#Automatic Tube Light

[thepencilnerd]

When the Sun Hits

summary: What begins as a hospital-wide power outage leaves you trapped in a supply closet with your emotionally unavailable attending. But when the lights come back on, what lingers between you can’t be shut off so easily. genre/notes: forced proximity, slow burn, panic attack + trauma comfort, domestic fluff, my fave kind of intimacy, mutual pining, humor/crack, soft!Jack that can't flirt for shit, idiots in love but neither of them will admit it, you discover you have a praise kink in the most inconvenient of ways, jack abbot on his knees—literally warnings: references to trauma, depiction of a panic attack, mentions of grief and burnout, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~ 7.2k a/n: down bad for whipped Jack Abbot. p.s., thank you to everyone who reblogs/replies/takes the time to read my brain vomit, i appreciate you more than you know ㅠㅠ <3

You had just turned to ask Jack if he could grab another tray of 32 French chest tubes when the lights cut out.

One second, the supply closet was bathed in its usual flickering overhead light—and the next, everything dropped into darkness. Sharp. Sudden.

You froze, one hand on the bin. Jack swore behind you.

"Shit," he muttered, somewhere just inside the door. The backup emergency lights flickered red from the hallway, but barely touched the cramped space around you.

Then the intercom crackled overhead: Code Yellow. Facility-wide outage. All staff remain on current floors. Secure all medications and patients.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Automatic lock.

You turned just as Jack tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

He sighed. "Well. That’s one way to guarantee a five-minute break."

You looked at him sharply, but he was already scanning the room, looking for anything useful, keeping his voice light.

"Guess we’re stuck for a bit," he added.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The air felt too tight in your lungs, too warm all of a sudden.

Because now, the supply closet didn’t just feel small.

It felt like it was closing in.

It had been a normal day.

Or as normal as anything ever was around here—high-pressure shifts balanced by the strange rhythm you and Jack had settled into over the past few years. You worked together well—efficient, quick to anticipate each other's needs, almost telepathic during traumas. Partners in crime, someone had once joked. Probably Robby.

You’d learned how to read his silences—the kind that weren’t dismissive but deliberate, like he was giving you space without needing to say it aloud. He’d learned how to decode your muttered curses and side glances, how to step in behind you without crowding, how to let his shoulder bump yours during charting when words failed you both.

There was a kind of ease between you, a rhythm that didn’t require explanation. He’d hand you tools before you asked for them. You’d finish his sentences when he gave consults. Even in chaos, your partnership felt oddly... quiet. Intimate, in a way that crept in slowly, like warmth from a mug clasped between two hands after a long shift.

When you were paired on trauma, nurses and med students stopped asking who was lead. They knew you moved as one.

People had started to notice—how the two of you always seemed to stay overtime on the same days, how Jack would make dry, cutting jokes around others but soften them just enough when talking to you. Robby, in particular, teased him about it relentlessly.

"Jack, blink twice if this is you flirting," he’d once called across the ER after Jack mumbled, "Great work Dr. L/N," while watching you tie off a flawless stitch or nailing a differential.

Jack huffed. "It’s efficient. She's efficient."

"God, you’re hopeless," Robby laughed.

"She’s my best resident," Jack shot back, like it explained everything. Like it wasn’t a deflection.

You snorted into your coffee. "You say that like it’s not the fifth time this week."

Jack, without missing a beat: "That’s because it’s true. I value consistency."

He was awful at flirting—stiff and dry and chronically understated—but you’d grown to read the fondness buried in the flat delivery.

Like the morning he handed you your favorite protein bar without a word and then said, as you blinked at him, "Don’t faint. You’ll ruin my numbers."

Or the time he stood outside your call room after a brutal night shift, coffee in hand, and muttered, "You deserve a nap, but I guess you’ll have to settle for caffeine and my sparkling company."

He always made sure to loop you in on the interesting cases—"Figure it’s good for your development," he’d say. But then linger just a little too long after rounds, just to hear your thoughts.

And when you were quiet too long, when something in you withdrew, he never asked outright. Just gave you space—and a clipboard he’d pre-filled, or a shift swap you hadn’t requested, or the gentlest, "You good?" when you passed each other by the scrub sinks.

And now, here you were. Trapped in a closet with the man who rarely made jokes—and never blushed—except when you were around.

Now, you were stuck. Together.

The air felt thin but simultaneously stuffed to the brim.

Jack turned on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the room. "We’re fine," he said, calm and certain. "Generator will kick in soon."

You nodded. Tried to match his steadiness. Failed.

The closet was small. Smaller than it had ever felt before.

The walls crept in.

You didn’t notice the way your hands started to shake until he said your name.

Your vision tunneled. The room blurred at the edges, corners shrinking in like someone was folding the walls inward. The air felt heavy, every breath catching at the top of your throat before it could sink deep enough to matter. It felt like someone had filled your veins with liquid lead, your entire body suddenly weighing too much to hold upright. You staggered back a step, hand scrambling blindly for something to anchor you—shelf, handle, Jack. Your heart was pounding—loud, ragged, out of sync with time itself.

You tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

Sweat prickled your scalp. Your fingers tingled, every nerve on fire. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you crumbled to the floor—head buried between your knees, hands clasped behind your neck, trying to fold yourself into a singularity. Anything to disappear. Anything to slip away from this moment and the way it pressed in on all sides. There was no exit. No sound but your own spiraling thoughts and the slow, careful way Jack said your name again.

You blinked. Your eyes wouldn’t focus.

"Hey," Jack coaxed, his voice cutting through the static—low and steady, somehow still distant. His full attention was on you now, gaze locked in, unmoving. "Breathe."

You couldn’t.

It hit like a wave—sharp and silent, rising in your chest like pressure, no space, no air, no exit.

Jack’s hands found your shoulders. "I’ve got you. You’re okay. Stay with me, yeah?"

He crouched in front of you, grounding you with steady pressure and careful, deliberate calm. His hands—firm, callused, the kind that had seen years of split-second decisions and endless sutures—gripped your upper arms with a touch that was impossibly gentle. Like he could mold you back into yourself with his palms alone. His thumbs brushed lightly, not demanding, just present. Just there.

"Can you breathe with me?" he asked. "In for four. Okay? One, two, three…"

You tried. You really did.

Your chest still felt locked, ribs tight around panic like a vice, but his voice—low and even—threaded through the chaos.

"Out for four," he murmured, exhaling slowly, deliberately, like the sound alone could show your body how to follow. "Good. Just like that."

The faint light dimmed between you, casting his face in half-shadow. He was close now—close enough for you to catch the scent of antiseptic and something warm underneath, something that reminded you of winter nights and clean laundry.

"You’re here," he said again, softer this time. "You’re safe. Nothing’s coming. You’ve got space."

You reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve and clutching it like a lifeline.

"Good girl," Jack said softly, instinctively, like it slipped out without permission.

Your brain short-circuited. Of all things, in all moments—that was what hooked your attention. You let out a strangled little laugh, shaky and almost hysterical. "Fucking hell," you murmured, pressing your face into your arm. "Why is that what got me breathing again?"

Jack blinked, startled for a second—then let out the smallest huff of relief, like he was holding back a smirk. "Hey, if it works, I’ll say it again," he said, a thread of warmth sneaking into his voice.

You groaned, half-burying your face in your elbow. "Please don’t."

He was still crouched in front of you, his tone gentler now, teasing on purpose, like he was giving you something else to hold onto. "Admit it—you just wanted to hear me say something nice for once."

"Jack," you warned, half-laughing, half-crying.

"You’re doing great," he said quietly, real again. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."

And eventually—one shaky inhale at a time—your lungs obeyed.

When the power came back on, you stood side-by-side in the wash of fluorescent light, blinking against it.

You were still trembling faintly, your breaths shallow but more even now. Jack didn’t step away. Not right away.

"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low, steady.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Jack stood slowly, offering a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then he tried, awkwardly, to lighten the mood. "If calling you a good girl was really all it took, then I’ve been severely underutilizing my motivational toolkit."

You let out a startled laugh, breath catching mid-sound. "Jesus, don’t start."

He gave you a crooked smile—relieved, even if the corners of it were still tight with concern. "Whatever works, right? Next time I’ll try it with more enthusiasm."

"Next time?" Your eyes widened like saucers—absolutely flabbergasted, half-tempted to dissolve into laughter or hit him with the nearest supply tray.

He shrugged, another smug grin threatening to cross his lips. "Just saying. If you’re going to unravel in a closet, might as well do it with someone who knows where to find the defibrillator."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until the light flickered again.

Only then did you both step apart.

You didn’t say much.

He didn’t ask you to.

You’d made it as far as the locker room before the adrenaline crash hit. You rinsed your face, changed into sweats, and shoved your scrubs into your bag with trembling fingers. Jack had walked you out of the department without a word, just a hand hovering near your lower back.

"Thanks," you said quietly, as you scanned out. "For earlier."

Jack shook his head, like it was nothing. "You don’t need to thank me."

"Still," you said. "Just… please don’t mention it to anyone?"

He looked over at you, mouth twitching at the corner. "Mention what?"

That made you laugh—brief, breathless. "Right."

You parted ways near the waiting room, sharing your usual post-shift goodbyes.

Or so you thought.

Jack had been about to leave when he saw you—doubling back through the double doors, slipping through the staff-only entrance and back into the ER.

His brow furrowed.

He hesitated, then turned to follow.

The corridor was quiet. Most of the day shift hadn’t arrived yet, and the call room hallway echoed faintly under his footsteps. He paused outside the on-call room and knocked once, gently. When there was no response, he eased the door open.

The room was cramped and windowless, just enough space for a narrow bunk bed and a scuffed metal chair in the corner. The mattress dipped in the middle, the kind of sag that never quite let you forget your own weight. The attached bathroom offered a stall that barely passed for a shower—low pressure, eternally lukewarm, and loud enough to make you question whether it was working or crying for help. It felt more like a last resort than a place to rest.

Your bag was on the bed. Half-unpacked. Toothbrush laid out. Socks tucked into the corner. Like you were staying in a hotel. Like you’d been staying here.

He was still standing there when the bathroom door cracked open and you stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted tightly around your torso.

You both froze.

Your eyes widened. Jack’s went comically wide before he spun around on instinct, shielding his eyes like it was second nature. "Shit—sorry, I didn’t—"

"What are you doing here?" you asked at the exact same time he blurted, "What are you doing here?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jack cleared his throat, ears bright red. "I… saw you come back in. Just wanted to check."

You were still standing in place like a deer in headlights, towel clutched in a death grip.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, eyes very pointedly still on the wall, as if the peeling paint had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Fingers clenched around the edge of the towel, embarrassment prickled across your chest like static. "One second," you murmured, disappearing back into the bathroom before either of you could say anything more.

A minute later, the door creaked open and you stepped out again—now wrapped in an oversized hoodie and soft, baggy sweatpants that made you look small, almost swallowed whole by comfort. Jack’s brain did something deeply inconvenient at the sight.

You lingered in the doorway, sleeves tugged down over your hands, damp hair framing your face. "You can look now," you said, voice softer this time.

Jack didn’t move at first. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat in a way that sounded more like a stall tactic than anything physiological. Only after a beat did he finally turn, cautiously, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He caught himself staring. Made a mental note not to think about it later. Failed almost immediately.

A breath left your lungs, quieter than the room deserved. You crossed to the bunk and sat down on the edge, fingers fidgeting with the seam of your sweatpants. "You can sit, if you want," you said, barely above a whisper.

The mattress shifted a second later as Jack lowered himself beside you, careful, slow—like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His knee brushed yours. He didn’t move it. You didn't pull away. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, a long exhale dragging out of you like it had been caught behind your ribs all night. "I’ve been staying here," you said finally. "Not every night. Just... enough of them."

You looked over at him, then down at your hands. "It’s not about work. I just... I didn’t want to go back to an empty place and hear it echo. Didn’t want to hear myself think. Breathe. This place—at least there’s always noise. Even if it’s bad, it’s something."

That made him pause.

"I don’t want to be alone..." you added, quieter.

Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, slow. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "You know I’m always here for you."

You looked down at your lap. "I didn’t want to be a burden."

Your fingers twitched, and before you realized it, you’d started picking at a loose thread along your cuff. Jack’s hands came up gently, catching yours before you could do more than graze your skin. He held them between his palms—warm, steady. Soothing.

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "You never have to earn being cared about," he said softly. "Not with me."

A few moments passed in silence. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Then, quietly, Jack reached into his pocket.

And handed you a key.

"I have a spare room," he said, voice low. "No expectations. No questions. Just… if you need it."

You stared at the key. Then at him.

He still didn’t look away, even as his voice gentled. "Don’t sleep here. Not if it hurts."

You took the key.

Not right away—but you did. Slipped it into the front pocket of your hoodie like it might vanish otherwise, like the metal might burn a hole through the fabric if you held it too long.

Jack didn’t press. Didn’t ask for promises.

He stood to leave and paused in the doorway.

"I’ll leave the light on," he said. "Just in case."

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, barely, and stared at the key in your lap long after the door shut behind him.

The call room was quiet after he left.

Too quiet.

You stared at the key until your fingers itched, then tucked it beneath your pillow like it needed protecting—from you, from the space, from the hollow echo of loneliness that filled the room once Jack was gone.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

And two days later—after another long shift, after you’d showered in the same miserable excuse for plumbing, after you’d sat cross-legged on the cot trying to convince yourself to just go home—you took the key out of your pocket.

You didn’t text him.

You just went.

The last time you'd been to his place was different. Less quiet. More raw.

It was the night after a shift that left the entire ER shell-shocked. You'd both ended up at Jack’s apartment with takeout containers and too much to drink. You’d lost a kid—ten years old, blunt trauma, thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation, and it still wasn’t enough. Jack had lost a veteran. OD. The kind of case that stuck to his ribs.

He’d handed you a beer without a word. The two of you had sat on opposite ends of his couch, silence stretching between you like a third presence until you broke it with a hoarse, "I keep hearing his mother scream."

Jack didn’t look away. "I keep thinking I should’ve caught it sooner."

The conversation didn’t get lighter. But it got easier.

At some point, you’d both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bent and shoulders almost brushing.

He told you about Iraq. About the first time he held pressure on someone’s chest and knew it wouldn’t matter.

You told him about your first code as an intern and the way it rewired something you’ve never quite gotten back.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. Just passed you another drink and said, "I’m glad you were there today."

And for a while, it was enough—being there, even if neither of you knew how to say why.

You’d gotten absolutely wasted that night. The kind of drunk that swung from giggles to tears and back again. Somewhere between your third drink and fourth emotional whiplash, you started dancing around his living room barefoot, music crackling from his ancient Bluetooth speaker. Tears for Fears was playing—Everybody Wants to Rule the World—and you twirled with your arms raised like the only way to survive grief was to outpace it.

Jack watched from the floor, amused. Smiling to himself. Maybe a little enamored.

You beckoned him up with exaggerated jazz hands. "C’mon, dance with me."

He shook his head, raising both palms. "No one needs to see that."

You marched over, grabbed his hands, and tugged hard enough to get him upright. He stumbled, laughing under his breath, and let you spin him like a carousel horse. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even really dancing. But it was you—vivid and loud and alive—and something in him ached with the sight of it.

He didn’t say anything that night.

But the way he looked at you said enough.

You were still holding his hands from the dance, your breathing slowing, your laughter softening into something tender. The overhead light had gone dim, the playlist shifting into quieter melodies, but you didn’t let go. Your fingers stayed laced behind his neck, your forehead nearly resting against his chest.

Jack’s palms found your waist—not possessive, just steady. Grounding. His thumbs pressed gently against your sides, and for a moment, you swayed in place like the world wasn’t full of ghosts. You were sobering up, but not rushing. Not running.

You hadn’t meant for the dance to turn into this. But he didn’t step away.

Didn’t look away either.

Just held you, as if the act itself might keep you both tethered to something real.

You woke the next morning to the sound of soft clinking—metal against ceramic, a pan being set down gently on the stovetop.

The smell of coffee drifted in first. Then eggs. Something buttery. Your head pounded—dull, insistent—but your body felt warm under the blanket someone had pulled up around your shoulders during the night.

Padding quietly down the hall, you peeked into the kitchen.

Jack stood at the stove, hair ever so slightly tousled from sleep, wearing the same faded t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He hadn’t seen you yet—was humming under his breath, absently stirring a pan with practiced rhythm.

You leaned against the doorframe.

"Are you seriously making breakfast?"

He turned, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it’s not a medically necessary intervention."

You snorted, stepping in. "You’re using a cast iron. I didn’t even know you owned one."

"Don’t tell Robby. He thinks I survive on rage and vending machine coffee."

You slid onto one of the stools, blinking blearily against the light. Jack set a mug in front of you without being asked—just the way you liked it. Just like always.

"You were a menace last night," he said lightly, pouring eggs into the pan.

You groaned, cupping your hands around the mug. "Oh god. Please don’t recap."

He grinned. "No promises. But the dance moves were impressive. You almost took me out during that one twirl."

"That’s because you wouldn’t dance with me!"

"I was trying to protect my knees."

You laughed, head tipping back slightly. Jack just watched you, eyes soft, like the sound of it made something settle inside him.

And for a moment, the silence that settled between you wasn’t hollow at all.

It was full.

If only tonight's circumstances were different. 

Jack opened the door in sweatpants and a black v-neck that looked older than his medical degree. He blinked when he saw you—then smiled, just a little. Not wide. Not obvious. But real. The kind of expression that said he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were there.

He said nothing.

After a slow smile: "Didn’t expect to see you again so soon," he said lightly, trying to break the ice. "Unless you’re here to critique my towel-folding technique."

Lifting your hand slowly, the key warm against your skin, you tilted your head with a deadpan expression. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you said, tone dry—almost too dry—but not quite hiding the twitch of a smile. Jack’s mouth quirked at the corner.

Then you held the key out fully, and he stepped aside without a word.

"Spare room’s on the left," he said. “Bathroom’s across from it. The towels are clean. I think."

You smiled, a little helplessly. "Thanks."

Jack’s voice was soft behind you. "That was a joke, by the way. The towel thing."

You turned slightly. "What?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. "Make it... easier. Or, y'know. Less weird. That was the goal."

The admission caught you off guard. Jack Abbot had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous, and this was definitely that.

You didn’t say anything right away, but your smile—this time—was a little steadier. A little sweeter.

"Careful, Jack," you murmured, feigning seriousness. "If you keep being charming, I might start expecting it."

He looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to double down or play it cool.

"Guess I’ll go work on my stand-up material," he mumbled, half under his breath.

You bit back a laugh.

He ran a hand through his hair again—classic stall tactic—then finally nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

The room he offered you was small, clearly unused, but tidy in a way that suggested recent care. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed. A new toothbrush—still in its packaging—rested on the nightstand. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mixing with the soft clean trace of his detergent. The air had that faint freshness of a recently opened window, and the corners were free of dust. Someone had aired it out. Someone had taken the time to make space—room that hadn’t existed before, cleared just enough to let another person in.

You set your bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the blanket. Everything felt soft. Considered. You stared at the corner of the room like it might give you answers.

It didn’t.

But it didn’t feel like a hospital either.

You took your time in the shower, letting the heat soak into your skin until the mirror fogged over and your thoughts slowed just enough to feel manageable. Jack's body wash smelled different on you—deeper, warmer somehow—and the scent clung faintly to your skin as you pulled on the softest clothes you had packed: shorts and an oversized shirt you barely remembered grabbing.

When you stepped out of the guest room, damp hair still clinging to your neck, the smell of garlic and something gently sizzling greeted you first. Jack was in the kitchen, stirring a pot with practiced ease, the kind of domestic ease that tugged at something inside you.

He turned when he heard your footsteps—and froze for a beat too long.

His eyes swept over you and caught on your hair, your shirt, the visible curve of your collarbone, the quietness about you that hadn't been there earlier. He blinked, clearly trying to recover, and failed miserably.

"Hey," you said gently, brushing some damp strands behind your ear. "Need help with anything?"

Jack cleared his throat—once, then again—and turned back to the stove, ears visibly reddening. "I think I’m good," he said. "Unless you want to make sure I don’t burn the rice."

You crossed the room and leaned against the counter next to him, still slightly bashful yourself. The scent of his soap clung to your sleeves, and Jack caught a trace of it on the air. He said nothing—but stirred a little slower. A little more carefully.

"Your apartment’s just as nice as I remembered," you said, soft and genuine, fingers brushing the edge of the countertop.

Jack glanced over at you, a flicker of something warm behind his eyes. "You mean the sterile surfaces and suspiciously outdated spice rack?"

