

“Girlfriend?” another scoffed. “Try wife. You think anyone else could get away with back-talking him like that and not get reamed for it?”

She passed by just then, sleeves rolled up, surgical cap still on. She gave them all a pointed look as she walked through.

The students fell silent. Guilty. Terrified.

Later that day, the ER flooded.

A pile-up on the interstate. They needed hands. All hands. She was already pulling on gloves before anyone called her name.

She was hunched over a trauma bay, blood on her scrubs, one hand in a chest cavity when—

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. Lighter. Familiar. “Jesus. You didn’t answer my texts. You okay?”

She glanced up, annoyed. “I’m working, Robby.”

Dr. Robby. The senior attending. Golden boy of the ER. Charismatic. Bright-eyed. Sunshine in scrubs. Or maybe that's just how she saw him.

He blinked. “You’re elbow-deep in a thoracotomy and I’m the one getting attitude?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned back to the trauma.

The med students, standing nearby and wide-eyed, watched in confusion.

Dr. Robby stayed there, leaning against the glass, watching her with something oddly fond in his expression.

She finally stepped back after the patient stabilized, ripping her gloves off and walking to the sink.

Robby handed her a towel.

“Can I help you?” she asked flatly, drying off.

“Just wanted to see if you were alive. I made you dinner.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“You’re lucky I do.”

One of the students behind them dropped their chart.

Robby turned, startled, and blinked at the frozen group of baby doctors staring at them.

“…What?”

One of them finally managed: “Wait. You’re dating Dr. Robby?”

She raised a brow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

Robby looked smug. “Jealous?”

“No,” one of them muttered. “Just… we all thought it was Abbott.”

Robby paused, then laughed so hard he doubled over.

She sighed, shoved him with the towel, and muttered, “I need a nap.”

“Or,” Robby grinned, falling into step beside her, “you could come home, shower, and let your very loving, very charming boyfriend feed you tortellini.”

“…What kind of tortellini?”

He smirked. “The homemade kind. You’ve been on my mind all day.”

The students watched them go, stunned into silence.

One turned to the others. “That’s gotta be the biggest plot twist in this hospital.”

The others nodded slowly.

Jack Abbott walked by a moment later, glancing toward the hallway they disappeared into, then at the med students. “What’s with the faces?”

One said weakly, “Sir, did you know she’s dating Dr. Robby?”

Abbott blinked. Then snorted. “Of course I know.”

“…You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“We thought she was yours.”

Jack gave them a look so dry it could sand furniture. “I have a wife, you morons.”

Then he walked off, chuckling to himself.

[thepencilnerd]

Your Man

thank you very much to @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs for including me in the 𝘈 𝘋𝑂𝘊𝑇𝘖𝑅 𝐴 𝐷𝘈𝑌 writing event <3 i cannot wait to dive into the pieces written by my fellow writers (check out the full post for every tagged gem!) prompt: "I think to be so dumb must be nice." | colour: black 🖤 pairing: jack abbot x f!resident reader summary: You and Jack have been bickering your way through night shifts for ages now—until two flying trays, a stitched-up hand, and one too many almost-confessions turn everything into something neither of you can ignore. content/warnings: enemies to lovers (all the banter, jabs, & sarcasm), slow-burn, emotionally repressed idiots to emotionally repressed idiots in love, depiction of harassment towards healthcare workers, protective!reader & protective!jack, fluff, angst, Robby being done with both of you wc: 5.2k a/n: i def could have gone a certain direction *cough cough* but i was overcome with a sudden craving for enemies to lovers / "they're both stubborn and it's complicated tropes," so i present to you this emotionally constipated snippet of my heart 🩺🖤

It was a well-known fact that you always clocked in after Jack Abbot.

Not because you meant to. At least, not exactly.

It started one night during your first week on night shift. You’d been cramming for exams all day, convinced you could fit in just one more practice block before your shift—just one more. But you dozed off somewhere around question 43, mouth open against the back of your textbook, a puddle of drool collecting around what once was a diagram of the cardiac chambers.

You sprinted in at 6:45pm, flustered and un-caffeinated, only to find Jack already there. Leaning against the nurses’ station with a cup of coffee like he’d been born in that spot, annoyingly calm and smirking like he’d seen this coming.

"Cutting it close, Dr. L/N," he’d said, not even looking up from his chart. "Careful. That’s how habits start."

He was right.

At first, you were apologetic—nervous and over-eager, all stammered greetings and shuffled charts. Jack didn’t seem to notice you beyond the bare minimum, and you chalked that up to his status, his seniority, his general aura of don’t talk to me unless someone is actively dying.

But things changed. Somewhere between covering for each other during rounds, tagging out on disaster admits, and a running tally of how many times you each got paged during a single trauma night, familiarity set in. You became colleagues. Then reluctant allies. And somewhere along the line—rivals. Enemies, depending on who you asked and on how bad the night was going.

One time, you were both elbow-deep in post-codes, barely functioning off stale coffee and mutual spite, when he passed you a chart and muttered, "Try not to kill this one with your bedside manner."

You took it without looking up from the board above you. "I'll match your emotional range and we'll both be fine."

You were never late, but it soon became a silent game. He always beat you at it. Whether it was by five minutes or five steps, you never let yourself get there before him. A superstition, maybe. A routine. A rhythm. And because you liked to keep him on edge—just to get a reaction out of him.

Seeing Jack colored with shades of affect, even if it was playfully annoyed, was fun. It made him predictable, addictive, a full 180 from his usual stone-cold demeanor. He’d scowl, grumble something about professionalism, and still let you win half the time. It became a kind of game, and you were very good at it.

Now as a senior resident awaiting board licensure, it was practically tradition.

He was already at the nurses’ station, sipping black coffee like it was fuel and he was a half-full tank, eyes scanning over charts. His voice cut through the hum of bedlam as you approached. "Late again, Dr. L/N. At least you're consistent."

You flipped him off without breaking stride. "And yet, somehow, the hospital hasn't burned down yet. Miraculous, wouldn't you say so, Dr. Abbot?"

He raised a brow, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not even ten minutes in and already have our claws out, do we?"

"Oh, Jack," you pouted, "this is just foreplay."

"Ah, is that what you call passive-aggressive incompetence now?"

"Bold of you to assume it’s passive," you fired back, picking up an iPad and scanning through your list of patients for the night. "Or that I’m incompetent, considering I actually round with patients instead of brooding in corners like a gargoyle."

"Gargoyle?" he echoed. "I’m flattered you’ve been staring long enough to come up with nicknames."

"Please," you scoffed. "Your aura of gloom is visible from space. NASA actually filed a complaint saying it was interfering with their ability to conduct research."

Jack paused for a beat, gaze flicking over you more intently than usual. "Did you eat before your shift?"

You eyes were glued on the iPad, your only response a single head bobble "no."

He didn’t like that. Robby could tell from the way his jaw flexed slightly—but he said nothing. Just hummed under his breath and looked back at his clipboard.

Robby had been watching through his glasses the entire time, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like a dad wrangling in two over-caffeinated siblings. He blinked at the two of you, then sighed—long, theatrical, the kind of sigh that said he had survived more codes than he could count but this was titrating his patience.

"You two ever gonna kiss, or just keep trying to murder each other with sarcasm?" He took his glasses off to bury his face in his hands with a groan.

Jack didn’t look up, turning the page over on his clipboard. "I prefer homicide. Cleaner paperwork."

"Honestly, I'd take an explosive diarrhea case over having this conversation," you muttered, half to Robby, half to yourself, rubbing at the bridge of your nose like the words might erase Jack from your field of vision. 

Robby would be remiss if he didn't catch the way neither of you clocked his kiss and make up comment. He stared at you both, mouth frozen in a half-smile that said he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or launch you into separate time zones. He gave it two full seconds—long enough to confirm that you were both still hopeless—before shaking his head in defeat.

"I think," Robby hummed, patting both of your shoulders like a tired camp counselor, "to be so dumb must be nice."

You and Jack had the same unimpressed expression locked and loaded—scowls sharp and identical, contempt trained squarely on Robby, both of you about to mouth off in perfect sync.

He walked off before either of you could open your mouths. 

—

By 3am, the fatigue and hunger were chewing holes in your composure.

Too many admits. Not enough staff. Shen being chronically unbothered. Myrna threatening to murder her wife—when you and Jack turned to ask if she had a wife, matching expressions of disbelief already locked in place, she looked at you deadpan and asked, "You wanna get hitched?"

And always—always—Jack.

Fucking Jack.

With his clipboard full of passive-aggressive notes in that damn attractive calligraphy handwriting.

His tone clipped like a warning and welcome all at once.

And his black scrubs making him look like the grim reaper of constructive criticism and deconstructive mental undressing.

"Patient in six?" you asked.

"CT just came back. Small bowel obstruction. Classic presentation, apparently."

You glanced his way. "Told you it wasn’t just post-op gas."

Jack didn’t miss a beat. "And yet, you were already quoting discharge guidelines to the new intern before radiology even called back."

You shot him a look. Walsh would be proud of you for that one. "I was outlining possibilities. It’s called methodical thinking—must not be a concept you’re familiar with."

He grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Chaos works for me. You panic without bullet points."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re the only attending I know who thrives in complete chaos and calls it a ‘method.’"

"And you’re the only resident I know who color-codes her trauma alerts."

The edge of your lip curled. "That’s called being prepared."

He gestured vaguely. "It’s called being uptight."

You arched a brow. "Spoken like someone who thinks organized is a four-letter word that starts with 'f' and ends with 'k'."

He leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. "Spoken like someone who secretly enjoys cleaning up after my messes."

You blinked once. Then grinned wider. "One day, your beloved chaos is going to bite you in the ass."

He tapped your chart as he walked past. "I guess it’s a good thing you’ve already alphabetized the first aid supplies for me."

—

By 3:20, the storm hit.

Lightning cracked the sky. Power flickered. The backup generator hummed to life with a groan. You should've brought an extra jacket to keep in your locker but it would end up disappearing anyway. Jack was in the hallway already, flashlight in hand.

"OR’s shut down. We’re triaging manually. You good?"

You nodded, biting your tongue. This wasn’t the time.

You worked side by side in the makeshift command center. Tension simmered beneath the quiet coordination—until a grabby frat-boy type from bay four decided he didn’t like being told to sit still and wait.

It happened fast.

He flung the tray off his bed, sending instruments clattering across the floor. You instinctively raised your hand to shield your face—just as a stray scalpel nicked the back of your hand, slicing a sharp, shallow arc. The pain didn’t register immediately. Jack did.

He was on the guy in an instant, stepping in front of you, voice low and lethal. "Sit. Down." The words came out all but minced. 

Security had already been called, but Jack looked like he wanted to break the guy’s face just for breathing in your direction. He didn’t even turn back to you until the orderlies dragged the patient away.

Then his hand was cupping your elbow, his voice much softer. "Let me see it."

You hissed as he inspected the cut. "It’s not deep."

"You’re bleeding on my chaos," he muttered, guiding you gently to an empty room.

You snorted through the blossoming pain. "Told you my color-coding wasn’t excessive."

He grabbed a suture kit, pulling gloves on with the kind of care you usually saw him reserve for crics and broken ribs. "Hold still."

"Bossy."

"Only when someone I like gets stabbed in the hand."

Your breathing hitched. "Like, huh?"

Jack’s attention was fixed on your hand. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, watching him thread the needle, so close, so focused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. Quite the opposite. It felt warm. Easy. He worked methodically, hands sure, touch gentle, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check your expression like it mattered more than the wound. As he cleaned around the cut and prepped the lidocaine syringe, you both said it in unison—

"Slight prick and a burn."

You laughed under your breath, both at his expression of surprise and your synchrony. "God. That phrase is ingrained in my soul. I think I said it to a grapefruit during my 5th year."

Jack’s lips twitched. "I said it to a patient’s plush raccoon once."

You watched his hands move with steady precision, stitching you up like he had all the time in the world. The storm outside cracked again, but neither of you flinched.

"Make sure I don’t scar, Doc," you teased, settling in as he prepped the suture. "I need these hands to make magic and miracles happen. Might even become a hand model if this whole medicine thing doesn’t pan out."

Jack didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll do my best, ma’am. But if you end up on a billboard somewhere, I expect royalties."

You snorted. "In your dreams."

Jack didn’t say anything at first—just gave you a small, private smile like he was tucking something away in the back of his mind. Like he was keeping it just for himself.

And this time, when you looked at him, he didn’t look away.

For a few minutes, the raindrops tapping against the windows were the only sound that filled the empty space. Jack didn't speak. He just kept his gaze on your hand, now bandaged, resting on the edge of the tray table like it had never been hurt. You watched him watching you, your heart thudding quietly in your throat. 

"You always take care of your disasters this nicely?" you mumbled.

He smirked. "Only the pretty ones."

You didn’t speak of it.

Not until later, when the lights came back and the halls emptied and you were alone in the break room.

You noticed it as he leaned against the counter, scrubs rumpled, hair even more so. His scrubs were black, as always—just rumpled enough to prove he'd been moving all night, just fitted enough to be infuriating. You took a sip of water, eyeing him from across the break room table as you both took a seat. Something about the way the fluorescent light caught the curve of his jaw made the words slip out before you could stop them.

"Do you own anything that isn’t black?" you asked, voice light with sudden curiosity. "Or is your off-duty wardrobe just a series of increasingly gothic-toned hoodies that match your work-wear?"

Jack glanced up from his coffee, one brow arched. "It hides blood."

You stared. "You really don’t let anyone in, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away, just sipped his coffee and stared out at the empty hallway beyond the break room.

Finally, with a shrug that didn’t quite match the weight behind it, he said, "You’re one to talk."

That made you laugh, but it came out softer than expected. "Guess we’re both pretty terrible at normal."

Jack’s lips twitched. "Normal’s overrated."

You leaned back in your chair, legs stretched out in front of you, the tips of your sneakers barely brushing his. Neither of you moved. 

Suddenly, Jack got up and yanked open a small drawer by the coffee machine and pulled out a sad-looking granola bar, handing it to you without meeting your eyes.

"Eat this."

Your brow furrowed, suspicious. "Seriously?"

"You haven’t eaten since yesterday," he muttered, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t noticed.

You stared at the wrapper, then at him. "You really had that locked and loaded?"

He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and stuck the bar out at you further. "It’s chocolate. Don’t make me regret it."

Instead of prying further, your hand reached out slowly and took it, eyes still narrowed, studying him like he’d just burnt out a fuse in your brain.

Silence washed over you again. Occasionally filled by the sound of you munching on your granola bar and taking measured sips of your coffee. After a few minutes and one crumpled granola bar later, you caught Jack sneaking a glance at you over the rim of his cup.

You didn’t say anything—just raised a brow.

He looked away like he hadn’t been watching you at all.

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The words crept out of your mouth carefully. "Do you think..." 

Jack looked up, gaze intent. 

"Nevermind," you stopped yourself. 

He leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking into something almost unbearable. Not quite touching, not even brushing—but the air thickened under the weight of his stare. That kind of eye contact that felt like it could crack glass. Steady. Searching.

You let the quiet spool between you like a thread someone might tug, if they were brave enough.

"It's rude to start things you don't intend on finishing," he stated simply.

You blinked, still caught in the current of that look, then leaned in a little—almost like you were about to whisper a secret. Jack mirrored you without hesitation, like it was instinct.

Your voice was barely above a murmur. "Do you think..."

He waited, gaze steady, maybe even a tinge of hope if you squinted.

"...that the real reason you thrive in chaos is because it matches your personality?" you deadpanned.

Jack exhaled sharply, the ghost of a scoff tugging at his mouth. He sat back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

You grinned, eyes bright and playful. "What? I finished it."

"Barely," he muttered, but he was smiling too.

A few beats passed. You both sat in the lingering quiet, the kind that settled in only after long shifts and half-spoken things.

Then he leaned in—just a little—mirroring what you'd done earlier. You furrowed your brows, curious.

He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Do you think..."

You leaned in too, expecting something real, something heavy.

"...that you secretly enjoy being wrong? Because, statistically, it’s seems like your favorite hobby."

Your jaw dropped to let out a puff of air, baffled by his audacity, and pushed his arm. "God, you’re insufferable."

He chuckled under his breath. "And yet, here you are."

You gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking. "I will admit that it’s in my top five favorite hobbies. But it still doesn’t beat ‘annoying Jack Abbot.’ That one’s undefeated."

Jack shook his head, eyes warm and lips softened in a grin. "You’d miss me if I ever stopped letting you win."

Your only response was a coy smile. You nudged his foot with yours beneath the table, and he glanced down at the contact. He nudged back, subtle and sure, like he didn’t want the moment to end just yet—then looked back up at you. Something passed between the pair of you—unspoken, tentative, curious.

The room fell quiet again, comfortable this time. Neither of you moved to leave.

Until Jack's phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, then cursed under his breath. "Room seven. It's that kid who demanded to speak to the 'head doctor' because I wouldn't give him dilaudid for a tension headache."

You raised a brow. "So... a normal Friday?"

"Basically."

You watched him go, expecting a quick de-escalation. Room seven. You knew who that was. Height rivaled only by his ego. Frat letters drawn across his bare chest like illiterate war paint. Barked at nurses like he owned the floor. The kind of guy who made everything someone else's problem, backed by daddy’s legal team and a two-semester record of hazing infractions.

Jack had said he’d handle it. He always did. Especially with these types. It was like they were on a rotation—every Friday night, a new brand of uninhibited pre-frontal cortex, privileged chaos.

But then you heard his voice—Jack’s—sharp and too loud from down the hall. A clatter followed, unmistakable. Tray to tile. A chair scraping. Then another crash. A shout that definitely wasn’t Jack’s.

You were already moving.

By the time you rounded the corner, the frat boy was mid-lunge, fury twisting his face as he hurled a tray toward Jack’s head like he was reenacting some half-remembered bar fight. Jack ducked, barely—but he was boxed in, too close to the wall.

You didn’t think. Just moved.

"Hey!" you barked, adrenaline surging. You threw yourself at him, coming at him like a freight train and making him fall back onto the bed with a grunt. A nurse hit the emergency call. Security swarmed seconds later.

Jack had grabbed your arm and pulled you back—tight but not painful—pulling you just out of the fray. "What the hell?"

You glared at him, chest heaving. "Returning the favor."

He didn’t let go.

"On-call room. Now."

He practically hauled you down the hall, his hand never leaving yours. You were both silent until the door shut behind you. He pressed his palms to the counter and stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"What was that?" His voice was sharp, unfiltered, pissed in a way you didn’t see often—not like this. Not when it was about you. "You could’ve gotten hurt."

"So could you." You leaned against the metal bunkbed frame, still catching your breath. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

His Adam's apple bobbed, slow, like the movement itself took restraint. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual.

"You're reckless," he said quietly.

"Takes one to know one," you laughed.

Jack didn’t.

He stepped forward instead, jaw clenched. "You have no regard for your safety and only for that of others."

You took a step back.

"You will go out of your way to treat and protect everyone around you at the expense of your own well-being."

Another step back. Any closer and—

"Do you understand," he said, each word measured, devastating, "how much I worry about you?"

Your heartbeat was a war drum now—loud, insistent, thunderous.

"Do you know how much I think about you? How much I plan for the worst every time you throw yourself between danger and someone else without a second thought?" he added, voice cracking just enough to reveal the truth beneath it. Laid bare.

"When you walk into the ER and you haven't eaten since the night before and I can see it—you're running on caffeine and impulse and whatever scraps of adrenaline are left."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He didn’t stop there. "When you give your jacket to a freezing patient and spend the next six hours shivering without saying a word—like that’s normal."

You swallowed. "It wasn’t cold..."

Jack’s voice sharpened. "You forget your umbrella and show up soaked but act like it's fine. Like it’s not freezing. Like you didn’t just volunteer to get sick."

Your fingers twitched against your side.

"And when you blow off your own wound care to finish a chart. Or cover a code blue for someone else even though your shift ended twenty minutes ago."

You looked away. His eyes never left you.

He stepped even closer, willing you to look at him. "When you pretend you’re made of steel. And then crack alone in the stairwell when you think no one’s looking."

It felt like ice cold water had dropped from the ceiling.

"Jack—" you managed to force out. 

He held up a hand and turned around, cutting you off. "Please." 

He couldn’t hear it. Not unless you felt the same. Not unless you'd listened, actually listened, for once. He’d rather bleed out not knowing than survive a rejection he couldn’t patch. Just colleagues. He'd switch over to day shift if he had to. Robby could put in a word for him. Temporary, at least until he found a new hospital. Maybe in a different city. Of a different state.

He looked anywhere but you, turning like he meant to leave, like he could walk it off and pretend none of this ever happened.

"Jack, please..." The words came out desperate, begging, pleading for him to stop.

He didn't meet your eyes—couldn't. "I'll see you at the nurses station." 

"Oh, for the love of God—" You reached forward and yanked him back by his forearm.

And then your lips were on his.

It wasn’t clean or careful. It was a crash—years of tension detonating all at once. He froze for half a second, eyes wide open like his brain was short-circuiting, then kissed you back with everything he had and more. Desperation, disbelief, hunger—it all poured out of him like water breaking through a dam.

Your hands cradled his face, thumbs grazing over the light stubble along his jaw, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones like you were learning him by touch alone. He kissed you like he couldn’t stand to stop, and you held him like you weren’t going to let him. He tasted like spearmint—sharp and stubborn—the gum he always carried in his pocket, and behind that, burnt coffee and something so distinctly Jack it made your limbs tingle.

His hands found your waist, your jaw, your back—grasping like he didn’t trust the moment to be real unless he mapped every inch of you with his fingertips. You were pressed chest to chest, and it still didn’t feel close enough.

Jack had kissed people before. He had slept with people before. He'd been married, for God's sake. But this—this—was unreal. This was heat and gravity and every inch of restraint he’d stitched into place finally tearing wide open. This was the reason human beings fought in wars. Why people wrote poetry and ruined perfectly stable lives for one perfect, maddening kiss. Why everything else material and immaterial suddenly paled in comparison.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging salt and pepper curls just enough to make him groan, low and wrecked against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, share the oxygen in your lungs, the little gasp you made when his thumb grazed the spot behind your ear just right. He devoured everything you gave him and kissed you like a man who had run out of time and patience.

Because he had.

He’d wanted this too long to pretend otherwise, and he'd sooner die than deprive either of you from this any longer. 

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting lightly against his. Both of you were gasping, eyes locked in the kind of dazed silence that usually followed adrenaline crashes. 

"Took you long enough, old man," you whispered, lips still brushing his.

Jack blinked once, twice. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like the thought had crossed his mind a thousand times, but the reality of you—this—hit harder than he’d prepared for.

"You feel the same?" he asked quietly, in a tone that was more awe than question.

You nodded. "Since before either of us were brave enough to say it."

Jack let out a breath that shook at the edges. "I thought if I let it slip—if I looked too long, said too much—you’d shut me out."

"I thought if I admitted it, it would ruin everything."

"It didn’t," he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours.

"No," you whispered. "It finally made sense of everything."

Jack blinked again, almost like he hadn’t fully registered it until now. His gaze swept over your face, pausing at your lips, then your eyes, as if searching for the lie he couldn’t find.

"You really mean that?" he asked, quieter now. Not disbelieving—just internalizing.

You nodded again, slower this time. "I don’t do this if I don’t."

Jack let out another breath, but it wasn’t shaky this time—it was solid. Grounded. Relieved. He laughed under it, the sound warm and slightly incredulous.

"You really are impossible," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"And you’re dramatic," you whispered back, smiling.

"Fair," he said. "But you’re still mine."

"Yeah," you said. "I think I always was."

Jack huffed a breath, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Careful. You just kissed your attending. That kind of power could go to your head."

You grinned, still breathless. "Please. You kissed me back like your life depended on it."

"Who says it didn't?" he asked rhetorically, so quietly it almost got lost in the air between you.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing softly along the hairline, anchoring him there. Jack shivered. Not from cold—never from cold.

"Thank you," you admitted. "For taking care of me while I was busy taking care of everyone else."

His grip on your waist tightened, grounding himself, and then he leaned in again. This time it was slower. Less frantic. His lips found the curve of your neck, warm and reverent. You gasped—quietly—but it was enough. He kissed lower, just beneath your jaw, and your hands curled in the fabric at his shoulders.

"Always." The word left his lips like a prayer.

His fingers traced the hem of your scrub top, ghosting up your sides like he was overriding any and all memories of anything else other than you. No dissonance. Just Jack, desperate to feel something real in a world that never gave him space to.

You pressed closer, kissed the corner of his mouth. "You taste like that godawful spearmint gum."

He grinned against your skin. "You love it."

Another scoff. "If throwing myself in front of a raging frat boy was all it took to get you to shut up and kiss me, I would've done it ages ago."

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, smug. "If you do that again, I’m going to make you do my charting for a week."

You snorted. "With pleasure."

He didn’t argue. Just dipped his head and kissed you again.

—

You woke in the on-call room, a mess of tangled limbs and haphazardly strewn clothes. Your cheek pressed to the rise and fall of his chest. The storm had long passed, but its echo lingered in the hush around you. Jack’s arm was slung low around your waist, fingers drawing lazy, absent-minded shapes against your hip like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

"For what it’s worth, I still think you’re a pain in the ass," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His chest rumbled beneath your cheek. "Likewise," he said, but it came out softer than usual.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, your hand brushing gently across his ribs, then settling over his heart. "Don’t get used to this."

His brow arched. "This?" If you looked hard enough, you might have seen worry flash across his face. 

"Me being nice."

Relief painted his expression. He smiled, full and rare. "You’re the one curled into me like a particularly mouthy cat."

You buried your face in his chest. "Shut up."

His fingers tightened slightly at your hip. "Not complaining. Just saying... I could get used to this."

You looked up again, caught the vulnerability flickering there before he blinked it away. Your thumb brushed his jaw, and you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, a smile blooming in its wake.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Me too."

—

A few weeks and an undetermined number of shifts later, you walked through the double doors of the ER wearing a black hoodie—oversized and unassuming to anyone else, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him.

Robby and Dana spotted it from a mile away. The frayed drawstring, the hole near the front pocket, the faded cuff seams—the one he always reached for when the weather dropped below 60 degrees, too tired to bother, or too raw to pretend. Jack’s favorite and now second most prized possession.

The first being the shirt you wore when you stayed the night for the first time—oversized and soft, probably older than the first year med students—borrowed without asking. He never washed it. Claimed it smelled like you now and he'd keep it that way.

No one said a word.

Except Robby, who walked past and muttered, "Finally." Then, as you and Jack strolled side by side toward the nurses’ station—still bickering, now with smiles tucked behind every jab—he held out a fist to Jack.

Jack bumped it without hesitation.

Robby grinned. "Took you long enough."

"Shut up," you and Jack muttered in unison, but neither of you stopped smiling.

Jack's hand brushed yours between steps, a casual touch that lingered just long enough to say everything he couldn't say out loud in front of witnesses. You let your pinky hook around his for a second before letting go—just a flash of something soft beneath the usual snark.