You gave him a knowing smile. "I mean the parts that feel like you."

That stopped him for a second. His stirring slowed to a halt. He looked back down at the pot, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

"Careful," he murmured, voice low. "If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."

You nudged his elbow gently. "I might. Don’t let it go to your head."

He smiled to himself, the kind of expression that didn't need to be seen to be felt. And in the soft space between those words, something settled. Easier. Closer.

Dinner was simple—pan-seared salmon, rice, roasted vegetables. Nothing fancy, but everything assembled with care. Jack Abbot, it turned out, could cook.

You said so after the first bite—and let out a soft, involuntary moan. Jack froze mid-chew, raised a brow, and gave you a look.

"Wow," he said dryly, lips twitching. "Should I be offended or flattered?"

You felt heat rise across your cheeks, laughing as you covered your mouth with your napkin. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a piece of salmon?"

He grinned. "I’m a man of many talents," he said dryly, passing you the pepper mill. "Just don’t ask me to bake."

You smiled over your glass of water, a little more relaxed now. "No offense, but I didn’t exactly have ‘culinary savant’ on my Jack Abbot bingo card."

He shot you a look. "What was on the card?"

You hummed, pretending to think. "Chronic insomniac. Secret softie. Closet hoarder of protein bars. Dad joke connoisseur."

Jack snorted, setting down his fork. "You’re lucky the salmon’s good or I’d be deeply offended."

You grinned. "So you admit it."

And he did—not in words, but in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long across the table. In the way he refilled your glass as soon as it dipped below halfway. In the quiet, sheepish curve of his smile when you caught him looking. In the way his laugh lost its usual edge and softened, like maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.

After dinner, you moved to the sink before Jack could protest. He tried, weakly, something about guests and hospitality, but you waved him off and started rinsing plates.

Jack came up behind you, handing over dishes one by one as you scrubbed and loaded them into the dishwasher to dry. His presence was warm at your back, the occasional graze of his hand or arm sending tiny shivers up your spine. The silence between you was companionable, laced with unspoken things neither of you quite knew how to name.

"You’re seriously not gonna let me help?" he asked, bumping your hip with his.

"This is letting you help," you shot back. "You’re the designated passer."

"Such a glamorous title," he murmured, his voice low near your ear. "Do I get a badge?"

You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you survive the suds.

Jack leaned in just as you turned back to the sink, and for a moment, your arms brushed, your shoulders aligned. His gaze lingered on you again—your profile, your damp hair starting to curl at the edges, the stretch of your shirt down your back.

You glanced back at him, close enough now to kiss, breath caught halfway between surprise and anticipation when—

Jack dipped his finger into the soap bubbles and tapped the tip of your nose.

You blinked, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack held your wide-eyed gaze a beat longer, then said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Nice look, Bubbles."

And the dam broke. You laughed, bright and unguarded, flicking water in his direction.

He dodged each droplet as best he could with a grin, triumphant. "I stand by my methods."

You scooped a pile of bubbles into your hand with deliberate menace.

Jack immediately backed away, holding both palms up like he was under arrest. "No. No no no—"

You grinned, nodding slowly with mock gravity. The chase ensued. He darted around the counter, nearly tripping on the rug as you chased after him, suds in hand and laughter trailing like a siren’s call. He was fast—but you were relentless.

"Truce!" he yelped, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands held high in mock surrender.

You smirked, one brow raised. "Hmm. I don’t know… this feels like a trap."

Jack looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Mercy. Have mercy. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t soap me."

You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Anything?"

"Within reason. And dignity. Maybe." He started lowering his hands.

You tilted your head, letting the moment draw out. Jack watched you carefully, breath held, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I mean…" he started. "If praise is your thing, you’re doing a fantastic job intimidating me right now."

Your mouth parted, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack smirked, sensing an opening. "You excel at it. Really. Top tier menace."

You laughed, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god. You’re the worst." The bubbles had dissipated by now, leaving you with only damp hands. 

"And yet, here you are," he said, still kneeling, still grinning.

You shook your head, stray droplets slipping from your hand, your laughter easing into something softer. "Get up, you idiot."

But Jack didn’t—not right away. Still on his knees, he inched closer, crawling forward with slow, deliberate grace. His hands found your thighs, resting there gently, like a prayer. Thumbs stroked the place where skin met fabric, featherlight and reverent.

"I mean it," he said, voice quieter now, almost solemn. "You terrify me."

Your breath caught.

"In the best way," he added, gaze lifting. "You walk into a trauma bay like you own it. You fight like hell for your patients. You get under my skin without even trying."

His hands slid up slowly, still gentle, still hesitant, like waiting for permission. "Sometimes I think the only thing I believe in anymore is you."

Your heart thudded. Your hands, still damp, twitched against your sides.

"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, and that was when your knees nearly buckled.

The joke was long forgotten. The laughter faded. All that was left was the way Jack looked at you now—like he wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.

His hands had made a slow, reverent climb to your bare skin, thumbs sweeping small, anchoring circles into your skin. You felt the heat of him everywhere, your body taut with anticipation, nerves stretched thin. He didn’t rush. Just looked up at you, drinking in every unsteady breath, every flicker of hesitation in your gaze.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low. If you weren't so dazed, you could've sworn you heard a shadow of amusement. "You want to stop?"

You shook your head—barely—and he nodded like he understood something sacred.

"I want you to feel good," he said softly, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your shirt. "I want to take my time with you. If you’ll let me?"

The question lodged in your chest like a plea. You couldn’t speak, only nodded, and his hands flexed slightly in response. 

Jack stood first, rising fluidly, eyes never leaving yours. As he straightened, your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck. That was all it took—the smallest pull, the softest touch—and the space between you collapsed.

Not in chaos, not in desperation, but in something careful. Like reverence wrapped in desire. Like he’d been waiting for this, quietly, for longer than he dared admit.

And when his lips met yours, it was a live wire.

Deep. Soft. Unapologetically tender.

But it didn’t stay chaste. Jack’s hands found your hips, drawing you closer, fitting your bodies together like a secret only the two of you knew how to keep. His tongue brushed yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt.

The kiss turned hungry, molten—slow-burning restraint giving way to a need you both had held too tightly for too long. Jack’s hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine, and you arched into him, a quiet gasp slipping free.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured between kisses, voice thick, reverent.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Don’t you dare."

That was all he needed.

And when he kissed you again, it was like promise and prayer and everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.

His hands moved with aching care—one sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, the other splaying wide at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was slow and encompassing, more smolder than spark, until it wasn’t—until it ignited all at once.

Jack walked you backward until your hips bumped the counter, and he pressed into the space you gave him, forehead resting against yours. "You undo me," he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. "Every single time."

You were already breathless, clinging to his shirt, heart pounding in your throat.

His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, hands exploring—confident now, reverent, like he was learning every part of you for the first time and never wanted to forget. You moaned softly into the kiss, and Jack cursed under his breath, low and ragged, like the sound had torn through his composure.

And then there was no more space. No more distance. Just heat, and hunger, and the slow unraveling of restraint as Jack lifted you gently onto the counter, your knees parting for him, his name spilling from your lips like a secret.

You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was your only chance to get it right. He needed to feel you pressed against him to believe it wasn’t just a dream.

The kiss deepened, urgent and breathless, until Jack was devouring every sound you made, like he could live off the way you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped lightly down his back, your body arching into his hands like instinct.

He touched you like a man memorizing, devout and thorough—hands mapping the curve of your waist, mouth dragging heat across your throat. He tasted sweat and shampoo and you, and that alone nearly undid him. You felt the tension coil in his spine, the restraint he was holding like a dam, every movement deliberate.

"God," he rasped, lips at your ear, "you have no idea what you do to me."

And when you gasped again, hips shifting, he exhaled a shaky breath like he was trying not to fall apart just from the sound.

"You smell like my soap," he murmured with a rough chuckle, nosing along your jaw. "But you still taste like you."

You whimpered, and he kissed you again—harder now, letting the hunger break through, swallowing your reaction like a man starved.

He praised you in murmured fragments, over and over, voice low and wrecked.

Beautiful.

Brave.

So fucking good.

Mine.

Each word making your skin feel like it was glowing beneath his hands.

And when he finally took you to bed, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was everything he hadn’t said before now, every ounce of feeling poured into his mouth on your skin, every whispered breath of worship like he was praying into the hollow of your throat.

Jack kissed you like he needed to memorize the taste of every sound you made, like your skin was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud. His hands roamed slowly, confidently, with that same quiet focus he wore in trauma bays—except now it was all for you. Every inch of you. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach—pressing his devotion into the places you tried to hide.

You felt undone by how gently he worshipped you, how much he wanted—not just your body, but your breath, your closeness, your everything. He murmured praise against your skin like it was sacred, like you were something holy in his arms.

And when he finally moved over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes searching yours like he was asking permission one more time—you nodded.

He exhaled like it hurt to hold back. Then gave you everything.

Every kiss was a promise, every touch a confession. He moved with aching tenderness, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath him, like this wasn’t just sex but something divine. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, breath catching in your throat with every thrust. It wasn’t fast or frantic—it was slow, overwhelming, unbearably close.

He whispered your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, and when you finally came apart beneath him, he followed soon after—undone by the way you sang his name like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Later, tangled in blankets and the afterglow, Jack pulled you closer without a word. One hand splayed wide against your back, the other curled around your fingers like he wasn’t ready to let you go—not now, maybe not ever. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and comfort and safety.

"I’m gonna need you to stop making that noise when you taste food," he murmured eventually, voice sleep-thick and amused.

You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. "Or what?"

"I’ll marry you on the spot. No warning. Just a salmon fillet and a ring pop."

Your laughter shook the bed.

Jack smirked, the ghost of a tease already forming. "If I’d known praise got you going, I’d have started ages ago."

You swatted at his chest, heat blooming across your cheeks. "Don’t you dare weaponize this."

He grinned into your hair, voice low and wrecked and entirely too fond. "Too late. I’m gonna ruin you with kindness."

You huffed, hiding your face in his shoulder.

Jack chuckled and pulled you closer.

You were never going to live this down. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.

Because Jack Abbot being a secret softie had officially made its triumphant return to your bingo card—and if you were being honest, it had probably been the center square since day one.

"You know," you murmured against his chest, lips curving into a grin, "for someone who acts so stoic at work, you sure have a lot of secrets."

Jack stirred slightly, arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah? Like what?"

You propped yourself up on one elbow, counting off on your fingers. "Total softie. Great cook. An absolute sex god."

Jack groaned into your shoulder, bashful. "Jesus."

"I'm just saying," you teased. "If there’s a hidden talent for needlepoint or poetry, now would be the time to confess."

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep and amusement. "I used to write really bad song lyrics in middle school. That count?"

You laughed, light and easy, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "God, I bet they were terrible."

Jack smirked. "You’ll never know."

"I’ll find them," you said with mock determination. "I’ll unearth them. Just wait."

He kissed your forehead, chuckling softly. "I’m terrified."

And he was—just not of you. Only of how much he wanted this to last.

Jack smiled into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're incredible, you know that?"

You shook your head, bashful, eyes cast toward the sheets—but Jack didn’t let it slide. His hand curled tighter around yours, his voice still soft but firm. "Hey. I meant that. You are."

When you didn’t answer right away, he leaned in a little closer, his thumb brushing along your wrist. "I need you to hear it. And believe it. You’re—extraordinary."

The earnestness in his voice left you no room to hide. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.

Jack held your gaze like a promise. "Say okay."

"Okay," you whispered, cheeks burning.

He smiled again, slower this time, and kissed your temple once more. "Good girl."

You didn’t answer—just smiled you were on cloud nine and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, you drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in warm limbs and steadier breath, heart finally quiet for the first time in days. Jack’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

Your limbs were tangled with his beneath the softened hush of early morning, the sheets kicked messily down to the foot of the bed. Skin to skin, steady breathing, fingers still loosely clasped where they had found each other in the dark. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, murmured something you didn’t quite catch—but it didn’t matter. The weight of the night had passed. What remained was warmth. Stillness. Something whole.

You fell asleep like that, curled into each other without pretense. Closer than you'd ever planned, safer than you thought possible. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the quiet wasn’t heavy.

It was home.

[4linos]

fragile future.

hwang hyunjin x f!reader

synopsis/request: a simple plastic stick sits before you, holding more meaning than you expected. as you wait, scared but hopeful, you learn that the most important thing isn’t what the result says, it’s who’s there to hold your hand through it.

warnings: fluff, anxiety and emotional vulnerability, pregnancy-related themes.

wc: 4920

The quiet scratch of charcoal against canvas filled the air, the rhythm steady, meditative. Hyunjin sat perched on his stool in his personal art studio, surrounded by scattered sheets of sketch paper and tubes of oil paint that were either neatly arranged or left half-open in a glorious mess only he could navigate. Golden afternoon light spilled lazily through the tall window, casting a halo on his long lashes and turning his hair into threads of honey.

He was lost in the quiet pulse of creativity, brush gliding over texture like music in motion. A sketch of a woman’s hand, delicate and ethereal, slowly came to life under his fingertips. He didn't need to look at a reference; her image was already burned into his mind like a dream he visited often. It was always her. You.

The door creaked gently behind him, soft as a whisper. He didn’t look up. His focus was absolute, his heart rhythm syncing with every stroke. His voice, however, was automatic and warm as he greeted you.

“You ready to go get lunch, angel?” he asked casually, affection woven effortlessly through his tone.

You smiled at his distracted sweetness, but before you could answer, the tiny human in your arms let out a giggle soft, bubbly, innocent.

Hyunjin froze.

His hand stopped mid-air, charcoal smudging an unintended line across the paper. He blinked slowly and turned toward the sound with a furrowed brow, as though trying to make sense of the noise.

And then he saw her. And you.

A baby. A tiny, giggling baby cradled in your arms. She had plump cheeks, hair tied into the tiniest ponytail, and eyes bright with mischief. Her legs kicked excitedly as she babbled, absolutely delighted to be wherever she was.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait,” he said, putting his tools down slowly, like he was afraid any sudden movement might shatter the strange, adorable illusion. “Where did you steal a baby from?”

You snorted. “I didn’t steal her. Yeri asked me to watch Eunji while she and her husband finally went out for their anniversary. You remember, right? She’s been talking about that date night for weeks.”

“Oh.” Hyunjin blinked, finally piecing together the memory. “Right, right. Anniversary dinner. I forgot that was today.”

“She dropped her off just after breakfast,” you explained, adjusting Eunji in your arms. “She’s been an angel so far. Slept on my chest for an hour. My heart might never recover.”

“Mine either,” he muttered, completely mesmerized.

Eunji, upon locking eyes with Hyunjin, let out another squeal and extended her tiny hands toward him, her whole body wiggling with interest. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and scooped her up with ease, holding her under her arms like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Hi there,” he said with a grin, bouncing her softly. “You remember me? I'm the really tall guy who makes a mess with paint.”

Eunji responded by smacking his cheeks with her drool-covered hands, giggling loudly as he feigned exaggerated surprise.

“Hyun, don’t let her slap you around,” you joked as you settled into the couch in the corner of the room, watching them with warm eyes.

“She can slap me all she wants,” he replied, not even remotely pretending to mind. “She’s adorable. Look at that face.”

Eunji babbled nonsense in reply, clearly engaged in an intense conversation only babies could understand. Hyunjin responded with equal nonsense, matching her pitch and making silly faces until she erupted into more giggles.

He held her securely, the kind of hold that spoke volumes, not just of comfort, but of how naturally the role came to him. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t forced. It was instinct.

“She’s probably hungry,” you said, checking the time. “Her last meal was a couple hours ago.”

Still smiling, Hyunjin nodded. “You want me to feed her?”

“You sure?” you asked, already standing. “I’ve got her food prepped.”

He hesitated, not because he didn’t want to, he very much did, but he couldn’t stop watching you. You walked past him, brushing Eunji’s arm gently with your fingers and whispering, “Time to eat, little love.”

Hyunjin handed her back reluctantly, lingering in the way your hands curled around her small body, the way your voice dipped naturally into that soft, motherly cadence. She fit against you like puzzle pieces designed to belong. He trailed after you silently, suddenly aware of the shift in his chest like something was trying to settle there. Something unfamiliar yet deeply right.

-

In the kitchen, you moved like it was second nature.

The bib was already laid out. A small bowl of mashed sweet potatoes sat cooling on the counter, alongside a baby spoon and a cloth for cleanup. Eunji was placed in a baby chair, legs kicking excitedly. You tied the bib gently around her neck, brushing her hair back with a soft hum.

Hyunjin watched from the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he had stumbled into someone else’s dream. His dream.

There was no performance in the way you spoke to her. No effort to impress. You didn’t need to. It was simple, effortless tenderness.

“Open up for me, pretty girl,” you said, scooping a spoonful and holding it near her lips. Eunji, with a gummy grin, accepted the food like it was the greatest thing she’d ever tasted. “Good job!”

You clapped gently, and she giggled, smearing a bit across her cheek in the process. You wiped it away with ease, still smiling, unfazed.

Hyunjin’s heart clenched.

He'd always thought about having kids. Occasionally, fleetingly. It wasn’t an obsession, just something he assumed would happen in the distant future. Someday. Eventually.

But this wasn’t just a daydream anymore. It was real. You, standing barefoot in the kitchen, feeding a baby with soft eyes and gentle laughter, completely unaware of the way you were shifting something inside him.

He walked up behind you quietly, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re really good at this,” he murmured into your neck.

You smiled, not turning around. “She makes it easy.”

“No,” he said softly. “You make it easy.”

You finally turned to glance at him, eyes full of curiosity.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything more right away. He watched Eunji take another bite, babbling happily as you praised her. His arms stayed around you, firm but gentle, like he didn’t want the moment to slip away.

“I think seeing you like this just unlocked something,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You looked up at him, the question clear in your expression.

“Like what?”

He met your eyes. “I want this. Someday. With you.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. No nerves. Just certainty, wrapped in warmth.

Your breath caught. A part of you had always wondered what that would look like children, a home, something bigger than just love. But hearing it from him, seeing it in his eyes as he looked between you and the baby now contentedly chewing on her fist… it felt like a glimpse into the future.

“You’d be such a good dad,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His hold tightened, not possessively, but with the quiet desperation of someone afraid to wake up from a beautiful moment.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there. “We’d have a baby with your smile,” he mused, “and maybe your stubbornness.”

“She’d be a handful.”

“I’d love every second of it.”

There was a brief pause. Eunji let out a loud babble, smacking her tray for more food. You laughed, spooning another bite while Hyunjin watched you like you’d just given him the blueprint for happiness.

“I imagine it sometimes,” he admitted. “You holding a newborn while our toddler runs around the house with paint on her hands.”

“Oh? Paint?” you teased.

“She’d be an artist like her dad,” he said proudly. “Or maybe she’ll be a singer. Or a dancer. Or all three.”

You leaned back into his chest. “Sounds exhausting.”

He chuckled. “It sounds like a dream.”

For a moment, there was only soft breathing, the background sounds of a baby smacking her tray, and the deep, steady thrum of a shared future.

Not just imagined now, but felt.

-

Later, when Eunji was napping on the couch, tucked under a blanket with her thumb in her mouth, you and Hyunjin sat on the floor nearby, backs against the sofa, fingers laced together.

“You were really good with her,” you told him quietly.

“She made it easy,” he repeated your words from earlier, then turned to face you. “But honestly, I think it’s because she reminded me how much I want that life with you.”

He wasn’t trying to impress you. He wasn’t making promises for the sake of romance. He was simply speaking his truth.

And you believed him.

Because in the way he looked at you, in the way he touched you so reverently

while cradling another woman’s child, in the way he never once made it about anything other than shared love, you knew.

One day, Eunji wouldn’t be just a borrowed joy.

One day, maybe not too far away, you’d be holding your own child in your arms.

And Hyunjin would be right there, paint on his hands, laughter in his eyes, love in every step he took toward you.

The apartment felt unusually quiet once Eunji left. Too quiet.

It was like someone had turned the volume down on the world. No more soft baby babbles echoing down the hall. No tiny giggles bouncing off the kitchen walls. No more little fists tugging at your shirt or soft, weighty warmth curled against your chest.

Just the sound of the ticking clock in the hallway and the distant hum of city noise beyond the windows.

You stood by the front door for a moment after Yeri and her husband had picked up their daughter, waving goodbye as Eunji blew a sloppy kiss in Hyunjin’s direction from her mother’s arms. The echo of her presence still lingered, as though her laughter had left fingerprints on the walls.