"Didn't know we allowed pets in the ER," Dana remarked from her chair before looking up through her glasses. "Or are those lovebirds I hear?"

You smirked. "We’re just evolving."

Jack raised a brow. "Into better people?"

"No," you replied. "Into slightly better-functioning disasters. I am, anyway. Jack’s still somewhere between disaster and cryptid."

He bumped your shoulder gently before giving you a playful wink. "Speak for yourself. I was already perfect."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. A smile crept up like second nature. You'd get him next time.

Robby snorted. "God, you two are insufferable."

You turned just enough to shoot him a smug look. "You love it."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I do. But if I walk in on you making out in the supply closet, I’m blackmailing both of you. With photos."

Jack didn’t even flinch. "Make sure you get our good angles."

You could definitely get used to this.

[thescarletfang]

breathe, baby

I couldn't stop thinking about these two from this drabble I wrote, so I expanded upon it.

breathe, baby: jack abbot x f!doctorreader

word count: 5.8k

summary: the day dr. jack abbot accidentally calls you "baby" during a shift is a day that changes everything.

warnings: MDNI!!!!!!!! 18+, lil angst, fluff, smut, sliiiiight breeding kink?? praise kink, feelings etc

******

The day Dr. Abbot accidentally calls you “baby” during a shift is the day that everything changes.

 

If you’re being completely honest, you think it’s been building toward this for awhile, but you’re too afraid to let your brain linger on that thought for very long.

You’re his top resident and you two have a rhythm. Years and moments and fragments built upon pain and trust and chaos. Lingering looks, a language of your own working together. A rough, strong hand on the small of your back as he passes behind you. A coffee set down in front of you, just the way you like it, accompanied with a muttered, “Hang in there,” out of the corner of his mouth. A “lemme walk you home” grumbled to you after a harrowing shift. 

Quiet moments on the rooftop after losing a patient. Not saying anything. Just fucking existing together, shoulders brushing, this quiet, strong, capable man a safe space for you after all this time.

You both ignore the knowing looks from Shen and Ellis and Walsh and fuck, even Robby and Dana have made comments about how the two of you disappear into your own world when working together.

Jack always just quirks the corner of his mouth up at their teasing, then gets back to work. Your face is always warm for at least twenty minutes after one of their barbs. 

But this day - it’s fucking hard.

You almost lost a patient. A teenage girl. You watch them roll her up to the OR after she’s finally, finally stabilized. But this one hit differently. She just…she reminded you of you. 

You’re rooted to the spot and it’s hard to breathe and everyone else is clearing out and your vision is swimming and you think, please let me just disappear—-

“Breathe, baby. Breathe. You fuckin’ rocked that shit, okay?”

It’s out of the corner of Dr. Abbot’s mouth, a passing comment, in that low rasp of his voice.

Your eyes dart up to him, but Dr. Abbot— Jack — is moving away, taking off his bloody gloves and throwing them into the trash. He’s already moving on to the next patient, the next case, and you can’t even catch his eye, you just watch his steady, slightly uneven gait cut through the chaos of the ED.

Breathe, baby.

Breathe, you remind yourself.

You let out a breath and it steadies you and your heart rate returns to normal.

You finally move, strip off your gloves and remove your mask and then you feel it, him staring at you across the hectic room, where he has a chart in his hand and you think maybe, finally, everything’s changed. His gaze is intense and it’s loud and it looks like he realized what he said, what he let slip. He’s always been one for eye contact and he’s just standing there in his black scrubs, staring at you like you’re the only thing he sees.

You fucking burn.

* * *

When you transferred to the night shift in your third year of residency, you were nervous. You’d heard all about how fucked your sleep schedule can get, how wild and feral the night shift at PTMC could be, but you didn’t have much of a say in scheduling. You gritted your teeth together and got to work. 

Ellis and Shen immediately welcomed you with their sarcasm and quick-wit. Walsh was cold, predictably. 

And Dr. Abbot?

Jack?

He was fucking intimidating. He greeted you with eye contact that made you want to squirm. You were convinced he never cracked a smile a day in his life. His eyes – dark, hazel, penetrating - held such a layer of overall sadness that, despite not knowing anything about him yet, this man had lived a life. 

“Welcome to the chaos,” Jack’s first words to you were thrown carelessly your way, locking eyes for a beat, before turning back to the computer at the nurse’s station. You had nodded, and Shen had swept you away on a case. 

You didn’t talk to Dr. Abbot for the rest of the day, but you were amazed at his ability to command the ED and how he effortlessly led the team with calm, biting competency. His movements were so sure. His hands were steady. His mind was unimaginably capable. A respect for the war veteran settled deep within your bones immediately. 

Within a month, you and Dr. Abbot - Jack - had a rapport that felt professional. Within three months, you got him to crack a smile in your direction when you sassed Myrna right back. Within six months, you were working together fluidly in a way you couldn’t have predicted. Within a year, Jack knew your coffee order and you knew his. 

You learned things about one another. You learned he was a widower when you caught a glimpse of his wedding band hanging around his neck, next to his dog tags that he wore under his scrubs. You learned that he was in therapy and that sometimes, he stood too close to the edge of the roof. 

He learned you, too. Learned that you ran yourself ragged and would keep going unless he told you to take a break. Learned that you had trouble sleeping, that you were on an anti-anxiety medication, that a warm tea after a shift with lots of honey calmed your racing heart. 

One time, after a particularly brutal shift, you were lying in bed, showered and staring at your ceiling, your heart pounding in your ribcage, adrenaline coursing through you. Your phone buzzed.

A text - from Jack. 

Jack: Postmate should be at your place shortly. Get some rest, you earned it. 

You frowned in confusion for a moment before a knock on your door caught your attention. You padded down the hall and opened the door to find a courier holding a coffee tray with a steaming cup of your favorite tea, and a little brown bag with your favorite pastry.

You texted back immediately.

You: You really didn’t have to do that. I’m kinda speechless???

Jack: Don’t be dramatic. 

Then you watched as the bubble with the three little typing dots appeared, disappeared, came back, then stopped altogether. 

You bit your lip, pulse racing. 

You: Thank you, Jack. Who knew you were such a softie under that hard exterior. 

As you took your tea and pastry back to your bedroom, snuggling up under the covers, the warm seeping into your bones and relaxing you, your phone screen lit up.

Jack: Only for you. 

You had stared at your phone until the weight of exhaustion had lulled you into a dreamless sleep.

And now your heart is beating in your chest so quickly you think it’s going to burst. It’s been two years since you transferred and you’re still here and Jack called you baby and it has lit up every single neural pathway in your brain. You feel warm all over, can feel the word wrap around your body and caress you. The low timber of his voice. The way it'd anchored you in the moment, floating you to the surface. 

You close your locker hard, the day heavy on your shoulders. Surely he didn’t know what he was saying. You’re all overworked and under caffeinated and exhausted. He probably calls everyone “baby,” right? Though the idea of Jack calling Ellis or Walsh or Shen “baby” makes you angry in a way that you don’t care to examine. 

You step out into the early morning light, grateful to leave the whirlwind of confusion and feelings behind in the ED. Then you see Jack standing there, camo backpack slung around one of his shoulders, leaning against the side of the hospital. He’s out of his scrubs, in a black-shirt and cargo pants and the minute he sees you his jaw clenches. You can see the tension in his shoulders, in his posture. You’ve rarely seen Jack look uncomfortable but there’s no other word to associate with him right now. 

“Hey,” he says, walking right up to you. “Walk you home?”

You feel your face grow warm but you force yourself to maintain that goddamn eye contact of his. His hazel eyes search your face but he’s completely guarded and unreadable - his default setting. 

“You don’t have to do that—”

Jack lifts a brow, his salt-and-pepper curls blowing slightly in the wind. He rubs a hand over his jaw. 

“Yeah, but I want to.” 

Jesus Christ, is this man trying to kill you today? Butterflies erupt in your stomach like you’re a preteen. You nod and shrug, shouldering your own backpack and you fall in step together. 

You live about fifteen minutes from the hospital. Jack’s never actually been up to your place, but he has walked you home before plenty of times. His own home is just five minutes further than yours, so there had been those mornings, when you didn’t want to feel confined to the inside of your car, where you’d walk home and Jack would join you. You’d always try and brush it off, could see the way he favored his right leg, could imagine the pain of the prosthetic left leg throbbing. But he would always roll his eyes, grumble something about “not being that old” and the two of you would walk in companionable silence. 

This silence doesn’t feel companionable. 

The silence is loud between you. You can feel Jack studying you out of the corner of your eye. He never hides when he looks at you.

You glance at him and purse your lips. “What?”

He doesn’t say anything, just rubs the back of his neck and mumbles, “Nothin’.” 

A minute later he breaks the silence. “Just makin’ sure you're okay.” 

Your mind races, trying to land on what he could be referring to. Surely, not—?

At your confused glance, he clears his throat. “The young girl. You seemed really shaken back there. Haven’t really seen you like that in a while.”

Right. Of course Jack isn’t going to bring up what he called you, because he didn’t mean it. Because you’re his resident. Because the working relationship you’ve built is just that - it stays at work. 

You feel panic crawl up your throat for a moment; feel embarrassed and ashamed that for a second in that trauma room, you thought maybe this fucking torch you’ve carried for your attending could be reciprocated. 

You feel like a fucking fool. 

By the time you decide to answer, you’re at the entrance to your apartment building. You turn, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. He’s studying you like he knows every answer; like he has you fucking memorized.

“I’m fine,” you lie. It rolls effortlessly off of your tongue. 

Jack takes a step closer to you, his hand still clutching his backpack strap. You’re close enough that in the cresting light of the morning, you can see the gray stubble that lines his jaw. You think he’s so handsome it’s a bit unfair. You think he’s the kind of man that was meant to be fifty, he’s settled into his body and features in a way that feels like he was always meant to get here. Can see how every line of his face tells a story that he keeps too close to his heart. 

You can’t read Jack. You never could.

But he’s looking at you like you’re his favorite book and you don’t know what to do with it all. 

“You’re lying,” he says, and it’s so matter-of-fact that it feels like you’ve been slapped. 

You harden your gaze, try to stand taller. “You walk me home just to accuse me of lying?”

He shakes his head and his eyes never leave yours. “You don’t gotta do that with me. You know you don’t, so why are you doing it now?”

You burn for this man. It consumes every cell in your body and you just want him to either call out what all this means or leave you the fuck alone. Over a year of this push and pull between you and you fear you’re at your limit.

“I’m not the only one who’s good at lying, Jack.”

The sentence hangs between you. You see something shadow his face, a muscle in his jaw works overtime. He puts his hands in his pockets and he lets out a breath, a half-laugh and a half-scoff and finally looks away. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters. Jack looks back to you then and you swear you see it. Swear you see the longing and the fear and you recognize it because you feel it right back. 

Something pulls in your sternum; it’s a tiny ball of light, of bravery, and it’s buzzing inside of your bloodstream.

In the span of a few seconds, you think of so many moments with Jack. You think of the time he found you crying on the rooftop, exhausted and at your mental brink. About how he sat beside you, about how he rubbed your back as you wept. 

You think about how when you told him a few months ago you were going on a first date with some anesthesiologist, he’d grown silent and stoic and you’d lost him to his own mind for the rest of the shift. How he’d seemed relieved the next night when you’d told him it had been a dud of a date.

You think about that time everyone went out for Ellis’ birthday to that run down little pub around the corner. How you’d actually gone home to change first, how Jack’s eyes had immediately widened for a second when you walked in wearing a little sundress. How his gaze was hot, how he’d put a hand low on your back and asked you what your drink was. How he watched you the entire night, how you felt drunk with that power, knowing his eyes were on you. How he’d laughed and smiled and looked like everything you’d ever wanted in a man. 

It lit you up. It made you feel like a champion. 

You look at him now and he’s looking right back. 

“You call all of your residents ‘baby’?”

The question is out of you before you can keep it behind your lips. You see the words tumbling out, see them reach over and land on Jack. He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a scoff, a sound like he never meant for you to hear any of it at all. 

His eyes dig right into yours. Your chest is rising and falling now and he’s closer, just by a step. You’re in each other’s space. 

Jack’s eyes flicker down your face before they find their home back in your gaze. It looks like he’s made a decision but you can’t tell what it is. 

“You fuckin’ know I don’t.”

It’s both a confession and an answer. It lingers between you and you want to pull it around your fingers. You want to believe him. 

Warmth pools between your legs and you realize you’ve never been this turned on and you’re not even touching. You’re standing outside the door to your apartment and you’re wet because Jack fucking Abbot is looking at you like you’ve wrecked him. 

You don’t respond, you just punch in the code to your building and open the door. He stays rooted to the spot, watching your every move. You look over your shoulder at him, heart thundering against your chest so hard you swear he can see it. 

“Wanna come up?”

He swallows and you track the movement with your eyes. Waiting for his answer feels like an eternity and you’re nearly regretting it until he says, “Absolutely.”

The nerves settle in as you climb the three flights to your floor. You can feel him at your back, can feel the heat of him behind you. Can feel his eyes all over you and it makes your skin prickle with anticipation. 

When you get to your door, he’s standing so close behind you that you’re breathing heavily, like you just ran up the stairs. Your hands tremble as they fiddle with your lock and then, slowly, his right arm comes around you. His left hand finds your lower back and it’s a steady, warm pressure there. His right hand settles over yours and you can feel his breath tickle your neck. Can feel his chest expand because he’s breathing heavy too, and you have to physically force yourself from pushing your ass into him, to see if he’s as affected as you are. 

What the fuck is wrong with you that you want to grind against your attending in the hallway outside your apartment?

The weight of his hand on yours steadies you. His fingers work with yours to help you unlock the door and it opens and you step inside with him right behind you and you’ve crossed both the physical and metaphorical line. 

You enter your apartment, toss your backpack on the ground and turn around as he quietly closes the door behind him. He drops his own backpack and then you’re just staring at each other in the foyer of your place. 

He clears his throat and the sound scrapes across your skin. 

“I need you to be very clear with me right now,” Jack says, voice serious and grounding. “Cuz if I’m reading this wrong–if I’ve been reading this wrong—”

“You haven’t. You aren’t.”

He stares at you and it’s hard and you want him so badly, so much more than you’ve ever wanted anything in the entire world. 

He sounds ruined when he says lowly, “I don’t wanna be reading this wrong.”

Jack’s gaze tethers you to the ground. You feel so strong.

You step a hair closer. You can hear and feel his intake of breath. His nostrils flare. 

“In every way you read this, I want you,” you say softly. Jack lets out a ragged breath at your confession, like he’s taking his first lungful of air after drowning for eternity. 

“C’mere.” 

His voice is wrecked. 

The line between you is obliterated when you close the remaining distance and Jack puts one hand around your waist and the other goes to cradle your jaw. Your eyes flutter at the comfort from his touch, how it makes you feel so deeply in your body. 

His eyes can’t seem to focus on a single part of you; they trace your own eyes, your nose, linger on your lips, devour your throat as you swallow, caress your chest as it rises and falls quickly. Finally, his eyes come back to your own.

“You’re absolutely sure about this?” His question hangs between you.

“I am,” you say. He swallows, his mouth so close to yours. If you wanted to, you could lick his lips. Your breath mingles together and your warm all the way to your toes. 

“I’m broken and old,” he says lowly, gravely, and in those few tiny words you hear so much. You hear him offering himself up to you, all of his wounds and shrapnel and baggage and darkness. 

It doesn’t scare you.

It makes you feel alive. 

You offer him a little smile, bite your lip and he groans at the sight. 

“I want you just as you are, old man,” you tell him and then his lips are on yours and it’s everything. 

The first kiss is soft. It’s a re-introduction. A slow movement of lips against each other’s and then you both pull back at the same time and his eyes are so dark and you feel like you’re buzzing. 

The second kiss is nothing like the first. 

It is filthy and open and wet, tongues slipping into each other’s mouths. Jack’s hands skate down your body until they grab your ass, pulling you roughly against him. You tangle your fingers in those fucking gray curls that have driven you wild for far too long. 

You press your pelvis against him and feel him through his pants, hard and aching and you rub against him, grind against him like you’re a teenager.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he growls, one hand remaining on your ass, the other finding its way under your scrub top, grabbing hold of the flesh of your waist like he needs it to stay tethered to the ground. 

You lean your head back and his lips attach to your neck, his tongue tracing the tendons, sucking at your pulsepoint. 

You let out a breathy moan and feel him twitch against you. “You have me, Jack.” 

He pulls your top off and even though you’re just wearing a sports bra underneath, he looks at your chest like you’re destroying him. You both fumble and kick off your shoes quickly. You pull his t-shirt off and your hands finally get to touch those shoulders, those biceps, that fucking chest you’ve dreamt about.

You slow down when you see his dog tags and wedding ring around his neck. He goes tense for a moment, like he’s unsure how you will react. 

You look up at him gently and he’s watching you so carefully. Very slowly, you touch the dog tags and ring reverently. You kiss his chest just next to where they lay. 

“You have me,” you repeat quietly. “I want you and everything that comes with you.”

Jack’s eyes glisten for a moment and then he kisses you, both hands cradling your jaw. He works your mouth like he was designed for it. Then he pulls away and carefully takes off the dog tags and ring, lays it gently on your end table. 

You stare at one another and Jack swallows. “I never thought I’d get to have this again.”

“‘This’?”

Jack puts his hands on your waist. “A person I’d feel safe with.” His eyes hold yours like a promise. “I feel safe with you.” 

Your eyes wet before you can stop them. “I feel safe with you.”

He rests his forehead against yours and his hands trail up your arms, cradling your jaw as he tips your head back slightly. His lips find yours and this time it’s a benediction. It’s an offering, a healing and you feel the air shift around you. You bite down on his bottom lip and pull it slightly and he lets out a moan, deep in his throat. 

“Bedroom,” you mutter. He nods still kissing you and you smile against his lips, pull away breathlessly and tug his hand down the hall. 

The second you’re in your bedroom (thank god you remembered to make your bed this morning), you push him down on the edge so he’s sitting with his legs spread. You stand between his legs looking down at him, your chest heaving. His neck is corded, like he’s having trouble holding himself back. It makes you want him so badly you think you’ll die if you don’t have him. 

Your eye contact doesn’t break as you untie your scrub pants, sliding them down and over your ass and thighs. You kick out of them and your socks. Jack’s gaze is hot and he sucks in a breath when you shrug out of your sports bra, throwing it in the corner.

You’re standing in front of him in just your simple cotton panties. (In so many fantasies you’re adorned in lingerie but somehow this is better. This is real.) 

His eyes hold yours for a moment before they finally take in your naked torso and he huffs air through his nose.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, the edges of his words serrated with want. Your face is warm as you walk closer to him. He’s watching you like you hold the answers to everything as you straddle his lap, your plush thighs on either side of him. Your hands land on his shoulders and his hands immediately find your ass, dimpling the skin there. 

You can feel how hard he is and you can’t help the way you grind instinctively over his hips, feeling the clothed head of his cock deliciously hit your soaked panties.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps, his eyes fixed on where your rubbing yourself over him. “You’re so perfect.”

“Jack—need you—god—” you’re babbling, delirious with need and the way you’re pulsing between your legs. 

“Yeah, baby?” Jack’s lips attach to your neck again, teeth surely leaving a mark. His hands grab under your thighs and in a swift motion he stands up, turning you around and tossing you onto the bed. Your tits bounce and Jack is crawling over you, his lips tracing a path down your sternum until he’s sucking a nipple and you whine, high-pitched and throaty. He bites a little and you make a noise you didn’t know you were capable of. 

His hands find the waistband of your underwear and he’s panting as he slides them down your thighs, giving your other nipple attention until he has your panties completely off and dropped to the floor. 

You’re bared to him and you can no longer catch your breath. 

Jack leans back on his haunches, staring at you like he can’t believe this is actually happening.

Like he can’t believe you're his. 

You let your thighs fall apart, open your legs for him and the breath catches in Jack’s throat. 

“Fuck,” he bites out. “Fuck, baby, I need to taste you.”

You lay back, run your hands through your hair because this all feels insane. You’re burning up and feeling delirious. 

“Please,” you beg because right now you’re not above begging, you’ve never been above begging when it comes to this man. 

Jack slides down your body until he’s lying on his stomach. His face is so close to you and he actually breathes you in and it’s the most erotic moment of your life. 

Until his tongue is inside you and you whimper. 

“Fuck—fuck—Jack—yes, yes, oh my god.” 

Jack eats your pussy like he’s devouring it. Relentless and precise, you’re humiliated to think you’re going to come in under a minute. He pulls back for a moment, mouth glistening and you stare down at him as he slides a finger inside of you. You groan, throwing your head back as he glides it in and out for a moment, before sliding in a second and using his thumb to play with your clit. 

“Fuck!” you cry and Jack has this little smirk on his face before he puts his tongue back in you, licking so deep and so good. Your thighs end up over his shoulders and you realize he’s grinding into the mattress. He groans into you and you feel it - you’re so close - 

“Jack, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—how am I gonna come already?”

Jack pulls away, his thumb and fingers working in tandem together like you’re his favorite instrument to play. 

“You’re so good,” he tells you, coaxing you toward your orgasm. “Come for me. Come on my tongue, baby.”

It breaks you open.

You come hard and fast on Jack’s tongue and you feel his moan as your heels dig into his back. Your hands grip his hair and it tethers you to the bed. You’re panting as he licks you through out, his thumb and fingers still working in you. 

“Fuck,” he bites out hard, gently gliding his hand out of you. He brings it to his mouth and you go slack-jaw as he licks his fingers. “You taste so fucking good.”

You laugh because it’s all so insane. Breathless laughter that shakes your body and he grins at you and he looks so boyish. 

“I just came so hard,” you tell him because you no longer have a filter. “What the fuck?” 

He rests his head against your thigh and you just stare at each other for a moment. Your fingers run through his hair and he closes his eyes.

He’s gorgeous.

He’s yours. 

“I wanna ride you now,” you tell him. His eyes fly open and he chokes on a breath, lifting up to hover above you. 

“Yeah? God, you’re so good. You’re so fucking good.”

Now that does something to your psyche you’ll need to inspect later. You grin up at him and your fingers go to the ties on his pants. He helps you, kicking them off until he’s just in his briefs.

Your eyes land on his prosthetic. 

“Told you I was broken and old,” he mutters, a hint of self-consciousness breaking through. You put a hand on his cheek, staring up at him where he’s still holding himself above you.

“And I told you I want you exactly as you are.” You glance down again. “Will it be better to take it off?”

Jack hesitates, just for a moment, then nods. 

You lean up and kiss him. “So take it off.”

You roll to the side as Jack takes off the prosthetic, lying it against the foot of your bed. You kneel on the bed, watching him massage the end of the amputated leg. He grunts in relief. 

“There’s a—there’s wipes, in my pocket—”

You reach down to his discarded pants and take the wipes out of the back pocket. 

“Lay down,” you tell him. Jack watches you, breathing heavy before he listens to you, lying back with is head on your pillows. You - naked, humming with your previous orgasm - lean down and gently wipe at the residual limb. You feel his gaze on you, watching you. 

This moment feels sacred and you’ll remember it for a long time.

You toss the wipe in your wastepaper basket before you turn to him, grinning. 

His eyes are glistening and he swallows roughly. 

“Hi,” you say, suddenly shy. 

“Hey,” he tells you back, voice gravel. 

You bite your lip, your hands going to the top of his briefs. “I’m going to take these off now.”

Jack groans. “Fuckin’ please.”

You take them off and when you see his cock you die a little. It’s throbbing and red at the tip and strong and proud and you’ve never been one to fantasize about an actual fucking dick before but Jesus, it’s as gorgeous as the man it belongs to. 

You straddle his thighs, hovering above it. His hands find your hips and you reach over to your bedside table, take out your bottle of lube. 

You put some in your hand, and when you reach down to rub it along Jack’s cock, he hisses, presses his head into the pillows and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m not gonna last,” he grits out. “It’s been—awhile–”

Your hand strokes him twice more before you line him up at your entrance. He squeezes the flesh of your waist. 

He looks down at where he’s lined up. “Did you wanna use a condom?” The question is so earnest, so kind, but you really need his fucking cock filling you up right now. 

“I’m on birth control,” you tell him, rubbing yourself over the head of his cock and he gasps. “I’m clean. Are you?”

Jack nods. “Yeah, yeah, I am, can show you the tests—”

“I trust you,” you tell him. “And no, I don’t wanna use a condom. I want you to come inside me and fill me up.”

Jack throws his head back, baring his throat to you and his hands move to the flesh of your ass, squeezing so hard you’re sure they’ll be marks. 

“Fucking Christ—dirty fuckin’ thing, fuck, I’m gonna die,” he growls. You smile to yourself, body completely flushed because yes, you’ve always been confident during sex, but Jack makes you feral in a way you cannot explain. 

You sink down on him slowly and he hisses when he breaches you. You take him, inch by inch and you whimper because the stretch is so good, it feels so good to be full. 

“Oh god,” you moan when he bottoms out. You sit there, him inside you and you look down at him and he looks up at you, his hands dimpling your ass. 

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he hisses and when you begin to move, his eyes roll to the back of his head. 

It’s the hottest sight you’ve ever seen. 

You start out slow, adjusting to the feeling of him inside you. Jack leans up, licks your throat and sucks on your tit. It’s so good. 

You feel like you were made to ride Jack Abbot. Sweat shines on both of your bodies and when he moves a finger to touch your clit, you cry out, leaning forward with your hands attached to the headboard. His other hand goes to your throat, holding you there securely, not tightly, but grounding. 

The bed shakes.

Jack stares down at where he’s sliding in and out of you, punching up and meeting your grinding with thrusts of his own. His chest is completely flushed. 

“Takin’ me so well,” he growls. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

You babble, delirious with pleasure. “M’gonna come, Jack, I’m gonna fuckin’ come again.”

Jack nods, his thumb strumming your clit in time with his cock. “Come for me, baby. Wanna feel you come so bad.”

He locks eyes with you. “You’re so fuckin’ good. Mine.”

You break open again, for the second time. 

“Jack! Jack! Nnnnghhh—”

He’s properly thrusting up now, can feel you spasm around his cock. “Jesus you were made for me,” he growls. “Gonna come. Gonna fill you up.”

Your legs are jelly and you can barely hold yourself up. Jack’s hands find your waist as he bounces you on his cock. You feel tears stinging the corners of your eyes because it feels so good. 

“Fill me up, Jack,” you moan. “Fill me up—-”

He comes with a broken moan, pulsing deep inside you. Your hands are on either side of his head, your hips are aching, and you’re both panting and staring at one another.

You’re not sure who laughs first, but breathless laughter breaks the tension. 

“Jesus,” Jack mutters, helping you slide off him. His come drips down your legs and he watches it for a moment, takes his finger to it and pushes it back inside you. 

You kiss him before you quickly go to use the bathroom. When you return, Jack is staring at the ceiling, breathing deeply. He looks at you and opens an arm up and you quickly slide in next to him. 

He turns on his side so you’re both staring at each other. 