Hyunjin closed the door gently behind them, and for a while, you both just stood there, staring into the quiet.

“She’s so sweet,” you said softly, eyes still on the space where she had just been.

Hyunjin let out a sigh that sounded more like a soft, lovesick exhale. “Too sweet. I miss her already.”

You turned to look at him. His eyes were wistful, his expression glowing with something deeper than simple fondness.

“She’s not even our baby,” you teased lightly.

He looked at you then. “I know. But it kind of felt like she was for a little while, didn’t it?”

And it had.

For those few precious hours, it wasn’t just babysitting. It was domestic. Whole. Like a glimpse into a life you could almost touch.

That night, after a simple dinner and a long shower, you and Hyunjin lay in bed together beneath soft sheets, your limbs tangled like ivy. The bedroom lights were dimmed, casting everything in warm amber shadows. Outside, the city sighed through open windows, the hum of distant traffic acting like a lullaby.

Hyunjin lay on his side facing you, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting lightly over your waist. You were both bare-faced and quiet, basking in the stillness that only came from deep comfort and long-term love.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.

You turned your head slightly to meet his gaze. “Eunji?”

He nodded. “She was… perfect. I mean, she was messy and loud and drooled everywhere, but—” he chuckled, “—it was perfect.”

You smiled softly, the ghost of your stress momentarily forgotten in his warmth.

“She did look good on you,” you teased. “Little baby attached to your hip, getting paint on her socks.”

He laughed quietly. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot, actually.”

You went still. Not frozen, just still. Like your body was bracing itself for something you weren’t sure you were ready to receive.

“I’m not lying when I say I really want that,” Hyunjin said, voice a little softer now, more fragile. He traced gentle circles on your side through the fabric of your shirt. “Whether it’s a few months from now or a few years—I want to have a family with you.”

You stared at him, heart suddenly too big for your chest. He was speaking so quietly, like it was something sacred. Not a fantasy, not an expectation, but a dream he was tenderly placing in your hands, asking you to hold it with him.

“I mean it,” he added, sensing your silence. “Whenever you’re ready. I don’t want to rush you. I just… I need you to know that it’s real for me. I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

You swallowed thickly, your heart thudding hard. His words were so gentle. So patient. It almost made it harder, not because you didn’t want the same thing, but because you’d been keeping something from him.

Something that had been sitting heavy in your chest for days.

He must’ve noticed the way your breath caught, because he sat up slightly on his elbow, his brows knitting in concern.

“Hey…” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, your hands fiddling nervously with the edge of the comforter. The intimacy of the moment, the softness of his voice, the sincerity in his eyes, it was all too much, too perfect. The dam inside you cracked.

“I need to tell you something,” you said, your voice barely audible.

His hand found yours under the covers. “Okay,” he said gently. “Whatever it is, I’m here.”

You took a deep breath. “I’ve been… holding something in. Not because I didn’t want to tell you, but because I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to make it real before I had the words.”

Hyunjin’s expression softened instantly, his thumb brushing yours. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“I’m late,” you whispered.

A pause.

Then another breath.

“I’m… really late.”

His lips parted slightly, eyes scanning your face slowly as if to make sure he heard you right. “You mean…”

“I haven’t taken a test yet,” you admitted. “I was scared. I didn’t want to freak you out. Or get your hopes up. I wasn’t sure how I even felt about it.”

Silence hung between you for a heartbeat and then two.

And then his hand was gently tilting your chin toward him, his voice the softest it had been all night.

“Why would you be scared to tell me?”

Your eyes welled up, though you hadn’t meant for them to. “Because you have so many dreams, Hyun. Your art, your music, your freedom. And I didn’t want to be the person who—”

“Stop,” he said gently, leaning forward to press his forehead to yours. “You could never ruin anything. Not even close.”

Your chest ached at his words.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “If you are… if we are having a baby, even possibly. I want it. I want you. All of it. No matter when it happens.”

Tears slid down your cheeks silently. He kissed them away, slow and reverent, his hand resting over your belly, not in dramatic certainty, but in quiet, wondering hope.

“I think I already love them,” he said suddenly, voice cracking slightly.

“Hyunjin…”

“Even if it turns out we’re not pregnant this time,” he continued, “this moment? This truth? It’s already made something clear to me. I’m ready when you are. For anything. For everything.”

You buried your face in his neck, arms wrapping around him tightly as he held you against him. You could feel the way his heart thudded beneath your cheek fast, real, overwhelmed with love.

“I’ll take the test tomorrow,” you whispered.

“I’ll be with you,” he promised. “No matter what.”

The world was quiet when you woke up still dark out, not even birdsong yet, just the faint glow of the city lights sneaking through the curtains. You stirred slowly under the covers, warm, wrapped in the safety of the bed you shared with Hyunjin.

But when you reached out instinctively, your fingers met only the cool sheet where his body should’ve been.

Your heart jumped for a second not with fear, but the kind of nervousness that comes when something big is waiting.

You sat up, blinking sleep from your eyes.

Then you heard it: the rustle of clothes, the soft click of the bathroom door opening and shutting, and footsteps padding gently across the floor.

Hyunjin reappeared in the doorway, fully dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, a knit beanie half-on his still-messy hair. He looked cozy, disheveled, but very awake.

“Did I wake you?” he asked quietly, walking over.

You shook your head, voice still heavy with sleep. “Where were you?”

“Just brushing my teeth.” He smiled softly. “Thought we could go get the test first thing. Before we talk ourselves out of it.”

You swallowed. There was no dramatic music, no dramatic shift. Just this quiet nudge toward a door you both had been circling for days.

He crouched down next to your side of the bed, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I figured it’d be easier to face if we did it together,” he said, like he was offering you the softest piece of himself.

You gave a tiny nod.

You got dressed without speaking much, your body on autopilot, your thoughts spiraling. It was as if your brain had been preparing for this moment all night, winding you up just enough to push you out the door.

The air outside was cold and brisk. You were both quiet on the walk to the corner store. The city was still half-asleep shops unopened, sidewalks empty, a few coffee vendors just beginning to stir.

You felt Hyunjin’s fingers slip between yours as you crossed the street. Warm. Firm. Real.

That alone helped you breathe.

As you turned the corner and the little 24-hour pharmacy came into view, you noticed something, the small curve of a smile tugging at the edge of Hyunjin’s lips.

Soft. Private. Like it had been there the whole time.

You stopped walking for a second and gave him a look.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, half-teasing, half-serious.

He blinked innocently. “Why not?”

“You’re going to get your hopes up.”

He tilted his head playfully. “Is it a crime for a man to smile in public now?”

You rolled your eyes and playfully smacked his chest. ��I mean it. I don’t want you to be disappointed. Just in case.”

The wind curled between you for a beat, a feather-soft silence before he reached up and cupped your cheek in one gloved hand.

“I won’t be,” he said, sincere. “No matter what.”

Something in his tone rooted you in place. You nodded once, slowly, then followed him into the store.

-

The bathroom was quiet, too.

You stood by the sink, the white plastic test unwrapped in your hand. Hyunjin was just outside the door, standing so close you could feel his presence like a warmth pressing through the wall.

“I’ll be right here,” he said softly, voice muffled through the wood. “I won’t go anywhere. Just call if you need me, okay?”

You looked toward the door even though you couldn’t see him, and whispered, “Thank you.”

And then you breathed.

You set the test on the counter and followed the instructions with trembling hands. You barely felt the floor beneath your feet. Every movement was automatic. Like you were walking through fog, your thoughts loud and heavy with what-ifs.

When it was done, you set it down gently, almost reverently, on the counter and pressed the timer on your phone.

Five minutes.

You let out a slow breath and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, pulling your knees to your chest.

The silence inside the room stretched, thick and electric.

Outside, Hyunjin shifted. You could hear the soft creak of his weight leaning against the wall just beside the door. Not pacing. Not fidgeting. Just... waiting. Holding still the way someone does when they know it matters.

The timer on the screen glowed too brightly.

4:47.

Each second ticked by like a drop in an ocean of pressure. You tried not to think. But it was impossible.

Was your heart racing because of fear? Or hope? Were you holding your breath because you didn’t want to ruin the moment or because you were scared that this tiny little object was about to change everything?

You closed your eyes and tried to listen for something else your heartbeat, Hyunjin’s soft breathing outside, the distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

But it didn’t help. Every second crawled by like an hour.

3:52.

You pressed your palms to your thighs, grounding yourself.

The plastic test sat on the counter just a foot away. You didn’t dare look.

“Babe?” Hyunjin’s voice came gently through the door. “You alright?”

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see that.

“Yeah,” you said softly, swallowing hard. “Just… waiting.”

“Okay,” he said, just as quietly. “I’m here.”

Another pause.

Then, “I was thinking…”

You didn’t respond, but he knew you were listening.

“When I was a kid, I always thought becoming a dad would feel like flipping a switch. Like one day, I’d just be ready, instantly.”

You could hear the small smile in his voice now. “But now… it’s not like that. It’s slower. Softer. I’m not waiting for some perfect moment anymore. It’s just… you. I look at you, and I think, Yeah. I could do this. With her. Forever.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You blinked them away quickly, pressing your face into your hands.

“You’re not alone in there,” he added. “I know it feels that way right now, but… I’m right on the other side of the door. I’m holding this with you, okay?”

You nodded. Then said, “Okay,” your voice barely holding steady.

2:12.

Your stomach twisted. Your knees bounced. Your breath kept catching.

The plastic stick sat there. Still. Silent. Unassuming. Like it didn’t hold the weight of your entire world inside it.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

A beat.

“Me too,” Hyunjin said.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Really?”

“Yeah. But I’m not scared of the result,” he said. “I’m scared for you. Because I know this means something, no matter what it says. And I want you to know that if you’re afraid, or relieved, or sad, or confused, I’ll be here for all of it. Not just the joy. The mess too.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and this time you didn’t brush it away.

1:15.

You could almost feel the exact second Hyunjin slid down the wall and sat on the floor, his back pressed to the other side of the door. You didn’t hear it. You just knew.

Like you always did with him.

“You think the test knows how important this is?” you asked suddenly, voice hoarse.

He chuckled quietly. “I think it’s just a stick, baby.”

You laughed too. It was weak and breathless and tinged with nerves, but it was real.

“Thirty seconds,” you whispered.

He hummed softly. “Alright. We’re almost there.”

Your hands trembled in your lap. You stared at the floor.

The seconds felt like they were slipping through molasses.

You weren’t ready. But you were also tired of not knowing.

And then—

The timer buzzed.

The sound echoed too loud in the small room.

You froze.

Hyunjin was silent on the other side.

You reached out, hand trembling as your fingers brushed the edge of the counter.

Your body was frozen, suspended between what was and what could be.

And still, he didn’t rush you.

Because even now… he was waiting.

With you.

The test sat still on the bathroom counter, exactly where you left it. You hadn’t turned it around.

You hadn’t even moved.

Your hands were curled into loose fists on your lap, knuckles pale, legs pulled up beneath you on the closed toilet lid. You’d never felt this paralyzed before, not from fear of something bad, but from something big. Something life-altering.

The tiny white stick felt like it was glowing in the room, humming with unspoken truth. All it needed was one glance, one flick of the wrist, and the future would begin to shift, one way or another.

But you couldn’t do it.

Not alone.

Your breath caught as you stood up, legs a little unsteady, feet cold against the tile. You didn’t touch the test. You didn’t even look at it.

Instead, you reached for the door.

The handle clicked softly under your hand.

And when it opened, there he was sitting on the floor right outside, just like you knew he would be.

Hyunjin looked up at you immediately, his body unfolding quickly but gently, rising to his feet like he expected to hold you before you fell. His eyes scanned your face hopeful, tender, alert. Expectant.

“Is it…” he began, voice quiet but bright.

You didn’t let him finish.

“I didn’t look,” you whispered.

You saw his smile falter just slightly, but not in disappointment. It was surprise. His brow furrowed, and his lips softened.

“I couldn’t do it alone,” you added quickly, your voice breaking slightly at the end.

There was no judgment in his face. Only that beautiful, unshakable tenderness that he carried so easily with you like love was his first language.

“Okay,” he said simply, nodding once. “Let’s look together.”

He reached out, his hand open between you. You placed yours in it instinctively, and the moment your skin touched his, the tightness in your chest eased, not entirely, but enough to move.

He guided you back into the bathroom with slow, careful steps, like he didn’t want to spook you. Like this moment was something sacred and he was holding it like glass.

You stood beside him in front of the counter, your hand still in his. The test lay there, facedown, quiet. As if it was waiting for you.

He looked at you, asking silently for permission.

“Do you want me to check?” he asked softly.

You nodded, barely. “Please.”

Hyunjin gave your hand a squeeze, then gently let go to reach for the test.

You turned your eyes away, breath caught in your throat.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of plastic moving against ceramic. A light click as he flipped the test over.

A pause.

Then..

He laughed.

It was quiet. Disbelieving. Joyful.

And when you turned to look at him, really look, his eyes were already shining.

He looked back at you like he’d just seen something miraculous.

“It’s positive,” he said, voice thick with wonder. “It’s positive.”

Your breath caught. You stared at him.

“What?”

He held the test toward you with gentle hands, almost reverently. His eyes searched yours for any flicker of fear, but all he saw was stunned stillness.

You looked down.

Two lines.

Clear. Strong. Certain.

A sound left you, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Just a sound of something inside you cracking wide open.

You looked back at Hyunjin, and his smile broke into something bigger, brighter and completely unfiltered.

“You’re pregnant,” he said again, like he needed to say it twice to make it real. “We’re having a baby.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, eyes wide. “Oh wow.”

He immediately stepped forward, wrapping his arms around you, warm and tight. You melted into him like you’d been holding your body together with thread until now.

And suddenly you were crying not from fear, not from confusion, but from a quiet, powerful release. It wasn’t overwhelming in a bad way. It was vast like your heart had expanded beyond your chest and had no idea how to hold this much joy at once.

Hyunjin rested his forehead against yours. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears had started to fall.

“Hey,” he whispered with a laugh. “You’re okay.”

“I’m happy,” you said quickly. “I am—I’m just—”

“I know,” he said. “I know, baby. Me too.”

And he kissed you soft, slow, grounding. A kiss that wasn’t about passion, but about presence. A kiss that said we’re here now, in this new, irreversible moment. And it’s okay. It’s real. It’s ours.

When he pulled back, he pressed his hands to your belly without thinking like his body already knew where to go.

His voice dropped to a whisper, so full of love it could barely carry the words: “Hi there.”

You let out a soft, teary laugh. “You’re already talking to them?”

“Of course,” he said. “They need to know their dad’s completely obsessed.”

You laughed again, this time freer, your head dropping against his shoulder.

“We’re going to be okay, right?” you whispered.

He pulled you closer, his voice firm with quiet promise: “We already are.”

And in that moment, surrounded by foggy mirrors, cold tile, and the hum of an ordinary bathroom light, you felt it.

Not just the shift in your future.

But the arrival of something whole.

A new chapter, held tenderly in the hands of a man who had always loved you gently, and now, fiercely would love both of you.

From this breath forward.

//

masterlist.

(a/n: for anon, who has been waiting since last year (i’m so so sorry for being so late.) 😖)

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

[moonstruckme]

request: was thinking about that one video that’s like “my wife, she’ll get upset if she sees you touching me like that on my chest” “i am your wife” and then the heart monitor starts going crazy and that put a doctor remus idea in my head after r gets out of surgery/is on anesthesia for something or other

Thanks for requesting!

cw: hospital, mention of surgery

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 855 words

Lots of people would probably be happy to have their significant other visit them at work, but as it turns out, Remus really doesn’t like it. He’s used to seeing patients post-op, and yet somehow when it’s you it feels sad, all those tubes and wires connected to his girl. The fluorescent lighting turns your complexion wan and the wary frown on your lips as a nurse checks your vitals makes Remus’ heart feel like a bruise. 

It helps some when you notice his entry and they stretch into a dopey smile instead. 

“Hi, dove.” His voice is soft and smitten, an automatic reaction to seeing you that he’s already heard the new residents commenting on in the break room. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m okay.” You tug at the sheets on your bed. Ball them in your fists like you might be nervous. “My stomach hurts a little.” 

“That’s normal,” Remus assures you, even as his stomach dips in sympathy. He sits on the edge of your bed, taking your hand and beginning to draw tight circles into the inside of your wrist. “If it starts to hurt worse, or badly at all, you should let me know, alright?” 

“Okay.” Your voice has quieted slightly, your eyes following the motion of his thumb on your skin. You glance at the nurse as though checking if she sees. Remus feels his lips tip up bemusedly. 

“Everything alright?” he asks the nurse.

She smiles at the both of you, passing him a clipboard. “She’s stable, ready to move when you’d like.” 

“Thanks,” he says, reading over your vitals quickly after she leaves. He sets the clipboard down and gives your hand a squeeze. If your heart monitor gives a quick beep, he pretends not to notice. “You’re all set, lovely girl. We’ll get you to your own room in just a bit.” 

You nod, not seeming to hear him. You look to be gnawing on the inside of your lip. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” Remus says gently, thumbing it free. Your eyes widen, and he drops his thumb to your chin, looking you in the eyes. “Is something the matter?”

You rub your lips together hesitantly. It’s normal to have a small fever after surgery, but your face feels suspiciously warm. “I just, um, I have a boyfriend.” 

Remus feels his face split into an irrepressible grin. He’d been wondering how the anesthesia would affect you. “Yeah, dove,” he agrees, delighted, “I know you do.” 

“I don’t…” Your eyes dart to where his thumb still rests on your chin, your shoulders gravitating towards your ears. “I think it would upset him if he knew you were touching me like this.” 

Truly, this could not be any better. Remus wishes he’d brought a video camera like James wanted him to. “I am your boyfriend, sweetheart.” 

Your expression freezes in place, but your heart monitor starts beeping loudly. Your eyes dart to it, alarm and embarrassment worsening, and Remus laughs, dropping his hand from your chin in favor of rubbing your shoulder until both you and the machine calm down. 

“You?” you ask. You appear nothing short of flabbergasted. 

“Yes.” He brings your hand to his smiling lips, kissing your knuckles as if to prove it. “Why, are you surprised?” 

“You’re serious,” you check. Remus has the opportunity to make a joke here, but he worries it’d only confuse you more. 

“I am,” he says. 

“But you’re so handsome.”

Another laugh startles out of him. “And what do you think you are? Of course,” he gives your knuckles another brief peck just to see your eyes flare again, “I would love you no matter how you looked, but you’re a far cry from hideous yourself.” 

You look taken aback by this news as well. Remus is half tempted to find you a mirror. 

Then you ask, voice soft as down feathers, “You love me?” 

Something in Remus’ chest goes all warm and mushy. “I do,” he says sincerely. “I love you so much, sweetheart, sometimes I don’t know what to do with it all.” 

You smile until your eyelashes kiss, and he can’t resist cupping your face again, smoothing his thumb along the skin of your cheek. 

“So that’s why you’re here?” you ask. 

“Well,” he hesitates, “yes, but I’m also here because I work here.” 

Your eyebrows raise. Your gaze dips to his white coat as if remembering it for the first time in a while. “Oh. You’re a doctor and my boyfriend?” 

“That’s right.” He squints at you amusedly. “Did you think I just snuck in here in a white coat so I could see you?” 

“My boyfriend is a doctor.” You don’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular, perhaps just asking the universe for confirmation. 

Remus decides to get back to business. “Right again, dove. I think it’s about time we get you to your room, yeah? Anything else I can do for you, anything you need?” 

“Nope.” You lay your head back on the pillow, looking somehow more dazed than when he’d come in. “I think I’m set. Like, probably for life.”

[mercvry-glow]

What we don’t say | In Another Light (2)

In Another Light masterlist - Jack Abbot x Ex!reader

warnings. age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 27), exes to lovers, slowburnish, jack and reader are bad at feelings, mentions of sex, reader is hinted to have some forms of depression and anxiety, more to come as series continues

summary. finally thrown into the steady chaos of your first night back, the rhythm of the ER feels both familiar and jarring. working alongside john brings a strange comfort—the buzz of night shift grounding you as you fall back into old habits. it’s not always smooth sailing, but there’s something reassuring about being back with your original crew. as you catch snippets of hospital gossip that has unfolded in your absence, jack continues to linger in your periphery, never far out of sight, his watchful gaze a quiet constant as patients trickle in and the adrenaline begins to build.

notes. finally getting into the longer chapters! sorry for the long wait guys, I got so busy with school, work, and moving that I had like no time to work on this but I hope you guys enjoy as always! sorry there's not much jack in this chapter, but y'all get work besties john and parker today.

wc. 3200+

“He’s staring at you again.”