There’s no awkwardness. It’s warm and sunny and it feels like a weighted blanket is over the both of your shoulders. He brings a hand up, tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“Dunno how I got so lucky,” he tells you. “You’re it for me, you know that, right?”

You don’t realize how badly you need to hear him say it. You give him a teary smile and his thumb grazes under your eye. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

The early morning light filters through the window and brings a sense of peace you’ve both been searching for. 

You can finally breathe. 

[gyugraphy]

psyche (1)

— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."

— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader

— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression

— word count. 5.1k

masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6

⋆˙⟡

“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.

You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.

In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.

You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.

Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”

That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.

“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”

Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”

“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”

Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.

“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”

“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”

You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.

“They just sent me this.”

Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.

Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.

Robert Reynolds.

You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.

You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”

Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”

You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.

“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”

But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.

“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.

Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.

“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

⋆˙⟡

The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.

Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.

Bob Reynolds.

You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.

He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.

That was what the message had said.

But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.

They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.

You had no intention of being that someone.

Not anymore.

It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.

The hallway was quiet. Empty.

And then, something shifted.

You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.

You looked up.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.

Your fingers hovered over the tablet.

“Subtle,” you said dryly.

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to make a scene.”

“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”

“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”

Of course he did.

You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”

“You would’ve ignored it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”

“No,” he said. “I want you.”

That gave you pause. He saw it.

“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”

You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”

“It saved people.”

“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”

He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”

“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”

“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.

“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”

“He’s not just the Void.”

“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”

You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.

“You care about him.”

His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”

You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”

He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”

That stopped you.

Your throat went dry.

“You think he wants me?”

“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”

You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.

The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.

Robert Reynolds.

You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.

"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.

Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."

You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.

"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."

Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”

You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.

But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.

"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.

"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."

You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.

“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."

The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”

Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”

You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”

You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.

“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”

You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.

"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."

You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”

Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”

You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.

And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.

⋆˙⟡

The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.

"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."

You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”

Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”

The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.

Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.

“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”

You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.

“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.

Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”

Bob. That nickname.

You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.

Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”

At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.

“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”

You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.

Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”

You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.

“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.

Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”

You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”

Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.

“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.

You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.

With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.

The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.

When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.

“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”

Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.

“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.

You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”

Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.

The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.

“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”

Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.

You closed your eyes.

At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.

And then—

You were in.

It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.

And then you felt it.

Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.

The Void.

It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.

Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.

“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”

And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.

He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.

You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.

Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”

You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”

You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.

“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”

Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.

Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”

Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.

For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.

You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.

You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.

Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”

You turned to him, surprised.

He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”

Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”

You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”

His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”

You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.

“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”

You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you—lazy and far too entertained.

“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”

Bob muttered something unintelligible.

Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.

Tomorrow was going to be something.

⋆˙⟡

The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.

Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.

“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.

Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”

“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”

Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.

“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”

He nodded, gently. “I know.”

Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”

“She’s not like us,” Strange said.

Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”

He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”

Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”

“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”

“And the worst?”

Strange was quiet for a long moment.

“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”

Wanda looked down.

“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.

Strange gave a faint, unreadable smile.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: :)

[ohangeleyes]

⎯⎯ DEAN WINCHESTER'S FAVORITE SEX POSITIONS

everything written down is according to his birth chart. explained in details + mini scenarios :) if you want to read sam's version, click here

“he drives like he fucks—reckless, rough, and with both hands gripping tight.”

BRIEF EXPLANATION OF HIS BIRTH CHART:

✧. sun in aquarius – rebellious, unpredictable, magnetic

craves freedom and authenticity.

turns him on when you’re unique, bold, or a little quirky.

has a quiet intensity- doesn’t fall easily, but when he does, it’s deep and rare.

sexually: curious, experimental, loves surprises and breaking the rules.

✧ moon in sagittarius – fiery, adventurous, wild-hearted

emotionally restless, hates feeling trapped.

needs fun, playfulness, and lighthearted energy in relationships.

sexually: loves spontaneous, passionate encounters. he’s a dirty talker, big on thrill and adrenaline.

✧ ascendant in leo – bold, charismatic, protective

makes an immediate impression- commanding, warm, cocky charm

classic “alpha energy” but with a heart of gold under it

makes him seem confident, flirtatious, and in control even when he’s struggling underneath

sexually: likes being admired, enjoys performance, thrives on attention and praise

✧ mercury in aquarius – sharp, witty, forward-thinking

communicates through sarcasm, dark humor, and honesty.

gets off on someone who’s mentally quick and confident.

sexually: loves teasing banter, roleplay, or “mind games” that keep him on edge.

✧ venus in pisces – romantic, dreamy, soft beneath the armor

deeply emotional in love but hides it well.

needs to feel chosen, worshipped, needed.

sexually: sensual, giving, wants to feel emotionally fused. he melts when you’re soft with him after he’s rough.

✧ mars in capricorn – dominant, disciplined, controlled

powerful drive, needs to be in control physically.

expresses desire through slow, deliberate, sometimes possessive energy.

seexually: he’s a pusher. loves edging, control, restraint, but always delivers. one of the most intense placements for stamina.

THE POSITIONS:

✧･ﾟcowgirl (because he loves when you take control)

i mean, we all knew this.

sun in aquarius - he secretly loves when you surprise him or flip the script. moon in sagittarius - he likes a little fun, a little freedom, a partner who can ride him like she knows she owns him. plus? venus in pisces wants to be wanted. watching you climb on top? It shows him you crave him. that’s a turn-on all on its own.

control, but given, not taken. he loves letting you ride him. not just for the view (though let’s be honest, he’s feral for it), but because it shows you want him just as badly.

he’s cocky about it. grinning up at you with those hands behind his head like he’s in heaven. “go on, sweetheart. show me how bad you want it.” but the second you start rolling your hips, tossing your head back? gone. fists gripping your thighs, biting his lip, groaning like he’s trying not to beg. and when you lean down to kiss him mid-ride? he holds your face like you’re everything.

his leo rising loves the performance. the eye contact, the moaning, the way you take what you want while he lays back and worships every second. his venus in pisces craves connection. having you on top means he can watch every expression on your face, feel your hands on his chest, trace your body with his eyes like he’s memorizing it. and mars in capricorn? he’ll grip your hips and let you take the lead for as long as you want. but the second you start to fall apart? he’ll take over. flip you, thrust deep, and finish what you started.

⋆˙⟡ your hands are planted on his chest, thighs burning as you roll your hips slow, teasing. dean watches you, gaze dark, jaw clenched.

“fuck, baby,” he pants, hands sliding up your sides. “you look so good like this. all mine.” you grind a little harder, and his hands tighten. “keep that up and I’m not gonna last.”

you smirk, but before you can answer, he grabs your hips, thrusts up, and groans, “actually- screw it. I wanna see you fall apart first.⋆˙⟡

✧･ﾟdoggystyle (but not just for roughness)

dean’s mars in capricorn makes him dominant, focused, and deeply into the rhythm and control of sex. his leo rising makes him obsessed with the view, the power, and the performance of it all. venus in pisces? that’s where the hidden tenderness comes in, because even when it’s rough, he’s connected. and he never stops watching your reactions like they’re his lifeline.

this position gives him visual overload- your back arched, your ass bouncing, your hair a mess, it hits every damn nerve in his body. he's in total control- he can grip your hips, your throat, your shoulders, he can hold you still and pull you back into every deep, punishing thrust. emotional distance with emotional depth- from behind, it looks rough, detached, but dean? he’ll be muttering soft praise under every growl. he feels every bit of it.

he starts with firm but slow thrusts, watching how your body reacts, listening for the sounds you make. then he picks up the pace, gets more desperate, maybe one hand tangled in your hair, the other on your hip. he loves grabbing a fistful of your ass, leaning over your back to growl in your ear, his chest flush against you just for a second. if he really loses control? one hand slides under to rub you, because making you come from behind is his personal obsession.

⋆˙⟡ you’re on your hands and knees, breath heavy, sheets rumpled. dean’s behind you, one hand gripping your hip tight, the other tracing the dip of your spine.

“goddamn, sweetheart,” he groans. “this view should be illegal.”

his hips snap forward, slow and deep, making your arms shake. He leans down, mouth at your ear. “you feel that?” he whispers, voice gravel. “that’s me owning every inch of you.”

you whimper, and that’s it. he pulls back and slams into you harder, setting a rhythm that has you crying out, your hand grabbing at the sheets. dean’s groaning your name now, voice raw. “touch yourself, baby. I wanna feel you come around me like this.” ⋆˙⟡

✧･ﾟmissionary with his hands pinning yours

mars in capricorn gives him that slow, controlled dominance. when his hands are pinning yours? that’s him saying “i’m in charge, but i’m not hurting you. i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.” venus in pisces craves closeness. eye contact, connection, feeling you breathe against him. this position gives him full access to all of that. leo rising adds just the right amount of possessiveness. When he pins you down, it’s not just to dominate, it’s to remind you that you’re his, and he’s going to ruin you gently.

you’re flat on your back, your arms stretched above your head. dean’s body is pressed to yours, chest to chest, every inch of him heavy and grounding. his hands lock around your wrists, fingers laced if he’s feeling tender, palms firm if he’s feeling filthy. he looks into your eyes the whole time. and if you try to look away? he leans in and says, “no. eyes on me.”

he gets to watch every reaction, the little gasps, the lip bites, the way your eyes flutter. he loves the vulnerability, not just yours, but his own. you’re beneath him, but he’s bared too. there’s nowhere to hide when it’s this close. he can whisper to you the entire time, sweet nothings, filthy praise, promises he’ll make with every thrust.

⋆˙⟡ dean hovers over you, eyes dark, lips parted. your wrists are pinned above your head, his fingers strong and warm against your skin.

“you trust me?” he murmurs, voice low. you nod.

“good.” he kisses you. soft, slow. then pulls back, rocking his hips into yours. deep. unhurried. devastating.

“don’t move those hands,” he whispers, gaze locked to yours. “I wanna see you take it just like this.”

he grinds into you, his grip tightening every time your body arches. you moan his name and he smiles, leaning down, nose brushing yours. “that’s it, baby. let me see you fall apart.”⋆˙⟡

✧･ﾟlap sex / chair sex

control meets worship. dean loves to watch you. having you in his lap while he’s seated? he gets to feel everything, direct every movement, and watch your face. up close and personal. his leo rising thrives off the view, the confidence in you taking control. but also loves when you surrender to his grip. mars in capricorn brings the physical intensity. his hands will roam, grip, guide. he’ll lift you into every grind and keep the rhythm with bruising precision. venus in pisces softens it just enough. he’ll kiss your chest, your neck, your jaw. even when he’s losing control, there’s this underlying reverence, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

he’s sitting back, legs spread, arms flexing as he grabs your hips. you’re straddling him, facing him. or sometimes, you’re facing away- reverse cowgirl style on the chair, his hands on your thighs and ass, growling in your ear about how good you look. he talks the entire time. encouraging, praising, groaning: “that’s it, baby. ride me. take your time"; "you feel that? that’s what you do to me.”

he'll do it anywhere. motel chairs. those ugly ones with the stiff seats? doesn’t matter. he’s pulling you into his lap in 0.5 seconds. the impala. front seat reclined, you climbing over him, all breathy moans and fogged-up windows. kitchen chair. He’s already sitting there, legs wide, looking up at you with that smirk like, “what are you waiting for?”

⋆˙⟡ he’s sitting on a motel chair, legs spread, hands gripping your thighs as you sink onto him with a shuddering breath. his eyes are locked to yours, mouth parted, a little dazed by the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, pulling you closer, guiding your hips. you rock slowly, his hands sliding up your back under your shirt, fingers splaying across your skin. he kisses your chest, your throat, your jaw. with every slow grind, he exhales against your skin.

“you feel so good,” he murmurs. “take your time. we’ve got all night.” your foreheads press together. his breath catches as you clench around him and ride a little harder. he holds your hips tighter, barely hanging on. “god damn… you’re gonna kill me like this.”⋆˙⟡

✧･ﾟ spooning

but from behind or face-to-face?

the answer is both, but for very different moods.

from behind (traditional spooning – his favorite for intimacy & control):

this is dean’s default. it’s everything he craves in one position. he gets to hold you, thrust into you deeply, and watch you squirm while he whispers filth into your ear. it gives him full access. to your chest, your throat, your thighs. and he can wrap himself around you completely. it’s possessive without being aggressive. he doesn’t need to look you in the eye to feel completely connected. his mars in capricorn loves the control this position gives, and his venus in pisces adores the closeness.

⋆˙⟡ you’re barely awake, body heavy in the sheets, when you feel him behind you, warm, solid, breathing slow and steady. dean shifts, arm tightening around your waist, and without a word, he slides his hand down, finding the heat between your thighs. “you’re always so warm for me,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and want.

you arch into him, and he groans, pulling your hips back just enough to push into you in one long, unhurried thrust. “goddamn, baby,” he whispers, forehead pressed against the back of your neck. “just like that. let me stay in you.”

his hips move slow and deep, one hand gripping your thigh, the other under your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. your whimpers grow softer, breath catching with each stroke. he kisses the shell of your ear. “you’re mine like this. every part of you.”⋆˙⟡

face to face (the ultra-soft, post-confession or early-morning version):

rare, but precious. this is not his default, but when he initiates it, you know it means something. this version is full eye contact. kisses. breathy moans into each other’s mouths. he strokes your hair, presses his forehead to yours, maybe even says things he wouldn’t dare in any other moment.

he lets you see all of him. the desire, the tenderness, the love he doesn’t know how to name. it’s intimate as hell, and he only does this when his walls are completely down.

⋆˙⟡ the room is quiet. no motel noise, no hunting talk. just the hum of the night and dean’s eyes watching yours. you’re facing him, legs tangled, your bare chest pressed to his. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your jaw like he can’t believe you’re real.

“c’mere,” he whispers, guiding you closer, his forehead resting against yours as he slides inside you slowly. the pace is almost too soft. not lazy. intentional. like he’s trying to memorize how you feel.

his hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “stay with me, yeah? just like this,” he says with a small smile that cracks into something more vulnerable.

you wrap your leg over his hip, pulling him deeper, and he exhales sharply against your lips. “you break me, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “and I fuckin’ love it." he stays like that, thrusting slow and tender, kissing you between every movement, holding you like he’d never let go. ⋆˙⟡

so, which would he prefer?

from behind. because it lets him have you, protect you, ruin you, and hold you all at once. but face-to-face? that’s the one he saves for the nights when he’s too in love to hide it.

✧･ﾟ oral (but... he's a receiver)

dean loves getting head. not just because it feels good, but because it feeds his ego (leo rising). it gives him a sense of being worshipped (venus in pisces wants to be wanted). it lets him let go for a second, which is rare for him.

he leans back in a chair, one hand gripping your hair, mouth slightly open, those dean noises coming out of him- half moan, half growl. his eyes lock onto yours while he watches you go down on him, and you’ll see that cocky little smirk curl at the corner of his mouth, even while he’s falling apart.

but when he’s giving? it’s filthy worship. even if he prefers receiving, when he’s in the mood to go down on you, he’s ravenous about it. he’s not just doing it for you. he’s doing it because he loves tasting you. watching you squirm. hearing you beg.

so, he has an oral fixation- but in a very dean way. he loves receiving because it makes him feel needed, powerful, worshipped. he loves giving when he’s feeling possessive or when he needs to ground himself in your body. and he definitely has a thing for your mouth on him, especially if you tease him a little first, make him beg a bit. That’s when he gets obsessed.

⋆˙⟡ dean’s leaning back against the headboard, legs spread wide, hands behind his head like he’s relaxing, but his jaw’s already tight, watching you kneel between his thighs with that soft little smirk.

you press a kiss to his hipbone, slow and teasing. his breath hitches, but he keeps the smirk, trying to play it cool. “gonna take your time, huh?” he mutters, voice rough. “that’s real cute.”

but when your mouth finally wraps around him, warm and wet and slow, his cock twitches, and all that bravado cracks. his hands leave the headboard in a heartbeat, one threading into your hair, the other gripping the sheets like he’s hanging on for dear life. “shit- fuck, baby…”

you don’t stop. you hollow your cheeks and look up at him, and it wrecks him. his head tips back against the wall, mouth open, a low groan dragging from his throat. he tries to pull back control.

“y-yeah, just like that. jesus christ. don’t stop. please-” but his voice falters when you swirl your tongue just under the head, slow and mean.

now he’s panting. ⋆˙⟡

MASTERLIST

I JUST SERVED BREAKFAST, LUNCH AND DINNER + SWEET TREAT. you're welcome.

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter seven

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: rain and roadblocks push you to shelter under jack’s roof, where warmth returns in quiet gestures and shared meals. and for the first time in weeks, you sleep through the storm.

⤿ warning(s): stalking

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 3k

The next two weeks feel like breathing under a heavier moon—same oxygen, unfamiliar pull—and all of it soaked in rain. It has poured every night that week, sluicing down the bay windows in Triage, drumming on the roof so hard the ceiling tiles seem to vibrate. The weather channel drones from the mounted ER TV—flash-flood watches, wind advisories, “worst band of the storm due after midnight.” 

Inside, the shift grinds on. 

You also started power-napping like a resident—ten minutes in a darkened alcove, then snapping awake at the Code-Green chime, running on muscle memory and caffeine-free stubbornness. Tiny wins pile up: you nod off less, your notes stay pristine, and the tremor in your hands is gone by midnight instead of dawn.  

Routines sprout. You haul a travel rice cooker into Margot’s kitchen and start packing real food again—ginger-miso broth, quick stir-fries, onigiri in waxed paper. Dr. Ellis claims it’s pity-fuel for her relentless sarcasm; Dr. Shen bows his head in reverence before inhaling two portions. Jack calls them “midnight bento interventions,” devours whatever’s left, then ribs Dr. Ellis that the sodium will outlive them all. Now and then the three of you share a hard plastic bench in the staff lounge while swapping ER legends—Ellis’s lightning-fast intubations, Shen’s dead-pan one-liners, Jack’s dark-humor field tales—each story punctuated by the usual rattle of The Pitt.

Late Thursday, the bays fall into a lull so thin you can hear the HVAC sigh. You’re restocking the supply alcove, muttering about med students who confuse “return items” with “scatter like confetti,” when a shape darkens the doorway.

He’s gaunt—early twenties at best—paper scrub pants slung low on bony hips, hospital bracelet dangling from one wrist. A gray hoodie swallows his shoulders, the hood half up despite the indoor heat. His eyes jitter from shelf to shelf, never settling.

You straighten, clipboard raised like a polite shield. “Hey there. Are you a patient? Need help getting back?”

He steps closer instead, sweaty fingers pinching a folded slip of paper. “You need to take this.”

Instinct coils tight. You keep your voice even. “Let’s head back to the waiting area. I can page the on-call—”

“Just take it,” he snaps, thrusting the note toward your chest.

Your right hand drops to the Mayo tray, curling around a scalpel before you register the movement. The stainless handle is cool, grounding—and dangerous.

“Take it,” he repeats, voice thin and rising.

Before the tension snaps, Jack glides in—silent and immovable—slotting his body between you and the stranger. No raised volume, no theatrics—just an open palm that fills the space.

“Back up,” Jack says, firm and with no room for rebuttal as a diagnostic tone. His stethoscope glints under the fluorescents, badge swinging against his scrub top.

The young man freezes, eyes flicking to the approaching security guard. Ramirez materializes like clockwork, clamps a steady hand around the kid’s elbow, and steers him away. The note flutters to the linoleum like an exhaled secret.

“I’m not doing anything!” the kid protests, but he goes—casting one slippery look over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

Silence rushes in. Jack turns to you. The scalpel is still white-knuckled in your grip. His fingers curl gently around yours, easing the blade back onto the tray, then wrapping his other hand over your knuckles—warm, solid.

“Breathe.”

You do—shaky, scraping your ribs on the way out.

“Who was he?” you whisper.

“Probably an unknown admission,” Jack answers, eyes scanning your face for fractures. “Security’ll run his chart. Wrong vibe for our stalker, but I don’t like that he got this close.”

Your pulse skitters. Jack’s thumb brushes over your knuckles once, anchoring. “Shift’s almost done. Come help me bully Ellis into eating something green, then we’re clocking out.”

A crooked laugh escapes—thin but real. The discarded note lies forgotten on the floor; Ramirez will bag it for Gloria’s growing file. You let Jack guide you toward the nurses’ station, his presence steady as bedrock, your fingers laced in his like a tether back to solid ground.

. . .

Dawn hovers somewhere beyond the storm, but you wouldn’t know it. At 06:47 the windows above the ambulance bay are opaque with water, sheets of rain slamming so hard the gutters gargle. The TV in Triage flashes a crimson crawl—major street closures, buses rerouted, “historic rainfall rates.” Every few minutes Bridget’s phone pings with another text: stuck in traffic / bus turned around / can someone cover?

You finish resetting Exam 4, peel off gloves, and glance at the clock again. Three minutes crawl by; the storm only deepens. Somewhere overhead thunder rolls so low it vibrates the EKG leads in their drawer.

Your own phone buzzes. Margot.

Gridlock on Saw Mill Run. Ben’s car is crawling. 45 min at least. You okay to wait?

You thumb back Of course. Be safe. And slip the phone away. Easy enough: log a few more notes, check med-cabinet temps, wipe down the bedside computers—overtime in exchange for quiet.

By 07:45 you’re at the meds cart, auditing narc counts, when a shadow looms. Jack—bag slung over one shoulder, scrubs damp at the collar from some errand to Receiving—stares at you with that flat, unimpressed look he reserves for residents who chart “LOL” instead of “little old lady.”

“What,” he asks, deadpan, “are you still doing here?”

You snort softly, ticking a vial into the ledger. “Working? Also waiting. Margot and Ben are stuck on I-376, apparently looks like a parking lot.”

He doesn’t blink. Rain hammers the bay door behind him; lightning flashes, bleaching the hallway for half a heartbeat.

“So you’re pulling overtime and hoping the river doesn’t relocate into South Oakland?”

“Preeeetty much.”

A beat of silence. Then Jack’s hand closes gently around your elbow, firm but not rough, turning you away from the cart. “Grab your bag.”

“I—Jack, it’s fine,” you sputter. “Really. They’ll get here—”

“I’m driving you,” he says, voice calm in a way that brooks no argument. “I have a four-wheel drive. Let’s go.”

You glance at the downpour pelting the loading dock window. “It’s a monsoon out there.”

“Exactly.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Your options are hydroplaning in Ben’s Civic or hydroplaning with me, who at least has combat-driver training.”

“That’s not reassuring,” you mutter, but the small smile tugging at the edge of your lips is undeniable. 

“It’s the best offer on the table.” He presses the narc ledger into your hands, already sealing the drawer for you. “End of shift. Clock out.”

You open your mouth to argue—close it again. The ledger feels heavier than it should, fatigue seeps in now that adrenaline’s ebbing. Outside, thunder cracks like a dropped backboard, and the lights flicker once.

You sigh. “Fine, but breakfast is on me.”

“Deal,” he says, guiding you toward the time clock. 

You clock out, grab your bag and shrug into your jacket, before following him toward the staff exit where rain claws at the glass. Jack tightens the hood of his parka, then holds out an arm as the automatic door slides open, water roaring on the pavement beyond.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping close under the shelter of his outstretched sleeve. Together you plunge into the downpour—his hand steady at your back, the storm booming overhead, but the path to the truck straight and sure. 

Jack’s pickup squats at the curb, rain sluicing off the cab in curtains. He shoulders your duffel before you can protest, flips the handle, and swings the passenger door wide like it’s muscle memory.

“Watch your step—running board’s slick,” he warns.

You climb in. The cabin greets you with a mingled scent of cedar dash wipes, faint engine oil, and the ever-present whisper of antiseptic from spare trauma kits stashed behind the seats. A police scanner—permanently clipped beneath the center console—chimes with bursts of static and dispatch codes: flooded intersections, disabled vehicles, the city groaning under waterlogged asphalt.

Jack tosses your bag onto the back seat, gives the door a solid push, and rounds the hood. Rain drums so hard on the roof it sounds like popcorn. He slides behind the wheel, shakes his curls once, then flicks on the wipers—long, angry sweeps that barely keep up.

“Seat belt,” he says, already buckling his own.

You latch in. The engine rumbles low, a comforting diesel thrum. He pulls away from the bay, tires hissing through standing water, scanner crackling a heads-up about another closure on Boulevard of the Allies.

Outside, Pittsburgh blurs—streetlights smeared into amber streaks. Traffic is a knot of blinking hazards and stalled buses; every alternate route you suggest is echoed on the scanner as blocked or backed up for miles. Jack makes two turns, meets a wall of brake lights, then inches forward for twenty hopeless minutes.

Finally he exhales through his nose—one sharp huff—and eases into a wet three-point turn.

“Call Margot,” he says, eyes on the mirror. “Tell her you’re crashing at my place.”

Your pulse misfires. “Jack—what? No, it’s fine, just drop me at—”

“Not driving you across town in this while you fight to stay awake,” he cuts in, voice calm but iron-lined. “My spare room’s closer than Margot’s, and it’s got thicker locks. She’ll understand.”

“But—”

He flicks you a sidelong look, soft but unyielding. “Humor me. Call.”

Throat tight, you dial. Margot answers on the second ring, background noise of wipers and Ben’s low grumbling. You relay Jack’s plan. She pauses, then mutters something about common sense finally prevailing, and tells you to send a text when you’re indoors.

You hang up, fingers fluttering against your thigh. Rain hammers the windshield, the scanner mutters more closures, and Jack merges onto a smaller artery that actually flows.

“Tea’s stocked,” he says, like announcing the weather. “Couch pulls out if the guest bed creeps you out. And my dog tags jingle in the closet—ignore them.”

A shaky laugh slips free. The tension in your chest loosens by an inch. Outside, the city is half-submerged, but inside the cab the diesel hum and the steady cadence of the scanner feel almost like a heartbeat—louder than the storm, grounding you mile by mile toward something that feels, against all odds, like refuge.

The storm is still in full throat when Jack noses the truck into a covered slot and lowers the tailgate. A sprint through sheets of rain and a three-floor climb later, you’re inside his apartment—soaked jacket already dripping on the entry mat.

The place is unmistakably a bachelor’s but not a mess: clean lines, muted paint, furniture chosen for function more than style—charcoal sofa, walnut coffee table nicked at the corners, a single reclaimed-wood bookshelf holding medical texts, a weathered guitar, and a row of battered field journals. No curtains on the windows, just industrial blinds rattling in the wind.

The air smells faintly of cedar cleaner and gun oil.

Your gaze lands on the far wall: a framed photo of a unfamiliar person in fatigues, smiling wide under desert sun, Jack’s arm slung around their shoulders. The picture isn’t front-and-center, but it isn’t hidden either—just part of the room, as natural as the oxygen you’re breathing. You feel a pulse of something—respect, maybe; curiosity folded into quiet acknowledgment—then let it settle.

The storm growls and the apartment lights stay dead. Jack mutters, “Of course,” and disappears into a utility closet. A second later a low hum rises; backup battery strips blink to life, powering a lamp and the fridge compressor. Gloom shifts to soft amber.