“Oh.”

 Your response was automatic, barely registering over the sound of the monitor beeping and the gentle click of your pen as you jotted down vitals.

Shen didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. You knew who he meant.

It was 9:45 when the trauma came in—motorcycle collision, blunt chest trauma, possible internal bleeding. You and Shen jumped in without needing to speak. You slipped into your roles like second skin.

The trauma bay buzzed with urgency, voices overlapping, gloves snapping on, the patient groaning through a fractured rib. John barked out vitals from the monitor, and you moved quickly to start a second IV, checking his airway as Shen called for a chest tube setup.

You worked around each other seamlessly. Years of rhythm between the two of you smoothed even the roughest moments. Where Shen was calm and technical, you were grounding—steady hands and gentle words. Together, you made a solid team.

And you could feel the eyes on you.

Not the patient’s.

Not the trauma tech’s.

Jack.

You didn’t have to look to know. You felt him staring from outside the bay, the way you might feel the press of gravity—unseen, constant, and inescapable.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood a few feet back with Bridget, quietly observing, watching the flow of care, the choices you made.

The night charge nurse muttered something to him that you couldn’t hear due to the glass wall, and Jack gave the smallest shake of his head, like he didn’t want to respond. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable as always.

Still watching.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes.

The trauma stabilized after twenty minutes. The patient was wheeled off to CT, and the room cleared little by little until it was just you, John, and the dull thrum of adrenaline still in your veins.

You peeled off your gloves, tossing them in the bin, and took a breath like it was the first one you’d had in hours.

Shen passed you a clean towel to wipe the blood off your forearm. “He doesn’t usually look at anyone like that.”

You gave a short laugh through your nose. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Shen said plainly. “Just seems worth saying, it’s good to have you back by the way.”

You glanced toward the glass of the trauma bay door where Jack had been. He was gone now. Only a few nurses and other doctors lingered, all working in their own right.

You sighed. “We should check on a few of the other patients before we get his CT results back.”

“After you, Doctor.”

You walked out without another glancing back at the taller man. 

Jack could watch all he wanted. No matter how much his gaze irritated you. 

You still had a job to do.

By the time you and Shen stepped out of the trauma bay, the adrenaline had faded just enough to leave a dull ache behind your eyes. But there was no time to linger. A new patient was already being wheeled into one of the rooms down the hall—chest pain, late 60s, borderline hypotensive. Shen caught the update first and gave a subtle nod toward the room. You followed him in once again, slipping a fresh pair of gloves on before even reading the chart.

The next stretch of time blurred together. You moved on autopilot—talking the patient through the process, charting on the fly, handing off labs, adjusting meds. Nothing dramatic, nothing flashy. Just work. Always work. The kind of work that kept people breathing and the ER from falling apart.

Somewhere in the middle of getting an EKG printed and ordering cardiac enzymes, you felt it again—that flicker of attention.

You didn’t stop to look this time.

You just kept moving. Talked to the patient’s wife. Wrote orders. Laughed at a joke she cracked. The rhythm of the shift slowly took back over, and with every task completed, you felt your body sink deeper into the comfort of control. Of knowing your purpose here.

Eventually, John peeled off to check on labs, and you were left alone in the room, pressing gently over the patient’s ribs to check for pain.

Outside the curtain, you could hear footsteps, voices, someone wheeling past a portable monitor. The usual. Background noise.

You finished your note. You patted the patient’s arm and reassured him gently before stepping back into the corridor. Another nurse passed you, calling your name for help in a room two doors down. You responded before your brain even fully caught up.

It unnerved you how quickly you fell back into the rhythm of things. This was supposed to be hard. You were supposed to feel out of place, off-balance, like you’d forgotten how to do this.

But instead, your body remembered before your mind even caught up—hands steady, words automatic, instincts still razor sharp, just like in the mornings. It felt wrong, almost, how easy coming back had been coming back to night shift.

Sure, talking to Jack—if you could call that awkward two-minute exchange "talking"—had been unsettling to say the least. A quiet minefield of tension layered under clinical indifference. But even that felt dulled, like a memory half-erased by time and stubbornness.

And he was everywhere. Or it felt like he was.

Just about every corner, every hallway, every half-glance through glass. Sometimes you’d turn and see his back as he walked away. Other times, it was just the edge of his voice, deep and clipped as he spoke to someone at the nurses’ station or barked out a med order mid-resus.

Whatever this was, it was different.

The air between you wasn’t angry anymore—thick with unsaid things and grief-shaped silence sure. But it wasn’t neutral, either. There was still something there. Sharp. 

Unresolved.

You weren’t sure what unnerved you more: the weight of that... or how much of it you were starting to ignore just to get through the shift.

You checked your watch. A little after 10:30pm

Still more than half the night to go.

Shen passed you in the hallway, handing off a chart without missing a beat. “They’re dumping another one on us. Room 12. You want it, or should I?”

You took the clipboard. “I’ve got it.”

Because work—this work—was the only thing that made sense right now.

And until the rest of it caught up, you’d keep your head down and your hands busy.

Room 12 was dim when you walked in, lights low and the gentle whir of the wall-mounted fan humming in the background. The mother looked up the moment you entered, eyes wide with worry and fatigue. She was holding her daughter close against her chest, rocking slightly in the stiff-backed chair beside the bed.

“Hi there, you must be mom.” you said gently before introducing yourself, offering a quick, reassuring smile as you stepped into the bay and pulled on gloves. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

The mother adjusted the child in her arms slightly. “Sophie. She’s three.”

You nodded, crouching a little to get to eye level. “Hi Sophie,” you said softly, watching for any signs of alertness. The girl was flushed, her eyes glassy and barely tracking movement. Her skin was warm and a bit damp under the harsh fluorescent light. You reached for your penlight. “Can I take a quick look, sweetheart?”

Sophie didn’t flinch when the light passed over her pupils.

Not good.

You straightened, exchanging a glance with the mother. “You said she’s been like this all day?”

The woman nodded quickly, voice low and frantic. “Started last night with a little cough. But this morning she felt warm. I gave her Tylenol but the fever never broke. And she’s barely said anything all day—she just… sleeps. She never sleeps like this. She hasn’t eaten either, and she feels so hot, like… like she’s burning up.”

You placed a hand on the girl’s forehead, confirming the fever. Her breathing was shallow and slightly rapid, her lips tinged just the faintest bit blue at the edges.

“I’m going to have a nurse come in and start a line,” you told the mom, keeping your voice calm. “We’re going to draw some labs, give her some fluids, and get her fever under control while we run some tests. Right now, she’s dehydrated and that’s making things worse, but we’re going to help her, okay?”

The mother nodded quickly, trying to keep her composure. “Is it serious?”

“It’s something we’ll need to work on, fast” you said carefully. “It’s good that you brought he rin, we’re gonna do everything we can to get her better.”

You stepped outside just long enough to flag down a nurse for an urgent line and stat labs. When you turned back to the door, Jack was standing just a few feet away.

He hadn’t been there when you walked out.

He must’ve caught part of the conversation. His expression was unreadable again, jaw tight, eyes scanning the chart in his hand. But when his gaze shifted to you, there was something softer—flickering behind the steely gaze.

You raised a brow. “Do you need something, Dr. Abbot?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I saw the chart. Thought I might lend a hand,”

You nodded slowly, measured. “I’ll let you know. I’ve got it under control for now, I don’t need another babysitter.”

“Okay,” he said, but didn’t move. Just kept looking at you like there was more he wanted to say, like maybe now wasn’t the time but he was teetering on the edge of it anyway.

Before the silence could stretch too long, Shen called down the hall, “Chest pain guy’s CT is back. You want to go over it?”

You turned your head. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec.”

When you looked back, Jack was already turning away.

Just like that. Never staying for long.

You exhaled slowly, bracing a hand against the wall for a second before heading down the hall to join Shen.

Still more than six hours left in the shift. And Jack, it seemed, wasn’t going to stop hovering.

But like you’d told yourself before: you had a job to do.

And right now, a sick little girl needed you more than Jack Abbot ever did. 

When you found John he was already scrolling through the chest CT on the monitor in the corner of the nurse’s station, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding a protein bar he’d clearly forgotten to eat.

“Find anything?” you asked, stepping up beside him.

“Yeah,” he said, offering you the screen. “Pulmonary contusion, maybe a small hemothorax, but no major vascular injury. Could’ve been worse.”

You leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the slices. “Agreed. We’ll keep an eye on that left side, but he should stabilize once the fluids catch up.”

John let out a low hum of agreement before tossing the unopened protein bar on the desk. “You know,” he said casually, “he was still standing there when I passed 12. Jack.”

You didn’t look at him. “And?”

“And,” Shen drawled, “for a guy who allegedly has nothing to say to you, he sure loiters a lot. Stares like he's waiting for a sign from God or some shit.”

You sighed and picked up the patient chart from the desk, flipping it open. “He’s probably just worried about the cases I’m on.”

“Uh-huh,” Shen said with the flat sarcasm of someone who’d known you too long to buy it. “I’ve worked here five years and have never seen that man ‘worried about a case’ unless the patient was coding or throwing punches.”

Before you could formulate a retort, Ellis strolled up with two cups of coffee and her usual too-smooth grin.

“I swear, the tension in this hallway could cure my caffeine addiction,” she said, passing you one of the coffees and raising his eyebrows. “Jack still hovering like a ghost of failed relationships past?”

You took the coffee, despite yourself. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Good, because I’m not asking,” Ellis said cheerfully, leaning against the counter beside Shen. “Just observing. Man’s walking around like someone stole all 50 of his extra 11-blades”

“He’s not my problem,” you muttered, trying to refocus on the chart in your hands.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Shen said under his breath.

Ellis sipped her coffee, watching you with that infuriating glint of amusement in her brown eyes. “Look, all I’m saying is—if someone stared at me like that across the ER, I’d either call security or ask for a second chance. No in-between.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, luckily I’m not you.”

“Tragic,” Ellis said. “If I were you, I would’ve at least milked it for the dramatic post-breakup sex. The kind that ends in a storage closet and a sexual harassment seminar.”

“Jesus,” Shen muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we not?”

You smirked in spite of yourself, sipping the coffee. “Thank you, John! Someone has to have dignity in this conversation.”

Ellis held up both hands. “No shame here. Just saying—Jack’s hovering. You’re pretending not to care. Everyone in this department has bets on when it boils over.”

Your brows lifted. “Bets?”

“Oh yeah,” Ellis said, grinning like the devil. “Carmen’s got twenty bucks on you two making out in the ambulance bay before the week’s over.”

Shen gave you a sideways glance. “I’ve got my money on a shouting match in the stairwell.”

You stared at both of them, exasperated. “You guys are unbelievable.”

“And you’re still in denial,” Ellis said with a shrug.

You opened your mouth to respond—something sharp, something definitive—but the sound of a trauma alert overhead cut in. “This is not over!”

Shen stood up straighter immediately. “Guess we’re up.”

You shoved the chart into the bin and tossed back the rest of the coffee. “Let’s go.”

As the three of you moved down the hall toward the trauma bay, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder—just for a second.

Jack wasn’t there.

But you felt the pull anyway.

Damn him.

And damn the two of them for noticing!

The trauma bay cleared once again. Another wave handled, another body stabilized, another set of orders scribbled into the chart before you’d even caught your breath. Shen had peeled off to update the surgical team, Ellis had disappeared somewhere with a fresh coffee, and you found yourself moving on autopilot—again.

It wasn’t until you were halfway back to Room 12 that the rest of the hospital seemed to catch up with you—fluorescents buzzing too loud, your shoulders stiff from tension you hadn’t noticed until now.

Inside, the lights were dimmed slightly. Sophie was curled on her mother’s lap, cheeks flushed and damp with sweat, a cartoon playing quietly on her mother’s phone. Her mom looked up the moment you stepped in, her expression tight with worry and exhaustion.

“Sorry for the wait,” you said gently, slipping into the room and checking the monitors first. “We had a critical case come in. I appreciate you guys being patient.”

“No problem,” the mother said immediately, voice hushed but strained. “I just… she’s still so hot. And she keeps saying her tummy hurts.”

You gave a small nod, already reaching for a fresh pair of gloves. “I saw her labs just came back. Fever’s still running high—102.6—but her white count is elevated, which helps point us in the right direction.”

You knelt beside them, giving the girl another soft smile. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m your Doctor, do you remember me from earlier?”

She gave a sluggish nod, her fingers still clinging to the edge of her mom’s sweater.

“You’re being really brave,” you said, your voice low and reassuring. “Can I check your belly again? I promise I’ll be quick.”

Her mom smoothed her daughter’s hair back. “You’re okay, baby. Just like before.”

The little girl gave a small nod, and you began your exam—gentle, methodical. Her belly was tender in the lower right quadrant, and when you applied the slightest pressure, she winced and whimpered.

You exchanged a quiet look with her mom, who paled immediately.

“I think it might be appendicitis,” you said softly. “We’ll confirm with imaging, but her symptoms and labs are pointing in that direction.”

Her mother’s hand went to her mouth, tears immediately brimming. “Is she going to need surgery?”

“Most likely, yes,” you said, keeping your voice even and calm. “But the good news is we caught it early, and this hospital’s surgical team is excellent. She’s going to be okay. I’ll put in the order for an abdominal ultrasound now, and we’ll get pain control started in the meantime.”

“Okay,” the mom whispered, nodding quickly and wiping her eyes.

You gave the little girl a small pat on the arm. “We’re going to take good care of you, okay?”

As you stood and made your way to the computer, you heard the curtain rustle behind you.

John stuck his head in, you wonder if he knew he was hovering too. “Hey. Imaging is backlogged, but I flagged your order. They’ll prioritize her next.”

You gave a grateful nod. “Thanks.”

He stepped in a little more, glancing at the chart on the screen. “She gonna need surgery?”

“Looks that way.”

He exhaled, then murmured under his breath, “Hell of a first night back.”

You smirked without humor. “You’re telling me.”

John tilted his head slightly, voice dropping just enough. “You doing okay, Kid?”

You glanced back at the mom holding her daughter, still whispering soft reassurances as the girl finally drifted into a medicated sleep.

Then you looked at Shen. “Yeah.. I’m uh– I’m fine.”

He clealry didn’t believe you. You could see it in the way one of his dark brows lifted, and the way his mouth twitched like he wanted to say something else but decided against it.

You saved the orders and clicked out of the chart. “Let me know when they call for her scan.”

Shen gave a nod and turned to leave, but paused just before stepping out.

“Oh, and Ellis says the betting pool just doubled.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Shen shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger. But for the record—I still think stairwell.”

Then he disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone again in the dim room with the gentle beep of the monitor and the steady breathing of a sleeping child.

You shook your head and looked down at your watch.

Still a handful of hours to go.

And Jack hadn’t even cornered you yet.

Not that you were waiting for it.

Not that you were thinking about it.

Right?

[capybaramurdock]

💄💋𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞💋💄

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Plus Size!Reader Word Count: 1.3k Summary: Foggy and Marci’s wedding is around the corner, and you just need to find a lipstick that won’t smear through food, dancing, or “rom-com climax” level vows. Matt’s the perfect test subject, and your kiss-stained canvas.

“You want the perfect lipstick for their big day, clearly a matter of national importance…” “And here I was thinking you were just looking for an excuse to kiss me over and over.”

It’s not just science. It’s love.

Prefer to read on ao3? Available on there too! https://archiveofourown.org/works/66037951

Divider by: @dollywons

“…Matty, are you sureeee you’re not getting bored of this yet?” you ask sweetly, focusing on your reflection in the tiny compact mirror while you swipe on another shade, there’s been so many already, you’ve already lost count.

The eighth or ninth, maybe?

Matt is seated on the couch right next to you, his suit jacket discarded, collar and tie loosened, his lips coated and smudged in different shades of red, pinks, berries, wines, and a few corals. Your sweet, kiss-stained canvas.

“I’m blind, not numb to your touch,” he replies, he’s barely managing not to smile, despite his face nearly in a swoon. “Carry on, Counselor.”

You climb back over, your soft, plus thighs straddling his lap without hesitation. His hands find your hips automatically.

“Ready?”

“For science,” he replies, straight-faced and serious.

You kiss him slowly and deliberately. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure. Then pull back with mock precision to inspect the damage.

You pout slightly, checking his lips, brushing your thumb along the corner.

“…ugh, seriously? It still transferred.” You sigh dramatically, grabbing a makeup wipe and removing that shade from your lips.

“Well, I think I’ve got a few more rounds in me,” he offers, he can’t keep the smirk off his face this time, though. “Purely for science and the sake of research.”

Your pout grows as you ask him softly, looking at his face and how it resembles a blotchy Valentine’s Day card, “and you’re sure I’m not wearing you out?” You start to slightly lean away, like you’ll climb out of his lap if he asks.

He can’t hide the slightly blissed out look on his face now as he replies, almost teasing, “I’m a very patient man…and besides, I’m not exactly suffering.”

A chuckle escapes your lips as you settle into his lap further without a second thought. It’s easy like this, natural. His hands move back to you with instinct, fingers resting warm and steady on your thighs this time.

“I just…” you hesitate, reaching for another tube and twisting it in your hand for a moment, “I wanna make sure it lasts, y’know? I’m gonna be eating, talking, dancing…crying especially. Marci said the vows were going to be and I quote “full rom-com climax” level of emotional.”

“You want the perfect lipstick for their big day, clearly a matter of national importance…” he pauses to chuckle before he adds, “And here I was, thinking you were just looking for an excuse to kiss me over and over.”

“…eh, well I suppose that too…”

He lets out a faux dramatic sigh, but his hands squeeze your thighs like he’s not planning to let you go, “…ah, the things I do for love…”

You roll your eyes playfully, picking the compact mirror up and replying softly, “Alright now, Courage, you know you love it, but I need you to hush and be still so I can apply this one clearly.”

He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even try. Why would he? But he does listen and stays still for you.

You swipe on the next shade, a soft rose with a light, glittery sheen. Pretty and subtle. One that makes you feel…a little more polished. A little more “wedding guest” and a little less “melting in a reception tent in over 100-degree weather”.

Matt must sense the shift in your mood, though, because when you lean in, one of his hands moves up from your thigh and cards his fingers through your hair, and his voice is softer, “What’s going on up here, hm?”

You shrug but look at him with a fond expression, “…it’s stupid…”

He waits, doesn’t push. Just keeps the one hand on your thigh and the other in your hair, holding you like you belong there, because you both know you do. So, you continue with your thoughts.

“It’s just…well, lipstick draws attention to my mouth…and pictures last forever…and I don’t know, sometimes I feel like there’s a spotlight on all the things I’d rather people not be focused on, y’know?”

Matt’s brows lift slightly, and he moves his hand from your hair to brush his fingertips over your bottom lip. “Sometimes, I wish you could see yourself in the way that I sense you when I touch you,” he murmurs. “You’d never second-guess yourself again.”

Your breath hitches as you continue looking at him fondly, hearts would surely be in your eyes if this were a cartoon.

“This mouth?” he continues, brushing his thumb there now, so gently it makes you shiver. “Is my favorite thing to kiss. To listen to. To wake up next to. You have no idea how beautiful you are when you smile. And you are going to smile at that wedding…or else.”

You giggle a little as you blink back the sudden warmth behind your eyes. “You’re just saying that because you’re covered in my lip prints.”

“That may be true,” he concedes, grinning. “But it doesn't make me wrong.”

You lean down, kissing him again…much slower this time. Not in a rush for the sake of testing. Just a soft, thoughtful, and sweet kiss of affection.

When you pull back, there’s a faint smear. You sigh. “Ugh, still not transfer-proof.”

Matt shrugs, completely content. “I’ll endure.”

You laugh, reaching for the next tube and another makeup wipe. “Mhm, you’re such a trooper.”

Matt hums, tugging you closer without effort, both of his hands moving to be a gentle weight on your waist now. “For you? Always.”

Then he leans in, not for your lips this time, but lower, and presses his mouth softly to your jaw.

You feel a faint tackiness immediately.

“Wait—” you blink, drawing back a little, “Matt, did you just—?”

Matt tilts his head, lips still tinted with your last experiment, not even trying to hide the smug edge in his smile. “Might’ve left a little something of my own behind.”

You grab the compact mirror again and look at your reflection. Sure enough: a warm rose-pink kiss mark, right beneath your cheekbone, like a stamp. A quiet little claim.