He reappears, already unzipping a folded camp cot from a hall closet. “Guest room’s down here—ignore the tactical gear box; I was sorting it and never finished.” He keeps talking as he moves—pulling a fresh duvet from a storage bin, snagging spare towels, stacking them on the cot as if building a fortress of linens. It’s the rambling you’ve come to recognize: the babble that sneaks out when his battlefield calm runs up against actual nerves.

“Sheets are hypoallergenic, pillow’s maybe lumpy—Shen says I’m pointless without memory foam, but—uh—water heater’s touchy; you flip the breaker twice if it sputters. Breakfast, though—I’ve got eggs, maybe some questionable bread, instant oatmeal if—”

“Jack.” You cut in, nurse-stern but gentle, palm landing on his forearm. “Kitchen. Now.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Told you breakfast was on me. I’m cooking. You drove through a flood and half of Oakland. Sit, or at least fetch ingredients. Let me do something useful.”

For a heartbeat he looks like he might argue; then his shoulders drop, a wry curve touching his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

The kitchen continues the theme: uncluttered counters, cast-iron skillet seasoned to midnight black, a French press permanently stationed beside a battered electric kettle. You shed your damp jacket, roll up sleeves, and start inventorying fridge contents by the soft glow of the battery lamp. Eggs, scallions, a solitary bell pepper, leftover rice from who-knows-when—perfect.

Jack lingers like a big, quiet dog at the edge of the doorway until you point a spatula toward a stool. “Park it.”

He obeys, elbows on the island, watching steam fog the window while you whisk eggs and slice vegetables. The generator hum, the sizzling skillet, the rain hammering the glass—they layer into a rhythm that feels, astonishingly, like peace.

You spoon the crispy-bottom rice and silky eggs into two battered blue enamel plates—the kind that look like they’ve survived a few camping trips—and slide one across the island. Jack dives in with the single-minded focus of a man fresh off a twelve‑hour shift and half a gallon of adrenaline. The first mouthful is barely down before he’s humming, eyes shutting like he might float straight off the stool.

“God,” he says, voice muffled around a second bite, “I missed this. You know what this is? This is proof the universe still loves me.”

“Pretty sure that’s just old soy sauce,” you reply, rinsing the spatula.

He points at the food with his fork, earnest. “Recipe. I need measurements—actual numbers, not your ‘dash until it smells right’ nonsense.”

“I’m protecting trade secrets,” you tease, but warmth blooms in your chest. Two weeks ago you could barely boil water without scanning every shadow. Now he’s coaxing you back to habits that meant home.

He polishes the plate until there isn’t a single grain left, then tips it your way so you can see your reflection in the gloss. “Gold standard. Seriously—midnight Bento queen. When you finally retire, you’ll have a food truck empire outside every trauma center.”

You scoff, but your grin is uncontainable. Cooking felt like breathing again—measured, rhythmic, fragrant—and seeing him devour it sparks a glow you haven’t felt since before everything.

After dishes, he pads down the hall and returns with a folded stack: a Navy-gray T‑shirt soft from a hundred wash cycles, and flannel joggers warm as a hug. “These should fit…ish,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. 

You press the clothes to your chest. They smell like cedar, laundry soap, and something unmistakably Jack. He then leads you to his spare room, and hits the  switch by the doorframe, heavy blackout blinds gliding down with a soft electrical hum. The morning storm-light is swallowed whole, plunging the room into a gentle twilight lit only by the hallway spill.

“Told you—better than curtain clips.” He sounds impossibly proud.

You step inside. The guest bed is a double—pillows plump, quilt patterned in muted blues, corners tucked with a soldier’s precision. A battered nightstand holds an alarm clock, a half-read Raymond Chandler paperback, and a small ceramic dish filled with odd coins, medals, and shiny screws—treasures of a magpie life.

The sudden hush steals the breath from your lungs. After weeks of sleepless vigilance, the room feels like slipping into deep water: quiet, cool, encompassing. You don’t realize tears have sprung until he’s there with a box of tissues he seemingly conjures from thin air.

“Need anything else?” he asks, voice gentled down to a murmur.

You shake your head, wiping at your eyes. The exhaustion is total—sinew-deep—but the fear that usually comes with it is absent. In its place sits something fragile and precious: safety.

He hovers one heartbeat longer, as if waiting to be sure. Then he nods, steps back, and eases the door almost—but not fully—closed. His footsteps retreat down the hall—soft thuds on laminate fading into the hush.

You then move to the bathroom, inside waiting a neatly folded washcloth, a still‑wrapped travel toothbrush, and a squat tube of plain mint paste. Everything is utilitarian, almost military in its order, but there’s a care to it that catches your chest.

You run the water—lukewarm thanks to Jack’s fussy heater trick—then scrub away twelve hours of hospital grit. The toothbrush is no‑frills, the soap unscented, yet the feel of clean water over your face is more luxurious than any spa. When the mirror fogs, you swipe a clear line and glimpse eyes already soft with impending sleep instead of panic.

Back in the room, you tug blankets aside but pause. One more thing. By the dim battery lamp you thumb out a text to Margot:

Safe. Jack’s spare room. Power’s out but generator humming. Will call after sleep. 💤

A confirmation bubble flicks up almost instantly: Thank God. Rest. Ben says hi.

You set the phone upside‑down on the nightstand, fold yourself beneath the quilt, and let the mattress cradle sore joints. Water thrums against the windows, the generator hums like distant tide. Somewhere down the hallway cabinet doors click—Jack tidying, grounding himself with small motions—then fall quiet.

Just as your eyelids drift shut, floorboards creak outside your door. His footfall pauses, a silent sentinel. He doesn’t knock, doesn’t speak—simply lingers long enough for you to feel the certainty of guarded space. Another quiet step, and he’s gone.

Your last waking sensations are cedar and rain in the dark, the firm weight of blankets, and the echo of boots walking the watch while you—finally—let go. Sleep rolls over you in a deep, unbroken wave; outside, the storm thrashes, but inside you rest like the dead, safe in the eye of it.

divider credit

[leriexoxo]

SKZ HEADCANON SERIES (18+)

Chapter 1: Bang Chan - The Rival Producer

OT8 SERIES MASTERLIST

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Enemies. That was the word. And he wore it like a damn badge.

From the moment you joined the label as an up-and-coming producer, Bang Chan had been on your neck. Stealing your time slots, nitpicking your tracks, offering unsolicited feedback in the most condescending tone possible.

“You could’ve layered this with cleaner harmonies,” he’d muttered once, listening to your beat in the studio hallway. Not even a hello.

“Didn’t ask,” you’d snapped back.

“Didn’t need to.”

It was like that every time. Arguments that started professional and always slipped personal. Creative tension that turned into glares, sarcasm, and proximity that was just a little too close for enemies.

So when management scheduled a collaboration—his team and yours—you almost quit on the spot.

“Just don’t kill each other,” one of the directors joked. “Or do. As long as it charts.”

Three days. One studio. No distractions. And the second the door closed behind you, you felt it: that hum of electricity between you, always too close to catching fire.

⸻

DAY ONE

You wore headphones to avoid him. He clicked his pen loudly just to piss you off.

“You’re stalling,” he said at hour three.

You didn’t look up. “You’re breathing.”

He grinned like the devil and leaned back in the chair, his sleeveless hoodie showing too much muscle for your own sanity.

“Bet I could finish the hook in five minutes.”

“Bet I could finish it better.”

“Then do it.”

You did. And he hated how much he liked it.

DAY TWO

You were both stubborn. Stuck on a pre-chorus.

“Your synth progression is too muddy,” he said, leaning over your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck.

You sat still. Tight. Unwilling to flinch.

“And your voice note sounds like it was recorded in a fucking microwave.”

His laugh was low. “Still gets more plays than yours.”

You spun in your chair and shoved him back, hard. “God, you’re so—”

“Say it.”

You didn’t. You stared at his mouth instead. It was parted, pink, glistening. And for a second, the silence buzzed louder than the track looping behind you.

Neither of you said anything after that.

DAY THREE:

You stayed late. Alone. Or so you thought.

He returned with coffee, and you hated how much you needed it.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t do it for you.” He set the cup down beside you, sat in the chair across the console. “I did it for the track.”

Right.

You played back the bridge. He closed his eyes to listen. You watched him. The way he moved. The tiny nods to the rhythm. The muscles in his forearms flexing with each tap on the armrest.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why do you hate me?” you blurted.

He opened his eyes, calm. “I don’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You just…” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low. “You get under my skin. You don’t take my shit. You challenge everything. You’re loud. Arrogant. Brilliant. And it pisses me off how fucking attractive I find it.”

The room went still.

Your heart thundered.

Then—

“Say that again,” you whispered.

He stood. Walked over. Caged you in with one hand on the console, the other on the chair behind your head.

“You heard me the first time.”

You didn’t kiss him. He kissed you.

Hard. Fast. Like a storm that had been waiting three goddamn days to rip through the room.

Your hands scrambled up his chest, fingers curling into his hoodie as he lifted you from your chair and placed you on the edge of the console. Buttons clicked under your thighs. He shoved your laptop aside without looking.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmured, biting down on your jaw. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

You whimpered instead. Pulled him closer.

He grinned against your throat, teeth scraping skin. “That’s what I thought.”

His hoodie came off. Your shirt followed. Mouths clashed. His hand was under your waistband in seconds, fingers pressing, rubbing, teasing.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Fuck, I knew it.”

You gasped into his mouth. “Then stop talking.”

He groaned. “Careful. I bite.”

Then he was on his knees, dragging your pants down, spreading you with his hands like you were a masterpiece he’d been dying to ruin.

Tongue. Fingers. Moans you couldn’t swallow fast enough. He worked you open with precision—obsessive, hungry, like you were the only thing he needed to create tonight.

When he stood again, his lips were shiny. His eyes were blown wide.

You pulled him in by the waistband of his sweats. “Condom.”

“Wallet. Back pocket. Hurry or I’ll fuck you raw.”

You didn’t rush. He hissed as you rolled it on, watching you with that dark, intense gaze.

He lifted you up—hands firm, unrelenting—then fucked into you on the console. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was raw. Filthy. The kind of sex that makes the air taste different after.

“Louder,” he growled. “Let the whole floor know how much you hate me.”

You did. You said his name like a curse, then a prayer, then a plea.

When you came, it was with your back arched and his name on your tongue.

He followed, breath hot on your neck, chest heaving.

And when it was over, he kissed you again—softer this time. Sweeter.

“I still hate you,” you whispered.

He smirked, voice hoarse. “Sure you do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar

[lila-lou]

✨Folded✨

Summary: Your first time with Ben lands you in the ER and in the middle of his chaotic, possessive version of love.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, kinda fluffy, kinda funny

Word Count: 2721

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room buzzed above you, a headache forming right behind your eyes. You shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair, wincing as the movement sent a sharp reminder through your body of exactly why you were there. Ben sat slouched next to you, arms crossed over his chest, radiating pure impatience like a human space heater.

"You’re fine", he muttered, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "You’re just… delicate or something".

You shot him a look so sharp it could've cut through the damn walls. "Oh, I’m delicate now? You just threw me halfway across the bed like a goddamn frisbee".

He smirked, and you wanted to both kiss him and punch him at the same time. "Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve braced yourself better", he said, shrugging like he hadn’t nearly snapped you in half an hour ago.

"You’re unbelievable", you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe next time you should come with a warning label: Caution — may cause serious bodily harm during sex".

Ben leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a low laugh. "Please. You loved it".

You gave him a deadpan stare. "Loved the part where you folded me like a lawn chair? Sure. Best moment of my life".

Despite everything, the pain, the embarrassment, the fact that you were sitting in a hospital gown with an ice pack pressed against your ribs, you felt your mouth twitching into a smile. Ben caught it immediately, his own grin growing wider, the cocky bastard.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, injury and all. "You’re tough. You’ll survive. And when you do…", he paused, smirking again, "you’re gonna be begging for round two".

You scoffed, elbowing him lightly, careful this time not to hurt yourself further. "In your dreams, Soldier Boy".

"Every night, sweetheart", he said without missing a beat, reaching out to squeeze your hand with a surprising gentleness that made your heart stutter, even now.

The nurse finally called your name, and as you stood up, wincing again, Ben stood too, towering over you, close enough that you felt the warmth rolling off him. Despite all his bravado, he stayed glued to your side, steadying you without saying a word.

Maybe he wasn’t great at apologies, hell, maybe he barely knew the word existed, but right now, you figured actions spoke louder anyway.

The exam room was colder than the waiting area, and the thin paper on the exam table crinkled loudly as you tried to settle onto it without grimacing too obviously. Ben stood nearby, arms folded, looking like he owned the damn place despite the fact that he was clearly the problem.

The door swung open with a soft knock, and a tired-looking doctor, mid-forties, glasses, no patience left, stepped in, glancing between the two of you and your chart.

"Alright", he said, glancing down at the clipboard. "Looks like you’ve got some bruised ribs, maybe a minor strain. We’ll get a scan just in case. Can you tell me how this happened?".

You opened your mouth, you really did, but Ben beat you to it, his voice loud, confident, and absolutely unapologetic. "Yeah, so we were fucking", he said bluntly.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Ben kept going, completely ignoring the way you shot him a wide-eyed look of horror. "I mean, she was on top at first, right? But then she said she wanted me to take control, and I thought, ‘Hey, no problem, I’m great at that’, so I flipped her over. Maybe a little too hard… she kinda bounced—".

"Ben", you hissed, trying to stop him, mortified.

He waved you off, like you were interrupting the most important TED Talk ever. "—then, you know, I was giving it to her good", he continued, nodding proudly, "and I guess I got a little too into it. She sort of folded in half like one of those camping chairs. Heard a little pop. Not a sexy one, like an actual pop".