You glance back at him, cheeks warming. “That wasn’t part of the test.”

“No,” he says, his thumb ghosting along the edge of the mark. “That one was just for me.”

The air between you softens, full of things unsaid but understood.

Then—

“Matt? You home?”

You freeze.

Matt doesn’t.

He lifts his voice, deadpan. “Living room. Don’t mind the science.”

You make a soft, mortified sound and go to reach for the nearest makeup wipe, but it’s too late—Foggy steps into view and immediately short-circuits.

He stops. Stares. Eyes take in everything: the lipsticks scattered like crime scene evidence, your position in Matt’s lap, his entire face covered in various shades, and the clear smear of a fresh kiss on your jaw.

“Oh,” Foggy says flatly. “So, we’re doing this now, huh?”

Matt lifts a hand in greeting, not even flinching, he almost looks proud to have your prints all over him. “Hey, man. Testing long-wear lipstick durability. It’s for the wedding.”

You groan. “Matt.”

“Hey, it’s science,” Matt says. “Very serious business.”

Foggy gestures vaguely toward you. “Did she win, or are you both just... permanently stained now?”

“I’m not sure,” Matt says thoughtfully. “But I think I like this one best.”

You swat his chest with the back of your hand, trying to suppress your laughter as Foggy turns to leave.

“Oh, and Marci says no reds unless they’re bulletproof,” Foggy calls over his shoulder. “Something about reception napkins and revenge.”

The front door shuts behind him.

You exhale a dramatic sigh, your head resting against Matt’s shoulder. “He’s never gonna let this go.”

“He’s gonna bring it up in his best man speech,” Matt agrees, kissing the top of your head.

You lean back just enough to meet his smile, your voice a little softer now. “I think I found my favorite shade after all.”

His grin widens. “Yeah?”

You nod and press one last, perfect kiss to the corner of his mouth.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

If you’re wondering, yes, she wore the glittery rose shade to the wedding! And yes, Matt looked smug the entire time! 💞

I got inspired by the pictured Archie comics scene! 💖

✨Hope you enjoyed! Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome!✨

[listentoace]

The Cell

Listen here [08:23 NSFW]

You have been kidnapped and wake up in a small cell, maybe 12m²/130f². You see a few cameras on the ceiling, a toilet and shower in the corner, and a thick metal door locking you inside. But one thing stands out, which is a chair in front of a wall of 25 screens with a tube dangling from the ceiling above. You shift a little on your bed, noticing that you're fully naked and that your ankle is chained to the room center. You hear a loud "clank" sound and see the handle of the door moving. A tall man enters your dark cell, you can't fully see his face, but his wide grin sends shivers down your spine. "Hello there, little one.", he says as he walks up to you. Your heart is racing and you begin to sweat. "Let's get you in place, shall we?", he says, grabs you by your collar and drags you to the chair, the chain rattles and scratches over the concrete floor. As he sits you down, he immediately fastens your wrists and legs to the chair, making it impossible for you to move. You feel a nudge with knobs pushing against your pussy.

You notice another display, right above the 5x5 screen wall, which lights up and reads 163lbs. "Already a bit chubby, huh? Well, you'll soon be in heaven.", he says and pats your belly, causing the number on the display to jump around a little before it settles down at 163lbs again. His wide and warm hands glide over your body, pinching a few folds and rolls, before he pulls out his phone. Shortly after, you hear a humming noise and the tube lowers from the ceiling. He grabs it, straps it around your head and forces the tube into your mouth. The fit is tight enough that you won't be able to spill, yet not uncomfortable. The thick tube dangles in front of your face, blocking a little of your vision. Next, all the screens light up, shortly after displaying 25 different loops of captioned porn, with text reading from "good girls obey" to "your weight = your value", and even just single-word loops like "drink, drink, drink, ...". As you see this, your heart begins to race immediately, fearing the worst.

"You'll be sitting here for 14 hours a day from now on. You get a 5-minute break every hour to go to the bathroom. You'll be filmed and live streamed at all times, so feel free to say hi to the viewers.", he explains. There is a camera right in front of you, slightly below in front of you, one above you, one at a 45° angle, one at a 90° angle, and more in the cell's corners. You're already struggling to pay attention with all the porn in front of you. "You'll be unlocked automatically and a timer will appear on the ceiling display where you can currently see your weight. If you don't sit back down in time, the collar will start shocking you, just so you're warned.", he continues. You can feel your heart rate rise, it hasn't been this high in weeks, if not months. The porn you're forced to watch doesn't help and only makes your heart beat faster. "Good Girls get fat".

"You feel that nudge?", he asks and looks at you with a sinister grin. You nod, feeling the nudge against your pussy, which is already soaked. It stats to vibrate slowly, which you didn't see coming. It sends shivers down your spine and you already notice how your mind is starting to become blank. Your eyes constantly jump around between the screens, looking at cocks thrusting into pussies, cum shots, bouncing tits, jiggling asses, all at the same time on 25 screens. You're overwhelmed and don't know where to look. Everywhere are captions, heavily triggering you and making your pussy throb even more. "Well then, I guess you'll figure the rest out soon enough...", he finishes, gives your belly another pat, gropes your tits, and then just leaves the cell. Him leaving makes you panic slightly, but then the speakers turn on, playing some hypno track of fucking sounds, moaning, and several voices telling you to drink, give in, goon, get fatter, indulge, surrender, obey, serve, fatten, throb, grind, grow. You struggle not to lose the last bit of your mind, as you're bombarded by porn, captions, and the hypno audio track.

You hear a "ding" sound, and shortly after, a sweet, creamy liquid flows into your mouth. The second the sugar hits your tongue, the vibrator fires up, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. "Drink, drink, drink, drink, ..." pops up everywhere on the screens, conveniently censoring all the cocks, pussies, tits, and butts. The hypno track tells you in echoing voices that "good girls drink up", "it tastes soooo good", and "every gulp makes you even wetter". You hate how good the shake tastes, actually offering a full, sweet flavor that makes you want to just keep drinking. Before you know it, you've downed your first liter, the ceiling display reads 165lbs. The shake stops and the vibrator slows down again. Little do you know that people online can spend their money to both turn on your vibrator or to force more calories down your throat.

Before you know it, half an hour has gone by. Your pussy drips, your thighs are sticky and the sweat is running down your skin. Your mind is completely empty now, your eyes jump between the many screens of porn, frustrated that 9/10 times the intimate areas are censored by captions but every time they're not, you feel a rush, as you see a pair of tits bouncing up and down while she's being fucked. You never know when the next "ding" comes, but as soon as it does, you feel immense pleasure and always get very close to cumming. Unfortunately, you can't manage to get over the edge, but that might be by design. Another half hour later, the porn pauses. At first you don't get why, but it seems to be your break. The metal restraints open, freeing your ankles and wrists. You look up to the ceiling display, which reads 168lbs.

The first thing you do once your hands are free is rubbing your pussy. You just need to cum, after being stimulated like this for an hour. But the second you touch your pussy, your collar gives you a mild shock. "No touching", echoes from the speakers. You try getting up from the chair to go to the toilet, your legs are shaky and weak. You can barely walk, but luckily there is a railing mounted to the wall to help you get there. This will especially come in handy once you're a couple hundred pounds heavier. After finishing, you see the timer ticking, "02:13", "02:12", "02:11", so you waddle back to the chair and sit down again, the restraints automatically fasten. This will be your life from now on.

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

Thank you very much for reading! Depending on how you like this, I might turn it into a much longer, full story, which I'll also be reading/recording audios for. To ensure my efforts are worth it, please write a comment or dm about whether or not you want more of this. Thank you very much!

[brinasheqrt]

reader is afraid of travelling by plane (more than she'd like to admit) and gets a little uneasy when theres some turbulence on the plane, but sabrina is there to calm her down (masc!reader)

Hold Tight

pairings - sabrina carpenter x masc!reader

warnings - nothing major, some flight anxiety

wc - 1.5k

You don’t like flying.

You’ve told people you don’t mind it — even joked once that you “kinda love the window seat view” — but that was more deflection than truth. The reality is that every time the wheels lift off the runway, your stomach coils like someone’s wringing it out. You grip the armrests, pretend you’re just settling in, and do your best to act like you’re totally chill about being 30,000 feet in the air inside a glorified metal tube.

Today is no different.

You’re flying with Sabrina, headed to New York for a last-minute industry thing she was invited to. She’d practically begged you to come with her, and you would’ve said yes even if it meant bungee-jumping off a bridge. But you didn’t expect the plane to be this small. Or the turbulence to start twenty minutes after takeoff.

The seatbelt sign dings overhead. The lights flicker faintly, just once, but enough to spike your pulse. The plane dips slightly, just enough that your heart skips a beat — and your hand tightens around the armrest again.

You try not to look obvious.

Sabrina’s next to you, in the window seat, curled in a hoodie with one leg folded under her. She looks so calm — head leaned against the side, scrolling through her phone like the world isn’t shifting beneath her. Like she doesn’t even notice the jolt.

But she does. Of course she does.

“You okay?” she asks, not even glancing up yet. Her voice is soft but clear over the low drone of the engines.

“Yeah,” you lie automatically. “All good.”

Her eyes flick up, a tiny smile playing on her lips. “You sure?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… didn’t eat enough before the flight, I think.”

That’s technically not a lie. You hadn’t touched the croissant she brought you from the airport cafe because your stomach was already in knots.

She watches you for another moment. Then quietly sets her phone down and turns fully toward you, one elbow propped on the armrest between you. Her hand drifts to your thigh, fingers curling lightly just above your knee.

You glance at her — and your expression must give something away, because her brow softens.

“It’s okay to hate flying, you know,” she says gently.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t hate it,” you mutter, eyes locked on the seat in front of you. “I just… don’t love it.”

She smiles again — small, patient, full of knowing.

Another bump shakes the plane, not hard, but sudden. It knocks your knee upward, just slightly, and your breath catches in your chest.

Sabrina’s hand steadies you.

“Hey,” she murmurs, scooting closer, her voice now closer to your ear. “You’re alright. That’s just air doing its thing. Planes are built for this.”

You exhale — sharp and shallow — and nod again. But your hand has found its way to a white-knuckled grip on your thigh now, and she sees that, too.

“Scoot over,” she says, tugging her seatbelt loose. “Come here.”

You blink. “What—”

“I’m gonna lean on you,” she says softly. “Cuddle taxes apply. No refunds.”

You huff a quiet laugh, more out of reflex than humor, but she’s already shifted over, curling under your arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her hand gently slides over your chest, resting flat, steady. Her head leans into your shoulder.

You wrap your arm around her instinctively, letting your hand find the soft cotton of her hoodie sleeve.

“Better?” she asks.

You swallow hard. “Yeah.”

She stays like that, anchoring you. Not talking. Not fidgeting. Just there. And slowly, the roaring anxiety that’s been buzzing through your limbs starts to retreat — not entirely, but enough that you can breathe again.

“Want me to distract you?” she whispers after a few minutes.

You raise an eyebrow. “With what?”

She tilts her head back to look at you. “I can recite every line from Princess Diaries 2. I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life.”

You let out a real laugh this time, a low one that rumbles in your chest — and it makes her grin up at you like she’s just won something.

“I think I’ll pass,” you say. “But… thanks.”

She wiggles closer. “Or I could hum you that one song you like. The one you played in the car when we drove through Topanga and the sunset hit your face just right and I realized I was probably screwed.”

You blink down at her. “You remember that?”

She looks smug. “Obviously. You looked stupid hot. I almost crashed the car.”

You laugh again — and when the plane shudders once more, the fear doesn’t hit quite as hard. You still tense, but her hand on your chest presses gently, a silent reminder: I’m here. You’re safe.

And you are. Not because the turbulence stopped — it didn’t — but because she’s wrapped around you like armor. Because she sees straight through the tough act and doesn’t mock you for it. Because she’s Sabrina, and she’s magic like that.

A few minutes pass. The pilot’s voice crackles over the speaker, letting everyone know they’ve hit a rough patch but expect smoother skies in about fifteen minutes. That helps, a little.

Sabrina pulls back just enough to look up at you again. Her voice is softer now. “You ever flown during a storm?”

You shake your head. “Please don’t tell me this counts.”

She smirks. “No. But I have. It was rough. I thought we were gonna die.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she giggles. “I said thought. We were fine. But I remember clutching my seat and praying, and then I looked over and this old woman next to me was just calmly knitting a whole damn scarf. Like not a care in the world.”

You grin. “Knitting?”

“Like her life didn’t depend on air currents and gravity. Just vibes and wool.”

You chuckle, tension easing a little more from your body. Her stories always do that — pull you out of your head and into hers.

“So you’re telling me to knit,” you tease.

She lifts her brows. “I’m telling you you’re allowed to be scared. But don’t let the fear steal the view.”

You blink.

She smiles again, softer this time. “Look.”

You follow her gaze, and your eyes land on the window. Outside, the clouds are starting to thin, just a little — soft golden rays slipping through like spilled light, painting streaks across the sky. The blue deepens at the edges, endless and open. Even through the smudged plastic of the airplane window, it’s breathtaking.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s not stupid to be scared. But I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

You nod, this time slower. Truer.

You don’t like flying. But with Sabrina wrapped around you like this — the weight of her against your side, the scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her hand still splayed over your chest — you think you could do this. You could do anything.

Even this.

And when the next little jolt hits, you breathe through it — not because it’s easy, but because she’s there, and that makes all the difference.

[dyns33]

Only wastelands

I will try to do this Cooper Howard x reader in three parts, but I like the Ghoul so much, I might want to write more

People said Y/N’s neighborhood was lucky.

After a draw, they were selected to join a Vault shelter for free, if something dramatic happened one day, allowing them to survive.

Y/N had received the news with mixed feelings. She didn't want to die from a nuclear bomb, but she also didn't want to think about the possibility of a nuclear bomb falling on their heads.

There was no reason for this to happen anyway.

China and the United States had resumed peace negotiations. The war was going to end and everything would be wonderful. The vaults would then be of no use.

That day, she was washing dishes in her small kitchen. She lived alone, having left her parents who were in another state to settle near Lors Angeles.

Of course, she had first dreamed of Hollywood, and then she had been reasonable, finding a normal job, to live a normal life.

First there was the light. For a moment, she blinked, wondering if she had fainted. And looking out the window, she first saw the smoke in the distance.

Her neighbors were out, she could see them in the street which also looked towards the city center, and no doubt they were talking, but Y/N heard nothing, all her attention fixed on the smoke.

It was just smoke. She watched without being able to move as the cloud grew, before the shock wave reached her house, destroying the windows and shaking the walls.

Screams were then heard, in addition to the sirens. Falling to the ground in shock, Y/N almost didn't get up, but one of the neighbors, instead of thinking selfishly, ran to see if she was still there, helping her to get up and taking her with her to the vault.

Everything happened very quickly after that.

Y/N vaguely remembered those smiling doctors, who explained to them that everything would be fine, doing several exams before putting what they called a pipboy on them, giving them a ridiculous blue and yellow jumpsuit.

"You are now the inhabitants of Vault 8. What has just happened is a tragedy, and we are going to need you to ensure the future of humanity."

They were taken to a large room, with human-sized tubes. The doctors explained that they would be put to sleep, kept in the cold, safe, and awakened only on the day when it would be possible to go out and repopulate the Earth without it being dangerous.

No one could have known that they were not safe at all.

When Y/N opened her eyes, she had a hard time understanding what was happening. There was no light in the vault, except for the one in her crate which had just opened automatically.

Most of the boxes in front of her were open and empty. Then turning around, she discovered decomposing corpses in those that had remained closed.

Her cries of terror brought no one to come, because there was no one in the shelter, just as there were no resources, no water, no food, nothing. Because no one was supposed to survive here.

For two days, Y/N cried, not knowing what to do.

Then she decided she didn't want to die, not like that anyway, and she tried her luck outside. She didn't know how long she had slept, or what she would find, but she had to try.

Her pipboy quickly told her that the air was breathable, despite the presence of radiation in certain places. But that wasn't the most important thing for her, seeing the desert surrounding the vault.

The bombs had destroyed everything, leaving only ruins and sand. Not being stupid, Y/N moved forward cautiously, trying to stay as covered as possible, even if it was difficult with her outfit.

On her way, she encountered two-headed cows, giant cockroaches, and other horrible creatures. No humans though, and she didn't know if that was a good thing.

With war, she knew that men could be much worse than beasts. Maybe they were all dead, from the explosions or all killing each other, or maybe they were still in the other vaults.

But life always found a way, even for assholes, and Y/N was attacked by three men while she was sleeping. Real savages, who talked more about eating her than anything else, laughingly ignoring her pleas.

“Now, that’s no way to treat a woman.” someone then said, stopping them as they were about to cut open her stomach.

"We found the bitch before you, pal ! Go get your lunch somewhere else !"

"Oh, but I think I found my meal. Mistreating a lady."

“You fucking ghoul !”

Too busy trying to get away, Y/N hadn't really looked at the man who had just arrived and was shooting at her attackers. Then, still too busy recovering from her misery, she took a while to raise her head, ready to thank her savior.

He didn't really seem surprised by her terror, although he grimaced as he watched her crawl away from him. She had to put her hand over her mouth to stop screaming.

It was impossible to tell if he had been burned or peeled, but the cowboy no longer had a nose, and his skin was in a catastrophic state.

As she stared at him with wide eyes, he watched her too, his attention settling on her pipboy.

"Ah. A vaultie. I understand the screams better. Never seen a ghoul before, sweetie ? Barely coming out of your little hole ?"

"… Sorry."

"No problem, sugar. You haven't insulted me or thrown things at me yet, it's quite polite."

At first, the ghoul was not very friendly. Yes, he had saved her, but he didn't want her to follow him into the wastelands. He didn't need a burden, and even less if it was a little rich girl.

But Y/N insisted, explaining to him what had happened to her, and the man looked at her with what looked like pity, muttering that she had ended up in one of the "bad vaults".

"I don't understand. What year is it ? Why is it only me who survived ? You… Sorry, what happened to you ?"

"Hey, honey. It's been over 200 years since everything blew up, thanks to Vault Tech. I imagine you and your friends were meant to serve as a pantry or an organ bank but like all their equipment, there's had a problem, and you were very lucky not to die like the others, and since you were there when everything happened, you should be able to guess why I am like this."

The Ghoul was gentleman enough to let her cry without comment.

The world was dead, and all because of money and power. Those who had sworn to protect them had killed them all. Nothing remained but an infertile, polluted, radioactive land, where the few survivors fought between factions instead of trying to find a real solution.

"Please… Don't leave me here…"

"You know, people didn't really like guys like me. It's not a good idea, sweetheart."

“They don’t like cowboys ?”

The question made him laugh. Maybe that was why he let her follow him. Or maybe because he wasn't as bad as he wanted to make out. Surely he felt lonely too, and it was nice to have someone who had lived in the same era as him , and who didn't judge him on his appearance.

Y/N didn’t understand ghoulophibia at all. Yes, they were scary, but that was no reason to mistreat these poor people.

"Okay, we judged on lots of things before, skin color, clothes, religion, but… Now, it's as if we were pointing at a cancer patient and shouting 'Look, he's sick Insult him !”

“It’s more complicated than that, sugar.” sighed the Ghoul, taking out a sort of hynalator to swallow its contents.

He explained radioactivity and the risks for him of becoming feral when they arrived in their first city. A chance for her to stay safe with people, their paths separating quietly.

But after three fights and an attack by Deathclaws, she preferred to stay with him.

So he taught her how to survive, use weapons, hide, follow a trail, earn caps. When asked why caps and not something else, he made a noise, saying he had no fucking idea, but men still wanted something to make business instead of helping each others for free.

After several months, he gave her a name. Cooper. Cooper Howard. He groaned when she asked him if he had anything to do with the old actor who did the Vault Tech commercial.

“Thanks for the bad memories, sweetie. An autograph ?”

“No thanks, never was a fan.”

"Ouch. Not even now, with my new look ? Do you think the cameras would like me ?"

“Let’s say that you will need less makeup for certain types of films, and a bag for others.”

Cooper laughed again, smiling at her with his slightly yellow teeth. It was obvious that it had been a long time since he had laughed like that with anyone.

He told her about his daughter after a year together in the wastelands. Handing her a photo, Y/N could see him as he was before, holding the little girl in his arms. They looked happy.

As she was about to give it back to him, he told her to keep it. It was the most important thing to him, so Y/N could keep the picture safe, and she would know that he would always come for her.

She muttered that she didn't doubt it anyway, putting the photo in her bag.

It was even longer later, when she had proclaimed herself the accountant of their small group, that Y/N noticed an inconsistency between the caps earned and the number of vials Cooper had.

“You should have five more vials.”

“Sugar, leave it.”

"No, really, I counted three times. I know the price by heart, you had fifty caps on your way to town, you should have fifteen vials. Is there a problem ? Has the price changed ? You… You Are you feeling well ?”

"I'm fine, sweetie. Sleep."

“But Coop…”

“Y/N, sleep.”

In the end, the price hadn't changed, Cooper was fine, but since they met, he had been spending his caps on non-irradiated water and food. For Y/N.

This discovery was a shock to her, who often watched him drink from puddles or eat human remains.

He didn't want her to do this. For her to become like him. When teaching her how to shoot, he added that it was just in case, because she wouldn't need to fight while he was there.

And now they were arguing about food, and he was ordering her to promise that she would continue to take what he gave her without question.

"You don't drink that dirty shit. You hear me, sugar ? Can you promise me ? You'll never drink that."

"… All right."

Their relationship was complicated. Cooper had probably told her everything, and yet he kept a distance. He didn't like her touching him, patting his shoulder or snuggling up to him to sleep.

Maybe he was afraid of making her sick. Maybe he thought she would rot on contact with him, and not just her skin.

Y/N really liked him anyway. They were both over 200 years old, even though she had been frozen during that time. They had spent a lot of time together. And even if she was still a little dizzy by his lack of nose, it wasn't the most important thing in a man.

It would have been two years when the raiders attacked. Far too many, so Cooper yelled at Y/N to run, to hide far away. He would come get her later.

Several days passed, and nothing. She was good at hiding, he had shown her, so it was possible that Cooper hadn't found her because she had become too good.

So she returned to the town where he came from, to at least find some informations. People did not easily forget the passage of The Ghoul.

But she didn't have to ask. She saw him in the bar, drinking and chatting with several guys.

Silent, discreet as a shadow, she came close enough to hear, thinking that he was in the middle of an business, and that she could surprise him when he finished with a beautiful reunion.

“You really don’t know where she is, Ghoul ?”

"Nah. Look guys, I know she was a real lil puppy that followed me everywhere, but I finally got rid of her, so I don't really care where she is. Not my problem. It was fun at first, but good riddance.”

She had seen the bomb fall, she had seen the bodies of her neighbors, but Y/N had never felt so bad as in that moment. She could feel her heart breaking in her chest, as Cooper and the others laughed together, mocking her.

Once, he had said that she should never trust anyone. It was an important rule to survive. But Y/N never believed that rule would include him.

With her bag and her weapon, she ran into the night, alone in the middle of the wasteland for the first time since she left her vault, and completely unaware of what she was going to do.

Only one thing was certain, she would never see Cooper Howard again.

[kk095]

Shay’s Sudden Arrest

The automatic doors hissed open, letting in a pair of paramedics. Between them rolled a stretcher bearing a young woman with sun-kissed skin, tangled blonde hair matted slightly to one side, and piercing blue eyes that blinked against the bright hospital lighting. She looked more like someone headed to a weigh-in than someone checking into an emergency room.

“Name’s Shay Strong, twenty-six year old female.” one of the medics called out as they proceeded towards Trauma Bay One. “Passed out cold during light sparring- she’s a pro MMA fighter. Trainer said she looked a little off just before she hit the mat. Tachycardic on scene, BP’s a little soft. No trauma. No drugs or alcohol on board as far as we can tell.” The second medic rattled off.

Dr Lindsay approached and glanced up from the chart she’d been reviewing and nodded for them to bring her in. She was already tugging on gloves as she stepped into the bay, with Dr Jen the resident trailing behind her and Nurse Heather circling around.

“Hey Shay, I’m Dr Lindsay. I heard you fainted today?” she said as the stretcher clicked into place beside the trauma room table. Shay nodded, her voice low and a little hoarse as they transferred her over to the table. “Yeah. Just felt… weird, ya know? Like, a little dizzy I guess.”

She didn’t look like the type to go down easy. Even lying flat, she carried herself like someone used to getting hit and getting back up. Her toned arms were a canvas of bold, dark ink- coiled serpents on one bicep, a geometric tiger on the other, the edges of color disappearing under the bands of muscle. A glint caught the light where a nose ring curved through her right nostril, and as Heather snipped her sports bra to attach monitor leads, Lindsay caught the flash of a piercing through her nipples. Some cursive ink framed the sides of her ribs and curved along her right thigh was a floral tattoo, all intricate.

Heather worked quickly, pressing leads to Shay’s chest and murmuring quietly. “HR’s 132. BP’s 92 over 58.”

“Got PVCs on the monitor. Could be nothing. Could be something.” Dr Jen chimed in, already pulling up a blank EKG strip.

Lindsay leaned over to meet Shay’s eyes. “Any chest pain? Shortness of breath? Dizziness before you went down?” the doctor asked. “Not really. Just… I don’t know. I’ve been feeling off the last couple days. Figured it was overtraining or something.” Answered Shay. She didn’t look panicked. Just slightly dazed, maybe a little too quiet for someone her age in that kind of shape. That in itself was a red flag.

Lindsay exchanged a glance with Heather. “Let’s get labs, full cardiac panel. EKG, portable chest X-ray. And let’s call cardiology early- I don’t want to wait on this one.” Ordered Lindsay. Jen scribbled notes while Heather gently guided Shay’s arm to insert an IV. The tattoo of a phoenix flared up from her forearm, its wings half swallowed by gauze and tape. Shay looked up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. “This is probably nothing, right?” Shay asked. Lindsay hesitated before answering. “We’ll know soon. But your heart’s throwing out some signals we don’t want to ignore.” Answered Lindsay, her tone neutral and calm.

By the time the EKG machine spat out its second strip, Dr Jen was already frowning. “Frequent PVCs.” she muttered, holding the paper up toward the overhead light. “This isn’t just stress or dehydration. Something’s messing with her conduction.” Added the resident. Lindsay leaned in, scanning the sharp, jagged rhythms marching across the strip. “It’s diffuse. Not localized. And look- ST depressions in the lateral leads.” Dr Lindsay pointed out. Heather appeared from the hallway with a tray of labeled tubes. “Cardiac panel’s off to the lab. I rushed it- told them we’d owe them coffee.” Nurse Heather informed them.

Jen was already pulling up the portable chest X-ray on the trauma room computer. It took a moment for the image to load, but when it did, Lindsay narrowed her eyes at the screen. “Mild cardiomegaly. You see it?” Dr Lindsay noticed. “Yep.” Jen answered. “Heart’s too big for someone her age, especially with this kind of conditioning.” The resident continued.

Shay, still lying flat on the table with a light sheen of sweat forming on her collarbone, blinked over at them. “I take it this isn’t just a pulled muscle?” Shay chimed in, sensing something was off. Lindsay offered a tight smile. “We’re just being thorough. Something’s irritating your heart- could be an infection, could be something else. We’re running some tests to find out exactly what’s going on.” Explained Lindsay. Shay gave a small nod, unfazed. “Good. I’ve got a fight scheduled in eight weeks.”

Heather shot Lindsay a glance over the top of the monitor. Troponin’s already popped in the system: elevated significantly. “Alright. Let’s get a stat echo. I want to see her heart up close.” Lindsay said, tone shifting. Jen paused. “Should we call cardio back? We haven’t heard anything.” asked the resident. Lindsay nodded. “And book her a CT angio chest just in case. If this is myocarditis or worse, we don’t want to wait. Something’s going on here.” Responded Lindsay.

Heather slipped a BP cuff around Shay’s arm again. “Still tachy. 140s. BP 91/56.” Updated Nurse Heather.

Shay looked at all of them, calm but now visibly more alert. “You guys keep looking at each other like something’s wrong.” Shay chimed in. Lindsay didn’t sugarcoat it. “We’re seeing some strain on your heart. The kind we don’t normally see in healthy twenty-somethings.” Lindsay told Shay, succinct and to the point.

There was a beat of silence. Shay’s eyes dropped to the edge of the table. Her shoulders stayed still, but something in her expression flickered. Heather raised her brows slightly, exchanging a quiet glance with Jen behind her. Lindsay didn’t press it yet. “Let’s get that echo first. We’ll talk more when we’ve got a clearer picture.” Lindsay told the two of them.

Lindsay turned and stepped out towards the hallway just as the cardiologist on call, Dr Weiss, arrived with a rolling echo cart and a resting skepticism in her tone. “You called me for a young athlete with some PVCs?”

Lindsay crossed her arms. “Elevated troponin. PVCs, mild cardiomegaly on X-ray. And a gut feeling.”

“Alright, I need to work with a little more than a gut feeling, Dr Lindsay.” Dr Weiss responded, pushing the echo machine into the trauma bay. Dr Lindsay rolled her eyes “yeah, what do I know.” She thought to herself.

Shay remained still as cold gel was spread across her chest, the ultrasound probe tracing between tattoos and muscle. On the screen, her heart came into view, beating fast. The walls thickened. Movement reduced. Echoes of fibrosis scattered like shadows across the septum. Dr Weiss’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I hoped to see.” She thought out loud. “Alright, make sure she gets a CT angio of the chest. Call me back when you get the results.” Dr Weiss stated, before getting the echo equipment and leaving the room.

Jen and Heather worked quickly and got Shay over to radiology. The radiology wing was quiet, insulated from the steady buzz of the ER. The fluorescent lights shined faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow across the white floors. A lone CT tech tapped at the console as Dr Jen walked alongside the stretcher, Shay lying supine. Nurse Heather hovered nearby, keeping an eye on the monitor attached to the portable stand.

Shay hadn’t said much on the way over, just muttered something about her chest feeling “weird.” Still calm. Still out of it.

“Alright, Shay, We’re gonna get a scan of your chest. You’ll hear some mechanical noises. Just stay still for us, okay?” the tech explained softly. Shay nodded.

With practiced efficiency, Heather and Jen helped guide Shay off the stretcher and onto the scanner table. She moved like someone weighed down by lead. Her arms were positioned overhead, palms relaxed, fingers curled slightly. Her blonde hair spilled behind her head like a golden halo, the tattoos on her arms displayed on her skin like stories written in ink. Something coiled and dark sat on her ribcage, rising and falling with each slow breath. The tech returned to the control booth. The scanner whirred to life.

Jen folded her arms, watching through the glass of the observation room. The lights within the CT room glowed around Shay’s still form. It was almost peaceful.

Then, without warning, Shay’s body twitched. Her chest rose awkwardly- then fell flat. Her fingers curled into loose fists. Alarms erupted. One sharp, continuous tone. Inside the control booth, the tech’s eyes went wide. “She’s coding!”

Heather was already moving. “She’s in v-tach!” Heather eyed the monitor. Jen burst through the door, grabbing the crash cart parked just outside the suite. Shay’s body was still on the scanner table, her arms still overhead, eyes wide open now, staring at nothing. Her lips parted slightly, unmoving. “Pads on!” Heather shouted. Her hands moved quickly. “Charging to 200!” Jen shouted. Heather climbed halfway onto the CT table, hovering over Shay’s torso. “Ready!” Heather nodded.

“CLEAR!”

Shay’s body jumped. Her shoulders shrugged forward. Her head lolled slightly to the side, eyes wide and unblinking. No change. “Still pulseless.” Jen shook her head, eyes locked on the monitor. “Charging again to 300!”

The second shock caused the young MMA fighter’s body to jolt sharply. And then, the monitor beeped. One beat. Then another. “She’s got a rhythm!” Heather shouted. A carotid pulse returned beneath Jen’s gloved fingers. Weak. Thready. But there. The silence that followed was no longer peaceful. It was hollow.

Shay remained unconscious, still laid out on the CT table, chest rising and falling with ghostlike shallowness. Her nose ring glinted beneath the fluorescent light. A single drop of sweat slid down her temple.

Jen swallowed hard, voice low. “Sinus tach. Let’s get her back to the trauma bay, now. Let’s keep Dr Lindsay in the loop.”

Back in trauma room one, Dr Lindsay was gloving up as Dr Jen and Nurse Heather wheeled the young fighter in, the monitors above her head still blinking erratically. Shay was conscious (barely) but she looked far worse than she had thirty minutes ago. Sweat clung to her skin in a thin sheen, her breathing fast and shallow, chest rising and falling like she’d just run ten miles.

“She coded in the CT scanner- pulseless v-tach. We got her back after two shocks, but she was down for about a minute.” Dr Jen rattled off quickly. “Jeez…” Dr Lindsay muttered under her breath, moving beside the gurney. “Get her back on the table. Full workup. Get cardio back down here just in case.” Ordered Dr Lindsay.

Heather worked fast, placing leads back onto Shay’s bare chest. The pro fight laid there, barefoot, down to just her compression shorts. Patches of electrode adhesive still stuck to her sweat-damp skin. Her ribcage rose and fell quickly, tattoos stretching and shifting, black and gray roses climbing her right side, inked vines curling around her hips. Her arms, marked with fierce script, coiled dragons, and edgy ink, lay still at her sides, fingers curling slightly with each shallow breath.

“Shay? Can you hear me?” Dr Lindsay leaned over her. Shay’s eyes fluttered open, barely focused. “Mm… yeah. What… happened?” she mumbled. “You passed out during your scan, but you’re back. You’re okay.” Lindsay answered gently.

But she wasn’t. The heart monitor beeped rapidly- perhaps too rapidly. Nurse Heather glanced at it, then turned toward the others. “Guys, she’s running hot again. 160 and climbing.” Heather shook her head. “Let’s push some mag and prep for another round of epi if needed.” Dr Lindsay barked. Then the monitor’s tone changed. Heather’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “V-tach. Pulseless.”

Alarms began to blare again. “She’s coding!” Jen shouted. “Start compressions!” Dr Lindsay ordered. Heather jumped onto the stool and began rhythmic chest compressions. Shay’s body jolted with each one, her bare chest rising and falling unnaturally. Her tattoos danced under Heather’s gloved hands- one hand pressing just over the roses coiling across her ribs, where her heart was supposed to be working. Her chest caved in, recoiling hard, her toned belly with abs rippling out.

“Charging to 200 joules, everyone CLEAR!” Lindsay called out, taking charge. Shay’s body flopped hard on the gurney when the shock hit, pierced nipples twitching slightly, her arms limp at her sides.

“Still v-tach. No carotid pulse.” Heather called after a glance at the screen. “Back on compressions, Heather. Push one of epi and one of amio.” Dr Lindsay ordered. Jen moved fast, syringes sliding into the IV line. Shay’s skin was growing cool under their hands. Her breathing had stopped altogether. Her jaw slackened.

“I’ll take over for a cycle or two” Lindsay said, moving in to relieve Heather on compressions. Lindsay’s long arms pumped with sharp, trained force. “Come on, Shay. Come on.” Lindsay said under her breath, pumping away at Shay’s chest. “meds in!” Dr Jen called out.

After a cycle of compressions and a little time for the meds to kick in, the next defib shock was administered. Another shock. Another jolt. Shay’s body twitched sharply in response to the dose of electricity. Still no pulse afterwards. Heather rechecked the monitor. “Now it’s v-fib.”

“Keep going, charge again. Let’s hit her at 300.” Dr. Lindsay said, panting now from compressions. The next shock caused Shay’s feet to kick up above the table and drop back with a thud, showing off the deep, wavy wrinkles in the soles of her size 8 feet. “Still no change.” Jen eyed the monitor, checking the rhythm. Dr Lindsay shook her head. “Keep going.”

The room stayed locked in resuscitation mode. Every move crisp, controlled, coordinated. But behind the monitors and meds, a silent current was beginning to build. 26 year old Shay Strong- healthy, undefeated in the ring, fierce as hell, was slipping further away with each failed shock. Now, she lay sprawled across the trauma bay table, her blonde hair a total mess, her arms limp at her sides. The chaotic beeps of the monitors gave way to chaos in an instant.

“She’s still in v-fib, no pulse!” Jen called out, eyes locked on the EKG rhythm twisting across the screen like a coiled snake.

“Alright, let’s run through a cycle or two of compressions and go from there.” Dr Lindsay barked. “Heather, swap with me and start compressions.” Lindsay directed. Heather launched into CPR, pressing hard and fast into Shay’s chest, her tattooed ribcage rising and falling unnaturally with each deep compression. The motion caused her small perky breasts to jiggle slightly.

“Charging to 200!” Lindsay called after the cycle of compressions were finished, the machine emitting a rising, high pitched whir. Everyone stepped back when the shock was delivered. KA-THUNK! The MMA fighter’s toned, athletic body was tossed around effortlessly on the table by the defib’s electricity. Unfortunately, there was no change.

At the head of the bed, Jen kept an eye on the ambu bag and airway, squeezing rhythmically, watching the monitors like a hawk. Her gloved hands trembled just slightly. “Still no pulse.” the young resident murmured. “Next epi’s in.” Nurse Heather confirmed between cycles of CPR, her arms visibly tiring but steady. The flat, wet thud of her palms against Shay’s bare chest punctuated the room like a grim metronome.

“Let’s go again, charge to 300. Everyone… CLEAR.” Lindsay’s voice was firm, her blue eyes scanning around the room. Shay’s toes scrunched up involuntarily in response to the shock, wrinkling the soles of her feet once more, showing off the black nail polish on her toes. A high pitched tone screamed through the room. “Come on…” Jen whispered under her breath. Still no change.

“Push another 150 of amiodarone. Let’s tube her. 7.0 ET.” Lindsay signaled to Jen, who was already sliding the laryngoscope in. Shay’s mouth hung slack, jaw open, eyes half lidded. Despite everything- the tattoos, the muscle tone, the toughness- her body looked terribly vulnerable now.

The resident quickly slid the tube in place, securing it with some tape. “Tube’s in. Still no rhythm change.” Jen confirmed, voice tight. Heather didn’t stop. Her hands pounded against Shay’s sternum repeatedly, sending ripples through the inked skin of her torso. The nose ring caught a glint of light with each compression. Her chest looked raw and bruised. “Hold compressions. Charge to 360. Everyone CLEAR.” Lindsay ordered. Shay’s body tensed up hard, almost shivering for a second or two. Still v-fib.

The room was quieter than before. The thud of compressions, the hiss of oxygen through the ambu bag, the alarms on the heart monitor silenced. A minute passed. Then another. Dr Lindsay’s hand slowly came up. “That’s twenty-five minutes down.” she informed the team sternly. Her gaze moved across the room, catching Heather’s tired face, Jen’s white knuckled grip on the ambu bag. “She’s not coming back, is she?” Jen thought to herself. Her eyes flicked to the monitor one more time. Still v-fib. Dr Lindsay gave it a moment longer. Then softly, “Heather, hold compressions. Time of death… 13:42.” Announced Lindsay. Nurse Heather stopped compressions. The room seemed to exhale all at once. The monitor, now silent, showed the jagged, erratic waveforms of refractory v-fib.

No one moved right away. Shay lay motionless on the table, her chest rising faintly from the final puffs from the ambu bag, her body glistening under the harsh, bright overhead light. For someone so strong, she looked impossibly fragile now. Lindsay peeled off her latex gloves slowly. “Let’s clean her up.” she said softly, more to the room than to anyone in particular. No one spoke. They just moved. Careful, efficient, and quiet. The fighter had gone down, and not even the best resuscitation could bring her back.

Trauma Room One was quiet now. Shay laid motionless on the trauma bay table, her athletic frame still positioned how they’d left her- flat on her back, arms at her sides, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. The harsh rhythm of CPR had ended moments ago. What remained was eerie stillness.

Dr Lindsay stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on Shay’s pale face. Her mouth was slightly parted, her chest unmoving. The bruising from the chest compressions was already starting to show- deep purples and dark reds spreading across the middle of her chest. The endotracheal tube remained in place, protruding from her pale lips. Nurse Heather stepped to Shay’s side and gently detached the ambu bag from the ET tube, setting it on the nearby cart. The heart monitor, still showing v-fib, let out a soft, continuous tone that filled the room with a hollow kind of finality. Dr Jen reached over and silenced it with a tap of her gloved finger.

Heather leaned in again, her hands methodical and respectful as she disconnected the EKG leads from Shay’s chest. One by one, the stickers peeled away, leaving behind faint impressions on her pale, clammy skin. Dr Jen removed the IV lines from her arms and coiled the tubing neatly before tossing it into the biohazard bin.

Lindsay took a toe tag from the tray and filled it out in quiet pen strokes. She looped the string gently around Shay’s left big toe, the tag dangling against the wrinkled soles of her foot. Dr Jen found a clean white sheet at the end of the gurney and pulled it up slowly, covering Shay’s legs, her torso, then finally her face.