The doctor blinked at him, utterly deadpan.

You covered your face with your hands. "Please kill me", you muttered into your palms.

Ben, undeterred, barreled right through the awkward silence. "Anyway, she finished, I finished, it was great. Five stars. But then she couldn’t really move after, so here we are".

The doctor cleared his throat loudly, scribbling something on your chart, probably 'Patient dating an idiot, but in love with him'.

"Right", the doctor said, voice carefully neutral. "Well, thank you for the… thorough explanation. We’ll get those scans done. In the meantime, maybe consider… pacing yourselves".

You groaned loudly, letting your head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk.

As soon as the doctor left the room, Ben turned to you, still looking ridiculously pleased with himself. "What?", he said, smirking. "You want me to lie? I’m not ashamed of blowing your back out".

You glared at him, cheeks burning hotter than a furnace. "Next time you get me hospitalized", you snapped, "you’re paying for dinner and flowers".

Ben laughed, reaching out to gently brush your hair behind your ear. "Done. That pussy is worth it".

A few minutes later, after some paperwork shuffling and an excruciatingly awkward wait, a younger doctor stepped in, not the same one as before. This guy couldn’t have been more than thirty, clean-shaven, fresh out of med school, and way too friendly for Ben’s liking.

He glanced at the clipboard, then smiled at you.

“Alright, Y/N”, he said brightly. “We’re gonna need to do a quick physical check, make sure nothing else is damaged. I’m gonna have you slip out of the gown so I can take a look at your back and sides, okay?”.

You nodded, already reaching to undo the ties at the back of the thin hospital gown. Standard, right? No big deal. Until you heard a low growl behind you.

Ben straightened up from where he was leaning against the wall, his whole posture shifting, shoulders squared, chest puffed out. Every part of him suddenly screamed territorial caveman. “She’s not gettin’ fucking naked for you”.

The young doctor blinked, taken off guard. “Sir, it’s medical. I’m a professional”.

Ben stepped forward, looming way too close for hospital etiquette. “Don’t care if you’ve got ten degrees and a stethoscope made of fucking gold. Find another way”.

You sighed heavily, shooting Ben a glare over your shoulder. “Ben. It’s fine”.

He ignored you completely, never breaking eye contact with the poor doctor, who now looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment.

The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly debating whether arguing with a super-powered, pissed-off Soldier Boy was worth his medical license. Wisely, he chose the path of least resistance. “Alright”, he said carefully, backing up a step. “Maybe you can help her adjust the gown so I can check without… full exposure”.

“Yeah”, Ben said, flashing a grin that was all teeth. “Thought so”.

Muttering under your breath, you let Ben come over, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he helped untie the gown just enough to expose the parts the doctor needed to see.

The examination was quick — a few pokes, some prodding, the doctor muttering notes — but Ben never moved from your side, hovering protectively, eyes sharp and watchful.

When it was finally over and the doctor left, Ben immediately retied the gown, his fingers brushing your skin with careful touches that made your heart race for an entirely different reason.

“You’re insane”, you said, half laughing, half exasperated as you turned to face him.

He shrugged, completely unapologetic. “Maybe. But no one gets to look at you but me”.

You shook your head, pretending to be more annoyed than you actually were. “Possessive much?”.

Ben leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “You love it”. And the worst part was, you did.

You didn’t even make it halfway off the exam table before the nurse came back with the final report, a sympathetic wince on her face.

“Looks like you’ve got four sprained ribs”, she said, handing you a packet of instructions you weren’t about to read. “You’re gonna be sore for a while. Bruising’s already setting in… lot of internal swelling. Ice it, rest, no heavy lifting, and definitely no… strenuous activities”.

Her eyes flicked awkwardly to Ben, who was standing there looking like a kicked puppy and a thunderstorm rolled into one. “Yeah, yeah, we get it”, Ben muttered as the nurse left the room.

You pulled the gown tighter around yourself, trying to breathe through the ache that flared in your chest every time you moved.

Ben scowled down at you, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “Sprained ribs”, he grumbled under his breath. “Geez. I was aiming for you to feel me somewhere else, sweetheart. Not in your goddamn ribcage”.

You gave him a look, deadpan. “Trust me. I do”.

Ben’s mouth opened, probably to fire back something cocky, but he paused, really looked at you, taking in the way you winced even shifting your weight. Some of the swagger bled out of him then, replaced by something quieter, heavier. Guilt, sharp and obvious even under his usual bravado.

“You should’ve told me”, he muttered, softer now. “If it hurt”.

You snorted lightly, regretting it immediately when it made your ribs throb. “Ben. At the time, I couldn’t tell if I was dying or just having a spiritual experience”.

He cracked a reluctant, crooked grin at that, the edge of it tinged with worry. “Yeah?”, he said, stepping closer, his voice low and rough. “That good, huh?”.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway. “You broke four of my ribs, genius. Congratulations. New personal record”.

Ben chuckled under his breath and reached out, his massive hands careful as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were made of glass. “I’ll do better next time”, he murmured, something fiercely earnest in his tone. “Promise”.

You leaned back slightly, giving him a teasing smirk despite the dull, throbbing pain in your chest. “No next time”, you said lightly, your voice a little raspy from the effort. “You’re officially on a sex ban until further notice”.

Ben’s eyebrows shot up like you’d slapped him. “A what now?”, he barked, genuinely offended, like you’d just told him Christmas was canceled.

You chuckled under your breath, hissing slightly as it pulled at your ribs, and tried to wave him off. “Doctor’s orders”, you said, smug. “I’m fragile, remember?”.

Ben muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Bullshit”, but he didn’t argue, not really. Instead, he shook his head, grumbling as he grabbed your clothes from the chair and crouched down in front of you.

You gave him a withering look, but he was already helping you, his hands surprisingly deft as he started easing you back into your clothes. Every touch was gentle, careful in a way that made your heart ache worse than your ribs.

He tugged your top down carefully over your shoulders, frowning in concentration like he was disarming a bomb, muttering under his breath the whole time.

“This is bullshit. You’re tougher than half the assholes I fought in World War II”, he grumbled. “Sprained ribs my ass”.

You couldn’t help yourself, you grinned through the ache. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I sprain a few of your ribs next time? See how you like it?”.

Ben snorted, brushing your hair out from under your collar with a tenderness that made your chest tight for an entirely different reason. “You couldn’t hurt me, even if you tried”, he said, flashing you that cocky smirk, the one that made you want to punch him and kiss him all at once.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wanna bet?”.

He let out a low laugh, then leaned down, his forehead bumping gently against yours. For a second, he just stayed there, breathing you in, grounding both of you in the middle of the sterile hospital chaos. “Nah”, he murmured. “You’re dangerous enough already, doll”.

About an hour later, you were sprawled out carefully on Ben’s leather couch, one of his shirts hanging off your body, way too big, way too soft, and an ice pack balanced awkwardly against your bruised ribs.

You sighed, shifting slightly to get comfortable, wincing at the dull, deep ache that pulsed with every movement. The apartment smelled like whiskey, leather, and Ben, a scent so familiar and stupidly comforting that you almost forgot how much you hated being injured in the first place. Almost.

Footsteps echoed from the kitchen, heavy and sure, and then Ben appeared, a glass of whiskey clutched in one hand and a determined look on his face like he was about to win a war. “Here”, he said, handing the glass over with a kind of gentleness that would’ve shocked anyone who didn’t know him better.

You raised an eyebrow as you accepted it, feeling the cool glass against your fingers. “Pretty sure alcohol isn’t in the medical pamphlet, Nurse Ben”.

He snorted, dropping heavily into the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “Yeah, well, they also said no ‘strenuous activity’, and we both know that’s bullshit too”.

You gave him a look, taking a slow sip of the whiskey — it burned down your throat, warm and sharp, but it did take the edge off the pain a little.

Ben watched you the whole time, gaze sharp and calculating. Protective. Like he was mentally trying to will your ribs back together just by glaring hard enough.

You settled back against the couch with a soft groan, cradling the ice pack against your side. “You know you don’t have to babysit me”, you mumbled, closing your eyes for a second.

There was a beat of silence. Then the couch dipped under his weight as Ben got up and sat right beside you, his knee brushing yours, his presence so big and solid it made you feel safer instantly. “You’re outta your fucking mind if you think I’m leavin’ you alone like this”, he said gruffly, voice low. “You’re hurt ‘cause of me. I’m not goin’ anywhere”.

You peeked up at him through your lashes, warmth curling low in your chest, unrelated to the whiskey this time.

He caught you looking and smirked, reaching out to tug at the hem of his shirt hanging on you. “Looks good on you”, he muttered, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

You shook your head, smiling tiredly. “Sap”.

Ben let out a soft chuckle, one hand still idly tugging at the oversized shirt you were wearing like he couldn’t help himself. "Shut up", he teased, flashing you a boyish smirk that would've been disarming if he weren't such a giant menace most of the time. "You like it. Don’t pretend you don’t".

You snorted, trying not to jostle your ribs. "Yeah, I just love being broken and babied".

He shrugged unapologetically. "You should. Not everyone gets the honor of my excellent bedside manner, sweetheart".

Ben watched you for a second longer, then stood with a grunt, cracking his knuckles. "Stay there", he ordered unnecessarily. "Gonna make you somethin’ to eat".

You stared after him, amused and vaguely terrified. "Ben, you can’t cook".

"Can't be that hard", he shot over his shoulder as he stomped toward the kitchen like he was going to war.

You snickered, nestling deeper into the couch, ice pack balanced carefully, already mentally preparing yourself for whatever culinary disaster he was about to create in the name of taking care of you. Because, well… it was Ben. And even when he was a complete disaster, he was still yours.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @lmg14

[sakurapandadreams]

⪩⪨ ASTRO OBSERVATIONS PT 3

Please take all of these predictions with a grain of salt I'm not a professional astrologer.

And here's my masterlist

NATAL OBSERVATIONS

☀️ Neptune trine Pluto can also have exceptional psychic abilities [except they keep dismissing their abilities as mere coincidence]

☀️ Most dancers in many kpop groups tend to have Aries Sun or prominent Aries placement in their chart.

☀️ Pisces Moons tend to overdo their confidence, trying to hide the insecurities they have deep down.

☀️ Pisces Sun's are also good at manifesting provided they know that their good at it.

☀️ In many cases if you and your siblings have opposite rising signs you may look completely different from each other.

For example : If your a Taurus rising and your siblings is a Scorpio rising you both will look so different people can doubt your even siblings

☀️ Debilitated moons can signify unhealthy attachments towards the mother.

☀️ During your birth if your Moon left its previous sign and just entered its next sign, again you guys could also share the qualities of both those signs.

For example : Moon left Capricorn and just entered Aquarius you can have the traits of both Capricorn as well as Aquarius.

☀️ Check where you have Aquarius in your chart you feel like an outcast more in that place.

☀️ Capricorn risings are so much interested in crime documentaries, murder mysteries, solving criminal cases.

☀️ Pluto in the 3rd house can get bullied when young, being bullied for your intelligence, people considering you dumb hence they can also have trouble communicating their feelings with others most will keep to themselves.

☀️ Mars in the 7th house [men] tend to like women who are ultra feminine.

☀️ Venus in Leo in 8th house tend to get in laws that have a higher social status than them.

☀️ Leo Moons look up or learn from their mothers more than their fathers. Their mothers are also quite controlling and dominating towards the child as well as the natives father.

☀️ Mercury - Pluto aspects have a harsh way of talking sometimes they don't want to come off as rude but they still do. Often times whatever they say is incorrectly interpret or misunderstood by people.

☀️ Same goes for Mercury Square Saturn except these people have mastered sarcasm, they aren't blunt like Pluto rather sarcastic.

VEDIC OBSERVATIONS

☀️ A person having Rahu in Bharani nakshatra may end up evoking a desire in the opposite gender unintentionally.

☀️ 3rd house Ketu 🤝 never running out of hard cash.

☀️ Also if your 1st house lord sits in the 7th house then that can at times give you a low self esteem same goes for Sun in the 7th house.

☀️ Purva Phalguni moons tend to have a good childhood but they have to adjust and sacrifice alot in their married life.

☀️ Also Purva phalguni moons [women] tend to love their spouse more, but that love isn't much reciprocate.

☀️ Purva Ashada Nakshatras are so good at teaching and also at research work. In group projects they end up giving excellent ideas. They also get the due recognition for the work they do.

☀️ Many a times if you have a Nakshatra that shares itself with two signs you can have qualities of both those signs in you [Chitra Nakshatra shares itself with both Virgo and Libra].

☀️ [Now this is my opinion and it can be wrong but still ☺️] I feel all signs attract envy in their own way, Scorpio and Leo's attract alot because their ruled by such fiery planets like Mars and Sun.

☀️ If Mars is aspected by Rahu or in conjunction with Rahu it can also give a person tendencies to doubt their own strengths and talents.

☀️ Hasta Moons or Rising both are soo good at drawing, mehndi, creating best out of waste, handicrafts, hand embroidery. More than cooking their good at cutting vegetables and decorating dishes. Also great at hairstyling. However they can be great dentists and surgeons as well [They get less credit for this]

☀️ Shravan Nakshatra is one of the most intuitive nakshatras, their another walking lie detectors.

☀️ Uttara Bhadrapada gives you blessings for the good karma you did in your past life.

☀️ Sun as your darakaraka can also give you a husband who would often show you off to others.

☀️ Ketu in the 7th house doesn't mean one won't get married they can get married but they will stay away from each other, like having jobs in two different places [long distance marriages].

Credits for the images and dividers goes to the rightful owners.

Copyright © 2024 sakurapandadreams | All rights reserved.