Dr Lindsay stepped closer, gently placing her fingertips beneath Shay’s chin and tilting her head just enough to shut her half-lidded eyes. One last glimpse of life, now gone. The faint line of a nose ring caught the light again.

The room was still. The chaos from earlier felt like a distant memory, something that had happened in another place, to another person. Now, there was only the quiet presence of the three clinicians standing beside a body that had, just a little while ago, been fighting to stay alive.

Dr Lindsay gave a single nod, then turned and stepped toward the door. Heather and Jen remained a moment longer, hands at their sides, saying nothing, each taking one last look at Shay’s covered, toe tagged form before exiting the room.

[lil-bitty-lubdubs]

The Basement Series:Fraya pt.2

After a while she started coming out of the haze looking around. The first thing Freya noticed was the sterile cold air inflating her lungs automatically when she tired to take a breath. She opened her eyes all the way and looked down at her self. She realized she was naked and in a strange room. Leads were attached to her chest and fed into a heart monitor a few feet in front of her. She felt something larger than a lead and picked her head up slightly to get a better look. They were AED pads, one fit just on her collarbone and the other under her left breast. Her heart rate started increasing and the monitor beeped out loud keeping to her rhythm. “Welcome back Freya.” Cal walked into the light. She panicked when she saw him clearly remembering him. She tried getting up to run before realizing she was bound to the table and forgetting she was intubated. She struggled weakly but to no avail. Besides her chest ached something fierce and fear was feeding her jelly like strength. “I promised you lots of fun and lots we shall have still. You wanna see it?” he turned a camera to her so she could watch the screen. That’s when she noticed another one mounted just next to her heart monitor, recoding light ablaze. She wished she could beat this Cal over the head with it.

She wanted nothing to do with seeing her own rape, but curiosity got the best of her and her eyes remained glued to the screen. To her horror, she realized he wasn’t here for sex. It was far worse. As she watched she felt bile rising despite the tube in her throat breathing rhythmically for her, as Cal resuscitated her out of flatline.

“You see Freya I want to know you. I want to know everything about you. I want to know how your heart beats in a normal rhythm. I want to know how you react to being injected with…oh I don’t know…potassium. Or being given a stimulant. How long can your little heart hold out say… against a dose of heroin. Or how about drowing. Water inflating your lungs forcing the precious oxygen out of you as you take in the thick water instead, or maybe gassed with a special mix … I mean the fun we are going to have is endless. He grinned.

That’s when she knew she was in trouble. He was sick. Mentally sick. Not hormonal raging sick with a side of losing control. He was literally a lunatic living in his own fantasy reality and he was going to kill her. Not just once but over and over until he couldn’t bring her back again. Despite his acute handsome features, she wanted to vomit, she felt adrenaline flood into her body as the fear took over. She struggled harder. He smiled.

‘That’s it sweetheart. Panic. Yield that little heart to me.” he grabbed the side of her head and held it down to the side a needle in his hand. She screamed against the tube in her throat as he injected her straight in the carotid artery. He was using not just drugs but her own body against her, she realized. That’s’ why he’d waited for her to wake. He was using her fear to send her heart faster into death.

She felt heat spread from the injection site and burn as it went. It reached her heart in seconds, sending it soaring. 120 beats a minute. 140 the monitor was crying out in warning, her eyes stated rolling back into her head as she saw fireworks. 180 and it climbed still. Cal stood beside her watching her writhe and struggled to breath until finally all her little muscle could do was quiver ineffectively at 230 beets a minute.

“That’s it little heart.” He placed his hand directly over her sternum, “shake and let me pump you back into sinus.” he smiled as she flatlined. He came then, unable to hold out anymore, groaning and thrusting next to his newest beauty. When he finished, he used a wipe and then jumped on top of Freya, his hips over her abdomen as he dethatched the breathing machine. He decided to forgo the ambu bag and tuned to look straight into the camera smiling knowingly as one eyebrow shot up. He went for the tube jutting out of her throat sealing his lips around the hole making sure he was watching the camera and started shoving air down her trachea as her breasts rose with her inflated lungs. He did it three more times before being satisfied she was oxygenated. He slid a bag out from under her bed that read Lucas Heart Thumper and undid her arm restrains. Sliding the small board behind her to the spot right underneath her heart, he locked in the top over her sternum and used the tip of his middle and fourth finger to landmark the right position just above her sternal notch.

The machine came to life as he began setting the dials to begin pumping her heart. Cal continued breathing for her while whispering reassuringly into her ear. “In case you’re worried Freya, I won’t stop until your heart is beating again…even if that takes hours. You see the beauty of this machine: the Lucas Heart Thumper, is that it will be perfectly deep and effective each time no matter how long it takes for your heart to beat on its own. And it’s gonna do exactly what it says sweetie – it’s gonna thump your heart back to beating.” he patted her chest just below the Thumper where her ribs met.  “You ready?” He hit the on button and the handle depressed 2 inches into her chest. Thump. The first one was just a tester. The machine paused there 2 seconds and then started pumping. Over and over it hammered her heart between her sternum and her spine relentlessly, mercilessly. For 20 minutes it worked her helpless body, while Cal used the ambu bag to fill her lungs all the while whispering sensually in her ear, until he got what he wanted, sinus rhythm. He stopped the assault on her chest but continued to breath into her with the bag running his hand over her nipples. “Hello again sweetheart,  welcome back my sweetest heart.”

[theother456-stories]

Dylan was the kind of sleeper that nothing could wake. Marco had learned that early in their relationship, thunderstorms, car alarms, even a loud neighbor’s midnight vacuuming spree hadn’t stirred him. The only thing that reliably worked was the smell of breakfast or a firm shake. But Marco had learned to use that deep sleep to his advantage.

And for the past month, he’d been preparing for this.

Dylan had always been soft, with just a hint of a belly and a little plush to his thighs. Marco loved every inch of him. But he also fantasized about more. More belly to feed. More weight to move. More of Dylan, helplessly stuffed, overflowing with size, and utterly at Marco’s mercy.

The plan was simple, if a little insane. A carefully rigged feeding tube setup. A fridge full of high-calorie shakes and creamy, rich concoctions Marco had perfected through trial and error. Special weight gain powders blended with melted ice cream, condensed milk, and butter. And, most importantly, Dylan’s sleep schedule.

That night, Dylan was out cold by 9 PM. Marco had pampered him, spoiled him with a heavy, carb-loaded dinner, warm bath, and long body massage until his boyfriend was fully relaxed and snoring. With the lights dimmed and his heart pounding in anticipation, Marco got to work.

The feeding tube slipped gently into place, nestled between Dylan’s lips. He stirred briefly, smacked his lips once, and then began swallowing automatically. Marco’s fingers twitched with excitement.

The first few hours were smooth. Vanilla cream shakes. Melted cheesecake. Thick protein smoothies with triple the fat. Dylan took it all down without a single waking moment. By midnight, his belly was visibly rising, pudgy softness rounding outward from its usual small curve.

By 2 AM, Dylan’s stomach had swelled into a proper dome. His shirt had ridden up past his chest, exposing the tight, stretched skin of his growing gut. His thighs had softened, spreading wider against the sheets. Marco couldn’t stop touching him, caressing the expanding flesh, feeling it shift and jiggle under his palms.

By 4 AM, Dylan looked like he’d gained a hundred pounds. His cheeks were fuller. His chest had blossomed into soft, bouncy moobs. His sides formed gentle rolls. His boxers were straining. Marco kept the pump running, mixing in heavier shakes with melted butter and extra sugar, just to see how far he could go.

By sunrise, Dylan was unrecognizable.

Three hundred pounds heavier, his body had transformed into a massive, indulgent pile of softness. His belly was gigantic, round and flushed, the skin warm to the touch and taut from the night’s steady flood of calories. His thighs were thick and bulging, his arms doughy, his fingers fattened slightly with water weight and softness. He looked… glorious.

Marco crouched by the bed, eyes wide, cock aching, admiring the sheer immensity of what he’d created.

Then Dylan stirred.

A soft grunt escaped him. His eyelids fluttered open. He tried to stretch, and gasped.

“Wh… what the hell?” he croaked, voice thick with sleep.

He shifted again, only to realize his body was far heavier than it had been when he went to bed. He tried to sit up, but his arms sank into the mattress, weighed down by his own bulk.

“Marco?!” he said, his voice rising in shock.

Marco smiled, crawling onto the bed beside him. “Morning, baby.”

“What the fuck happened to me?!” Dylan’s eyes were wide, darting down to the massive curve of his gut. “I’m…I’m huge!”

“You are,” Marco whispered, running his fingers over the curve of Dylan’s belly. “Three hundred pounds bigger. I’ve been feeding you all night.”

Dylan whimpered, both hands sinking into the overfed softness of his belly. “I can’t even move…”

“That’s okay,” Marco murmured. “You don’t need to. I’ll take care of everything. You just lie there and grow for me.”

Dylan’s cock twitched under the mass of his gut, trapped and hard. “You really… did this to me? All night?”

“You didn’t stop swallowing,” Marco said, pouring thick shake into a fresh bottle. “Your body wanted it, even if you didn’t know it yet.”

Dylan groaned, hips squirming. “I’m so full… but it feels…god, it feels good.”

“You’re beautiful like this,” Marco whispered, tilting the bottle toward Dylan’s lips. “Now open up. Let’s see if you can handle just a little more.”

And Dylan, his face flushed, heart pounding, opened his mouth, surrendering to his boyfriend’s greedy affection.

[punksyeet]

- Anniversary ❥

Plot: A little glimpse into how Gianna (OC) and Josh spend their two year anniversary.

Warning: Hefty flirting and mature language!

** Josh’s POV **

My eyes blink open as the bright sunshine peeks through our bedroom window.

I automatically reach for my phone and look at the time and date.

It's 11:17am on August 18th.

Today's the day. Two whole years with my babygirl.

I place my phone down on the nightstand beside me and turn back around to see my beautiful lady peacefully sleeping.

As she snores her perfectly light snores, I smile and brush a curl out of her face.

My gorgeous girl. How did I get so lucky? And how has it only been 2 years? It feels like it's been forever.

I press a gentle kiss to her temple.

She gently stirs in her sleep, and curls her perfect lips into a beautiful smile.

I smile back. "Good morning. Happy two years babygirl."

"Happy two years honey," she replies, half whisper-half voice, with her eyes still closed.

I cup her face with one hand, stroking her soft cheek with my thumb.

Her lids slowly but surely flutter open, revealing her gorgeous coffee-brown eyes.

I get lost in them every time. She's just so stunning.

She smiles even wider once she sees me and reaches over to play with my messy bed-headed mullet. "You look handsome this morning."

I chuckle and lean in, pressing my lips to hers.

She automatically kisses back, wrapping her arm around my neck and pulling me in deeper.

After a few strokes, our lips separate, and I trail kisses onto her cheek and down her neck.

"So," I begin, pulling away. "I have tonight on lock. What would you like to do today?"

She smirks and puckers her lips. "Well..."

I raise an eyebrow. "I know that look. What do you have up your sleeve ma'am?"

She giggles, reaching for her phone on the nightstand. "Well, since it's our anniversary, I figured I shouldn't be the only one that enjoys it."

I sigh. "Baby you know I enjoy every moment we're together."

"I know," she says, smiling and proceeds to kiss my cheek. "But I wanted to plan something special too."

She taps her screen a few times before flipping her screen towards me.

I lean in and read the words the small print.

Tickets to the 49ers pre-season game today?

Am I dreaming?

My jaw drops. "Babe. You didn't."

She giggles. "But I did!"

I sit there in shock for a bit longer before pulling her into the tightest hug.

She bursts into laughter and hugs me back.

"I love you. So much." I mumble and kiss her cheek over and over and over again.

"I love you too baby," she replies between giggles.

We hug for a bit longer before she pulls away and kisses the corner of my mouth.

"The game is at 1:15, babe. We should probably get ready soon."

I smile and nod before gently grabbing either side of her face and pressing my lips to hers.

We share a few pecks before getting out of bed.

** Gianna's POV **

Josh and I just finished up our shower and are now getting ready for the day.

We recently bought 49ers bomber jackets so I throw mine on along with a black cropped tube top, light denim jeans, my Nike Chicagos, a red headband, jewelry, and a black bag.

Josh picks out his jacket alongside a white 49ers hoodie, black sweats, his red and white Jordan 11s, my favorite silver chain, earrings, and a black beanie.

"You ready to go baby?" Josh calls from downstairs.

"Almost!" I reply, adjusting my hair to my liking.

"Alright! I'll go start the car!" he calls back and I hear the front door close.

I spray some of his favorite perfume, check that I have everything in my purse, and head out.

—————————————————————————————————

The game just ended.

Josh joins nearly the entire stadium filled with fans in jumping up and cheering at the final score: 16-10.

I can confidently say that I had zero idea what was happening the entire time, but the goal was to make my man happy. And boy was he ever!

"Thank you again mama," he coos pulling me into a hug. "I love you."

I smile and kiss his cheek before resting my chin on his shoulder. "You're so welcome lovebug. I love you more."

Hand in hand, we exit the stadium, occasionally getting stopped by fans to take pictures.

The car ride home is filled with conversations about the game, laughs, kisses, and jam sessions.

—————————————————————————————————

Josh made a 7:00 reservation at our favorite Italian restaurant, so we're headed home to freshen up and change into fancier attire.

I pick out one of Josh's favorite dresses on me: a long white one that hugs my body in all the right places, clear heels, and jewelry.

"You ready yet ma?" Josh calls from the bedroom.

"Almost!" I call back, doing some finishing touches on my hair and makeup in the bathroom mirror.

He suddenly appears in the doorway and licks his lips, scanning my body up and down. "Lord, I gotta personally thank your parents one day."

I playfully roll my eyes and giggle as he comes up from behind me and slides his hands up and down my sides.

"You look a lil too fine right now baby," he mumbles in my ear, causing me to get goosebumps and he feathers light kisses on my neck. "And you smell good too."

I smile, biting my lower lip gently. "Why thank you."

"And this ass in this dress," he continues, caressing my ass, and gently squeezing it.

I turn before he can do any further damage, and wrap my arms around his neck. "Baby we're gonna be late."

He sighs and sticks out his bottom lip.

I smile and kiss it. "Don't worry baby. You'll get what you're looking for later."

I kiss his cheek and prance away.

He smirks and slaps my ass then follows me downstairs.

————————————————————————————————-

We just got to the restaurant.

"Table for 2? The reservation is under Joshua." Josh tells the hostess.

She nods and taps her iPad a few times before looking up. "Alrighty! You folks can follow....wait! You guys are Jey Uso and Gianna Nicole!"

I smile warmly. "Yes we are. It's nice to meet you!"

Josh looks down at me smiling and wraps an arm around my waist before looking back at her.

"My sister and I are huge fans! Do you mind signing something....anything for me?" she asks, still fangirling.

He chuckles. "Not at all, love. You got a napkin or something?"

"Uhhh..." she scrambles around the hostess stand and finds a notepad. "Here we go!"

She pushes it towards us and we both sign a piece of paper.

"Thank you guys so much! I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting! Follow me!"

I giggle. "It's no problem at all, girl."

Josh keeps his arm around my waist as we follow her to our table.

"Thanks so much again! I really appreciate this!" she coos, as we sit down.

"Anytime love," I reply and we share a warm hug.

She walks over to Josh and they hug as well.

Soon enough, she's off and back to the front, leaving us alone.

The table is so romantically set up: a bouquet of roses alongside some single stems, a bucket of our favorite wine and two glasses, as well as a gorgeous view of the city.

"Baby this is beautiful," I coo, as he takes my hand from across the table. "Thank you."

He smiles and kisses my knuckles. "Not nearly as beautiful as you. But it'll do."

I blush slightly as our waiter comes over.

I order fettuccine carbonara and Josh orders lobster ravioli.

Once the food arrives, Josh holds up his wine glass and makes a toast. "Cheers to you my love. Happy anniversary."

I smile and hold mine up as well. "Cheers to us, honey. Happy two years."

We clink our glasses together and take a sip before digging into our food.

—————————————————————————————————

We just pulled back up to the house.

I groan and melt into the passenger seat.

Josh looks over with a raised eyebrow. "You good ma?"

I nod. "Everything tasted amazing, but I think I'm in a food coma."

He chuckles and rubs my stomach. "Why don't we get you inside, huh?"

I nod and he gets out, comes around, and takes my hand, helping me out of the car.

I grab the flowers from the back seat.

He kisses my cheek and we walk to the front door.

Josh unlocks the door and as soon as it flies open, so do my eyes.

There's roses and candles everywhere, making a pathway up to our bedroom, and soft music playing lowly.

"B-babe?" I stutter, in complete shock.

He chuckles, takes the roses from my hand, puts them on the tiny table next to the door, closes and locks it, and takes my hand.

"Come with me beautiful," he coos and leads us upstairs.

Still in shock, I follow as we make our way to the bedroom, where there's even more flowers and red heart balloons hanging from the ceiling.

"Baby I..." my voice trails off as he wraps his hands around my waist.

"Shhh," he whispers and kisses my neck.

I lightly moan, holding the back of his neck and tilting my head to give him more access.

Soon enough, he lightly pushes me onto the bed and....let's just say anniversary sex hits different!

I wrap my leg around his, my left hand rubbing his back, and right hand and head pressed to his chest.

His right hand is around my waist, stroking my sides and ass.

"How did you even do this?" I ask breathlessly. "We were home only a couple hours ago."

He chuckles and kisses my temple. "Let's just say we have some very kind siblings."

I giggle softly. "I should've known. This has Trin written all over it."

He nods smiling. "I'm just shocked they didn't put everything to good use before we did."

"Joshua!" My jaw flies open and I playfully whack his shoulder.

He bursts into laughter and cuddles me even tighter.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and text Trin.

Sista 🥰🫶🏽: Thank you guys 🥹🫶🏽

Trin 💋: You're so welcome babygirl 🫶🏽 Now go get someeeee!

Me: You already know I wasted no time 😩

Trin 💋: OOOOOP IKTR 🙂‍↕️☝🏽

I audibly laugh and set my phone back onto the table.

Josh looks down at me and smiles. "Whatchu laughin at?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I respond, flicking my hair off my shoulder.

He smirks and gently squeezes my cheeks, pulls my face up, and shoves his tongue into my mouth.

Soon enough, we're sharing our 4th makeout session of the night.

And you can't blame me.

Those plump lips and thick ass tongue.

Whew!

—————————————————————————————————

We just finished up our bath, which of course, had more rose petals and candles.

Josh wraps me into a soft and fuzzy robe, smiling down at me. "You're adorable."

I look down and automatically blush.

He takes my chin and gently lifts it, pressing his plump and warm lips to mine.

I kiss back and take his hand, leading him back into the bedroom.

"Where we goin ma?" he asks, following close behind.

"I have another surprise for you," I reply, walking us towards the bed. "Sit."

He chuckles and sits down on the bed, as I head over to our closet and pull out a gift bag.

He takes it and looks up at me. "Baby you didn't have to. The game was more than enough."

I place my finger to his lips. "Shhh. Open it."

He shakes his head smiling and digs into the bag, before pulling out a box.

He raises his eyebrow out of curiosity and opens it, revealing a gold Cuban link chain.

His jaw practically falls to the floor as he looks back up at me.

"It's to match your silver one!" I explain happily, wrapping my arm around his shoulder. "Do you like it?"

"Baby," he begins. "I love it. But this....this is....a lot."

I smile, slightly shrugging. "Sure. But you're worth every penny, Josh. You treat me like a princess and I wanted to show you that I'm forever grateful."

He sets the gift bag down and takes my hands. "You didn't need to spend over a thousand dollars to prove your love to me, babygirl. I appreciate it. I really do. But..."

I cut him off. "Joshua, shush. After all that you did for me today, let alone for the past 2 years we've been together, I can spend a fuck ton of money on you if I want. Now take the damn chain."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Gianna Macri, I can't with you."

I fold my arms, still pretending to be mad, although it's taking everything in me not to laugh with him.

He wraps his arms around my waist and plants kisses on my stomach. "I love you pretty mama."

Pretty mama.

The one nickname that, he knows damn well, will make me break in any and every situation.

I finally give in, playfully roll my eyes and smile. "I love you too."

He puckers his lips and I giggle, leaning down, cupping his face, and pressing my lips against his.

He pulls me down and attacks my face with kisses.

I burst into laughter and squirm around on the bed.

I love this man so much.

Liked by uceyjucey, trinity_fatu, jonathanfatu, wwe, and 2M others

giannamacri the past 730 days have been an absolute dream. from the second i laid eyes on you, i knew i found the love of my life and the person i'd want to experience everything with. joshua fatu, i thank you. thank you for treating me like a princess, for loving me for who i am, and for allowing me to love you. every day without i fail, i feel like the luckiest girl in the world. they say nobody is perfect but baby, you come close. i love you endlessly. two years down, forever to go. 🤍

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uceyjucey I love you ma ❤️

trinity_fatu Love you both so much 🥹🥰🫶🏽

wwe Happy anniversary! ❤️

Liked by giannamacri, jonathanfatu, zillafatu, rikishi, and 1.2M others

uceyjucey Happy anniversary to my everything, my lady, my queen, my babygirl, my rock, and the love of my life. Getting to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you in my arms every night has been the biggest honor. I'll always admire your work ethic, your kind heart, and your selflessness. I have zero idea what I did to deserve you but one thing is for sure: I'm the luckiest man in the world. I love you mama. Forever us. 🤞🏽❤️

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giannamacri forever baby 🥹🫶🏽

jonathanfatu ❤️

rikishi Love you both 🩸❤️

Tag List: @uceyliyahh ♡

^^ If you'd like to be added, feel free to leave a comment below! <3

Check out my wattpad and twitter! 💟

Follows, feedback, and reblogs appreciated! 🧚‍♀️

[fikefries]

wheels of fate (m.s) part one

part one: shadows in the dark

warnings: implied almost assault, swearing, mentions of alcohol

summary: when you find yourself in the face of danger, an unexpected character comes to your rescue.

1.1k words

you sit on your dorm bed, staring blankly at the incomplete essay on the laptop in front of you. today was not your day. partying the day before your thesis was due was not the best idea. the words blur together as your mind wanders, boredom gnawing at you, and an immense craving for salt-and-vinegar chips bubbling in your stomach. you look across your room to your tiny electric clock sitting on your desk, its blue hue slightly lighting up the darkness of your dorm.

1:37 AM,

you sigh, shutting your laptop with a small thud, rubbing your tired eyes, and pull yourself out of bed. you left out a soft groan at the state of your room, mini skirts, tube tops, and empty bottles of tequila sprawled out on the floor. the room feels stifling, and your hunger is rising. you need to get out, even if just for a little while.

grabbing your phone and hoodie, you decide to make a quick trip to the 24/7 convenience store down the street. it isn’t far, and the walk will do you good. you slip out of your dorm quietly, tip-toeing down the hall—not wanting to wake your roommates.

the cool night air is a nice change as you walk through the campus gates and onto the empty night streets. the city has a different feel at night—quieter and more solemn. you stuff your hands into your jacket pockets, trying to shake off the unease that creeps up your spine. you know that walking down a dark street in the middle of the night isn’t the safest thing to do for a girl like you—but hey, what are the odds something happens the one night you decide to go out?

as you reach the convenience store, you notice a small group of tall men huddled around the energy drink section. they are dressed in black t-shirts, black jackets, and have on fingerless gloves. you realise that most of them are holding motorcycle helmets, automatically assuming they are night bikers. the area you live in is notoriously famous for its biking culture—one that results in many police chases and gunshots. knowing this, you keep a safe distance away from the group of men, but one seems to catch your attention. a boy who looks around your age is holding a motorcycle helmet and has multiple piercings adorning his ear. you can’t help but stare at his sharp features and siren eyes, the way he looks with his jaw clenched, a toothpick resting in his mouth as he stands patiently, waiting for the rest of the guys to sort out their choice of drink. you don’t even realize you are staring so intensely until he starts looking around the small store, before his eyes catch yours.

shit.

you quickly avert your gaze and pretend to inspect the different flavors of chips. your embarrassment doesn’t falter, as you feel his sharp gaze burning into the back of your head. you turn to quickly grab a few snacks and head to the counter.

"just these, please," you say, trying to act normal and confident, not wanting to garner more attention from the possibly dangerous bikers.

the cashier barely glances at you, engrossed in his phone.

“have a good night,” he mumbles as you pay and leave the store.

you begin your walk back to your dorm, nervously munching on a bag of chips you bought. you decide to take a different route, hoping to enjoy the quiet streets a bit longer, distracting yourself from the awkward encounter you just had. your thoughts wander, and you find yourself lost in your own world, not noticing the ominous figure that has started following you.

“hey you,” a gruff voice breaks through your thoughts, making you jump in fear. you turn to see an old, ragged man approaching you, his eyes gleaming with something sinister, a creepy smile etched onto his face, revealing his crooked teeth. “what’s a pretty thing like you doing out here alone, hm?”

your heart races, and you quicken your pace, turning around occasionally to see if you lost him, but the man keeps following you, his grunts growing louder as he catches up to you. you begin randomly taking different paths and alleyways in hope of losing the man. you've heard stories of what has happened to other girls on campus before and you know how dangerous the situation you are in is.

god, i should've just stayed home.

you glance around at your surroundings, slowing down your pace, realizing you have run into a more isolated and unknown part of town, and are now at a dead end, with nowhere to run to as the creepy man catches up and starts walking towards you.

“leave me alone,” you manage to shout, your voice trembling in utter fear and desperation.

“come on, don’t be like that,” the man sneers with a wicked smile, closing the distance between you.

before he is able to touch you, the sudden loud roar of a motorcycle engine echoes down the street, zooming towards your direction. the old man halts his actions, his expression shifting from predatory to wary and he slightly backs away from you. a sleek black bike skids to a halt in front of you, and the rider jumps off with an air of cold confidence.

the rider removes his helmet, revealing the boy from the convenience store with sharp features and piercing eyes that seem to see right through you, his hair messy from being underneath the helmet.

how is he here? did he follow me? did he hear me screaming?

he barely glances at you before fixing his gaze on the old man.

“get lost,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of emotion, his blue eyes glaring coldly at the man.

the old man hesitates, clearly intimidated by the biker’s presence. “hey, boy, i don’t want any trouble,” he mutters, fully backing away from you, as you let out a sigh of relief.

“you already found it. leave before you actually fucking piss me off,” the biker replies, his tone cold and unwavering.

the old, creepy man shoots one last menacing glare at you before turning and disappearing into the night, knowing not to mess with a night biker—especially in this part of town. the biker turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice and eyes still stoic and devoid of warmth.

you nod, swallowing hard. “yeah, thanks. i—”

“be careful” he interrupts, already turning back to his bike.

“wait” you nervously call out, hesitantly taking a step forward. “what’s your name—i mean thanks for saving me, i don’t—” you stutter.

he pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “matt,” he says simply, putting his helmet back on and revving the engine of his bike before heading off into the night.

tags: @isasturns @sofieeeeex @scqrletsmadness

a/n: im thinking this will be a 10 or more part series! let me know if you have any ideas!

[mapsthewanderer]

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Details: 550 words of sooooft Xavier. Yea I know and as much as I love my Caleb, this HC wouldn’t leave my brain, so I wrote it down: Xavier 100% runs a sleep and cuddle service in an AU. Not even in a weird way. Just… professionally comforting

Features: Words of affirmation, dokidoki and cuddles. Enjoy~

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Xav’s sleep service ltd | Because sleep is serious business

It’s not a clinic, but it might as well be.

Xavier’s space feels like a cross between a sleep lab and a sanctuary—part apothecary, part haven built from hush and ritual. Shelves line one wall, not with books, but with carefully labeled jars of dried herbs and oils—lavender, valerian root, sandalwood, bergamot. Some blends are rolled in dark glass tubes, others packed into silk sachets. And the diffuser? It never sputters. Just puffs cool mist with precision every ten minutes.

He hands you a tea tray like he’s conducting a study: everything custom, premeasured, labeled in his own handwriting—“REM Encouraged,” “For Dream Recall,” “Silent Mind.”

“Side sleeper with poor circulation?” he asks, not mocking—just thorough. “I have options.”

The blanket menu is real. Weighted, down alternative, hypoallergenic, or cotton-vented. You once joked about it. He didn’t laugh. Just handed you two to compare. He slices cucumbers with no expression and asks, “Over your eyes, or as garnish?”

Without a word, he takes your hand and begins to press slow, practiced circles into your palm. His thumb glides in steady spirals, tracing tension you didn’t know you were carrying. Fingers sweep along the edges of your knuckles, deliberate, precise—like he’s reading you through touch alone.

“You hold more stress here than you realize,” he murmurs, voice low and even. “The hands echo the heart.”

Then comes the protocol.

The lights dim automatically, amber and low like the slow close of dusk. The room hums in warm silence. You change into silk he picked out—a white pj set dotted with faint stars. It’s cool at first, then impossibly soft, the fabric clinging like a lullaby.

The bed is turned down already. A fresh water glass, a single sprig of rosemary beside your pillow—not for scent. For grounding. He told you once: scent helps memory settle.

When you climb in, Xavier follows—silent and precise. One arm finds your waist. The other, the steady press of his palm against your chest, just above your heart.

Like he’s syncing you to his rhythm.

“You’re not a problem to solve,” he says, voice low against the shell of your ear. “You’re someone who deserves peace.”

The warmth of him behind you isn’t just comforting. It’s calibrating. Like his body knows the blueprint of your nervous system better than you do.

He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.

“You don’t have to explain tonight,” he murmurs. “You don’t even have to name it.”

His fingers trace slow, studied circles beneath your ribs—tactile rhythm therapy. He’s told you that term before. Smiling, once. But the truth of it is quiet and steady, like the way he breathes with you now.

The bed shifts slightly as your body softens. His adjusts in perfect time, his knee resting behind yours, his breath low and even against the back of your neck.

“Nothing about you is too much,” he says. “Not your silence. Not your panic. Not your stillness or your need.”

You exhale. His hand follows your ribcage like it belongs there.

“You don’t have to fix anything. You don’t have to be anything.”

He pulls you just slightly closer.

“You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to be held.”

Your breathing slows again. Your thoughts go soft. His forehead presses to the nape of your neck. And finally—quiet, final, like a key turning in a lock:

“You’re not alone in this body. I’ve got you.”

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Art credit: Amuro Tooru by zoido #2360473, juyonu on X and I couldn’t for the life of me find the other artists through google reverse image search. I’m sorry): but they were all so cute I had to use them

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[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Reflection

Just a random short story of the Hunter and Bucky's first encounter with each other. Also I just finished reading Winter Soldier Cold Front, loved the book.

Summary: You meet the Winter Soldier for the first time and find something unexpected

"Welcome, general." The scientist before you bows. "Right this way."

You follow him through the corridor, nose twitching at the strong sterile scent of the chemicals in the air. The laboratory smell reminds you too much of the place where you had spent most of your childhood, and you would rather bury those memories. Still, you pretend like it doesn't affect you and continue walking, taking note of your surroundings and committing them to memory.

A door with a large yellow sign is pushed open and you take a moment to read what it says.

Authorized access only. Trespassers will be shot on sight.

Your gaze flicks upwards at where a security camera is hidden, then to the right where a false wall is. There's a small hole in it, easily missed but you've been trained to spot these details, aided by your enhanced eyesight. A sniper probably lies in wait there, maybe it's Rostova, the woman's sniping skills are legendary and she has yet to truly miss a target.

The scientists stops in his tracks, realising you're not following him and turns around. "General? Is —"

"Apologies. Was lost in thought." You brush past him, stepping into the room where a sudden chill descends upon you. Tubes fill the area, connecting by wires upon wires, machines hum from every corner and your breath catches in your chest. You remember emerging from a tube just like the one in front of you, skin crawling as masked men help you to your feet, keeping you steady. You remember the world spinning, your head a throbbing mess and everything felt too sharp. The lights were too bright, the sterile scent burning your nose, the machines screaming in your ears. Even the softest of whispers came across as a shout and you broke the nose of the closest person.

"Please step back, general. This is a delicate procedure." The scientist's voice cuts through the haze of memories and you blink.

"Right." You do as he says, exhaling deeply. That was the past, you're the heir of Hydra now, far stronger than who you were before. You won't be bogged down by painful memories of the past, you'll keep moving forward and lead Hydra into a glorious future.

The tube opens with a hiss and a figure slumps forward. You automatically lunge to catch them before they hit the floor, and feel something icy press against your bare fingers. Metal, you realise. Light glints off the silver surface, reflecting the harsh little orb into your eyes. You squeeze your eyes shut, growling in annoyance and instinctively push the metal away.

The figure groggily grunts, then it hits you. The metal is a part of the figure in your arms. When the mist clears, you see that the metal is in the shape of an arm. A bionic arm.

The Winter Soldier.

You stare at the piercing blue gaze that lifts to meet your eyes and take in Hydra's greatest Asset. He studies you back with confusion in his eyes that disappear into emptiness the moment the scientist starts speaking.

"My apologies, general. I —"

You glare at the scientist who promptly shuts up and turn back to the man in your arms.

"Karpov did say he wanted to introduce his greatest work to me one day."

"Indeed, I did, but not like this. My most sincere apologies, Hunter." Karpov enters the room. "Stand upright, soldat."

The Winter Soldier complies, gaze flicking over all three of you before returning to the floor, awaiting his next order.

"Soldat, this is the Hunter. They will be your new Handler." Karpov strides forward, clipboard in hand. You leave him and the scientist to their checkups, observing from afar. The Soldier only moves when directed but his movements are precise and calculated, albeit a little sluggish. It's probably because of whatever he just came out of, you faintly remember Karpov calling it cryostasis.

"Hunter, the Asset needs time to get used to you. I suggest you spend time with it before bringing it out to the field." Karpov inclines his head in your direction.

"And how exactly should I spend time with the Asset?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Train with it, sleep with it if you're comfortable enough." Karpov scribbles something on his clipboard. "In fact, I suggest you train with it now. The Asset needs time to warm up."

"Has he been fully cleared for active duty?" You walk towards your new partner who stiffens when your fingers brush against his arm.

"Almost. All that's left is —"

The stink of bile hits your nose as the Winter Soldier doubles over, vomiting onto the floor.

"— that." You swear Karpov smiled slightly at the sight of vomit on your clothes, his warning purposefully given too late.

There's a flash of fear in the Winter Soldier's eyes when you lock gazes with him but all you can really do is sigh. Karpov and the scientist excuse themselves from the room, giving you space to quietly swear at them. Then you move onto cleaning the mess up.

The Winter Soldier quietly follows your instructions, flinching whenever you go anywhere near him until you demand to know why he keeps doing that.

"Punishment," he whispers, voice cracking.

"I'm not going to punish you over something you can't control. Besides, Karpov didn't warn me about it, if anyone should be punished it should be him." You wipe the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth. "Let me know if you still need to throw up. Round two should be coming up soon, I know."

He blinks, surprised before gesturing at the sink on the other side of the room. You nod, following him there and hold back his hair as round two comes up. A hand automatically begins to rub his back, coaxing out everything that needs to come up and the Winter Soldier is left panting over the sink, throat raw.

"I'll get you some water then we can go to the training room to warm up. I want to see what you can do for myself." You pat him on the shoulder, checking him over to make sure he really will be alright if you leave before exiting the room.

"Don't go blowing him up like you did me." Rostova stands in the hallway, leaning against a wall.

"Don't recall blowing you up." You snort.

"That's because you barely got me out of the building you rigged to blow up before it blew up. Also I distinctly recall you not telling me about the fact that you were going to blow the building up." Rostova pokes you in the chest.

"Did I now?" You smirk, gently pushing her hand away. "I've got to get water, want some?"

"Ew, so boring. Get vodka or something." She makes a face, causing you to laugh.

"Vodka doesn't mix well with cryostasis." You flick her in the forehead. "He's awake and waiting for me, if you want a quick visit."

"How kind of you." She rolls her eyes but heads towards the room you came from. You shake your head and make your way to the cafeteria to get water, giving them as much alone time as you can. Rostova has been his handler for quite a while now, she would make the transition easier.

You still can't shake the image of fear in the Soldier's eyes, the flinching when your fingers brushed against his skin and your chest tightens whenever you think about it. You clench your fist, struggling to get rid of the foreign emotion. You've killed your pet dog with your own hands, you've killed women and children alike, old and young, you've committed countless of what the rest of the world calls atrocities. Yet, you've never felt like this before.

Maybe it's because you see yourself in him. You remember what it's like to stumble out of cryostasis, struggling to make sense of your surroundings, bile demanding to be let out via the mouth. Sure, it's been quite a while since you've been in cryostasis but the experience can never be forgotten. You swallow hard, shaking your head to get rid of the terrible memories and begin to make your way back to the room where the Winter Soldier waits for his glass of water.

You remember the way your throat clogs once the chill fades, thick with chemicals and the one time you decided drinking alcohol was the way to solve it, you'd thrown up like never before. The alcohol had burned through your veins, muddying your vision, causing the world to spin, but Rostova might want some vodka so you pick up a bottle along the way.

Upon returning, you hand the bottle to a delighted Rostova who promptly leaves the room. You pass the glass of water to the Winter Soldier, warning him to drink slowly lest he choke and drink your own glass of water. You watch the way he flexes his arms, rotates his shoulders to stretch the muscles before looking at you.

"Ready to comply," he says, emotionless.

Yes, father. The words echo in your head. You remember the child who did everything they were told, hoping to please their father. You remember the feeling of the pistol in the child's hand as they pressed its muzzle against the chest of their mother. You remember the feeling of the trigger being pulled and the blood that bloomed afterwards, followed by apathy from the father who had ordered them to pull the trigger.

You look into ice blue eyes and see something of a reflection, just for a fleeting moment before Karpov's words remind you of your new duty.

"Let's go." You lead the way to the training room. Hopefully getting a workout will rid you of these unnecessary thoughts. You can't afford to be compromised on missions, you can't afford to fail and distractions will cause you to fail.

But every time you look into those ice blue eyes, all you can see is the scared little child who shot their mother and pet dog because they were told to.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

This 1958 Chevrolet Corvette underwent a pro-street-style metamorphosis between 2008 and 2011. It is endowed with a 383 cubic inch stroker V8 engine, harmonized with a TH350 three-speed automatic transmission, and a narrowed rear axle featuring a limited-slip differential. The rear suspension has been upgraded with a ladder-bar configuration, adjustable coilovers, and the addition of a lift-off hood. The body, painted a striking red with white coves, comes with a detachable hardtop. Inside, a roll cage has been installed along with a B&M Pro Stick shifter, a shift light, aftermarket gauges, and black Procar bucket seats. The enhancements also include dual Edelbrock carburetors, Hooker headers, side-exit exhaust pipes, 15” alloy wheels, and front disc brakes. Acquired by the current dealer in February 2024, this modified C1 Corvette is now part of the Coffee Walk Corvette Collection in Wylie, Texas, and is offered without reserve, complete with build records and a clean Pennsylvania title.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The fiberglass exterior is adorned in red with white coves and includes a removable hardtop and a lift-off hood with an integrated air scoop. A Stewart-Warner fuel-pressure gauge is mounted on the cowl, and the right-rear corner features a battery cutoff switch and external terminals. The gallery reveals cracks in the weatherstripping, pitted chrome, and paint imperfections.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

Polished 15” alloy wheels are shod with 25.0×5.0” front and 29.5×11.5” rear Hoosier drag tires, installed in April 2024. A crossmember supports the rear suspension, which has been modified with ladder bars, a diagonal link, and adjustable coilovers. The braking system includes front disc brakes and rear drums.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The interior is equipped with a roll cage and Procar high-back bucket seats in black. Enhancements include a B&M Pro Stick shifter, an MSD shift light, rocker-switch controls, and fabricated metal door panels. The gallery displays flaking paint and wear on interior surfaces.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The three-spoke steering wheel is positioned in front of a 160-mph speedometer and auxiliary gauges. An AutoMeter pedestal tachometer is mounted atop the non-functional factory tachometer. Additional gauges for coolant temperature and oil pressure are located in the center console. The mechanical odometer is inoperative, and the total mileage remains unknown.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

A Harwood plastic fuel cell is mounted in the trunk, which has been tubbed with fabricated aluminum panels to accommodate the rear wheels.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The 350ci V8 engine block, bored and stroked to 383ci, features four-bolt main bearings. The build includes forged pistons, ARP fasteners, a polished Edelbrock intake manifold, dual Edelbrock carburetors, an MSD ignition module, and Hooker long-tube headers that flow into side-exit exhaust pipes.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

Power is transmitted to the rear wheels through a TH350 three-speed automatic transmission and a narrowed Dana 60 rear axle with a limited-slip differential.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette